You know the guy.
He's hanging around your girlfriend a bit too much. He waxes sensitively about his life and loves. He's so thoughtful. He gardens. He weeps. He breast-feeds blind puppies. He thanks her for watering his plants by insisting that he take her out for a candlelit dinner. It's the least he owes her, he says. He tells her "Love ya," spelled noncommittally, just in case. He pumps her full of (for now) obsequious flattery.
You know what he's up to. He knows. She knows. He's waiting you out. He's jockeying for pole position, waiting for the clock to run out on you. And if you're me, you say something to her.
"Jesus H. Christ, has he no shame? Why doesn't he just hold up a sign that says Queue Here?"
The overwhelming majority of my girlfriends have acknowledged what he's up to. "Yeah, probably so," they typically chuckle. "But believe me, you have nothing to worry about. No way."
Sated, I then drop it.
Twice in my romantic history, I got a different reaction. Of my concerns about Todd, the Approval Whore called me paranoid, jealous, downright insane. She raised major cain about my many deficiencies and my appalling lack of trust, right up until she fucked Todd. Poor Sarah was no less damning. My suspicions about Rich reflected far more poorly on my insecurities and lowly character than on anyone else's, she spat, even after she fucked him.
Twice, a girlfriend has attacked me for pointing out the obvious. Twice, they ended up doing the guy. Pattern? I'm starting to think so.
"Next time I get attacked for pointing out some pining douchebag," I told Blondage last night, "I know exactly what to do."
"Yeah, you ask her So should I start having your mail forwarded to his house?"
I love when someone writes my posts for me.