Men are bots that should come with instruction manuals.

Men are bots that should come with instruction manuals — a guide that explains how you must subtract around 10 to 15 years from their current ages to get an actual idea of their level of emotional intelligence. Your boyfriend’s twenty? Think again honey! He’s 11-years-old in bot years. 

Women and therapy are interchangeable concepts for men at this point. “Behind every great man, there’s a great woman.” I’m sure there is some good intent in this statement, but I still call Bullshit. We don’t lie behind men helping them organize their brains in the same way a therapist does. A woman isn’t an accessory for a man’s success; we’re not some sort of ladder they can use to work themselves up to becoming these “great men.”

As I’ve ventured into the dating world, I’ve become an expert on the manipulative nature of these bots. 

My first boyfriend, let’s call him bot #1, was a teenaged man who was unfortunately plagued with severe mommy issues. My main competition was never another 20-something-year-old-girl, it was a 51-year-old woman. Bot #1 and his mother had a relationship that I would describe as Sigmund Freud’s nastiest wet dream. My ex gave Oedipus a run for his money. 

I honestly lost count of the red flags throughout our relationship. There were too many to keep track of and I chose to ignore them for the sake of not being alone. But I did notice that each and every one of these red flags had a common theme: he loved being mothered.  

“Have you registered for classes?” 

“Can you clean your room?” 

“Did you show up for your test?” 

I was infatuated with the idea of being needed. And he really needed me. I was bot #1’s only escape from his obsessive and abusive mother. In some sick way, I became his new and improved mother, the one he always wanted. I bought him a new wardrobe, drove him everywhere, enrolled him in school, folded his tighty whities — the whole bit. 

And even though I had a lot more going on for me in life than he did, he had no trouble belittling me.  

“Yeah, but you’re not a real writer.” 

“I know more about this than you, trust me. I read a whole Reddit-” 

“I’m a better driver, by far.”

He didn’t even have his learners permit. I had to schedule a day for him to take the test and essentially dragged him there. 

Bot #1 never took me out on a date, not once. I guess getting high and watching 90 Day Fiancé with his mother until 4 a.m. sounded more appealing.

Two birthdays, zero presents — not even a card. For his 20th birthday, I took a 40-minute train ride to a thrift store outside of the city to buy him a pair of Louis Vuitton trousers that fit him like a glove. 

Bot #1’s issues and my trauma fit together like two pieces in a puzzle. “He’s a lot like your father,” my mother’s voice echoed in my head. The fear of becoming her creeped into my brain, as it often does. Was I also going to start a life with someone that provided me with the bare minimum, clinging on to the hope of making them better? 

I realized our relationship had shifted into an arts and craft project, and I was done playing build-a-boyfriend. Two years of long-distance and one cheating scandal later (whoops), I finally let him go. 

Enter bot #2, he’s the second party in my “whoops” moment. We started talking last July, I was a year into my relationship with bot #1. When I tell y’all this SOB spent eight whole months circling around me, patiently waiting for the day bot #1 and I ended things. 

Turns out he didn’t even have to wait for things to be completely over thanks to the two Four Lokos in my system that one night at the concert in Webster Hall. 

Bot #2 was different and exciting, and I was introduced to a new type of manipulation. The day things ended officially with bot #1, there was a plane ticket ready to be purchased to fly out to see bot #2. 

He took me out dancing, we went on roadtrips, he showed me his favorite views and he made it his mission to learn everything about me. Bot #2 was a man of few words. I did most of the talking — he loved to listen. Or so I thought. 

After ending a six-year relationship, bot #2 really needed to get his ex out of his system. And who could do that better than an insecure (but also super hot) girl whose current relationship was hanging on by a pubic hair? 

Bot #2 was giving me everything bot #1 was missing. He showed actual interest in wanting to spend time with me and radiated put-togetherness. 

I let myself indulge in a little love-triangle moment. It actually got quite messy, but that’s a story for another time. 

Things with bot #2 sped up fairly quickly as soon as my ex was out of the picture. FaceTime calls every night, daily meme exchanges and regular conversations about how excited he was for me to travel to see him. 

A month passed and I was packing my suitcase for the 500-mile trip. My self-sabotaging ass knew I was moving too quickly,  but I chose to ignore my gut… again. 

It was obviously all rainbows and butterflies the first day. All his friends were, of course, “dying to meet me.” 

But quickly, my mom’s words echoed in my head yet again, “Los machos que se meten con mujeres con novios son unos cabrones.” (Boys who mess around with girls who are in relationships are guaranteed assholes.) 

Two days into the weekend trip and mommy dearest was proven right yet again. 

Bot #2’s words could sometimes be compared to the standard automated bot responses I’m sure many women are familiar with. 

“But I’m sick and I need mommy girlfriend to care for me” 

“Yeah, you really helped me get my ex out of my system.”

“Well, that’s what happens when you mix an eating disorder with a night out drinking.” 

Oh, he also called me by his ex’s name. 

There was a notable difference in how bot #2 treated me when I was unavailable versus when I was sitting on his bed in his boxers and t-shirt. 

Even though bot #2 and I were involved for a much shorter period of time, it hurt more for some reason. I confided in him and actually thought he cared. I asked him to please not use me for my body. I wasn’t ready to indulge in hook-up culture after having a very unfortunate encounter with a one-night-stand. But I soon learned that bot #2 was never really listening. I was just there to better him, to make him forget about her. 

Bot #2 looked me in the eyes, the words “I’ll see you soon” leaving his mouth. He dropped me off at the airport that weekend in March and hasn’t reached out since. 

I’m honestly embarrassed to admit that I let myself be treated this way. It’s safe to say that my “men are bots” theory has served as a clever coping mechanism. It helps me feel less foolish. 

But, if you’re currently in the process of building a bot yourself, no matter how good it feels, take a step back and let him crumble like a jenga tower. 

You’re not here to raise anyone’s son. 

You’re not someone’s “learning experience.”

And you’re sure as hell not here to help him become a “better person.”

So, if you find yourself repeatedly having to give your bot step-by-step instructions on the right ways to treat you, put him back in his box and return him to the original sender: his actual parent(s) (who clearly still have some work to do).