So, to all guys; just a fair warning.
This ambiguous statement really messes with her. It sparks a cataclysmic explosion of highs and lows that won’t relent until her mind has digested every last syllable.

In order to understand why it elicits such chaos of the mind, just try to put yourself in a pair of black wedges and listen to the Greek chorus in your brain.

“You’re
Not
Like
Other
Girls.”

Those five words dart into her inner ear, echoing up and down her mind like a skateboarder gliding back and forth on her ramp. When the skateboarder finally lands, the board pops up and the eyebrows raise. “Me? You think you know me?”

But before Rosie the Riveting skateboarder takes the first punch, the Greek chorus intervenes, screeching a staccato symphony of sobering realization, “But wait! He’s right! You are not in the slightest like other girls.”

The intervention calms the mind of our tragic heroine long enough for her brain to argue for itself – for although you’re right, she has only recently decided that you are worthy of knowing her. The hour long interactions at work or at the bar have unveiled barely the slightest glimpse of all she is. You’ve maybe, maybe, grasped two of the shallowest rings of her personality.

Ask anyone who loves her – she is not like other girls, or other humans, for that matter. She thinks more thoughts a day than you do. She eats more food a day than you do. She sings more songs a day than you do. She talks to her cat and dog in their respective languages, choreographs Zumba alone in the mirror of her room, reads, writes, and argues more than you do. She prays and worships, she listens and cries. She learns, she loves, she lives.

So, young man, you’re right. In this girl, you see truth. But, to quote Socrates, the wisest man knows that he knows nothing.

You must realize how little you know. You’re only at the cusp of something far greater than you can ever hope for or imagine – the opportunity to know a young woman layered with eternal fibers of contradictions and harmonies. You’ve only pulled back a tiny corner of the plastic glued to a slice of cheese made to melt on the cheeseburger of a damn good life. In the words of “Ol Blue Eyes”, “we’ve only tasted the wine.”

And so, the hurricane in her mind now loses its sight. Cool breezes blow. “If he means it,” the Greek chorus’ balladry bellows, “then his actions should reflect it.” It will logically follow that he will dwell no more with “other girls”, and instead, place all his time and energy into discovering the keys that will unlock the mysteries of her mind.

But if he doesn’t mean it?
And the choir sang, in full force,
“Find a guy who’s not like other guys!”