Dear Future Husband

Letter #1: the year 2020

Dear Future Husband,

Hi. My name is Emily. Hopefully, you know that already.

Just to be clear, I'm doing this not because I think I'm Disney princess with a destiny to be married to her Prince Charming sometime in her late (or early) teen years. This is purely for therapeutic purposes. It gives me peace of mind to imagine that in the future, I'm happily married to a man who not only loves me, but has his shit together.

I'm finding this quality in a guy is actually much rarer than I anticipated. 

But maybe if I'm not morbidly embarrassed by these letters in six or eight or ten years or whenever we end up getting hitched, I'll let you read them.

For a little context, the date is Tuesday, June 2nd, 2020. I am currently eighteen years old.

At the moment you're reading this, hopefully things have gotten better, so you're thinking: oh yeah, 2020, the year straight out of hell. I remember that shit show.

Or maybe things have gotten worse and you're wishing you could go back to before all this started.

Either way, I can't really provide an opinion right now. I'm in the past. But I think the year really speaks for itself, because even now, I know this is one for the history books. I'll give you a little context, though:

The COVID-19 pandemic has the country on lockdown. Senior year got cut short—school was out in March, and I can't go to the grocery store without wearing a mask. Social distancing is in effect, but I'm still seeing my girlfriends (don't tell the government.)

The murder of George Floyd by the four Minneapolis cops has sent the Black Lives Matter movement into a (completely justified) spiral. Riots and protests have broken out all across the country. There are even protestors in our neighborhood, which is really saying something.

Some more things that happened this year: threats of World War III; Kobe Bryant's and his daughter's death; the record-breaking Australia bushfires; UFO sightings; and both Trump and Jeffery Epstein have been exposed for having sex with underage girls.

It's only June.

And while all of this is plenty distressing by itself, I'm selfishly having guy problems. I don't want to and have no right complain about that right now... which is why I'm writing to you.

I'm finding that every time I have something good with a guy I ruin it. I have to. It's like I'm hard-wired to. Maybe I talk to him too much, or I don't talk to him enough. Clearly, if you're reading this, I will have pulled my shit together and done something right. But for now, it just hurts.

I'll tell you what happened, but I'm not going to name names. I'm still trying to disconnect. I'm still hurting a little bit. I want to forget him.

This guy who used to live here came into town last week for a visit. I found out pretty soon after he moved that he had a huge thing for me while he still lived in LO. So we got to talking and he said that the next time he was in LO, we'd meet up.

I knew that he meant he wanted to hook up, which was honestly fine with me. I didn't think twice about it. What I was nervous about was telling him I'm a virgin. I've found that guys don't generally love that.

So he got here and I waited a few days before asking him to get together. He had made it pretty clear before—if you know what I mean—that he wanted to "hang out." But I finally asked him and he said he was busy.

Okay. Understandable. He probably has a lot of people to see, right?

I text him again the next day and ask him if he's free that night. He says he'll let me know. He doesn't.

At this point, I'm getting frustrated. So I text him and ask him if he really wants to do this. If not, he can just tell me and I'll stop bugging him, but I'd like to stop wasting my time. I think this kinda takes him—he tells me he's nervous. He's only ever been with one person before, how many have I been with?

So I tell him, fully expecting him to stop talking to me right then and there. 

But he's actually cool with it. I think that actually makes him more comfortable. And what's more, he's like, "Oh, I'll come over right now." But by now, it's already 2 AM, and I'm beyond nervous, so I tell him tomorrow night.

But tomorrow rolls around and he tells me he's busy again. He does this for the next, like, seven days. Also, this whole time, I'm horny as hell. We're in a quarantine, and I barely even get to see men. You do the math.

Finally, I get really mad at him. I'm frustrated that he keeps giving me excuses that he's busy when I'm basically offering myself to him on a silver fucking platter. If you don't do hookups, then fine, just tell me so I can stop trying to get you here. Just give me a solid answer. So I kinda go off on him over text. I expect him to get angry, but he just, like... flinches. Submits. Recoils. He says I'm pressuring him into something he doesn't want. So I tell him I'll leave him alone.

I deleted his number last night. I don't trust myself to just not talk to him again. He leaves today.

I mean, he made it abundantly clear that he wanted me, and then when he had the chance to do something about it, he didn't! I mean, fuck him for getting my hopes up like that. What a shitty thing to do. I relentlessly asked myself where I had gone wrong, but I'm realizing now that it was pretty much all him.

Since when does the guy not put out? What a fucking pussy.

I hope you're not like that. Well, knowing myself, you certainly shouldn't be. You just tell me what you want and when you want it. That's sexy. 

I'm actually feeling a little better.

Thanks, Future Husband. For doing absolutely nothing. Except for reading this letter and, I guess, being you.

You'll be hearing from me again soon.

Love,

Your Future Wife