The “Hotmess”
The Hotmess is always thin. I mean this, ALWAYS thin. Not because they're blessed with a natural metabolism or zest for life, but because their “diet” consists of hard liquor, soda, and a severe form of neurotic-ism that keeps them up all night. This consistently poor malnutrition leads to a disheveled, Kate Moss, collar-bone popping, sexually irresistible look that as the title preludes, can actually make a mess look “hot.”
The male of this order can be identified by his 5-o'clock, I-don't-give-no-fucks shadow, an unbuttoned shirt thrown sloppily over some generic T, looking like he just crawled out of bed at 8 o'clock in the evening. His appearance alone should be a firing missile, for someone who doesn't have enough social tact or self-regard to brush their hair before leaving the house should send clear signals that his internal workings are likely as unkempt as his external appearance.
And her, Ms. Hotmess, you can see, wait...hear her coming a mile away. This Au natural, minus the mandatory black eyeliner, wavy-haired, frumpy vixen can be spotted in a simple black tank and jeans, with as minimalistic a look as her male counterpart. Her desperation, in-and-out, fly by the handles love relationships are as frequent as her nights being carried home from the bar. This girl carries emotional baggage the size of a Nicole Richie handbag, and seeps her way into the male psyche by showering him with excessive attention and helping him to momentarily escape the droll of his monotonous existence.
This is where they get you, the enchantment of disregard for norms and a carefree, understated charm that draws in and entices those of us with real jobs and emotional stability. For a moment, they make you believe that life is a whimsical, unattached, roadshow and that the world really is your oyster. Then you wake up, roll-over, and realize the train wreck that just plowed you last night. You start to realize that all their “dreams” are exactly just that and nothing more. You realize their lack of regard for social norms is a deep-rooted insecurity that in actuality has isolated them into the shitshow they are today. To spite their intellectual jargon, they haven't “freed” themselves from limiting social constructs, but have entangled themselves into such a deep web of self-involvement that they'll never get back out.
Mr./Ms. Self-Entitled
I hate these people, so I will basically keep it brief. They're not hard to find, because they're likely the most polished, well-kept individual in the room. They will sport whatever the J. Crew or Polo mannequin told them to, and they will laugh louder than everyone else. The only things they have to say will be narcissistic self-reflections and praises, or downright, disrespectful, cut-throat insults that they hurl at anyone who challenges their ego.
They will probably scoff at anyone who wasn't born to their same set of privileges, and label 90% of the general population as “losers.” The only qualifiers for being a loser in their book is not being at their achievement level or higher; they hold themselves as the pinnacle of acceptability.
To save you time, self-esteem, and money....don't bother with these fucks. Because in all actuality, there is no other word to describe them. One day, something real will happen to them to knock them off their royal asses and they'll most likely enter therapy and never leave. They are like watching a life-long rerun of Arrested Development.
The Wildcard
Oh Dear God, the Wildcard. Everyone already has, and most likely will again, date a Wildcard. The Wildcard is hard to pin down in appearance because they're not associated with any particular scene. They can be found at any class level and within any social group. The only quality they share is that natural, all American, boy/girl next-door, classic good looks that anyone can appreciate. They're good-looking, but not so good-looking that they can't be trusted; the perfect 8 out of 10.
The trouble with the Wildcard? Commitment. The REAL trouble with the Wildcard? They've dated several of your friends. The REAL, REAL trouble with the Wildcard? You know better, but just can't help yourself.
We all know these people because their reputations precede them. You hear the stories of their charming ways and their ability to captivate anyone then leave them hanging dry. They're the classic heart-breaker that you've decided you dislike before even meeting them. Then you meet them.
....and.it.all.comes.crumbling.down. That gracious, big smile, the doe-eyed expression, and this sweet, irresistible appearance that could melt the heart of Ebenezer Scrooge.
And they're soooooo damn convincing. When they say “I like you,” they look you dead in the eye. When they say you're “different” from all the others, you think they really mean it. When they say they're here to stay, you believe them and....3 weeks later they're gone.
And you're left thinking S(*&, F*$@, G**&*mmit, I KNEW IT! The Wildcard is the only type really capable of making you blame yourself. You'll go on to hear stories of them conquering this person, that person, and then the next. Then suddenly, out of nowhere, you'll look at their Facebook page and they'll be settled down and married with a kid on the way, and you'll say....WHAT THE FUCK?!
That is the catch of the Wildcard: they are the quintessential Mr./Ms. Right, minus their inability to settle down, until one day they do and piss everyone else off. They are the “he/she will come around someday,” and just when you think it is getting too late and they'll never change, they do. That is what makes them a Wildcard....they can make or a break a hand, it just depends on the game you're playing.
