If You Date a Girl, Make Sure She’s Not a Feminist
If you date a girl, make sure she’s not a feminist.
Meet her at a whatsitsname rock concert. Afterward, find someplace, any place, and have sex. Don’t call her the next day. Call her the following week. Go on a few coffee dates. Nervously reveal to her how you didn’t really like the band. In fact, you actually hate them. Go on more coffee dates. Fall in love with her fondness of vanilla soy lattes with extra cream and no sugar. Don’t question her unrealistic and strange coffee habits. Stop going on coffee dates.
Make love to her, fuck her and have sex with her in all of the other ways people describe having sex. Sleep over at her house. Lie in her bed restlessly, pondering the enigmatic meaning of life. Tell her how you think of all feminists are butch lesbians. Fall in love with her laugh.
Tell her she’s beautiful. Tell her that her body is amazing. Tell her that her eyes shine like diamonds. Fall in love with her flattery. Fall in love with her eager acceptance of your lazy and cliche compliments. Fall in love with her contentedness.
Take the next logical step in this story, and get married. Have seven kids. Make more money than she does. Come home from work late and eat home cooked meals.
On your death bed lie in a wasteland of painkillers and regret. Look back drearily on your mediocre and non-challenging life. In the moments before your last breath, think about what your life could have been.
Meet her at a Coldplay concert. Use a cheesy pick up line to sleep with her. Stand there pretending to be interested and half-heartedly concerned as she rants about the objectification of women. Apologize. Ask her for her number. Don’t call her the next day. Call her the following week.
Go on a few coffee dates. Fall in love with her fondness of vanilla soy lattes with extra cream and no sugar. Question her unrealistic and strange coffee habits. Stare in shock as she tells you she doesn’t give a fuck. Go on more coffee dates.
Listen to her talk about the war on women. Pretend you know about the war on women. Ask her why she’s such a feminist. Regret asking. Buy her flowers and tell her she’s beautiful. Realize that that’s not good enough.
Buy her a copy of Ray Bradbury’s The Illustrated Man from a used bookstore. Tell her she’s intelligent. Fall in love with her smile.
Go to the movies. Go the river. Go anywhere and go everywhere. Fall in love with her sporadicalness.
Go on more coffee dates.
Lie in her bed entranced by her vocal pondering on the meaning of life and human rights. When she’s finished, tell her how you think all feminists are butch lesbians. Get into your first argument. Lose…miserably. Fall in love with her boldness.
Fall in love with her. Be illogical and let romance cloud your thoughts. Marry her. Raise three kids and stress over the fact that both of you work late. Tiredly make home cooked meals with her. Fall in love with your partnership.
Talk about her love of women. Fall in love with women. Become a feminist. Fall in love with feminism.
Die young. On your deathbed lie in content and fondness. Remember all of the details of your last and enduring romance from all of the moments she wouldn’t shut up talking about them.
Tell your three kids, who are now young boys, about dating girls. Tell them to never date a feminist.
They’ll save a lot of money on coffee.