“Nice guys finish last” BLAH, BLAH, BLAH…
After a string of bad luck with the “bad guys” back when I was seventeen and loved the kicks that I got from interacting with absolute *insert own expletives* I decided to take the other path. I decided to pursue Mr Nice Guy.
I found him. He was a self-confessed nice guy. I fell in love with him. He really was lovely and caring and sweet. He opened up to me about his life and his past weight issues and how he had been bullied, about his friends and family and it didn’t take a genius to see that he was just…nice.
Anyway, let’s fast forward a grand total of three months. When we were in the thick of this little love affair, obsessed with one another, (Or so I thought) Mr Nice Guy did a runner on me. He went silent for no reason. I say no reason because I know that there was no sudden fault on my part. It was still the honeymoon days and I was on my best behaviour. Perhaps it all got too much for Mr Nice? Maybe he met another girl? Or could it have been a change of heart? Whatever the reason I didn’t actually care- I just wanted an explanation, just so I could understand. Mr Nice never gave me that. He left me a teenager- heartbroken, torturing myself with possibilities and “what ifs”, toying over past conversations and how I may have gone wrong and wondering how I had managed to screw things up with Mr Nice?!? It was a lie. Nice guys don’t come last; I do.
As time went by I began to get over him and at random intervals Mr Nice took to trying to re-enter my life. A casual “how are you doing?” text a few months later, a random phonecall one night a year or so on and an unexpected add on snapchat and a few pictures later. I never really, truly succumbed. The pain was still there. In many ways it still is. (Not because of him per se, but because of my continued confusion, because of his silence and my lost expectations.)
Anyway, it turns out that Mr Nice isn’t so nice. Mr Nice is in fact, probably the meanest person that I ever dated. With a dickhead you know what you are signing up for. With Mr Nice it feels like a neverending betrayal.
Always be wary of people who assign themselves a status in life. Who try to tell you what you ought to think of them. No thanks, I will make my mind up for myself.
Mr Nice shoved it down my throat that he was nice- he always told me how utterly undeserving he was of being bullied, how unlucky he had been with the ladies as they always chose the bad guy over him and he said, more times than I can quote, how much of a nice guy he is. Well no. With the knowledge of time, hindsight and the opportunity to make my own mind up for myself I have concluded that he’s actually a bit of prick. It’s like those people who claim that they would do anything for anybody. Have you noticed that it’s those kind of people who actually never would?!? It’s bizarre. If you’re nice, kind or helpful let the people around you tell you.
So I’ve come to think that Mr Nice status is something of an illusion. A way men justify their shortcomings; if they didn’t get the girl they wanted it’s not because they’re actually a bit ugly, a little stupid or plain dull but it’s the result of some external force. It’s the price they pay for being inflicted with the nice trait. BULLSHIT!
I don’t buy it. Not anymore. Guys are guys. They’re all idiots. Women are women. We’re all idiots. Some of us are particularly nasty, others a little less so. But nobody is so nice that they can assign themselves such a title. It’s steeped with expectations.
Expectations that will never be met.
Maybe there are some truly nice guys out there, I certainly hope there are! People are people: we all have our shortcomings, so let’s not steep so much expectation on Mr Nice because, odds are…he isn’t so nice.