W.B. Yeast : Blog

Unpoetic Ninfection.

Dating Gripes: The problem with "Quirky"

quirky my dick, homeboy.  

It’s eight am, and he’s searching for his underwear. On top of my backpack sit two plums in a plastic bag.

“Have you ever seen Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind?” he asks.

“Of course I have - look at how white I am.”

“You know the main character?” “Played by Kate Winslet…” “I feel like you’re just like her! Pink hair and quirky and intriguing…” he trails off.

“Because I have plums in my backpack? They’re in season!” I retort.

I get it. You in your man ways are trying to compliment me. (Many people will tell me to be gracious for such a gesture - we can tussle about that notion later.) But consider that perhaps I am a human being. Every second of my being from kicking my way out of the womb to standing before you right now is a culmination of everything that has ever happened to me: calculated, well-mulled over, and genuine.


Bitch, I am not your poor man’s Zooey Deschanel.

You’re dissolving my entire personality down to this buttercup-adorable fuckery of expectation. You’ve got local in-season fruit a propos to living in California, in a carrying device that you probably use throughout your day? HOW ENDEARING. You “don’t have a filter?” HOW ADORBS. Your mannerisms aren’t what I’m able to comprehend? You’re so theatrical!

Let’s be crystal clear about this: I’m not a cup of low-fat tapioca-topped froyo you get to stick your shitty plastic spoon in when you’re having a “cheat day” and “feeling naughty.”

Aside from the fact that you and so many dudes like you are treating me like a novelty, a fucking bag of Skittles in your otherwise paleo gluten-free existence that will actually end up dating and marrying more “normal” women (whatever the fuck that even means, but it does): you’re trying to (I think) tell me I’m unique by telling me I’m like a fictional character. You’re trying to compliment me by saying I’m “not even real,” but I am in fact quite a real human being.

Motherfucker, I’m not dawdling around town with mis-matching socks spewing quotes from British TV dramas staring at the clouds and carrying a hula hoop for kicks. (Sidenote: that time I met Emma Watson though…) I’m a grown-ass woman who has no fucks and definitely no plums to give you. But one of my “quirks” is having some fucking manners, and I had the decency not to say the shit that came out of your MOUTH (and not your backpack) was


Boi, bye. You can’t handle this hip vernacular. Take your goddamn tortoise-shell Peeper’s and K-pop hair and get out of my house.