He's Just Not That Into You

F-in A.

On Saturday, a girlfriend of mine gave me a book to read. Ever so nonchalantly, I accepted. She knows I love to read; I guessed she thought it especially funny or whatever. I had seen the book many times at the bookstore and each time, the title had caught my eye: He's Just Not That Into You.

Only, I thought it was just some cheesy, chick novel. I realized about one minute into actually reading it, however, it certainly was NOT a novel. It's, uh, pretty much the proverbial single woman's nightmare, delicately wrapped in a glossy pink cover.

(Bastards rope you in and hold on tight. I hate when that happens.)

Reading the book made me feel such a plethora of emotions, many simultaneously. I felt the need to vomit while at the same time desiring to kick some guy's face in. Any guy would do. I'd teeter between the need to laugh and the urge to cry my pathetic eyes out. Shout obscenities at the wall in my apartment, if only for the release of energy.

This type of subject matter makes me go all funny. I detest being at the mercy of emotions in such a way, specifically when I haven't seen the situation coming.

I had prepared myself for a light read, something to relax with on a Sunday night while I soaked in the tub. What I got instead, was the equivalent of a fist fight was a man named All The Things You Think You Know About Relationships. He won; I lay bloody and battered on the ground, reeling from shock at a situation that I never had the opportunity to get my bearings in. He was just too fast, too powerful.

And the worst part was, he didn't even have to try that hard. He was ready for Round Three, only the slightest condensation having gathered at his temples.