Twenty-something men are all things chaos, that is until they decide to schedule their random, out of the blue snap to you every few months. In that case, they are very organised and know exactly what they’re doing. Women book their nail and lash refills, fuckboys book their moments to mess with your head again. It doesn’t cost them anything, but costs women their sanity and a huge chunk of their Saturday nights which they will now spend asking: “But WHYYYY did he snap me again?”
Something is programmed in their brains, an alert of some sort that I imagine goes something like: “Ding, ding, DING, that woman you have no genuine interest in outside of your bedroom walls is doing fine without you and got some highlights, why don’t you check in to see if she will still give you the time of day?”
They never show up when you want or need them to though, hence the chaos. In fact, I think women chat to fuckboys more when their situationship has ended than they do when they’re actually an item. They show up with a reckless, satanic aura, plunging you into a real version of the Insidious movies, and when things start to spark between you, dust rises from the spot where his feet once were, as he legs it out of your life and inbox because he knows he had also settled into your heart.
Do fuckboys always have itchy feet when it comes to love?
