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 that 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 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 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 screw 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 for the girls who have
spent their weekends 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.

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
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 hugs you've received from your 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 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've believed that something was better than nothing. 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 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 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 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  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

So don't say you're on the lookout for nice girls, guys,
when you pass us up on every step you take.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 skank and
the easy-targets... 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 probably 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.

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?)