Here’s a little something I wrote awhile back. A little background knowledge for those who don’t know: I have been proposed to three times, and have had several others comment they wanted to propose. They at least knew I would say “no!” So I wrote this in case anyone else had the crazy notion of thinking they should marry me.
Dear Men Who Want to Marry Me,
Just stop. Really. I mean it. You think I’m this cute, little thing with an attitude and the excitement level of a five year old. Ok… well that is true. Except I’m not little. I’m 5’10” damnit. That’s the opposite of little.
But you know those crazy girls? You know the ones. The ones all the guys are always talking about. Yeah, I’m one of them. No, no, not like that. I’m not the crazy, stalker-bitch ex. I promise. I like my sleep way too much to stand outside your window at night to watch you sleep. Plus I’m pretty sure that would be cold October through May, and I like to be warm. And I would run out of hot cocoa around two am. It’s just not worth it to be that kind of crazy.
No, I am the worse crazy. I am the crazy where a restraining order is unnecessary. No. My crazy is the diagnosed crazy. The crazy where you don’t even want a restraining order. The crazy where if it gets just bad enough I might be enjoying a change of scenery. You know white, comfy walls, new clothes, possibly a snug jacket. Yeah. That’s my kind of crazy.
I know! I hide it well. Thank you. I try. But really. Just stop. I know you think it makes me cute and vulnerable. Like I need protection. No It’s not attractive and I don’t need saving. You can’t save me. You can’t fix me. That ship has sailed. I needed you years ago, but don’t beat yourself up about it. I didn’t know you then. And more than likely you couldn’t have stopped it anyways.
You think I’m vulnerable, don’t you? That’s got your male instincts all revved up. You’re going to be my Prince Charming because I’m obviously a damsel in distress. I’m gonna stop you right there. That’s not how this works. Maybe with other girls, but I’m different–you’ve probably noticed that by now, or at least I hope you have. I don’t want your saving. And I don’t want your help. The more you try, the harder I’m going to push you right out of my life.
Maybe you’re the guy who has finally gotten me to commit: exclusivity, titles, and all. Congratulations. You are special, or I got tired of you bugging me about committing. If I asked you, well that’s impressive! You should high-five yourself now. Now that you probably look like an idiot high fiving yourself (God, I hope you’re in a public place, that would be embarrassing), you should probably rethink your life decisions. I’m a good cook, but damn, not good enough that you want to be with me forever and ever. That’s just crazy. Now we’re both crazy and that just isn’t going to work for me. I need to be with a sane person.
Here’s the deal, though. I look awesome on paper. I’m a normal girl, supposedly, who expects very little from the guy I’m with. Plus I like to give blow jobs. I’d count that as a win if I were you. Although I’m not having sex with you, so that’s loss overall. But when the resume stops and the night sets in. It’s game over. You may love the girl you go to sleep next to, but do you love the girl you wake up with?
The night is when I can no longer hide. Go figure, it’s dark out, you’d think it would be easier. Nope. Whoever thought that is all fucked up in the head. Now he should be diagnosed. When you fall asleep next to me, you’re probably thinking “aww, so cute, she still sleeps with her baby blanket” or “she sure likes to cuddle; goddamn her feet are cold” or “does she really have to wear clothes? So much more effort for morning sex.” What you’re not expecting is: waking up to a terrified girl screaming or a girl sleep walking herself just about to tumble down the stairs or oopsies, sorry, at least you’ll look tough with that broken nose.
Don’t laugh. I’m being serious. If you have spent the night and it hasn’t happened yet, just wait. Give it time; it will happen. And if you don’t run, well you’re crazy and stupid. Please don’t add “in love” on the end of that. I will change my mind about you. Cutesie is dumb.
Also I’m not a romantic. I am more likely to tell you to put your big boy panties on because you obviously lost them in your purse if you try to be cute. I would rather watch Fight Club than the Notebook – I haven’t seen it, and I don’t want to. Oh, and I will wince less than you during the movie too. So don’t try the over the top kind of proposal. Better yet, don’t propose at all. Let’s coexist. Separately. And far away from each other. You will thank me for this advice later.
I am diagnosed crazy. Yeah, I make jokes about it. The phrase “hold on my crazy’s showing” passes my lips on a frequent and daily basis. I’m not joking, though. It’s true. I will make you laugh to distract you from my pain. Hell, you have probably laughed while reading this letter. Told you, I’m good at this crap. You don’t want my crazy. Really you don’t need my crazy.
I’m a feminist, and I believe “I don’t need no man!” Really though. You don’t deserve what my crazy will do to you. You don’t need my crazy. But I do need you. If I let you in. If you have pushed past my walls, my guard, and my pushing, I depend on you. I need you. My crazy makes me dependent and pisses off my feminism. You may not know this yet, but if I depend on you, you leaving will destroy me. I will never recover. If you get in, I hope you are prepared to never leave. Stock up your emotional reserves and charge your willpower because shit’s getting real.
If you want to marry me, you are in for a whirlwind of emotions. You will have all of me without any kind of filter – you should probably try to have one installed. You will get the fun, five-year old side of me and you will get all my crazy. You get the good and the bad. But in my opinion the bad completely outweighs the good. So really. Stop. Just stop. You don’t want this crazy.
That crazy person. Who is a klepto. Cause I stole your heart. Rethink your life decision now!!!!