What Girls Want

So you want a man who will kill for you or die for you.

You want him to break his back working day and night just so you can eat well dress nice live in comfort and bathe in gifts you didn’t earn.

He’s your provider your butler your emotional tampon your therapist your punching bag. You expect him to fix your broken soul like that’s part of his job description. If you’re unhappy he’s to blame. If you’re miserable it’s because he failed. You take zero responsibility for your own life.

When he gets home from working himself into the grave you hand him your Honey Do List. A list of demands. A list of chores. A list of unpaid labor you won't touch because your hands were too busy getting manicured with his money. You had time for your spa day your massage your girls' brunch. But no time to lift a damn finger around the house.

And while he’s sweating over a leaky sink or broken cabinet you’re on the phone ordering food with his money because your feminism has evolved into full-blown laziness. Cooking is sexist now. Cleaning is beneath you.

He needs your permission to see his friends while you go out whenever you want. If he questions your freedom you label him controlling and start texting your divorce lawyer behind his back. You treat loyalty like oppression and his boundaries like abuse.

If he cheats and in your world that includes looking at a waitress or replying “thank you” to a woman’s compliment you burn his life to the ground. You take his kids his home his paycheck. You turn child support into vanity money and alimony into your personal lifestyle fund. The kids become bargaining chips you weaponize.

But when you cheat it's his fault. He didn’t love you right. He didn’t give enough. He didn’t make you feel like a goddess every second of the day. You justify your betrayal then sue him for everything he built. You give his children to a stranger and pretend he's the new father because your ego thinks it’s a queen that hands out titles.

You want a man to spend hundreds on dates hundreds on gifts and thousands on a ring. After bleeding him dry you want a wedding that costs more than his annual salary. And when he’s drowning in debt just to please you you still look down on him like he’s lucky to have you.

You want him to get down on one knee like a slave and beg for the right to serve you forever. Holding a diamond ransom to buy your fake affection. You want a servant not a husband.

No thanks.

Find another brain-dead ATM who thinks servitude is romance. Another spineless wallet who’ll jump through hoops while you size up your next upgrade.

I’m not your plan B.

I don’t kneel.

I don’t serve.

I run my own life.