Few moments in my week garner the amount of rage that builds within me as when a friend won’t just let me vent to them about a boy. I am a weak woman. I have strong overall foundations instilled in feminism, but the moment that a boy issue welcomes itself into my personal life, I forget everything I have ever preached about on goddamn Twitter. I am putty. I am a one-dimensional romcom character. I am a comic strip cartoon woman.
I am at my most grotesque at the following intersection of events:
- I am generally unsure about how a guy I like feels about me
- And I am going to see said guy within 48 hours
When this dangerous cocktail of emotions, expectations, self-consciousness, hormones, and resentment about not sticking to my truest feminist self is splashed together in the bewitched cauldron of my mind, I am not a good friend. I will speak of nothing but this stupid guy and what I want to happen when I see him. I will make every conversation about me.
These behavioral tendencies are not nearly as bad, though, as after I have hung out with said guy. Regardless of whether it went well or not, it is simply all that I can discuss. And there is nothing that makes little pockets of rage steam build up in my brain as much as when a friend either tries to “set me straight” by defending the guy and telling me what I’m doing wrong, even though I understand on a fundamental level that they are correct.
This brings me to a generally low place in my life which I have found myself in all too often: When I am mad at my friends for not listening to me about my guy problems and/or not making hearing about it and sympathizing with it the most important part of their day.
I recall a conversation about three years ago with a former roommate. We were discussing boys and she said something that I scoffed at the time, but now can never not implement into my process.
“Sometimes you just want your friend to say what you want to hear, just because it feels nice to hear it, even though you know that it’s not true.”
And isn’t that the true purpose of friends, anyway? To be there for you when you most need them? I define “be there for me” as “tell me that every decision I have ever made is perfect and that everyone who doesn’t give me what I want is wrong,” by the way.
Fuck boys and fuck friends who won’t just say the nice things that make the problems feel like they’ve gone away for a second. And most importantly, fuck myself for submitting to the patriarchy on an hourly basis.