I’m not the best choice 

I’m not your best choice. If I’m not your only option, the only choice you can envision making, the girl of your damn dreams, then I’m not in the running at all. If you have to make a choice, don’t choose me. Seriously.

So there’s this guy. We’ve know each other for a while now, gone on a zillion date-like things, kissed, even passionately under the influence, but that’s it.

He has a habit of chasing down the girl that needs to be saved, standing in the rain with her, and professing his love. His type needs him in her world and can’t function without his guidance. I’m not that girl.

We’ve always viewed each other as friends. Just friends. A consistent plus one. Nothing more. I’m not his type, and his controlling personality hadn’t really turned me on either. So, when he named me the most logical choice for him, I was shocked. I’m not flattered, and I’m definitely not interested.

Logical, and probably reasonable. Your choice? The winner, or the consolation prize?

Nah. Outside of the fact that I’m not looking to change our relationship in that direction, I’m insulted.

If you ever need to choose me, I’m not a choice.

I want the man who can’t live without me. The man who is moving mountains for me. The man who is fighting for me. The man who can’t imagine being with anyone other than me. The man who made a damn decision, not a choice.

I want passion, intention, and commitment. I’m closer to  40 than 30, and I’m not playing any games. I’m also not a pick one from a conveyor belt. This is real life, pal.

I know I’m your best choice, but I’m not an option.

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