“Where did all the good guys go? Men are such bastards, I swear to God, all the genuinely nice guys are either taken, or gay…”

or still sitting on the same kerb that you kicked them to all those months ago, nursing their broken hearts and shattered egos with all the other lovely guys whose kind intentions you chose to ignore because they weren’t “edgy” or “rough” or “exciting” enough for you.

That guy you’ve known since childhood who clearly adores you? He’s sitting there with all the good guys too, instead of being next to you in bed, and all because he isn’t a footballer or a top lawyer, and you don’t like guys with freckles anyway.

The most gentle of gentlemen sit side by side, a chain of rejected souls, kicking themselves for not being tall enough, for not having a beard, for not wanting arms covered in tattoos.

The good guys have learned the sad truth, and they learned it the hard way. After all, the boy who rides the bus will always be overtaken by the guy on the motorbike, right ladies?

Robert Doisneau ‘Amoureux aux oranges’