Dear Future Husband,

Hey, fucker. Yeah, you. Asshole. Where the fuck have you been? I wait all goddamn year for you to show up, and yet every year you fail me. You’re supposed to waltz into my life with just the right combination of swagger, rugged sex appeal, and humility. You flash me a smile, drop a few smooth words, maybe do a couple pushups, and then date the hell out of me. Get your shit together, future husband! I am losing patience over here. How many more empty Valentine’s Days am I going to have to sit through before you sack up and sack me?

I mean, I’m doing everything I’m supposed to do. I stay healthy (you know, slim, but without sacrificing curves), I keep my face fresh (natural makeup, of course, enough for you to think I’m not wearing any), my clothes cute (but never too short or too low-cut, or too masculine or intimidating or cool), my voice quiet (and pleasantly high), my opinions to myself (because I don’t want to be annoying), my ears pierced, my hair curled, my body waxed, my nails manicured, my heels high, my eyes wide, my abs flat, my tits hoisted up to my chin, and GODDAMNIT if I haven’t let out a fart in 20 years! I’m everything you’ve ever wanted me to be!

And you, Future Husband, you’re supposed to pick up on all my subtle non-verbal cues and know exactly when to sweep me off my feet! Did you not notice me touch your arm that one time? Why the fuck aren’t you sweeping? Are your abs not rock-hard enough? Is your hairline receding? Are your clothes too old? Is your job too low-paying? Are you…shy? No, wait, that can’t be it. I’m the shy one. You’re the one who’s supposed to make the moves! SWEEP ME GODDAMNIT! I WANT TO BE SWEPT!

I mean, I’m sure as hell not gonna seek you out. No way. Sure, you say you want the girl to make the first move, but you don’t mean that. If I ask you out, all of a sudden I’m too forward, or too intimidating, or too slutty. A confident girl is good for a quick roll-around, but god forbid you get into a RELAYSH with that kind of crazy! Yikes.

Look, I’ll be honest, I don’t even really want to get married. Especially not to you–no offense, but I don’t even KNOW you yet. I’m still trying to know ME! But, of course, everyone is doing it (getting married, that is), and that’s really the goal in the end, isn’t it? And my biological clock is ticking down one menstrual cycle at a time (oops, sorry, you didn’t want to hear that, gross periods) and if I don’t start making babies soon, what use am I going to be to anyone anyways??

Plus, I’m sure you want some time before we settle down, right? It’s important to be single, right? You need to have sex with as many girls as possible, otherwise how else are you ever gonna know what you might miss out on? Not me, obvi, I’ll be pure and chaste in the corner over here (I mean, I’ll have to have some sex, I don’t want to be a tease, but you know, not a lot.)

And now that it’s Valentine’s Day, we’re both acutely aware that we’re not together yet. Hell, we probably haven’t even met yet. We might not for years. But this is the day that everyone puts all this pressure on us to find each other, because until we do, who are we? Just two invisible single people. Two halves without a whole. Drifting, aimless, like plastic bags littered on the freeway.

Look, Future Husband, I don’t mean to put all this pressure on you. It’s not your fault, really. It’s not mine either, I suppose. Whose fault is it? Who’s doing this to us?

Hey. You know what? Fuck it. Why don’t we just drop this whole thing? I’m tired of waiting for you. I’m sure you’re tired of looking for me. Why don’t we just…not? Why don’t we just turn our backs on this whole charade. Fuck it. Let’s go have some fucking fun.

That’s what I’m gonna do tonight, for Valentine’s day: have some fucking fun. Maybe that means getting trashed with my girlfriends and hitting the clubs, maybe (and much more likely) that means smoking a fat one and watching Hey Arnold in my pajamas. Maybe I’ll read a book. Maybe I’ll write one. All I know is, I’m not gonna spend the night worrying about you. I hope you do the same.

Good luck out there. Have fun. Be safe. I’ll be around, you know, but…fuck it. Don’t worry about it. We’ll figure it out.

Love,

Your Future Wife