For too long, I’ve thought of men as robots who gravitate to a massive butt or perfectly-adjusted boobs. It baffled me that I looked my best, put on the charm and still got left high and dry. Surely, in the half-hour (!) that we spoke prior to the inevitable rejection, a hair must’ve fallen out of place, or I said something incredibly unattractive. That night, after shedding a few crocodile tears, I began to think about everything that isn’t perfect about me.
So much flooded my mind. Maybe I was too forward, I thought. Maybe I should’ve acted less interested, I wondered.