You're Not a Soft Boy. You're Just a F*cking Asshole.

Let’s talk about these self-proclaimed “soft boys.”

Not the genuinely emotionally intelligent kind—the ones who actually listen, reflect, and take accountability. I’m talking about the ones who weaponize vulnerability to gain access to women’s time, energy, and empathy, then crumble the second you don’t coddle their ego. The kind who mistake performing sensitivity for having a personality. Deep down? He’s just a manipulative, insecure little asshole with a superiority complex and a shitty handlebar mustache.

So… Saturday. I go on a date with one of them.

Right away: red flag.

He doesn’t look like his photos. At all. At least 20 pounds heavier. And listen, I wouldn’t have even cared if he had some charm, some personality, something. But instead, he’s calculated. Pretending to listen, but really just waiting for his turn to talk. You could feel it—that low-level resentment bubbling under the surface, like me existing comfortably made him deeply uncomfortable.

We’re talking, and I casually mention I’m going to Europe next month. Not to brag—just answering a question. And suddenly, I’m “intimidating.”

Why? Because he’s going to Phoenix this weekend? Like… sorry?

Then he tells me I must “like jocks.” That it “seems like” my type is jocks because I’m pretty and polite. And “opposites attract,” he says.

What kind of low-tier Reddit psychology is that?

I ask him why he thinks that. He shrugs and goes, “Just a feeling.”

Which, loosely translated, means: I already decided I’m not good enough for you, and now I’m going to knock you down a peg to protect my ego.

Then, mid-date, he looks me dead in the eyes and asks, “Why did you swipe right on me?”

Honestly? I don’t f*cking know anymore. Clearly, I had a lapse in judgment.

He drags me around for three full hours. From place to place. Giving me backhanded compliments. Calling me a Debbie Downer because I’m not fake-laughing at his painfully average jokes.

No, pookie. I’m not a Debbie Downer. I just don’t f*cking like you.

Then—oh, then—he tries to take a photo of me near a fountain. Doesn’t ask. Just lifts his phone and says he was “inspired.”

Inspired… by what? Me visibly trying to figure out how to escape this hostage situation of a date?

Finally—finally—I get out. I think it’s over.

But no—he hands me a gift.

A. Citrus. Candle.

Let me say that again: a citrus candle.

The one scent I cannot stand.

It wasn’t a gift. It was a threat.

Now fast forward to Monday. Not even the middle of the week—just Monday.

I roll out of bed around 7:30, barely manage to pull myself together, and drag my ass to work. And as usual, I’m doing the absolute most—meetings, content approvals, strategy, crisis control, emotional labor, all of it. I’m holding everything together with duct tape, caffeine, and unresolved trauma.

And what do I get?

No “great job.”

No “thank you.”

No “you’re doing amazing.”

Just:

“Can you do more?”

“Why didn’t you catch this?”

“Can you rebuild the system you already rebuilt?”

“Why didn’t you think of that too?”

Just endless criticism. Pressure. Expectation.

This place is draining me dry—and for what? So they can keep asking for more every time I deliver?

Finally, the day ends. I get in my car, ready to collapse.

And what’s waiting for me?

That fucking citrus candle.

It melted.

All over my fabric seat. My steering wheel. My bag. My hands. It’s sticky. It’s greasy.

I start gagging. I get a full-blown migraine. The headache hits instantly.

I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to set my car on fire and walk home.

I pull over to the side of the road with my hazards on, just trying to breathe—to crashout in peace—and of course, some asshole pulls up behind me. Blocks me in. I can’t even have a breakdown without being interrupted.

As soon as I get home, I took that fuckass candle and chucked it down the garbage chute like the toxic little bomb it is. Didn’t even hesitate.

Now I’ve got citrus slime in my car, on my steering wheel, probably seeping into the seat too.

So yeah.

Fuck that candle.

Fuck that date.

Fuck that emotionally constipated man.

You’re not “deep.”

You’re just a manipulative, passive-aggressive, soyboy.

You ruined my weekend.
You ruined my Monday.

You ruined my car upholstery.

You’re not a nice guy.