On not being a whiny bitch.

Hey I’ve never really done this before, but I need some advice.

There’s this girl, cliche I know, but I fell for her fast. And for some time, I was under the impression that the feeling was mutual. We went on like this for about a month just flirting no problems.

But then she asked me if I was “developing feelings”. Of course, I said yes, but when I asked her if she felt the same: “No, I guess I don’t have much to feel”.

I freak and ask for that “let’s be friends” as a last second decision. I know, dumb. But we agreed. And I thought I could let it go, but I didn’t. I talked to all my friends about it. They told me you should be straight forward with her. So one night I figured I would be. I told her how I felt.

She told me she didn’t feel the same. Still. And that she tried to like me, but she just couldn’t find it. So after a long talk, I decided I needed some space. I realize being around her isn’t healthy, for either of us. So I said adieu and she said “laters” because she’s not good with goodbyes.

Issue solved? I wish. Ever since, I’ve been replaying that scene in my head. I know its something everyone does, but I need a slap of reality. How the fuck do I get her out of my head? Some people say the depression is oozing off me, but I don’t know if I can feel it anymore. My friend Sam told me to tell you for some good advice. Thoughts?

Your friend Sam pointed you in my direction, eh?

Well then, allow me to quickly sum up the very simple message that has taken every last ounce of Sam’s willpower not to scream at the top of his lungs every time you mention this girl:

Quit being such a fucking pussy and move the fuck on already!

There. You’re welcome, Sam.

Oh wait, you think he needs a little more? Okay. Here goes:

Listen, asshole. A month of unrequited flirting is barely enough to establish a low grade infatuation. At best, you’re getting over a silly teenage crush. That entitles you to a week’s worth of unbearably shitty break-up music and one round of drinks from a close friend. That’s it.

It’s time for you to man the fuck up, because you blew past your Phil Collins quota the second Sam handed you off to me like a torch at the 2010 Whiny Little Bitch Olympics. Go home, wash the hurt out of your butt, and put on a clean shirt for the next game of poker.


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