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This is my tribute to the nice girls. To the nice girls who are overlooked,
who become friends and nothing more, who spend hours fixating upon their looks and their personalities and their actions because
it must be they that are doing something wrong. This is for the girls who don't give it up on the first date, who don't want
to play mind games, who provide a comforting hug and a supportive audience for a story they've heard a thousand times. This
is for the girls who understand that they aren't perfect and that the guys they're interested in aren't either, for the girls
who flirt and laugh and worry and obsess over the slightest glance, whisper, touch, because somehow they are able to keep
alive that hope that maybe... maybe this time he'll have understood. This is an homage to the girls who laugh loud and often,
who are comfortable in skirts and sweats and combat boots, who care more than they should for guys who don't deserve their
attention. This is for those girls who have been in the trenches, who have watched other girls time and time again fake up
and make up and fuck up the guys in their lives without saying a word. This is for the girls who have been there from the
beginning and have heard the trite words of advice, from "there are plenty of fish in the sea," to "time heals all wounds."
This is
for the girls who have sought a night with friends and been greeted by a night of catcalling, rude comments and explicit
invitations that they'd rather not have experienced. This is for the girls who have spent their weekends sitting on the sidelines
of a beer pong tournament or a case race, or playing Florence Nightingale for a vomiting guy friend or a comatose crush, who
have received a drunk phone call just before dawn from someone who doesn't care enough to invite them over but is still willing
to pass out in their bed. This is for the girls who have left sad song lyrics in their away messages, who have time and time
again dropped their male friend hint after hint after hint only to watch him chase after the first blonde girl in a skirt.
This is for the girls who have been told that they're too good or too smart or too pretty, who have been given compliments
as a way of breaking off a relationship, who have ever been told they are only wanted as a friend.
This one's for the
girls who you can take home to mom, but won't because it's easier to sleep with a whore than foster a relationship; this is
for the girls who have been led on by words and kisses and touches, all of which were either only true for the moment, or
never real to begin with. This is for the girls who have allowed a guy into their head and heart and bed, only to discover
that he's just not ready, he's just not over her, he's just not looking to be tied down; this is for the girls who believe
the excuses because it's easier to believe that it's not that they don't want you, it's that they don't want anyone. This
is for the nights spent dissecting every word and syllable and inflection in his speech, for the nights when you've returned
home alone, for the nights when you've seen from across the room him leaning a little too close, or standing a little too
near, or talking a little too softly for the girl he's with to be a random hookup. This is for finally having realized that
it wasn't that he didn't want a relationship: it was that he didn't want you.
I honor you for the night his dog died or his grandmother died or his little
brother crashed his car and you held him, thinking that if you only comforted him just right, or said the right words, or
rubbed his back in the right way then perhaps he'd realize what it was that he already had. This is for the night you realized
that it would never happen, and the sunrise you saw the next morning after failing to sleep.
This is for the "I really
like you, so let's still be friends" comment after you read more into a situation than he ever intended; this is for never
realizing that when you choose friends, you seldom choose those which make you cry yourself to sleep. This is for the hugs
you've received from your female friends, for the nights they've reassured you that you are beautiful and intelligent and
amazing and loyal and truly worthy of a great guy; this is for the despair you all felt as you sat in the aftermath of your
tears, knowing that that night the only companionship you'd have was with a pillow and your teddy bear. This is for the stupidity
of the nights we've believed that something was better than nothing, though his something was nothing we'd have ever wanted.
This is for the girls who have been satisified with too little and who have learned never to expect anything more: for the
girls who don't think that they deserve more, because they've been conditioned for so long to accept the scraps thrown to
them by guys.
Men sit and question and whine that girls are only attracted to the mean guys, the guys who berate them
and belittle them and don't appreciate them and don't want them; who use them for sex and think of little else than where
their next conquest will be made. Men complain that they never meet nice girls, girls who are genuinely interested and compelling,
who are intelligent and sweet and smart and beautiful; men despair that no good women want to share in their lives, that girls
play mindgames, that girls love to keep them hanging. But therein lies the truth, guys: we nice girls are everywhere.
But you're not looking for a nice girl. You're not looking for someone genuinely interested in your intramural basketball
game, or your anatomy midterm grade, or that argument you keep having with your ex-girlfriend; you're looking for a quick
fix, a night when you can pretend to have a connection with another human being which is just as disposable as the condom
you were using during it.
Sometimes we go undercover; sometimes we go in disguise: sometimes when that girl in the
low cut shirt or the too tight miniskirt won't answer your catcalls, sometimes you're looking at a nice girl in whore's clothing
- - we might say we like the attention, we might blush and giggle and turn back to our friends, but we're all thinking the
same thing: "This isn't me. Tomorrow morning, I'll be wearing a teeshirt and flannel shorts, I'll have slept alone and I'll
be making my hungover best friend breakfast. See through the disguise. See me." You never do. Why? Because you only see the
exterior, you only see the slutty girl who welcomes those advances. You don't want the nice girl. Maybe nice guys finish last,
but in the race they're running they're chasing after the whores and the sluts and the easy-targets... the nice girls are
waiting at the finish line with water and towels and a congradulatory hug (and yes, if she's a nice girl and she likes you,
the sweatiness probably won't matter), hoping against hope that maybe you'll realize that they're the ones that you want at
the end of that silly race.
So maybe it won't last forever. Maybe some of those guys in that race will turn in their
running shoes and make their way to the concession stand where we're waiting; however, until that happens, we still have each
other, that silly race to watch, and all the chocolate we can eat (because what's a concession stand at a race without some
chocolate?)
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