Fuckboy Brigade

“You let a boy who works at London Drugs break your heart. You’re so much better than that.”

Standing tall at 5’2”, armed with nothing but a glass of Chianti, my best friend delivered the blow that made me re-evaluate my approach to love.

It’s not that I’ve never heard it before. My friends, family, inner-voice, and many unsolicited gas station attendants have been quick to let me know that my dating habits are garbage.

It’s that for the first time someone put the weight on my shoulders instead of his.

Touché, small friend.

Despite being twenty-five years deep, I’ve only recently started flirting with the idea of abandoning “you up” texts for romantic interactions based in respect and basic human decency.

Truth is: I live for the thrill of the fuckboy.

If you were to take a ghosts of boyfriends past journey through my treasure trove of fuckery, you’d find the type of guys who only message you via snapchat so that there’s no paper trail, rather send you nudes than apologize for their transgressions, and wont like your selfies incase any of the other girls they try to pull see it.

I’m a sucker for the type that watch my story but wont respond to my texts, blow me off at the drop of a hat, and cling to the phrase “I’m not looking for anything serious” like a life preserver.

Cute of you.

However, my unfaithful army of fuckboys, It’s not you. It’s me.

By not calling out the behaviour, or better yet - hitting the block button, I’ve been a champion of fuckboy behaviour and act as a catalyst in their survival.

By not demanding respect, I’ve allowed men to freely walk in and out of my life with nothing more to show for it than a shirtless mirror pic and backhanded compliment.

If only half-nude selfies kept me warm at night.

What’s worse is that by not demanding respect, I’ve become another statistic affecting the fuckboy psyche, making it that much harder for the next girl who falls into his trap.

Sorry, girls. Your souls now belong to the devil and it’s partially my fault.

With every second chance I give I make it harder for the native fuckboy to realize his full potential as a decent human being and for the woman that inherits him after me to come out the other side unscathed.

So to that end - with a special thanks to Tuscan vintners, a tiny Fijian goddess, and my ethically impaired brigade of fuckboys, I vow to walk away from anyone who disrespects my time, doesn’t align with my values, or wields a chin-strap - for the sake of the survival and progression of modern romance.