on November 21, 2003 Matt Brochu Wrote...
You met her a few months ago, and somehow she managed to
seep into your subconscious like that "Suga how you get so fly"
song. Just like you have no clue who the hell sings it, you
don't know why she's there. But she is, whether you like it
or not. You know her cell phone, her room phone. You can dial
her Aunt Doreen's house in West Springfield (where she goes to
do her laundry every two weeks) faster than you can peck-out
911. But she doesn't know.

Her screenname, that generic one with her first name followed
by three to five random numbers or UMass, has its own category
at the top of your buddy list. Not only do you know what a
"Buddy Alert" is, you've rigged your computer to play "Fat Guy
in a Little Coat" from "Tommy Boy" every time her screen name
changes from gray to black. Then her away message comes down, and
you have a decision to make. To IM or not to IM? These are the
ridiculous games that you play on a daily basis. But she doesn't
know.

She's it. All right, so maybe not "it" it. Not necessarily
Ms. Right, but closer to Ms. right-up-there-with-Anna-Kournikova-
and-Lizzie-McGuire-on-your-list-of-people-you'd-give-anything-to-be-
stranded-with-on-a-broken-down-elevator. But it's about more than that.
When is it ever about more than that? Never. Not like frilly white
dress, overpriced catering,embarrassing drunk in-laws more, but closer
to UMass sweatpants, two D.P. Dough Roni Zonies, a futon and a movie
you have no interest in seeing more. But she doesn't know.

She's gorgeous, but gorgeous is an understatement. More like you're
startled every time you see her because you notice something new in a
"Where's Waldo" sort of way. More like you can't stop writing third grade
run-on sentences because you can't remotely begin to describe something ...
someone ... so inherently amazing. But you're a writer. You can describe
anything. That's what you do: pictures to words, events to words, words to
even better words. But nothing seems right. More like you're afraid that if
you stare at her for too long, you'll prove your parents right: that yes,
your face will stick that way. But you wouldn't mind.

You wouldn't mind that the questioning, "Hello?" on the other end makes
you want to smile and throw up at the same time. You wouldn't mind worrying
about what to get her for her birthday and spending $300 when you only have
$17.50 and a Triple-A card to your name. You wouldn't mind that she left
your TV on and the blaring infomercials wake you up at 4 a.m. ...
because it gives you a chance to watch her sleep. You don't mind that
you've slipped up twice when you were hammered and hinted at how
you feel, but she was too drunk to remember. So she doesn't know.

Sure, she's pretty, but it's about more than that. You two connect.
Anything you throw at her, she can throw right back. You figured out
what's going on in that predictable head of hers in under five minutes,
but something tells you her heart would take about five years.

You remember everything she's ever said to you, and when that
freaks her out you blame it on your photographic memory (which is a lie, you have a 2.7 GPA).your Puffton rent check was due four days ago, yet you remember the middle name of the kid
who tripped her in fifth grade and gave her that cute little scar on her shoulder.
Maybe it's because you actually listen when she talks. When do you actually listen?
Never. But she doesn't know.

But she has a boyfriend. The kid is a tool, and you are not.
He has no redeeming qualities, and you have about 38, even when you're hung over. You
could kick his butt, and you've never been in a fight in your life. He treats her like crap,
and you would treat her like the princess she believed herself to be on Halloween in 1988.

But she loves him. He wouldn't know what he had even if she
slapped him across the face and dumped him, but somehow she still
loves him. And somehow she still doesn't know.

Then, out of nowhere, she slaps him across the face and dumps
him. She comes to you. You've been there before, so you seem like the
smartest guy on earth! She cries, but your corny half-joke,
half-compliment somehow gets a smile out of her that almost makes you
feel ashamed that you're the only one around who gets to witness it.
It looks like you might make her realize that all guys don't deserve
to have rocks thrown at them.

But nothing changes. She doesn't know. You get that library
elevator feeling in your stomach that she'll never know. You get
that feeling that you'll be forced to write a cheesy Collegian column
about her that makes "Sleepless in Seattle" look like "Girls Gone Wild."

You go to sleep. You wake up. She doesn't know. You're not
in love. You're not obsessed. You blame it on the fact that you just
need to get some, but still, it's about more than that. It would
just be nice if once in your life, things worked out the way you
wanted them to.

For the Nice Girls.
By Jessica Leigh Griffith

This is my tribute to the nice girls. To the nice girls who are overlooked,
who become friends and nothing more, who spend hours fixating upon their
looks and their personalities and their actions because it must be that
they are doing something wrong. This is for the girls who don't give it
up on the first date, who don't want to play mind games, who provide a
comforting hug and a supportive audience for a story they've heard a
thousand times. This is for the girls who understand that they aren't
perfect and that the guys they're interested in aren't either, for the
girls who flirt and laugh and worry and obsess over the slightest glance,
whisper, touch, because somehow they are able to keep alive that hope
that maybe... maybe this time he'll have understood. This is an homage to
the girls who laugh loud and often, who are comfortable in skirts and
sweats and combat boots, who care more than they should for guys who don't
deserve their attention. This is for those girls who have been in the
trenches, who have watched other girls time and time again fake up and
make up and fuck up the guys in their lives without saying a word. This
is for the girls who have been there from the beginning and have heard
the trite words of advice, from "there are plenty of fish in the sea,"
to "time heals all wounds." This is to honor those girls who know that
guys are just as scared as they are, who know that they deserve better,
who are seeking to find it.

