That DNA Thing

Disclaimer: I don't own anything. The world would go under, if I did.

A/N: Simple proof of the fact that this author can write het, and won't shy away from it. This is utterly cliché, trite and what do I know what, plot-wise, but then, I just really want to write this. Please don't kill me?


All girls, regardless of who they are, how old they are or what kind of social background they come from, dream about the perfect guy. The knight in shining armour who'll sweep you off your feet, and promise you the stars from the sky.

All that crap.

We've all fallen for that junk. It's – that's what I'm fully convinced of – a sort of pre-programmed thing in our DNA that makes us dreamy-eyed and act like a total idiot in front of the supposed dream guy.

You blush, you stammer and spend hours in front of a mirror in some fancy shop, admiring your reflection. You want to be pretty, so that the guy will just turn and look at you. It's so horribly degrading because we're supposed to be emancipated.

And yet, we degrade ourselves.

If you're lucky, he'll ask you out. If you're very, very lucky or just plain retarded, he'll end up marrying you and you'll be the mother to his snot-faced kids. And you live happily ever after until he dumps you for a younger woman, that is.

It's only after a while, after you've realised that Mr Perfect is just another human, being how stupid this is.

You realise, while kissing the boy, that he's smelly, tastes like cigarettes and attacks your mouth a little too aggressively. You understand, after he's forgotten your birthday, that he's not going to keep his promises.

He won't catch any falling stars, nor will he die for you. He'll just use you, and then drop you as soon as his pleasures have been sated.

Sometimes I think the only purpose of being a woman is to go through these three phases: being utterly in love and blind, then going through a sort of an enlightenment process until you reach the third stage.

And that's really just shit.

Don't believe me?

Then you're just a moron. Quite simply. Or you belong to that lucky breed that's never fallen in love. If we ever cross paths, we'll have to exchange phone numbers. I'd really like to know how to keep from falling in love.

At seventeen, I thought Sasuke Uchicha was perfect. I still feel surprised that he chose me, from all girls he could have asked out.

Of course, I accepted. And I was happy.

My world revolved around his.

He had everything. Money, good looks and he was – that's what I seriously thought – a gentleman. He never tried to get me into bed, his hands didn't wander to places where I didn't want them to be. I'd dated two boys before him, and knew how annoying they could get.

I lost my virginity to him, and he his to me. It should have been perfect, but -- to be honest -- Sasuke was awkward. Even when we were intimate, he couldn't let his mask slip. After a while, I started to ask myself if there was something wrong with me.

I often ended up questioning myself if his being with me was just for the sake of keeping the gossip down.

Only after he'd broken up with me by e-mail after half a year of dating, did I understand that I hadn't meant anything to him. I'd just been someone to play around with.

What a jerk.

I'd see him, of course. Day after day, we'd pass each other in the hall, and Sasuke wouldn't even greet me.

I cried tears over him. Cried so hard until I thought I had none left, until I felt like my insides had been torn apart. I'd never felt more stupid and cheap in all my life.

A weight was lifted off my shoulders after I'd graduated.

I was resolved to not make the same mistake. So, I started to date Kiba. He was quite a rebel, a 'bad boy' and his reputation would have put Marlon Brando to shame.

That summer following graduation was the summer of my life. I'm not kidding here.

The sex was awesome. If Sasuke was inhibited and nearly shy in bed, then Kiba was just the opposite. He was the one who taught me to appreciate my wild side. Let's say that it's always good to have a guy to teach you how to use candle wax and handcuffs in bed.

But after a few rounds in the sack, I dumped him. A relationship just can't sustain itself on sex, as nice and good as it feels. I wanted to feel loved.

Besides, he was a little too much in love with his dog...Not that he was doing that kind of stuff with his dog... but I don't think it's good if the girl comes second to the pet.

I'm a selfish person. I want to be first. I want to be admired and cherished, loved and desired.

That's why my search continued.

During university, I met other guys. I don't want to go through the entire list because it's not that large in the first place.

Oh fine, I'll say it.

There were only three men. One of them was a bug freak, the other an emotionless painter and the last one my professor. Yes, I even fell for that trap. All of them convinced me that sometimes it's really just better to be on your own.

After university, there was Neji. I liked him, I really did. He was reliable, a real gentlemen and he was serious about us. He had the most gorgeous hair I'd seen in a man.

Perhaps, I should have accepted his marriage proposal. Then again, I couldn't imagine being with a guy who valued his family's honour over me. I wasn't going to change myself for his sake.

We don't live in the Middle Ages.

Now that you know my history, don't say it's sordid. Don't give me this kind of shit. We no longer live in the good old days of "Jane Eyre."

I'm a free woman. I'm twenty-seven. I have no illusions. I know what to expect of men. And I'm resolved that I can play the game as well as they can.


Sakura sighed loudly, after she'd finished typing this – letter, rant? She didn't know what it was. For what was the hundredth time this evening, she shook her head. Her brain cells had been roasted too much today.

They had to have been because nothing else could have induced her to type this.

It was growing dark; the sunlight peeking in from the windows was getting dimmer and dimmer. Soon, she'd be forced to turn on the lights. Then, her expensively furnitured apartment with the glass table, white-washed walls and red sofa would look beautiful, splendid even.

However, there was something missing – a second person, perhaps? It looked so empty.

Sakura slapped herself on the forehead.

She really had to be going nuts. Perhaps, she'd watched too much "Sex and the City" and now was doing a very poor imitation of Carrie Bradshaw. She was no Carrie. She didn't have that much of a shoe fetish nor did she keep running after or away from any kind of Mr Big.

As far as Sakura was concerned, she was very well off without Mr Big. And all the silly notions of "Mr Right" still ghosting about in her head could go fuck themselves as well.

Sakura let out a giggle. She'd used foul language again.

My mother would be so proud of me.

Then again, her mum was proud of her. She always said how glad she was that Sakura had made a fine career for herself, and had not gotten married to some loser (unlike herself).

Sakura was proud of herself as well. At twenty-seven, she only had success to look forward to. She'd graduated top of her class, had gone through the hard internship and was now the doctor she'd always wanted to be.

It wasn't easy, but Sakura liked it. She liked it a lot, and had no regrets. She hadn't thrown her life away for a man, and wouldn't do it in the near future.

Sakura was resolved not to fall in love again, and was pretty sure she never would.