I’m Not Your Damn Cool Girl

Thank God, because she’s not even remotely interesting.

I can hang.

I drink whiskey. I smoke cigars. I listen to Ray Wylie Hubbard. I’ve read Marcus Aurelius and Hunter S. Thompson. I cuss like a sailor. I freaking love Star Wars.

On most days, the level of give a shit I have runs solidly in the red. My guy friends joke around that I’m pretty much a dude. I just smell really nice.

I do these things for two very good reasons. I like it and I feel like it. These things make me happy. Done.

Usually, it makes me pretty easy company for men. Men like women who can hang.

There’s one caveat here: I have really healthy boundaries I have worked hard to determine and I hold a strong line. Strong. My guy friends who are worth my time are absolutely aware of this. Cross my line, you will know. They never cross the line.

Recently, I had a text exchange with a guy I genuinely liked go so horribly south for one reason: he did not respect my boundaries.