This is for the girls who have never been in love, but know that it's
an experience that they don't want to miss out on. For the girls who
have sought a night with friends and been greeted by a night of
catcalling, rude comments and explicit invitations that they'd rather
not have experienced. This is for the girls who have spent their weekends
sitting on the sidelines of a beer pong tournament or a case race,
or playing Florence Nightingale for a vomiting guy friend or a comatose
crush, who have received a drunk phone call just before dawn from
someone who doesn't care enough to invite them over but is still
willing to pass out in their bed. This is for the girls who have left
sad song lyrics in their away messages, who have tried to make someone
understand through a subliminally appealing profile, who have time and
time again dropped their male friend hint after hint after hint only
to watch him chase after the first blonde girl in a skirt. This is for
the girls who have been told that they're too good or too smart or too
pretty, who have been given compliments as a way of breaking off a
relationship, who have ever been told they are only wanted as a friend.

This one's for the girls who you can take home to mom, but won't because
it's easier to sleep with a whore than foster a relationship; this is
for the girls who have been led on by words and kisses and touches, all
of which were either only true for the moment, or never real to begin
with. This is for the girls who have allowed a guy into their head and
heart and bed, only to discover that he's just not ready, he's just
not over her, he's just not looking to be tied down; this is for the
girls who believe the excuses because it's easier to believe that
it's not that they don't want you, it's that they don't want anyone.
This is for the girls who have had their hearts broken and their
hopes dashed by someone too cavalier to have cared in the first place;
this is for the nights spent dissecting every word and syllable and
inflection in his speech, for the nights when you've returned home alone,
for the nights when you've seen from across the room him leaning a little
too close, or standing a little too near, or talking a little too softly
for the girl he's with to be a random hookup. This is for the girls who
have endured party after party in his presence, finally having realized
that it wasn't that he didn't want a relationship: it was that he didn't
want you. I honor you for the night his dog died or his grandmother
died or his little brother crashed his car and you held him, thinking
that if you only comforted him just right, or said the right words, or
rubbed his back in the right way then perhaps he'd realize what it was
that he already had. This is for the night you realized that it would
never happen, and the sunrise you saw the next morning after failing to
sleep.

This is for the "I really like you, so let's still be friends" comment
after you read more into a situation than he ever intended; this is for
never realizing that when you choose friends, you seldom choose those
which make you cry yourself to sleep. This is for the hugs you've
received from your female friends, for the nights they've reassured you
that you are beautiful and intelligent and amazing and loyal and truly
worthy of a great guy; this is for the despair you all felt as you sat
in the aftermath of your tears, knowing that that night the only
companionship you'd have was with a pillow and your teddy bear.This is
for the girls who have been satisified with too little and who have
learned never to expect anything more: for the girls who don't think that
they deserve more, because they've been conditioned for so long to
accept the scraps thrown to them by guys.

This is what I don't understand. Men sit and question and whine that
girls are only attracted to the mean guys, the guys who berate them
and belittle them and don't appreciate them and don't want them; who
use them for sex and think of little else than where their next
conquest will be made. Men complain that they never meet nice girls,
girls who are genuinely interested and compelling, who are intelligent
and sweet and smart and beautiful; men despair that no good women
want to share in their lives, that girls play mindgames, that girls
love to keep them hanging. Yet, men, I ask you: were you to meet one
of these genuinely interested, thrillingly compelling, interesting and
intelligent and sweet and beautiful and smart girls, were you to give
her your number and wait for her to call... and if you were to receive
a call from her the next day and she, in her truthful, loyal, intelligent
and straightforward nice girl fashion, were to tell you that she finds
you intriguing and attractive and interesting and worth her time and
perhaps material from which she could fashion a boyfriend, would you or
would you not immediately call your friends to tell them of the
"stalker chick" you'd met the night prior, who called you and wore her
heart on her sleeve and told the truth? And would you, or would you not,
refuse to make plans with her, speak with her, see her again, and once
again return to the bar or club or party scene and search once more for
this "nice girl" who you just cannot seem to find? Because therein lies
the truth, guys: we nice girls are everywhere. But you're not looking
for a nice girl. You're not looking for someone genuinely interested in
your intermural basketball game, or your anatomy midterm grade, or that
argument you keep having with your father; you're looking for a quick
fix, a night when you can pretend to have a connection with another
human being which is just as disposable as the condom you were using
during it.

So don't say you're on the lookout for nice girls, guys, when you pass
us up on every step you take. Sometimes we go undercover; sometimes we
go in disguise: sometimes when that girl in the low cut shirt or the
too tight miniskirt won't answer your catcalls, sometimes you're looking
at a nice girl in whore's clothing - - we might say we like the
attention, we might blush and giggle and turn back to our friends, but
we're all thinking the same thing: "This isn't me. Tomorrow morning,
I'll be wearing a teeshirt and flannel shorts, I'll have slept alone
and I'll be making my hungover best friend breakfast. See through the
disguise. See me." You never do. Why? Because you only see the exterior,
you only see the slutty girl who welcomes those advances. You don't
want the nice girl.. so don't say you're looking for a relationship:
relationships take time and energy and intent, three things we're
willing to extend - - but in return, we're looking for compassion and
loyalty and trust, three things you never seem willing to express.
Maybe nice guys finish last, but in the race they're running they're
chasing after the whores and the sluts and the easy-targets... the
nice girls are waiting at the finish line with water and towels and a
congradulatory hug hoping against hope that maybe you'll realize that
they're the ones that you want at the end of that silly race.


So maybe it won't last forever. Maybe some of those guys in that race
will turn in their running shoes and make their way to the concession
stand where we're waiting; however, until that happens, we still have
each other, that silly race to watch, and all the chocolate we can eat
(because what's a concession stand at a race without some chocolate?)