Ode to Douchebags

I'm not impressed that you play intramural sports four nights a week, or that you know every Red Sox baseball stat. I'm not impressed when you talk about your musical compositions. Or when make me split a $20 check, or talk about your dead grandpa. Not impressed that you hate cats, that your faux-hawk is perfectly symmetrical, or that you ride your bike everywhere.

I'm not impressed that you're in a band.

It doesn't impress me when you bust out your i-phone to show me a movie trailer, or that picture of you and a small child on your on-line dating profile. I'm not impressed that you once set couches on fire back when you were in a frat, or when you say you'll allow me to pick up the check, so as not to stifle my "female equality."

It doesn't impress me that you don't drink alcohol or eat chocolate. Or that you own two cars--one for the winter, one for the summer.

It doesn't impress me that you had a serious girlfriend in New York that you recently broke up with, that you are "still friends" with your ex's, or when you ask me if "I do this often?"

Not impressed that you're divorced, that you don't eat at chain restaurants, or that you claim to admire Kandinsky.

I'm not impressed when you drop me off at the T instead of offering me a ride home, or that your parents have money. Or when you nudge me into a debate about authentic versus inauthentic travel. Nor am I impressed that you love to "try new recipes" and are "adventurous," or that you are fashionably late.

I'm not impressed when you tell me your underwear is from Express, especially after I've just spent five minutes making fun of Express for Men. I'm not impressed by words like Marxism or dialectical or fastidious. Or puns. Or you.