The Blueprint

Hello, Gentlemen.

Issuing a quick bulletin here to see who and what is out there—hope this finds all of you in great health and high spirits. The holidays are almost here, eh?  My, how the year flew by!

Let’s start at the beginning: my name is Rachel, I am 31 years old, and I am looking for a boyfriend.  I think.  That’s the thing—I am dreadful at allowing myself to be vulnerable and don’t necessarily know the difference between codependency and emotional availability, so I just as likely might not be looking for a boyfriend.  Truth be told, it’s hard to say if I will fall in love with you then watch you freeze over and start responding to my texts/pleas for connection with “k” or if you will fall in love with me then feel me slowly lose all respect for you.  It’s a toss-up.  50/50 shot either way—we might as well give it a go.

Friends have suggested that I write out what I’m looking for.  An “ideals” list, if you will.  Hashtag relationship goals.  First, let’s start with the “musts”—the non-negotiables.  You must be an age-inappropriate, cisgendered male whose childhood was heavily taxed by his mother’s emotional neediness.  You were always there to clean up mommy’s emotional spatter, and you now associate a woman’s needs with complete & utter suffocation.  All signs point to “run” with you, and I love that about you—that shit keeps me alert.  

You are funny. You are dangerously funny.  Cutting, observational humor lights me on fire like nothing else.  If you can think of better responses to my own anecdotal quips than I can, I am in trouble.  This basically guarantees that I will follow you around like dopey puppy and metaphorically piss all over the floor every time you look at me.  You will own me.  You will think I’m funny, too, but not funnier than you—and you will never, ever let me know that you admire my humor.  (You won’t let me know most nice things you think about me, so why start there?)

It’s probably of note that you are not a “relationship guy.”  No way.  I don’t like relationship guys.  I like “Let’s just see where this goes” and “I really just try and live in the moment” guys.  Your tribe really gets what life is all about!  Why commit to anything when you can meet your own immediate, surface-level needs right fucking now?  I get it. I get you. Let’s do this.

I’m a quacky little duck in Echo Park Lake, and you’re the guy in the douchey, vintage fedora casually tossing breadcrumbs at me on a Sunday afternoon.  I’ll never know when the crumbs are coming, but when I have to fight with all of the other filthy ‘hood ducks for a stale end-piece, I will feel that much more like a swan when I emerge victorious—soggy, sorry-ass return in beak.**  

(**Actually, I recently learned that ingesting bread crumbs creates irreversible intestinal blockage in water birds, which ultimately leads to a very painful and shit-filled death.  But I mean, whatever—I’m grateful for what you’ve got to give.)

Enough out of me.  The point is this: I love you.  I already love you for everything that you are and, more importantly, for everything that you are not.  

I have been writing your name in the sand for years, and I can’t wait to meet you.

Yours,

Rachel