Matt Forney
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A Letter to My Future Wif—, Er, Girlfrie—, Er, Fuckbuddy

Last week, Danger & Play Tweeted a link to “A Letter to My Future Husband,” in which a dating blogmistress displays her various mental pathologies so her online girlfriends can high-five her. In response to a few comments which rightly called her creepy, our heroine left this:

Totally love the double standard. Boys write about the relationship they hope to have one day and it’s sweet. Girls write the same thing (prompted from someone else) and we’re insane and creepy.

Gas lighting at its finest!

Uh, no Mandy, we’re not calling you creepy because you wrote a letter to your future husband. We’re calling you creepy because that letter is filled with remarks like this:

Or after berating you for years to get rid of your favorite ratty t-shirt I’ll steal it from where you finally relented and threw it in the trash so I can have it framed for above your desk or made into a pillow for our bed.

What’s more, you apparently think this makes you cute and/or endearing, instead of sending men screaming for the nearest exit. You could have just saved some time and copypasted “I’m a stalker with borderline personality disorder” a few dozen times and it would have had the same effect.

But wait, my readers! There’s more!

Mandy wrote this as part of a challenge from another blogger, who’s been writing letters to his future wife for (get your barf bags ready) five years. Out of morbid curiosity, I read the very first one he wrote back in 2007, and it did not fill me with hope for future installments:

Even when you are sweet enough to pick out clothes for me, I am fairly like to fight you on it. At least initially. And my complaints may be oddly specific and obscure.

“I’m going to look like Guy Smiley in that shit!”

Sure, pummeling me is an option at that point. However, the best way to handle it is with a…

“Sweetie… You are a boy. You don’t know anything about fashion. Now shut up and try it on.”

This will make sense to me. “Hmm. True enough. OK!”

It should be noted that the “Sweetie… shut up” move should be a frequently used arrow from your quiver of dealing with Peter.

When I do try on your outfit I’ll probably love it. “I’m… GORGEOUS!” I’ll even admit that I was wrong to fight you on it.

“Creepy” isn’t the first adjective that comes to mind reading this. “Pathetic” and “supine” are closer to the mark. This “Letters to Your Future Spouse” thing might actually be entertaining if it followed the arc of modern relationships. “Dear Future Ex-Wife, you’re a backstabbing bitch. I want my children back.”

Since all of this malignant sacklessness is getting to me, I’ve decided to do what I do best: I’m going to take this little challenge and turn it on itself.


Dear Future Wife,

Actually, that’s a misnomer, because I’m not actually planning on marrying you. I take my philosophy of romantic relationships from Joni Mitchell, and if she was good enough for our parents’ generation, she’s good enough for us.

Anyhoo, I presume you meet all the requirements I outlined here. Here are a few other things I expect you to keep in mind to please me and maintain domestic tranquility.

For starters, get used to living in apartments, because home ownership exists solely to part morons with their money. Also get used to an austere lifestyle, because consumerism is for broken individuals with nothing better to do. Expect to be piling 70-80% of your paycheck into a savings account. Like you needed another pair of shoes.

Speaking of which, if you want to work, that’s totally fine; in fact, I encourage you to because I’m not going to bust my hump at some humiliating office job so we can afford a McMansion in the suburbs. They call it the American “Dream” for a reason: it’s not real. But the minute you become “career-driven” is the minute I’m kicking you out. If I need to explain why prioritizing anything over the actual people in your life is wrong, you’re too stupid to be a relationship period. A job is something you do to get money and nothing more.

And if your rationale for working is because you don’t want to be “bored,” you’re not mature enough to be in the workforce. If you’re bored, get a hobby. Playing the piano, painting, tennis; all of these and more will cure your boredom pretty damn quick, without robbing you of your soul in the process.

A polite reminder: your college degree and job title don’t give me erections. Your A-cup breasts and shapely derriere do.

I expect you to cook, and cook often, because people who can’t cook are reliant on others to feed them, whether it’s their spouses, parents or the Arby’s down the street. On the off-chance we happen to have children, I’m not condemning them to a life of obesity and its concomitant problems because you were too lazy to learn how to use a stove. I also expect you to clean, because that’s what adults do: they clean up after themselves.

I won’t go so far as picking your clothes out for you, but you’re not leaving the house in anything I can’t bear to look at. Get used to high heels, skirts and makeup. Your first priority when getting dressed is to look good for me, not to impress your catty girlfriends who are trying to sabotage you anyway so I’ll break up with you and they can feel better about their inability to get a man. On the plus side, if you ask me I what I think of what you’re wearing, I’ll always give you an honest answer.

By the way, we’re not getting any pets, because I’m allergic to cats and dogs. If you love animals that much, go volunteer at the SPCA.

I’m not paying for cable because TV is mind-rotting filth, so you’ll have to find another way to entertain yourself. The library is always free.

If you attempt to come between me and my friends or try to keep me from my hobbies, you will feel my wrath. I know you girls absolutely hate it when men have fun without you, but you’re just going to have to deal. Let me have my guitar and my nights out drinking, and you can have your book club and your Pinterest account.

As much as I would like to be, I am not psychic. If you have a problem and you don’t clearly tell me in plain English, I will assume everything is hunky-dory. If you blow up later and blame me for not being able to decipher your pouting and passive-aggressiveness, I will have zero sympathy for you. We’re grownups; we use our words to communicate. If you insist on behaving like a big baby, don’t complain when I treat you like one.

Being an introvert, I need my alone time, which I’ll usually spend screwing around on the computer, reading a book or just lying on the couch staring at the ceiling listening to Daydream Nation for the umpteenth time. If I don’t get my alone time, I will make your life hell. So do us both a favor and leave me alone. There are plenty of hours left in the day to do stuff together.

You’re welcome to have your own opinions, so long as you defer to me when I know more about a subject than you do, which will happen often because I am better read and more world-savvy than you are. Merely having a vagina doesn’t make your opinion valuable, contrary to what everyone’s been telling you since you were a kid. That’s not arrogance or male chauvinism, it’s fact.

There’s no such thing as unconditional love. I wouldn’t expect you to keep loving me if I decided to quit my job and spend all day playing video games, so don’t expect me to keep loving you if you pack on thirty pounds, nag me about leaving the seat up or claim you have a “headache” when it’s time to get Biblical. Being in a relationship does not free you from the obligation to be a decent human being, nor does it give you an excuse to stop trying to excise your various character flaws.

Speaking of which, if you ever nag me about leaving the seat up, the only thing that will keep me from slapping you across the face is the fact that it’s against the law. Put the seat down yourself. You’re a big girl now. Act like it.

Finally, you are special to me. But not that special. If you can’t fulfill my manly needs, there is no shortage of attractive young women who will. So you better bring your A game every single day.

I look forward to many years of sweaty, bedsheet-ruining sex, home-cooked meals, and holding hands while staring into the sunset.



Hey fellow manospherians, wanna subvert this little challenge for your own amusement? Write your own letter and post a link to it in the comments.

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