What Your Girlfriend Really Thinks About You: Then And Now

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Ever since I followed Chad Michael Murray on Twitter and realized that he and that godforsaken beard of his have a combined IQ of seven and that he’s not the Lucas Scott I’ve known and loved for all these years, he’s lost his luster. Now, no matter what his Wikipedia page may say, he is dead to me. After a brief period of grieving and acceptance, I moved on. I began to date, slowly but surely, in hopes of finding someone who could make me feel the same way Chad/Lucas once did.

Eventually, I found someone who I thought shit rainbows and burped butterflies…until he shat actual shit that could bring the dead back from eternal slumber and burped two feet from my face before leaning in for a kiss.

At some point, you’ll contemplate your first appearance on “Snapped,” but until then, bask in the glory of not knowing what his poop smells like–yet.

On Pooping Then…
I’m not sure what it is about boys, but there’s something about associating yourself with a new one that makes the part of the brain that houses every body process you’ve ever known of shut off. Boys don’t poop. I don’t poop. Because I’m a girl. I’ve met my non-pooping soulmate. I guarantee you he wouldn’t even dare think about pooping in my house. I mean, he wouldn’t even fart here because he is a gentleman in the presence of a lady. He’s perfect and my bathroom will never smell like Atlantic City on a hot, August day.

On Pooping Now…
There’s a horrific realization that hits you the moment you realize that your Prince Charming has a “what goes in, must come out” policy. It comes in several different steps: shock, disappointment, about 10 minutes of lying on the bathroom floor trying to escape the way your teachers in elementary school taught you to escape a fire, wanting to scoop out your eyes with a spoon because the sting is just too much. WHAT DID YOU KILL IN HERE? WHAT DID YOU KILL AND HOW LONG AGO DID YOU KILL IT? What did my bathroom do to you that made you want to turn it into a toxic wasteland?

On Sex Then…
I’m not sure if it’s “the new” that comes with having a new toy to play with or if it’s because you can’t remember the last time you’ve gotten laid during the Obama administration, but the first two-ish months of having a new boyfriend would make rabbits jealous. You become the Sam-I-Am of sex: a house, a box, a car, a train, that one time along the hallway walls of that Holiday Inn Express. You have sex here, you have sex there, you would have sex anywhere.

On Sex Now…
When the answer to “Wanna have sex?” is “You lookin’ to work out today?” and he doesn’t sigh before saying, “I guess,” that’s when you know it’s true love.

On Meeting His Parents Then…
In the beginning, you question if you should wear a dress or just be super cute and casual by wearing clothes that say, “I am a nice, basic bitch who is perfect for your son. No one will ever come close in comparison, so like me because I intend to be here for a while.” Once you figure that out, you move on to the great “What Pinterest recipe should I bake?” debate. There are also feelings of nervousness and that overwhelming pukey feeling you get when you remember your Facebook is public.

On Meeting His Parents Now…
Does anyone know at what moment in a relationship you stop caring about dresses and Pinterest recipes while trying to impress his parents and start caring about the family HBO GO password? I just hope they have food and will let us use their HBO GO account. What do you mean your parents got rid of their HBO GO account? What do you mean your parents “thought we could just hang out and talk instead”? I hate your parents.

On Date Nights Then…
There’s a whole lot of going to nice places and memorializing it all on Instagram in a vain attempt to make every person you’ve known since birth jealous: “We’re going to look so adorbs and OMG I can’t wait! #couplesofinstagram”

On Date Nights Now…
“What kind of pizza do you want? No, I don’t want that. I don’t want to make it half and half. Because I just don’t want to! Why are you being so difficult? Why are you wearing the sweatpants with the holes in the crotch? Why don’t you want to watch ‘The Fault in Our Stars’ tonight? HE LOVED HER! Why can’t you love me like that? WHAT IF I HAD CANCER?”

On Going Out In Public Then…
There’s a moment where every girl–even the bro girls–think, “He’s just, like, so handsome. And the way the sun reflects off his hair? I hope our children have hair like his so the sun can reflect off their hair the same way.” Because girls are hormonal. And crazy. Crazy is important.

On Going Out In Public Now…
Then there’s a moment where every girl–even the bro girls–think, “Did he shower today? He didn’t shower today. Are those the sweatpants with the holes in the crotch? Why do I even like you?” Because girls are hormonal. And crazy. Crazy is important.

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My state gave you J. Law, Clooney, two-fifths of the Backstreet Boys, and multiple fifths of bourbon. I gave you a cover letter using Brian McKnight lyrics. Psuedo-adult by day; PGP, TFM, and TSM contributor by night. Please don't ask me to do math.

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