What had origianlly started as a sardonic column devoted to the idea of guys not always being in the wrong, turned into a crippling case of writer’s block and several broken computers.

A quick essay on guys just not being into you and how hooking up was just fine, seeing as how everyone needs to be liked once in a great while went sour. What ensued was countless hours of drinking as “research,” and a few slaps as my attempts at an “interview” were shot down. Journalistic integrity be damned, here’s what I learned…

I wasn’t him and you weren’t her, but for that one night we were good enough. Your breath smelled like clean water and your smile was infectious, but you just weren’t her. You weren’t pretty enough or funny enough or interesting enough, but the alcohol made you a goddess.

I put on the charm and used all the lines and you bought them like it was payday. We danced like we weren’t white and drank like we wouldn’t puke and when we went outside to smoke, your teeth chattered exaggeratedly, but I won’t keep you warm. You look good when I’m drunk, and everything you say is interesting to me, but I’m more distracted by that low cut shirt you’re wearing. You giggle and try to be cute and this annoys me, but I can probably still sleep with you.

I feel like a rock star onstage, all confidence and good looks, but probably look more like a rock star backstage, all disheveled and haggard.

We act romantic and flirty on the car ride back, but our affectations contradict our intentions. We’re not going to date. And even if we did, you would just call me a jerk and I would leave.

You kiss me hard before we’re even in the door, and it’s awkward and amazing and exactly what I want, but not what I need.

When your clothes come off, it’s not graceful, and we both get elbowed several times. It’s not like how the movies would have us believe, and we don’t giggle about it.

Your sweat smells of vodka, beading on your skin like a cold beer forgotten and your kiss tastes vaguely of nicotine. When we’re done, you look at me expectedly to kiss you, to hold you, to love you, but I’d rather sleep. When the game is over, the rules are thrown out the window and the conversation accidentally goes with them.

You’ll roll over to sleep, and I’ll stare at your back, knowing that you want me to talk to you, to kiss your skin, to hold you until you fall asleep, protecting you from something or keeping you warm. Your feet are soft against mine, but I’m not him, and you’re not her, so any holding at this point would just be a pleasantry.

The room is too hot and you sleep in my boxers. If you were somebody else or I was more interesting, you’d stay all day and feel comfortable without your makeup. We’d lounge around and make plans for later that night.

You’re gone when I wake up, and the pillow cover smells like you. Your makeshift pajamas are folded neatly at the foot of the bed, and the room looks slightly like a crime scene, scoured for any evidence of your presence so as not to risk a repeat performance. The sheets need to be washed and I need to change your number from a cute nickname to “ignore.” I only like you when I’m drunk.