You Are a SCRUB!

When I first met you, I was so fazed by your green-blue eyes, sexy lips and Abercrombie-physique that I looked past the fact that you got out of your friend’s passenger seat, to go into his house, smoke his weed, and drink his black label.  Then, when you finally took me to your house, I overlooked the fact that your mother greeted me in with my disheveled hair, running mascara glory every morning.  And then, I swallowed my pride when she offered to drive me a state away every single weekend.

You were so good-looking; I couldn’t possibly stop seeing you because of such minor details.  You explained that you used to have a nice car until you crashed it drunk, you used to have a lot of money by selling fake Rolexes on Ebay.  I nodded when you said that “work is for losers” while watching your mother hand you a 20 dollar bill she earned working two jobs.

My birthday came, you told me to choose what I wanted on the tiffany’s website.  I sent you a link to a pearl bracelet and you assured me it was no big deal.  When the pearls started disintegrating, I went to the store outraged that my perfect boyfriend had spent $500 on a decaying piece of jewelry.  I wasn’t mad when the lady let out a little breath and quickly said “this is not an authentic piece”.

But what I could not accept is the fact that you hacked into my Facebook account, appropriated yourself with my 5000 friends to attempt to build a career in some energy-drink-pyramid-selling-scheme you thought would spare you from the torture of working.  F-U-C-K  Y-O-U

-Written By CityPrincess

GUESTBREAKER: You Made Me Feel Stupid

I’d always thought I was a reasonably intelligent human being until I met you. No, I haven’t read Plato’s Allegory of the Cave and no, I don’t understand the diagram you made to “dumb it down” for us all. Yeah, it would be nice having a boyfriend I can actually carry on an intelligent conversation  with, but not when you completely put down my opinions and back it up with the intensity of a debate team champion. What? You’re just playing devil’s advocate? I’ve got to learn to thoroughly research my opinions?  Fuck you, I don’t care if your philosophy teacher thinks you’re a genius, and playing devil’s advocate every time I open my mouth doesn’t make you clever, it makes you an asshole. But I stayed, thinking I’d probably beat him in the bedroom department, because there’s no way he can argue with my skill there. Then you preceded to DIRECT me through a blowjob, not even giving me a chance to possibly surprise you. If I wanted an education I would have gone to school, not on a date. You can take your Master’s degree and shove it up your pretentious ass.

A Guest Dealbreaker written by Niki.

GUESTBREAKER: You’re a DJ

Playing records really isn’t that hard, so, while I think it’s cute that you’ve found a creative outlet to assuage your trust-fund boredom, stop pretending to be a musician. Drums, guitar, trumpet, clarinet - those all take practice. DJing doesn’t, no matter how super-serious you look when you’re “matching beats.” Stop talking about how you’re “over Justice”, “weak-ass beats,” or how “Italians were doing it better 20 years ago.” The only differences between you and my ipod shuffle-function is that the ipod will play what I want to hear AND it doesn’t have an annoying coke-habit.

A Guest Dealbreaker written by Ryan.

GUESTBREAKER: You Say Things Like “I’m Just One Of Those People That Likes To Get Up Early And Go For A Run”

If someone were to ask me my type, I would probably say somebody who is outdoorsy and athletic, like you are. But that’s mostly because I’m a deeply homophobic gay person. I like to pretend that my desire for an athletic boyfriend is not because of self-loathing but because I am athletic, too. After all, I played soccer in high school until it interfered with being in plays, I had a gym membership in college back when it came free with tuition, and sometimes if I wait too long to poop I run the last little bit of the way to the bathroom. I’m practically an athlete.

But now that I’m actually dating you, and I hear you say things like you’re “setting your alarm for 5:00am to run as the sun comes up” or you want to go work out because you want to “feel the burn”, I feel like we have absolutely nothing in common. Are we going to move in together one day? How would that work? I spent last night in my underwear eating cheetos and drinking white wine while talking back to last week’s episode of Big Brother. I can’t let you see that. Sure, you might say it’s charming, or that opposites attract. But to me opposites would be you saying something like “Oh, you like Cheetos? I’m more of a candy person.” That would make sense. Running isn’t the opposite of eating cheetos at two in the morning, it’s the thing the living still do after the Cheetos-eater died at the age of 29 from not fucking pulling himself together.

Not only do you love to run, but you constantly ask me to do it with you. Are you kidding? I can’t tell. I would like to think you’re being sincere, but it kind of feels like I’m a retarded child and you’re the parent letting me open the jar after you already REALLY opened it yourself. How do you see this run going? Because there is going to be a lot of walking involved on my end. And a lot of saying things like “this is miserable”. Don’t you remember that first time we worked out together, and I had to “go to the bathroom real quick”? I threw up in there. Because I am weak and that is what weak people do after working out for 25 minutes.

