As my legions (and I mean legions!!) of devoted blog followers know, I've been doing some serious self-analysis to figure out why my relationships fall apart. Maybe it's not always the girls' fault as I've always believed. Maybe I'm not the perfect guy (even though I am). At first, I thought it was my personality, but I quickly dismissed that because my personality is second to none. There is not a single person in the world with a better personality than mine. Except for Vice President Joe Biden. His ability to spill state secrets is comedic genius. The point is, my personality is pretty much better than anyone else's. I'm also really humble. Even though I'm better than most people at most things, I only need to tell them I'm better than them once or twice. If they're really thick-headed, I may have to remind them repeatedly, I'll admit.
Since my personality can't possibly be the reason that my relationships fall apart, I began to think that maybe it has something to do with my looks. I looked in the mirror, saw my gorgeous reflection and, though I'm as straight as they come, began to wish there was a way I could make out with myself.
No, there wasn't anything wrong with my looks. But then it occurred to me: what if there was something wrong with my looks that I just couldn't see? Like hair growing out of my ears? So I looked in a mirror and strained to see the inside of my ears. As it turns out, you need two mirrors to do this. So I found another mirror and, you guessed it, there was no hair growing out of my ears.
Obviously, I was stumped. I looked at my reflection, again wishing I could make out with myself. I actually licked the mirror, but it wasn't the same. It tasted vaguely of Windex. And that's when I wondered if maybe I had a lazy eye and I couldn't tell by simply looking at my own reflection. So I used my camera phone to take a video of my eyes. No lazy eye problem.
So I sat there and thought, and thought, and thought. Mostly, I thought about Marilyn Monroe, I'm not sure why. But then I started thinking about myself again. With Marilyn Monroe. But she'd be really old by now. So I imagined myself in the DeLorean time machine from Back to the Future, going back in time to date Marilyn Monroe. But something went horribly wrong, and I ended up only going back in time twenty seconds and interacting with myself twenty seconds ago, warning myself of what was going to happen in twenty seconds. But after twenty seconds went by, I no longer knew the future, so I just stared at myself. As it turned out, I didn't want to make out with myself after all.
Then I remembered what I'd started thinking about in the first place: trying to figure out why my relationships go bad. I thought about my great personality, my lack of any physical imperfection, and how I dote on any girl I might be dating. And that's when I realized what the problem is: I'm too nice.
When I'm in a relationship, I'll get my girl flowers for no particular reason, I'll give her unsolicited back rubs, I agree with her points of view (although there have been exceptions), and I insist on doing the dishes...in short, I try to treat my girlfriends like princesses.
All of that might sound nice, but I don't think girls want to be treated that way. I think they want to be treated badly. I think most girls want to feel unworthy of their boyfriends and that they need to try to earn any positive emotion they get from their boyfriends. With this realization in mind, I decided to treat girls badly. I started by calling the receptionist at work a "dame." I said, "Listen, dame, when the next fella calls, you let him know I'm out of the office. You got that, sweetcheeks?"
The receptionist's eyes went wide. She looked like a deer caught in the headlights. I went to the bank and called the teller a broad. It was a guy, but I was in no mood to back off of my newly cultivated bad boy image. Now I'm thinking about buying a Harley. I'll wear a white t-shirt under a black leather jacket and act bored by everyone I see. Maybe I'll take up smoking, too. Because girls dig guys who smoke while riding Harleys in their white t-shirts and black leather jackets.
And no more doing the dishes. That's for dames.
