I give up on you, Portland women. - m4w - 32

I don’t feel like I have much of a choice but to give up on trying to date any of you, hip and cool women of Portland. Believe me when I say that this is not how I was hoping things would turn out. I find you very attractive and interesting; you look so cute with your scarf, calf-length boots and trendy glasses. I do really enjoy talking to you about Foucault, The New Pornographers, and Max Ernst, too. 

You know, at first, it seemed like we had so much in common. We’re both avid readers/writers, and musically, culinarily and philosophically inclined. We both like to ride bikes, drink quality coffee and beer, and read our books in parks on sunny days. We see eye to eye on most everything regarding aesthetics, and I thought that this was enough to serve as the foundation for a good relationship. 

Well, it turns out that I was wrong. Aesthetics seem to be pretty much the only thing we have in common. Once I got to know many of you, I realized how utterly shallow, spoiled, and self-absorbed you are. I thought that the aloof, haughty demeanor was just a defense mechanism, something to protect your sensitive inner-selves from the harshness and difficulty of modern life. I thought that if I gave you time, and worked hard to earn your trust, that you just might open up to me, and just might show me something beautiful and substantive aside from your carefully crafted appearance. 

Turns out, I was wrong there, too. You’re aloof and haughty because you don’t want anyone to see how truly empty you are inside. You hide behind your fashionable vintage clothes, your favorite indie bands, your vinyl collection, your mix-tapes, your headphones, your iPhone, your Stumptown coffee, your Macbook, your bicycle, your passing acquaintance with leftist intellectualism and postmodernism, your organic food, your over-sized glasses (that often aren’t even prescribed), your “crafty” artwork, your tattoos and piercings, your purported fear of clowns and distaste for the word “moist”, your hundreds of photos partying with your friends on your facebook profile, your junk that you scored at the Goodwill Bins, your skinny jeans, your interest in Buddhism and Yoga, your liberal arts degree, your international travels (financed by your parents), your love of anything “kitschy” or “80’s”, etc. You get the idea. 

It seems to me that, because of this, you look for men who are just like you, and men who will automatically agree with you on everything. Aesthetics and co-dependency are all the two of you seem to have to offer each other, and apparently all you need. So long as you both look good when you go out to your favorite SE dive bar, you’re content… sort of. 

Then you were single for awhile, and you met me. I’m not nearly as good-looking as the men from your previous dozen relationships (most of which lasted at most 3 months, you confess). You quickly realized that I was smarter than most of them, too, even though I didn’t ostentatiously quote Proust like they did, nor did I name-drop extremely obscure indie bands to impress you (and we both know that this impresses you, sadly). I listened thoughtfully and intently to your stories, made you laugh with witty observations and wordplay, and showed you genuine affection with the promise of more, down the road. 

But alas, the pull of the gorgeous, tattooed, fixed-gear and skinny-jeans guy was too much for you to resist. His presence is ubiquitous around town, manifesting in hundreds and hundreds of bodies, many of which you’ve already slept with, apparently. It’s enough to make me wonder what it would be like to sleep with so many bodies that are basically just instantiations of one prototypical entity. In retrospect, had we gotten around to sleeping together, I guess I would’ve had an answer to that question, wouldn’t I? 

Anyhow. It looks like we’re through, Portland women. I’m by no means perfect, but I honestly did try to be the best kind of man I could be for you. It still stings a little to know that you think I’m not good enough, and that you probably never will. I’ll get over it eventually, of course, but until then, please try not to look so good and act like you’re really a decent human being - it’ll just prolong my recovery, ok? Thanks.