Guys, grow up, grow a pair, or go home.

Ok. Here it is. Let's get real for a second. Like real Prada and not the fancy knock-offs that fell off the back of the truck and are now being sold half-price by the urine-soaked homeless. No we're talking real, authentic, designer handbags the prices of which could buy me food for a year.

Calm down. This isn't a political or ethical rant. But it is a rant. Here goes:

Men of the world: I'm gonna need you to stop.

I have this friend.....I know people say that, but really, this time I really do have a friend. And something happened to her recently. And it's happened to her and many other friends, many times. And it needs. to. end.

Now, I know we've all done things in or out of relationships involving members of the opposite sex (or same, go Massachusetts!) that we are not proud of. I myself have made many mistakes. Too needy, too clingy, too abrupt, too aloof, I mean, the list goes on and on. I've probably hurt people I haven't meant to hurt, and been hurt myself. Really most days it seems like dating is one big circle of hurt. Like a Curves circuit. Crap.

I'm sorry, I know they're "smiling" and "happy" but that just looks excruciating. 

I digress. So my friend. She's awesome. Like a female Randy from "Say Yes to the Dress". She's sassy, and fun, and she'll tell it like it is. That dress makes you look fat? She'll tell ya you look like a cow dressed up for a cheese commercial. But in a super nice way. She's gorgeous and really just great. Boys seem to like her. I mean, they really like her....at first. Then, suddenly, soooo suddenly, seriously, like less time than it takes for Nicholas Sparks' main characters who used to hate each other to magically fall in love, they drop off the face of the earth. True, perhaps she and these boys weren't in an "official" relationship, but let's examine the evidence:

A) They tell her she's "glowing". Which, yes, could be an alert to a severe reaction to radiation exposure, but I'm thinking it was complimentary.

B) They call her just to "chat". All the time. From all the men I know and have talked to, this phenomenon is about as common as managing to watch a show without seeing one of those damn ASPCA ads during breaks.....I'm saying it's rare. Which I've been told means a guy digs ya.

C) They kiss. Now I know we're all not Amish, and for most of us this isn't as big a deal as it used to be. But  come on. It's not THAT casual yet. Like, I don't walk up to my Starbucks barista and go to town on his mouth because he made me a bomb Earl Grey Latte...I might want to but I control myself. 

The defense rests.

And sure, sometimes it happens. You just don't jive with someone, so you digitally free them from your phone contacts and skip on your merry way. I am a huge employer of the Houdini act. But for men I didn't MEAN to meet. Let me take you back, to a little town I like to call Chicago, 2010. The Blackhawks had just won the Stanley cup. I had won the attentions of this guy, we'll call him *Ben.

*I call him Ben because we met at a celebration at a bar and I have no idea what his name actually is. Also I know what you're thinking, but this was a G encounter. The only one night stand this chica enters into is with pans full of brownies. So much eating at night....so much morning shame at the edible carnage. But that's another story.*

Anyway, I met Ben. And from the moment we met, twas understood that ours was a love forged in the consumption of $4 Long Islands and flamed by the confused, misplaced, fair-weather (on my end) excitement over the win of a Chicago sports team. And like all Chicago athletic legacies, of course it didn't last.

And in a few weeks when he called me to hang out I was perplexed. Not only because he was saved as "Fedora Guy" (his choice of head-wear was apparently more memorable than his name) in the outer recesses of my phone, but because I had always known that our affair was based upon pretentious discussions about Joshua Radin and Percy Shelley, and was doomed to be as brief and fleeting as Patrick Kane's attention span. So I never called back. And that was that. No harm. No foul. Because on some level we both knew. Jeeze, I'm really hitting it out of the park with these sports references tonight. Go team.

No, but it was fine. Because we talked for three seconds one night. We didn't know each other. 

But you boys out there. You know the girls you string along but never call. Why? Cause guess what, I've been on the other end a time or two. And really, we just want to know. Give it to us straight. I promise we won't explode, or god forbid, cry at you. We won't go postal or threaten to jump off a bridge. You're not that great, and we have uteri (is that the plural? ew), not personality disorders. Contrary to popular thought, our ovaries do not make us psychotic. 

So calm down. We're big girls, and we're stronger than we look, mostly because of jerks like you. WE and our uteri (*shudder*; I can't believe that's the plural) will be FINE. You, well? We don't care.

And you. You boy out there. You made sure you got to know my friend. And you had an understanding. And then you chose to cut and run, despite that understanding. And that is why, young lad, if I ever find you, I will strangle you with your large and small intestines, until you  beg for death, provided the removal of said intestines, doesn't kill you initially. Either way. It's gonna suck for you. 

So, men of the world. Stop with the games. Stop with the lies and the evasions. Enough. We can take whatever you can throw at us and then some. Because if you do decide that you want to stay with us, well, ok I guess. But if you are an idiot and ditch us we get to eat ice cream and watch Titanic on loop for a few weeks. So either way. We win.