Response: Where the hell did all the nice girls go?

Remember the post on “What happened to all the nice guys?” My dear friend, Wei Qi, decided to comment on it, and it is a lengthy one. This is originally a comment from the said post. However, I feel that it should be a post by itself. She offers a girl’s point of view on the matter of where the hell did all the nice girls go:


the feeling’s mutual, trust me HAHA.

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 they who are doing something wrong.

This is for the girls who do not give it up on the first date, who do not 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 are not perfect and that the guys they are interested in are not either; for the girls who flirt and laugh and worry and obsess over the slightest glance, whisper, touch, because somehow they can keep alive that hope that maybe… maybe this time he would have understood. This is a 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 do not 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 right words of advice, from “there are plenty of fish in the sea,” to “time heals all wounds.” This is to honour 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 is an experience that they do not want to miss out on. For the girls who have sought a night with friends and been greeted by a night of catcalling, rude L0VESzs and explicit invitations that they would 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 does not care enough to invite them over but is still willing to pass out in their bed.

This is for the girls who have left lyrics from sad songs 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 only to watch him chasing after the first girl in a skirt.

This is for the girls who have been told that they are 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 is for the girls who you can take home to mom, but would not because it is 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 is just not ready, he is just not over her, he is just not looking to be tied down; this is for the girls who believe the excuses because it is easier to believe that it is not that they do not want you, it is that they do not 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 is with to be a random hook-up.

This is for the girls who have endured party after party in his presence, finally having realised that it was not that he did not want a relationship: it was that he did not want you. I honour 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 like you, so let’s still be friends” comment after you read more into a situation than he ever intended; this is for never realising that when you choose friends, you seldom choose those which make you cry yourself to sleep. This is for the hugs you have received from your female friends, for the nights they have 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 used and abused, who have endured what he was giving because at least he was giving something; this is for the stupidity of the nights we have believed that something was better than nothing, though his something was nothing we would have ever wanted.

This is for the girls who have been satisfied with too little and who have learned never to expect anything more: for the girls who do not think that they deserve more, because they have 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 do not appreciate them and do not 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 mind games, 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 get 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 are not looking for a nice girl. You are not looking for someone genuinely interested in your inter-mural basketball game, or your anatomy midterm grade, or that argument you keep having with your father; you are looking for a quick fix, a night when you can pretend to have a connection with another human which is just as disposable as the condom you were using during it.

So do not say you are 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 would not 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 tee-shirt and flannel shorts, I’ll have slept alone and I’ll be making my hung-over 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-target. The nice girls are waiting at the finish line with water and towels and a congratulatory hug (and yes, if she’s a nice girl and she likes you, the sweatiness won’t matter), hoping against hope that maybe you’ll realize that they’re the ones that you want at the end of that silly race.

Other than minor editing and rephrasing, this is about 95% left untouched. The original entry can still be found here for reference.

Wei Qi is a long time friend who I have known since 16. Friendship between us only occurred when we first met at a training for new temporary staff at Metro. We then went on to work for FJ Benjamin as watch promoters and were stationed at CK Tangs. It was only then I managed to get her to walk all the way to Plaza Singapura after work. At least we got chocolates from Carrefour as a treat. We then spent time in Raffles Place MRT station sharing and talking. After we went our separate study tracks, we occasionally keep in contact, through MSN chat, blog, hand phone and rarely meet up. The last time I saw her was 2 Christmas back, and it was a coincidence! Wei Qi, I want our kopi sessions!

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