My Biggest Competition


In those literary classics such as “Men are from Uranus, Women are from Tampax” and “He’s Just Not into You cuz You Ugly”, the central theme is that men have much more difficulty with communication than women. That’s bullshit, your honor. Guys are always on the damn phone.

I always thought I had to compete with aspiring reality show stars with a penchant for guys with girlfriends. Nope, it’s texting. It’s another way of saying, yes, this poorly-spelled, 4-word jumble of letters with less prize offers than “Wheel of Fortune” is still, much, MUCH more important than you.

When we’re on a date and he takes me out to dinner, my main concern isn’t if the waitress is hot. (Of COURSE the waitress is hot. It’s LA.) It’s, oh my God, his phone is ringing. And HE’S ANSWERING IT?!? And he’s talking. And talking, and TALKING. Seconds turn to minutes as I sit there: me, him, the bread basket and the fucking phone pressed lovingly to his ear as he lavishes words and saliva into its mouthpiece. It’s at that point I want to stand up, throw a stale roll at his head, grab the phone and stab the little fucker’s heart out with my stiletto. But instead I sulk, pout, give monosyllabic answers for the remainder of the evening and refuse to kiss him goodnight.

Huh. Maybe I have a problem with communication.

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