Why does anyone like me?

I seem confident on my tumblr, right? I give lots of advice. You guys basically trust me to give you a stable point of view on your major life decisions.


That by no means makes me perfect, or even means that I have my shit figured out. You all ask about boys and girls, relationships, and crushes. Do they like you, do you like them? It's all that lovely abstract bullshit that will never have a definitive answer for, but I'll give you my best third party opinion. But even the most stable, levelheaded people will find themselves asking, 'why the hell would anyone like me?' (If you think I'm a stable, levelheaded person, you clearly don't know me in real life - not like I once tried to scale a wrought iron fence and got stuck half way in an attempt to spy on a hot guy when I was twelve).


I ask this often: with my girlfriends over my lunch, with my girlfriends when we're out dancing, with my girlfriends when I run into them on a walk of shame, and they all share the same confusion about themselves. What makes guys have any interest in us? Don't they understand that we're fucking crazy? This is usually asked after a wine fueled, extremely unsexy underwear dance, sometimes including a tophat, as we're getting ready to go out. Mid pelvic thrusting to Feel Like Making Love, we'll stop and realize that there are guys who are going to attempt to take us home tonight, and they have no idea how tapped we are.


We've decided that I trick people into thinking I'm hot with my Barbie blond hair and fantastic boobs. When I go out with my best friend, we are like an optical illusion. Both small, about the same height, one bright blonde, one mysterious brunette, and guys love it. They have no idea that we were car dancing to Baby Got Back on the ride over.


A guy might sleep with me, but if we turn it into a routine, I will grow perpetually more and more worried that he will eventually see the real me. Some day, he'll figure out that my little quips about his ego or the fact that I can open the condom wrapper myself, dammit, are all signs of my deep seated feminism that will drive a guy right over the edge. I can be cutting and witty in bed, but he will eventually figure out that I'm borderline bitchy on a regular basis and that glare he gets when he puts his huge, super-hot, personal trainer hands on my head as I go down on him is the same one he'll some day get when he puts my plates in the wrong cabinet.


I hit the gym a lot and my idea of a great date is hiking followed up by rock climbing, but I take forever at the gym because I constantly stop to dance to my workout playlist. And by workout playlist, I mean everything Lady Gaga has ever put out. I am a terrible running partner. I am a supportive teammate but I don't take competition seriously at all.


I am difficult to the point of impossibility, and my hair and high heels will not compensate for that forever. But for now, it will get me in the bar for free and get many drinks bought for me. Too bad I embarked on a sober journey last year.


For now, I'll pretend to be wildly mysterious when in reality, I'm just extremely weird and will probably spend the majority of my life tethered to this computer, talking to all of you and ignoring the hot dude in my bed. Go away, buddy, I'm busy here.