The daily adventures and travails of one neurotic, klutzy, hungry, cynical college girl. Tune in for prizes! (offer void where prohibited. See office for details. Not responsible for lost articles.)
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Tuesday, March 21, 2006
I only find OLD men or young BOYS cute. I want to feed them apricots and tell them stories like when I was 7 and I tried to ride a bike and ended up flying 6 feet in the air into an abandoned farming field. I'm not very attracted to men my own age and I'm finding it hard to think about settling down with a man. What are the benefits about getting a boyfriend or (gag) a husband? Security? They might leave any time for a younger, blonder biddy. Money? I'd rather make my own, and spend it ill-advised without having to answer to anyone. Companionship? My friends screwed me over by providing the best kind of fun, trust, and honesty a girl could ever want from someone not found in the mirror. Sex? Well, there's a strong case, cause "1 is the loneliest number." But how many are inept at that and disappoint? How long before sex becomes boring and ugly? Being a girl is helpful because it's ultimately not that hard to find someone to have sex with you, no matter who you are. (The trick is to know who and when to strike, but your female intuition should be listened to, cause it's spot on)
I mean, men are fun. I like listening to them yell and laugh and try to impress you or each other. I like having the chance to say the first thing on your mind and knowing it won't stay in their heads for 15 years. I like being in the company of men and having them treat you like Cleopatra. But it's like owning an overactive puppy. You gotta want to do it, day in and day out. You have to love it, despite the piddling on the new carpet, the chewing the $4,000 heels you bought last week, the howling at 2 am and driving to the all night vet in your see-through pajama top. On top of which, this sort of puppy is prone to bringing OTHER destructive puppies home, taking your hard earned savings and blowing them on gambling, drink, cigarettes, drugs, whores, electronic equipment, late night binges, or really ugly gifts for you that you can't exactly return. It feels exhausting.
I see all these guys and half-heartedly feel attracted to them, before thinking "Ugh, not worth the battle." Cute delivery man, the best I can muster for you is a not rude reply to "Can I be validated?" and maybe an occasional "How are you?" Hot men in the theatre, I already have a theory relationships that begin on set will never last, so you're already one strike down. Add drama, probably homosexuality, dipping my pen into company ink (cause I care more about my theatre connections that my office rep), and the fact that I'm more likely into your character than you... it seems doomed. Cute neighbor, you need to step it up. I LIVE RIGHT THERE. I'm tired of these cutesy glances and shrugs. I don't need to worry about the repercussions of seeing someone in the hallway when I've decided it doesn't work. (Hello, dorm life all over again.) Artsy boys who play hard to get and look lonelier as time passes. Your art is a means to start the conversation. Did you not get the memo? Married men. Now there's one I previously didn't have to deal with. What's the deal? When did you guys start assuming you were available to fuck with our minds? Why are people getting married earlier and acting like they're not? Is it really the fact that they want their starter marriages over and done with? Homie don't play that. You want to sow your oats? You better get your cow off the field, then. She's got big hooves.
Not that I'm attracted to nice, single, heterosexual, clean looking, hard working, fit men who have lovely families. I mean, what would I talk about with these guys? I'd just feel constantly judged and left out of the loop.
Does anyone know of a good therapist? Or as Tobias Funke would call it, analrapist?
4:27 PM
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1 Comments:
Interesting blog title. "Food for Thought." I suppose the contents could be considered food for thought, but only after thought had ate the food, chased it down with a nice chianti, thoroughly digested the food, and then excreted it out again.
So, the proper title of this blog should be "Thought Shit".
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