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Dear [Your Name Here],

First and foremost, you need to know this isn’t your fault.

Some of my favorite people in the world are my mother, grandmother and sister. Well, maybe not in that order (flip the last two?), but it’s pretty close. Some of my friends say I need to stop treating women so nicely in order to get women but the three favorite people in my life have done nothing but show me otherwise.

This has nothing to do with who you are—all girls are raised this way—and I know it. I’ve dated or made an attempt at dating something between 20 and 25 girls—which isn’t to say you’re another notch on my bedpost (hardly), just that you’re a part of a learning process that won’t quite sink in.

I know you’ve been trained to be wary of guys who are too eager and guess what I’ve gone and done again? It’s true, it’s kind of how I roll; I’m the guy who wants to cook for you before we’ve even been out on a first date. There’s no logical explanation (and oddly enough, logical explanations are something I thrive on) but I’m the guy who wants to do all the stupid shit your other boyfriends have never wanted to do for you even before you say, “A movie? That’d be cool.”

And of course that’s what throws you off. What guy likes chick flicks, listening to (your) stories, laughing constantly, cooking, massages or going to museums? [Right index finger arcs away from letter “j” and taps chest in heart area] That’s right, men who’re trying too hard or who’re just gay. Obviously though, you’re a cute young thing and I’ve asked you out so I can’t be all that gay.

I guess then, on behalf of the next nice guy you meet, I’m sorry. I’m sorry we have no idea what we’re doing or how we can’t control ourselves. I’m sorry things we want to do spurt out of our mouths or how we talk to our mothers and closest friends about these things. I’m sorry we confide in them and how we forget to do the most important things for a relationship like…asking for your phone number. Just know we’re working on it.

In the mean time, all I can ask of you is that 20 or 30 years down the road when you think to yourself, “Damn, my boyfriend’s jambalaya is only mediocre,” you don’t think back and remember my name. Sure, maybe my face, my friends or how I was far better at writing you a letter than actually saying things to you—but not my name.

Miss you,

_____  ______

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