FTTW - a daily magazine

The Good Girlfriend
by Stefi Sparer

I’d be a good girlfriend, I decided today as I was driving and listening to the Pussycat Dolls –the ultimate guilty pleasure-.

My boyfriend and I spend our days leafing through books at Barnes and Noble and holding hands while skipping through fields of daffodils and lilies or something. We’d be so cute. Everyone would say, “There goes Stephanie with her boyfriend.” And then someone else would say, “She’s the funnier one in the couple. He’s kinda shy.” Everyone would agree.

Aside from the fact that I’m not curvaceous, busty, blonde, or, sexually active, I like to think I’m fun. I make up for my lack of looks with sass, personality, spunk, and OK, maybe some bitchiness.

I’m also really good at being celibate. Nineteen years strong now. Who, other than Hilary Duff, of course, God’s gift to America, can say that? I can absolutely guarantee you that I will not become pregnant with your baby. I will not let you be my baby daddy because I can promise you that I do not like you like you like me. I’m actually surprised you seem to like me as much as you do, because, seriously, I’m a dork. You should know this. We met in our History of America class. Remember how I was always five minutes late? But I swear, our teacher was starting at least five minutes early.

When you dump me for not giving you oral sex (because, ew.) I will not be upset, but I will write a blog about it and call you gay. Also, I’m probably gonna tell everyone I dumped you.

“He wanted me to give him road head,” I will say over my vanilla latte. The new Chunky Monkey. “So I broke up with him.”

My friends, who, by the way, are all gorgeous and had it been a nice break-up and we’d stayed friends I may have set you up with, will scoff, “That’s sick!” Michelle will probably say.

“You should have done it,” Robyn will shrug. Silence will fall upon our group. Nicole’s eyes go wide.

“You guys?” she’ll say, “What’s road head?”

We’ll laugh and I’ll compare us to Charlotte, Samantha, that one lesbian or whatever, and Carrie.

“You’re so Carrie but with Charlotte’s personality,” my friends tell me.

I know, I tell them, thank you.

It’s your loss anyway. After you dump me, I start sleeping with a much older man. And by sleeping, I mean sleeping. Hugh is old, and he doesn’t have much energy to do more than sip some prune juice while watching Murder, She Wrote reruns and using his Jazzy to scoot over to the bedroom. He doesn’t even get dressed anymore. Or shower. But, man, he’s loaded.

No really, Stephanie doesn't like you the way you like her.