Why You’re Single

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Thought Catalog recently posted a cupcake-stuffed article called “Why You’re Single,” and although it made me feel better about myself, it was a load of emotional horse shit. I could feel the tears dripping out of the horse’s asshole. Here’s why you’re really single.

Let’s be real. You haven’t been in a relationship in almost two years. The best part of your day is making love to your bed and/or a spoonful of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream (which is the only BJ you put your mouth around in a while…). You think you’re doing all the right things—dressing like a passive whore, smelling like Ed Hardy, drinking vodka-redbulls on Friday nights in hopes to find someone to sweep you off your feet when in reality you just end up crying in the booth at Denny’s like the diner alcoholic you are. You put on makeup everyday like a good girl, and you keep your panties folded like a responsible sonofabitch. You wink appropriately, respond to flirtation, and even leave your number on the guest check the waiter just dropped off.

And yet you’re still single. And you don’t know why. You sad, sad fuck. Be still—momma’s here to explain it to you. This is why you’re single.

Your Checklist: Every bitch mentally keeps a checklist of the standards and requirements her future ‘man’ must meet in order to cross the coochie-line. Your problem? YOUR CHECKLIST IS STRAIGHT OUT OF FUCKING CANDYLAND. No man is going to fuck you with a giant candy cane and make you maple covered bacon for breakfast. He isn’t going to be 6’4”, 225, and waxed. He will NOT talk to you about your day or make sure you have enough tampons when you’re like the exorcist down there. In your mind, it’s not your fault that you’re single. You think it’s the fault of every male around you who can’t fill in your mental scantron to your liking. WRONG, SNATCH. Now is the time to burn the checklist and narrow it down to physical features only. Nobody cares about personality anymore, anyway. Be shallow.

Your Little TAINT-LOADED Black Book: Another reason why you may be single is because you’ve been around the neighborhood. And I’m not talking a friendly stroll down park. I’m saying your ass has circled every block three times and surveilled that shit with cameras. Point blank—you’ve fucked everyone in, out, around, and sideways throughout the neighborhood. No wonder you’re single, hoe. Any potential would smell your nastiness from three miles away—and nobody likes to double-dip. Ever heard of the eskimo buddy? Yeah. Guys don’t dig that. More on that later.

Your Face: Makeup is important. I don’t give a fuck about how ugly you are. If you ever saw me in the morning, you’d understand why this bitch doesn’t have a boyfriend. Makeup can fix anything and everything, so if you haven’t been wearing it, odds are you’re single. The amount you invest in Mac and Sephora is directly proportional to how many drinks you won’t have to pay for at a bar. Simple math.

Your iTunes Library: The other day I realized that I still had Hannah Montana in my iTunes library and thought WOW, I really need to kill myself. I’ve also got a shit ton of Bieber and 2Chainz, aka… terrible music, and the reason why America is so horrible. When you have a guy over to your apartment, what do they do? They check out your iTunes library. Filter your singles otherwise you’ll still be one of them.

Your Inner Sutra: If you aren’t fluent in the reverse cowgirl and only speak missionary, then prepare yourself for a life talking to yourself and a vibrator. Your sessions should be based on an eight-position minimum. Channel your inner whore, bitch. No guy is going to want to wife a cold fish who lays on her back because it’s comfortable. Be that prostitute. You know you want to.

Your Instagram: If all you do is post pictures of meadows and what you’re eating for lunch… then we get it. You’re a fat ass chillin’ in a field somewhere. Tits and Ass. Tits and Ass. It’s all about Tits and Ass. Be seductive and post those questionable pictures like yeah bitch I’m posting a picture of me in the see-through dress I bought today, do something about it. Don’t have any of those posted? Well then at least that field is always there for you.

Your Emoticons: Every time you text a smiley face, some guy’s dick shrivels up into his body. CHILL OFF THE SMILEYS. We get it, bitch. You’re happy.

You’re an Alcoholic: I mean, that’s why I’m single.

I’m sure there are more reasons why you’re single, but there’s no Wifi in this meadow I’m sitting in, and pizza sauce and my beer keep dripping onto my keyboard. Get your life together, slut. Go get a man. TTYL.