Dear men of the world:
I’m over you.
I’m over you guilting me to hang out with you even though I have adamantly and repeatedly and graciously declined.
I’m over you asking me to edit your resume without so much of a thank you.
I’m over you thinking that just because you bought me a drink or a shot or pulled a chair out for me or – gasp – acknowledged in public that you knew me … that I owe you something.
I’m over you dressing up and going out like you’ve got something to offer (or sell) and then looking right past me or over me or through me.
I’m over you looking for a Miss Right Now and eventually deciding you’re going to marry her when all the time I’ve been looking for the real deal rather than a few free meals for as long as we both shall live.
So guess what I’m doing? I’m living for me. This is my year. I’m running for me. I’m eating for me. I’m doing the things I want to do and watching the things I want to watch and sleeping til I want to wake up and going where I want to go and buying what I want (and wearing it how I want) and worrying about me because somebody has got to. And I know it’s not going to be you.
The Kristin of 2012