I am NOT the enemy. Seriously. Though you may view me as an alien life form, I come in peace. Please don’t steal my friend away from me. I beg of you.

Here’s the deal. You’ve only been dating my dude friend for the last year or so and have absconded with all his free time. That’s pretty normal for new relationships, and heck, I’ve been guilty of it too, but come on! The stare-down and up-turned nose, plus rallying your girl friends to give me the comprehensive girl-posse evaluation was unnecessary. I come in peace.

You’re in love, and I respect that. I couldn’t be happier for you both, but please don’t spit hatred on my Italian leather shoes because they don’t deserve it. And for that matter, neither do I.

The dudes you’re in love with are good persons. Otherwise I wouldn’t love them so much as my friends, nor would I be so wounded at the prospect of losing them as my wingdude/drinking buddy/gotmahbackinabarbrawl compadre.

Your love might be more intimate on lots of other levels, but give a little bit of respect! After all, I knew him first, and we have history. We have long nights of whining about girls who were just stepping stones and practice runs until he met you. I mean it.

It’s not my fault that your boyfriend invites me to hang with the fellas when he needs a night out reconnecting with the other important people in his life: friends. Honestly, I’m just one of the dudes who happens to wear an A-cup. Would you feel less threatened if I were a lesbian? Or ugly? You’re totally on crack if you think I’m going to give up those Italian leather shoes.

Is it because I can out-eat your boyfriend in chili dogs and pepperoni pizza? So what if PBS did a documentary on me as the maniacal, burping girl of Ann Arbor raised in the wilds by Catholic school boys and fraternity brothers? Is it really so intimidating to know that I can do a kegstand and you can’t, or won’t, for fear of breaking a nail? Or that I won a pair of your boyfriend’s shorts after playing poker until dawn on spring break? Or that your boyfriend is the one who would come out in the middle of the night to fix my flat tire? But remember, that was years ago.

It’s innocent. We’re friends. I swear. It’s not a cheesy Julia Roberts story line.

There is no unresolved sexual tension between two people who have, at some point in the course of the friendship, had to: a) hold the other’s head over the toilet after a night of excess; b) hide the other person’s cell phone so they wouldn’t accidentally dial a crush or recent ex; or c) bring a roll of toilet paper to the other after they were defeated by a jar of pickled jalapenos. Trust me, there’s no sense of lost or unresolved romance there.