Take a look at these guys and see how you match up.
You know in your heart you’ll never marry. You like to pretend that age is just a number and you’re as young as you feel. Ha ha. You date women who haven’t reached an iota of the success you’ve had because you enjoy the emanating whiff of subservience coming from said woman. You shag and run. You like to date women where English is not their first language so that their bull-sh*t barometer isn’t as wise to your excuses, platitudes and general nonsense. You’re mother either walked out on the family, radiated a wistful air of “damn, I wish I could walk out on this family” or simply checked out mentally. What am I saying? You’re a textbook case, buddy.
You know in your heart that you’re just a slab of meat—so pretty that nothing you ever do will be as alluring as your own face. No matter how you and all your friends pretend, the lights are on and no one’s home, buddy. What am I saying? You only have a faint sense of your own lack of intelligence. You like a dominating woman because while you pretend you’re a real man, deep down you like it when a woman wraps her hand around your balls and squeezes. This most likely has its roots in a mommy that disciplined via spankings, up until the age of 15.
Well, you are a nice guy. You’re a guy that the dudes love to hang out with and you’ve got the butt the ladies all want to squeeze. You’re more of a moron than the Brad Pitt-type, particularly because you don’t know that you’re a moron. You hang out. A lot. Hanging out is your way of life, it is your religion, it is your raison d’etre. You smoke weed because you have this mistaken notion that you need to be more relaxed. The weed further shields you from how dumb you are. It would suck to be you if you didn’t get laid all the time—and you do.
You’re uptight. You know you’re uptight. You’re cute, in a munchable way. You know in your heart that you’ll never be the guy flying the plane or scoring the touchdown and that insignificant fact makes you think that you’re not attractive, and my dear, you’re wrong. You are hot, you are smart, you are funny and you have as much self-esteem as a half-finished container of yogurt. That girl you’re dating? You could do a lot better. You could date someone who’s an eight. I could be that eight.
You’re that guy. You’re artsy and blah. The ladies all notice when you walk by because your hair is long, you never comb it and you have sunglasses on, because you’re all mysterious like that. Your idea of a perfect first date involves lying naked on a white sheet eating strawberries. You believe sex is the greatest form of communication. You remember no one’s name except for your own, because why should you? You wear too much jewelry and that’s how you like it, hearing the sound of bangle bracelets jingling as you walk.
You’re so pretty, you’re practically a woman. You can’t change a tire, but you can realize that you have a flat. You appear to have it all—charm, wit, money, a face so fair it distracts others from your receding hairline—but you don’t. You see, you’re so riddled with insecurity that having a relationship with you is like getting a vaginal piercing: it hurts like hell, it’s a bad idea, and the lady in question will almost always end up regretting it.