Every semi-normal female who doesn’t currently play the French horn or participate in book clubs can undoubtedly remember cuddling up on the couch as a 4-year-old to watch Cinderella, Snow White and Sleeping Beauty. I can personally remember being wrapped up in my Barney blanket “awwwww”ing as Aladdin agonized over his love for Jasmine and eventually used his wishes on her in hopes of making the feeling mutual.
After hours and days and months of watching these sappy love stories, Disney had eventually brainwashed me, secretly planting the thought in my head that every love story ended with a kiss, a smile, and a wedding with crazy fireworks, talking animals, and violin players appearing out of nowhere. I seriously couldn’t wait to grow up and meet that one special person, my Prince Charming, who would go out of his way to express his undying love and affection for me.
I intently listened to my mom when she told me to wait to have sex until marriage (even though she SO didn’t), and I couldn’t even imagine kissing someone I didn’t love. Luckily, I was a genius child, and when reality smacked me in the face at the ripe age of 7 and a half, I saw past the lovey-dovey bullshit to the truth: Disney is a fucking liar.
While the truth about men being fucking assholes was far less prominent when I was in the second grade (I caught my “boyfriend” passing love notes to some third grade skank), as we get older, more and more guys do things that make me classify them as scumbags. It’s almost like it comes with their Y chromosomes to lie, cheat, and stick their dicks in anything that somewhat resembles a female (which does not by any means rule out inanimate objects).
I actually know a guy from high school who dated his girlfriend for 3 years and was sleeping with her best friend for 2 years and 11 months of their “rock solid relationship.” Apparently the girlfriend never caught on to Disney’s fabrication of reality, because she totally believed him when he said, “Leslie was over today, in my room, with the door locked and the lights out making panting noises and screaming my name because we were playing an invigorating two person game of Red Rover.” Dumb broad.
Was anyone else infuriated with Ariel’s ungratefulness when Eric finally risks his life to kill Ursula? The man doesn’t even have fins or scuba gear and dives into the ocean in the middle of a storm to kill some fat ugly whore just so he can marry a fire bush, and he doesn’t even get a thank you. Not only is this completely fictional, as no guy would ever give up the remote let alone put some effort into a relationship, but if he didn’t even get any recognition for it, he would kick the bitch to the curb. Any guy who at one point was the stereotypical Eric type—“Mr. Perfect”—has gone extinct and now only exists in the form of “Mr. I’m a Fucking Scumbag.” MIAFS actually roams free through college campuses, bars, parties, and dorms and lives inside every seemingly normal looking male.
The pickings are slim, ladies, and after the initial blow of realizing that Disney is the animated equivalent of Bill Clinton (no offense Democrats), I’ve let go of the hopes that I may, eventually, find a somewhat decent guy who is sufficiently attractive, slightly humorous, and suitably kind. I have come to the realization that no guy will run around town searching for me with only a glass slipper to identify me with, let alone remember not to hook up with some random chick he met at a party the night before.
The typical guy is far less concerned with cupid, cuddling and candles and instead enjoys pizza, PlayStation and porn. His ability to send mass scandalous text messages to every girl in his phone book to see how many lays he can get in one night makes him much more appealing than the technologically retarded loser that still makes his booty calls through instant messaging.
Yes, I’ve thrown away the possibility of making love on rose petal sheets and now jump at the opportunity of banging in a car as a somewhat cleaner alternative to a guy’s nasty dorm room bed. While the idea of losing guys altogether seemed somewhat ingenious at first, the horrible sexual drought that brought on made me jump into a whole different state of mind: taking what I can get.
While I have realized that there are no nice guys out there, I didn’t know that their statuses would continue get worse at a rapid pace. “Not nice” is escalating to “mean,” “jerk,” “asshole,” “sketchball,” and “creep” faster than a sorority girl takes her clothes off. Instead of getting upset about it, I’ve learned to beat the system and accept these kinds of men as my ideal.
Hideous white tube socks? I’ll take it. Overeager drinking problem? Bring it on. Horrible haircut? I’m game. Sketchballs, creeps, weirdos, jerks, posers and assholes of the world come together—I’ll take what I can get.
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