Crickets: An apology to every man who’s ever liked me

Silence kills me.

I’m a writer. I’m a YouTuber. I’m a listener.

I’m the most extroverted person I know.

My life, my happiness, my success — it’s all based on the quantity and the quality of words flowing.

I love social media so much that I’ve worked tirelessly to build my career off of it. It’s not so much that I appreciate the finer parts of the internet. It’s not exactly beautiful.

But it is busy. Every minute, the internet is filled with another million minutes of video, another million pictures, and another million words.

It keeps the silence at bay.

And if you do it right (or even if you don’t), you never truly feel alone.

Ahhh, success.

If you know where to look and who to talk to, you can find validation anywhere at any time. You can fill the void. You can keep the silence at bay indefinitely for years at a time. You never have to let the dark thoughts in.

Until the validation disappears.

Friends aren’t enough

File this one under #singlepeopleproblems, but sometimes the validation of your friends and family simply doesn’t mute the silence enough.

Sometimes you need somebody to tell you that you’re pretty to feel like you’re pretty.

It’s insecurity, plain and simple. It’s unhealthy, it’s crippling, it eats away at the fabric of your being and turns you into a raging monster from the depths of Hell.

And it’s the only thing I’ve ever committed to.

What better way to embrace your insecurity than by using hook-up apps to seek external validation from unsuspecting men who don’t even want to know your name?

You know how you can explain to your four-year-old that electrocution is a Bad Thing and that he will literally die if he sticks his finger in the electrical outlet, but he does it anyways?

That’s basically my dating life, only I convince you that you should totally do it with me.

Just wait until you see what third base looks like.

I’m dangerous. I go on dates with men, even when I don’t actually know if I’m interested in them, simply because they ask me. I’m the one you can win over, for a moment, by telling me how amazing I am, even though you don’t know anything about me.

I debate writing articles about how you really should talk to the hot, unapproachable guy, because we’re probably just as insecure and uncomfortable as you are — not because it will build up the wallflowers, but because of the possibility that if enough people read it, one day, I will be able to leave the bar without having to tell myself that nobody talked to me because of how ugly I am.

But only sometimes.

Other times, I am the guy on Grindr who yells at you for being gross when you send me a picture of your dick.

I get frustrated when guys keep pursuing me even after I’ve politely made it not-at-all obvious that I’m not interested in them, but I also get frustrated when nobody’s talking to me.

And god forbid you get my phone number. I am the person who goes a little crazy when I don’t get the response that I need to feed my ego, and then decides that you’re a jerkface, when really, you’re just busy. But I also run away when you start to pursue me too much because you need to have your own life first.

I am deeply fucked up.

I am Taylor Swift song fucked up.

I owe you an apology

It’s time to put on my big boy pants and make amends.

I want to apologize to my last real boyfriend for being completely unwilling to compromise — not because I was strong-willed and determined, but because I was afraid that if I wasn’t right, that meant I was a failure.

I regret relating to “You Oughta Know” Alanis more than “Guardian” Alanis.

I want to apologize to every single guy who’s had the nerve to use a hook-up app to try and hook up with me, only to get iced out for being direct.

I’m sorry to every guy I’ve ever strung along, despite having no interest in you. I told myself that it was because I was too polite to reject anybody outright. I told myself that it was because anybody could grow on me, and that personality is what really counts. In reality, it was because if I kept you on the hook, I could sleep that night without tearing myself apart. At least somebody wanted me.

I know that I need to stop singing “Independent Women” at the top of my lungs when I’m internally craving affection from literally any guy who will offer it.

(Actually, I just need to stop singing. I’m so very bad at it.)

To the guy who yelled out, “Oh look! It’s Ryan Lochte!” at the bar on Saturday night, I’m sorry that I rolled my eyes. I’m sure you’re a lovely gentleman. (But also please don’t do that. I’m insecure, but that’s still weird.)

I’m sorry to all of my friends who have thought they had successfully built me up to a survivable level of self-confidence. You were wrong.

And perhaps most of all, I’m sorry to anybody who’s ever thought I was attractive. I wanted to feel like a perfect 10 — or even a 7. I wanted to believe that I was even half as hot as you’ve tried to convince me I am. But if we’re counting on what’s inside, I look something more like this:

But first, let me take a selfie.

But I hope we can still be friends.