You are beautiful. I theoretically admire your athletic prowess. You’re like looking at a Men’s Fitness and thinking “one day I’ll be like that”. But I won’t. Because the only time I have ever read a Men’s Fitness is I’m just kidding I’ve never read a Men’s Fitness. Is that a real thing? I quickly typed the name of something that sounded like a real magazine and think I accidentally stumbled upon a real one. Good for me. If that doesn’t tell you all you need to know when you ask “Would you like to run home from the subway with me just for fun?”, then I don’t know what to tell you.

A Guest Dealbreaker written by Chris Kelly.

GUESTBREAKER: You’re Cheap

Go figure:  I met you at the 99 Cents Store.  You were a painter, a heartthrob, smart, that whole bit.  We talked for 20 minutes about art and life—it was all so philosophical—elevating thought in the trash bin of consumerism flux.  You wanted to buy the red checkered table cloth (99 cents) and I wanted the apron with the rooster on it (you guessed it), but you asked for my number instead.

I should have asked you to pay for it.  And I’d give you a deal (Free):  Cause, man, you’re cheap.

You’re so cheap, spending time is out of your budget.  Look, I could care less if you’re broke—-um, look around, we’re all broke.  Who cares?  Getting to know someone doesn’t cost a thing (but, in this economy…)   I might as well have turned on the news instead of went out with you.  But your “outrageously expensive” $350 rent at the Zen Center/Community Living house where you didn’t have to pay for food was definitely more interesting than this painting that took the artist 10 years to make.

Sure, our date was expensive:  Bergamot Station (Free), dinner (Cheap), and when you asked me to “help out with this one” (A walk around the park), I handed you the fake money I bought at the 99 cents store (Ironic) because it didn’t cost anything. And when you went to the bathroom to fix your hair, I was already halfway through a meeting with a financial advisor to start a payment plan on your dignity.
Because, man, you earned it. 

A Guest Dealbreaker written by Wynne Renz.

GUESTBREAKER: Your Movie Picks Are Disturbing

I don’t want to watch Rob Roy or Braveheart again, sweetie.  We’ve watched those each five times in as many months.

Sure, the films make a nice statement about personal freedom and staying true to yourself … to dudes.  To ladies it makes the statement: you will be raped and/or killed if a) we feel like raping and/or killing you or b) we’re pissed at your husband.  Basically, it makes me feel like you’re hoping I’ll be raped and/or killed down the line, so that you can avenge me.  I get it.  It happens.  I’m not saying the story isn’t strong and the acting isn’t good.  I just don’t need to be reminded that in more savage times, I probably would have been violated.  I mean, you don’t keep suggesting we watch The Shawshank Redemption or American History X, which have similar messages of freedom, honor, and torture porn and are instead full of dude rape.  Do you see what I mean?  So can you pick a different movie tonight?  What’s that?  You have?  Great!

It’s what?  The Accused?

Get.  The fuck.  Away from me.

A guest dealbreaker written by Lindsay Katai.

GUESTBREAKER: Your Buffy Obsession

Here’s the thing: I think you and I have different definitions for the word “genius.” Einstein? Yes. Picasso? Yes. Joss Whedon? No. Maybe I should have seen a warning sign when you kept calling me your “Angel” when you were happy or told me I was being a real “Spike” when I pissed you off.  Or when everything you said contained some sort of self-concious pop-culture reference. Or when I saw that you had a Sarah Michelle Gellar screensaver on your laptop even though you aren’t a 14 year old boy in 1999. So, you can go back to writing Willow fan fiction, but I think this really isn’t really working out. That not clear enough? Ok, let me try Once More, With Feeling. Consider this deal staked.

A Guest Dealbreaker written by Alex Fernie.

You’re a Metrosexual

Really?  People stopped using this term in 2005.  The novelty of an appearance conscious man ended the day his girlfriend discovered he used her razor to ”manscape.”  Take your ladies denim, “guyliner”, and silky smooth skin (seriously, how do you get your skin so silky smooth?) and hit the road.  Besides, I’m pretty sure in your case the term more accurately describes your tendency to give handjobs on the subway. 

Your Softcore Porn Career

So, I couldn’t sleep last night and I was flipping though the channels and what did I come across on Cinemax? A movie about sexy lady cops who solve cases by awkwardly grinding on the bellybuttons of male suspects, while flowing lace curtains hang around them and sultry saxaphone music plays. I know you said you were an actress, but I never expected to see you play the lady chief of police! That training/kissing montage featured some of the most powerful acting I’ve ever seen.

Honestly, I think I’d be less mortified if I saw you in an amateur gangbang video.