Here's what women tend to like about me:
I'm a casual, relaxed, "go with the flow" kind of guy. I'm funny, flirtatious, a little naughty, reasonably attractive, smart (though mostly just clever), supportive, non-critical, non-jealous, stable, an excellent communicator, and last, but not least, I tend to "get" what women want.
Here's what women tend to hate about me:
(Go back to the second paragraph and read it all again.)
Get it? What attracts you, drives you away. My coin is shiny and only slightly tarnished, till you see the other side and realize the futility of changing me.
Let's take it all apart, just for the sake of deconstruction.
I'm relaxed. Good quality, right? But it also means . . . I'm lazy.
Good quality: I'm casual. Bad quality . . . I'd prefer to wear shorts and a tee shirt to your wedding. In a perfect world, pajamas (I have a nice selection of South Park PJs that would almost certainly match any bridesmaid's dresses!)
Good quality: I'm a "go with the glow" kind of guy. Bad quality . . . you create the go, I'll flow, which means you have to do all the work.
Are you seeing it now? Dating me, or anyone for that matter, except the pope, which in this day and age may be against some Italian law, but in the old days, the good old righteous days, the pope had a wife and sometimes a mistress. He was Italian, after all.
What was I saying? Oh, right, sex . . . no, that's not right, well it is, but. . . .
Dating me is like buying a house. A warm Sunlit parlor means your electric bills will be astronomical because your A/C will be running at 118%. "Cozy" means you can't turn around in the bathroom, even to wipe yourself.
Should we keep going? Somewhere, I can feel two drunken heads nodding and saying, "Shhure, whyda fuck not? Ishh your bottle!"
Good quality: I'm funny. Bad quality: I'm never serious, even when it's starting to make you want to go that big butcher's knife out of that drawer, and even then I'll probably make a joke about how I'm finally going to get your point.
Bloodshed, shovels in the wee hours, explanations, and you're the next subject of interest on 48 Hours: Hard Evidence . . . The Killing Joke!
I'm flirtatious. With you. With co-workers. With gay men. With other women. I'm flirtatious in general, which may at some point have you considering the corkscrew rather than the butcher knife. Let's hope I'm a good vintage.
I'm reasonably attractive, which means I vacillate (which to my shock has nothing to do with Vaseline) between being over-confident and being insecure. It also means I will probably not have my back hair lasered, but I will spend countless hours grooming my beard (or yours . . . see? that was a "butcher knife" joke . . . told you!).
I'm smart (mostly clever). Do you like feeling dumb? No one does. So when I let you do something dumb and then let out a dry witty remark about what you "should've" done, you'll probably move from the corkscrew department to the axe department. I recommend a hatchet. Axes tend to be too heavy for most women, which will probably be dying my words. "Should've . . . killed . . . me . . . . . with . . . . . chainsaw. . . . much . . . . easier. . . ."
Supportive. Right? What could be bad about that? Ah, let's find out, shall we? Supportive means supporting you even when you're fucking something up and supporting you in the expensive compensation at which point you'll turn to me and say, "Why the fuck didn't you stop me from doing something so asinine?!" Because I'm non-critical and supportive. See?
Non-critical. You're perfect. We both know it. Even when that spinach leaf in your teeth, a long ribbon of toilet paper on your heel, your skirt tucked neatly into the back of your pantyhose and your hair looking like Quasi-moto's hairdresser had a go at you. Once you've walked around all day like that, the phrase, "Hey, I love you just the way your are!", will likely get me buried in six pieces rather than 4. I don't want say anything about where that sixth "piece" will end up. But may I suggest an old ex's mailbox. He'll think twice about everything!
Non-jealous. Every once in awhile, don't you kind of want your man to get a little "tense" about other men?
Stable equals "not a risk taker".
An excellent communicator means I have the ability to turn your own words against you and squirm out of most the crappy things I do which you are trying to call me on only to find yourself apologizing and explaining why you did the thing you did. Tip: it's because you're a girl. I forgive you.
Last, but not least . . . "getting" what women really want, which means I'm going to know that when you're saying that seemingly innocuous thing that there's really something much deeper going on and it's going to drive you nuts because I'm going to call you on it rather than play your game and we're going to spend the next 40 minutes arguing about what you "really meant" only to have you finally give up and invite me over to have sex. You'll probably have much better luck in the morning before I've had my coffee. I'll tend to apologize and own up to anything when I'm just waking up, aching, uncaffeinated and feeling old (and spent), and feeling like a homeless person with the Swine Flu.
With all that said, I have a lovely, cozy, sunlit cottage on the beach to sell you.
Which means it's a dank, tiny, hot shack that might or might not be underwater depending on the tide.
Read the damn COMIC!!!!!