Exes and Me: An Introspection

I wrote this the other day. I've discovered a new website entitled Thoughtcatalog.com and I'm determined to get all up in that. So I sent this in, but I like it too much for it not to hit the Internet.

Exes and Me: An Introspection

Look, I’m a nice guy. Always have been, despite my hardest attempts at reversing this personality trait. That says something about society: why is it such a bad thing to be the White Knight, the guy that doesn’t cheat, the guy that will tell someone if they dropped a twenty.
I’m totally serious when I say that I have lost count of the girls I’ve met who are looking for a great guy, then when I offer myself to the holy Boyfriend altar for sacrifice, either they aren’t interested, or I’m the “friend”. And I don’t get it.
Once in a while it works, for a little bit at least, and it’s awesome! Talking to someone who just gets you, no awkward silences, and sex where you can explore, discover each other’s wants. Then it fizzles. And that sucks.
I rarely get close to a girl emotionally, thanks in partial to an erstwhile Australian girl calling me up early one November morning a couple years ago and telling me she doesn’t love me anymore, and maybe I should reconsider moving to Melbourne. (Which was awesome, by the way.)
So while the odd one night stand is always welcome, it’s uncommon that I progress it further than that. I live in a community where the girls are heavily outnumbered, many are bar-stars, and the rest are already taken. So when that special girl does cross paths with me, I really try hard not to screw things up. So when they inevitably do, my Facebook feed becomes a minefield. My mind runs a gauntlet every time I see “Possible-Love-Of-Your-Life is now friends with Some-Unknown-Dude-Who’s-Probably-Cooler-Than-You-Because-He’s-Talking-To-Her-And-You-Aren’t.” Is this her new guy, even though she told you she’s “not ready” or “too busy” or “looking for something different”?
I’m that guy. And I’m tired of hearing about all the assholes in town, and asking where the nice guys are that don’t smoke weed all day.
In economic terms, I’m a hot commodity. I’m oil in the Middle East, water in the desert, vodka Red Bull in those douchey clubs on that Jersey Shore show. I’m the long straight Tetris piece, the elusive MewTwo, the Stanley Cup. (Actually, maybe the Conn Smythe Trophy; I’m not rich, after all.)

So why is nobody buying stocks in Tall, Literary, and Handsome?

Answers on the back of a postcard.