At this point in my life, considering I have a moderately paying career that forces me to maintain the sensibilities of that 12-year-old who teaches all his friends new dirty words, the drinking habits of a homeless Irish sailor, and the wildly inadvisable decisions I make with what can only be considered alarming regularity and unsettling ease, I’m probably not dateable. What decent woman would have me? Me, a man(boy) who, just this past Sunday, woke up in a college kid’s house, on a
couch chair, with blood on my hand and pant leg that, from what I gathered after a quick though admittedly halfhearted check for flesh wounds, was not my own. A guy who awoke to a half dozen texts to and from girls no older than 21, and, God willing, no younger than 18. Don’t judge me. If the bar’s not checkin’ IDs then neither am I! That last sentence alone is really all the evidence you need that no one should attach their lives to mine.
Who would want to date me? The guy who just got a preliminary offer to possibly be a spokesman for Fleshlight. An offer I’d probably accept, because I, like actual fleshlights, am a whore. Nobody wants the guy who Troy McClures for rubber fuck tubes to meet their parents. And women say they value financial security. LIES. Meanwhile, every girl wants to marry the Goldman Sachs bro trading Swiss stocks funded by Nazi gold. Enjoy the beach house your cheating husband purchased with the profits of smelted teeth. Your hypocrisy is more disgusting than fleshlight’s recycling program.
It’s perhaps the biggest problem of all that what I consider the third biggest problem with me is that I cannot (and, honestly, will not) stop going out, getting drunk, getting into these messes, writing about them, and then somehow being offered promotional deals by masturbatory aids and whatnot. Thank God Total Frat Move isn’t big in Mexico. The last thing I need is to get an email from some Mexican drug cartel PR guy (real thing) asking me to be a part of their burgeoning social media campaigns (also real). You do NOT say no to those people. Leave me alone Caballeros Templarios! Go ask Johnny Manziel to peddle your powder! All of our readers HATE cocaine (everyone shut up).
Despite the fact that the trials of my romantic life are similar to those of a mid-priced stripper, I am painfully aware that, even though I am not dateable, I desperately need a girlfriend. I need a girl to reel me in. A girl to stop me from spending $70 on a round of Rumple Minze shots for a bunch of people I don’t even know, because that $70 needs to spent on her, dammit! I need a girl to keep me from shirking basic adult responsibilities like grocery shopping or not losing my roommate’s dog for two days. A dog I searched for high and low…for three hours, because after that I had a party to go to. It was 1pm. Don’t worry, the dog was found, but not by me. Such is the struggle of a 20-something dick and drinking joke writer.
Even worse than the fact that I know I need a girlfriend, though attaining one is basically impossible, is that I don’t actually want one. Well, not on the weekends, anyway. The truth is, despite the toll my drunk kindergartner life choices take on my liver, my morals, my social and legal standing, my soul, my family, my dignity, my wallet, my pants (that blood stain was thick), and my future, I love it way too much. I cannot fathom not doing what my pal Geoffrey and I spent the last three weeks doing, that being raging balls in Columbia, Missouri. Three home games in a row is a killer. SEC schedules aren’t only brutal on the teams playing them, you guys. Good thing we have one whole week off before heading to Oxford for the Ole Miss game. My liver just started crying. Oh wait, never mind, that’s just internal bleeding. My mistake. Side note: does anyone know a good Mississippi attorney I can keep on retainer?
What I need is a “Weekday Girlfriend.” A girl who, Sunday through Thursday around 6pm, will force me to act like an adult, enough so that my shambly life will be able to withstand whatever well of poor decisions I find myself trapped in on Sunday morning, like an unsupervised child in the early 90s. A Weekday Girlfriend would say things like, “Remember to renew your license plates,” or, “For the love of God you cannot eat another Whataburger Patty Melt for dinner,” and “You need to make a doctor’s appointment because I’m worried that, due to your disgustingly high patty melt intake, you have the arteries of a 68-year-old cattle rancher.” Also maybe, “Grow up, Peter Pan” a couple of times a month, just to keep me grounded.
The reality is I could have used this for years. Sure, I dated girls in college, but they were full time, and weren’t amused with my rolling blackout weekends or totally innocent conversations with other girls. I wasn’t leaning on the wall to get closer to them, I just couldn’t stand, I swear! Life was not lived to its fullest on the weekends, usually.
I guess girls aren’t cool with being part time girlfriends. On the bright side, they wouldn’t have to be dealing with me on the weekends, which is a blessing for them. How do I entice a girl to make the Weekday Girlfriend thing work? I’ll pay, if that helps? Shit, now we’re just in hooker territory, and I was really hoping not to hit that low until my 40s. I’ll be like a poor Richard Gere propositioning a far more diseased Julia Roberts, whose hand I will be closing a pizza box on in a Holiday Inn Express. SOMEONE SAVE ME FROM MYSELF.
Obviously the Weekday Girlfriend is a pipe dream, though it is a great one. A girl who can keep me in line while letting me cut loose? Sounds glorious. I guess I’ll have to suck it up and just find myself a good woman who matches well with me. Ugh that takes so much work though, and I just wrote this whole column and now I’m tired so I’m just going to eat Whataburger and go to bed. It’s the circle of my life.