I thought you were charming, but as it turns out, you’re too shallow for that. It’s all surface-level with you, which explains why I fell so hard, so fast. When it came time to back it up with some actual substance, your efforts were less than impressive. It took me a minute to realize it, but the person I thought you were isn’t who you are at all.
You’re so vain.
I have never met a man who spends more time in the mirror than you do. Caring about appearance is one thing, but constantly taking selfies just so you can make sure your hair is still perfectly tousled is another. We’re in the middle of a conversation. Have some dignity.
You think women are prizes.
You talk about your past relationships like they’re trophies on your shelf. Here’s a hint: women are not prizes, and you can’t rack them up to add to your own street cred. I DGAF about the size of your ex’s waist. That has nothing to do with you, yet you brag about it like it’s an achievement.
Your charm is surface-level.
This is what took me the longest to figure out. You seemed so nice and caring, calling people “doll” and “my man” moments after meeting them. I’ve seen the light though, finally. You want to endear yourself to people so you can get what you want out of them. It has nothing to do with you being a good person, and actually everything to do with you looking out only for yourself.
You see me as an object.
If the way you talk about other women wasn’t so gross, I might not have caught on. Luckily for me, you seem to reduce my entire gender to parts of their anatomy that you like. I even caught you and your friends ranking women you’d like to bang, on a numerical scale of their hotness. You better believe that was the second I decided you weren’t worth my wasted breath.
Your friends are all jerks.
Speaking of your friends, they’re all horrible. I hate being around them, and I’m pretty sure the feeling is mutual. I guess you can only fake it so long til the real you comes out, and when you’re around them, I can see it clear as day. You might as well start an official fan club for each other. You’re all kind of the worst, and I can’t stand to watch.
You’re rude to waiters.
The first time you didn’t tip, I thought it was maybe an oversight, or just a bad night for you. But then I watched you do it again and again. Sometimes you even interrupted people in mid-sentence to be rude about something that didn’t meet your high standards. My mother used to say you can tell a lot about a man by how he treats service people, and let me just say, you fail that measuring stick by a mile.
You’re a road rage maniac.
Again, I chalked this up to catching you on a bad night, but now that I know you better, I can see it’s a pattern. If I’m scared to even get in a car with you due to how you behave when someone cuts you off, you’ve got a problem. It’s not masculine, it’s terrible behaviour to the extreme. I’m relieved to have seen it sooner, rather than later.
In retrospect, it should’ve been easy for me to see your true nature from the way you talk about other people. You’re judge-y, and it’s gross. I once heard you say that a pregnant person had gained too much weight, and that’s when I knew you wouldn’t ever have the kind of empathy it takes to make a person decent. I’m just glad I got out when I did, because any more time spent with you might have turned me into the same kind of sad, awful person you are.
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