Willing 2 b emotionally unstable 4 U

I hear complaints from men saying that women pass over perfectly nice, decent men for “bad boys.”

There is a flip side to this; you guys appear to fall for beautiful but emotionally unstable women, pouring tons of time into them, becoming their White Knight, thinking you can save them.

Here's a little secret: you can't save them. But damn, I'd sure like to have one of you eligible, handsome men putting all that time into trying to make me happy. So here's what I'm going to do.

First of all, I'll develop an eating disorder. Very slender women appear to bring out the protective side of you guys. I'm a bit plump, but if I puke frequently I should shed 20 pounds in about a month. 50 pounds would be ideal--since I'm only 5' 1” that type of weight loss would make me look bony, gawky, vulnerable and child-like, bringing out the daddy in you.

We'll meet and there will be sizzling energy. I'll declare my love to you and we'll have sex immediately! I'll tell you I've never had sex with a guy I've just met and that you're the best lover I've ever had and maybe break your heart just a little as I throw heavy hints of how men have mistreated me in the past. I'll fall asleep in your arms and, as you lie in the dark listening to my breathing, you'll wonder how you got so lucky and will vow to take care of me forever, to never let me down like the other men in my past.

Your heart will tear just a little more when you catch me with a razor-blade, making straight, slender cuts in my arms. For the first time you'll notice the silvery spiderweb of scars on the insides of my arms and will be horrified, asking what's wrong. I'll cry and tell you that I'm so scared that you'll leave me. You'll gather me up, holding and rocking me as I sob. You'll promise to always be there for me. You know I'm broken, but believe with enough love you can heal me.

Soon you're getting phone calls from me at work. I'm upset because social services is screwing with the visitation with my kids, or because I saw my mean-old ex-boyfriend on the street and am frightened, or my totally messed-up mother called, saying terrible things to me. You drop everything and run to my side, holding and soothing me.

I have some major financial problems, mostly because I trust people too much and have been taken advantage of. Also, the world conspires against me and for various, totally legitimate reasons--ranging from physical injuries from previous relationships to unfair treatment—I can't hold a job. You, of course, have a steady job and a bit of savings and you offer to pay the courts—who are threatening me with jail—that back child support. You also pay off those old drunk-driving fines so I can get my license back. You buy me a car so I can find a job.

You notice the Vicodin from last year's Frisbee golf injury is gone from the bathroom medicine cabinet, but don't think much of it.

We start having these weird misunderstandings leading to confusing and emotional fights. I yell and slam out of the house, you are worried about what I might do and follow me, begging me to get in the car and come home with you. I finally do and we have make up sex.

Sometimes I don't get in the car. Instead I take off across the cornfield where you can't follow and I stay out all night. You pace the floor, waiting and worrying about me. You're incredibly stressed and call in sick to work. I come home smelling of beer, sex and cigarette smoke. I break down, you hold me.

The box on the dresser where you've been emptying your change for the past two years is empty and money starts disappearing from your wallet. You confront me, we fight and I threaten to kill myself if you leave. We make up.

I start disappearing more and more often. When I come home I'm bedraggled and bleary-eyed. You're hurt and bewildered. I admit I have a little problem with drugs (a plus for both of us because it keeps me thin for you and I've stopped eating and don't have to puke anymore) and you're relieved because you think this is something you can fix. You check me into treatment.

Things are good for a while after I get out. You are proud of me, thinking we beat this, that we can now settle in to a stable relationship. One day you walk into the bathroom and you catch me with a razor-blade, making straight, slender cuts in my arms....