I currently have HARDCORE rap BLASTING. It’s incredibly difficult to type while I’m listening to “b**** ass hoe” every four seconds. But I NEED it. You know how some people (most people) go to yoga or meditate to clear their heads? I blast metal or rap, and SCREAM. And when I was able to drive, I used to buy a pack of cigarettes (which no no no NO NO–I do not smoke anymore), I WOULD BLAST music that just makes you want to punch a hole through the wall, and I would drive fast down the highway belting along to the music. French inhaling the GOOD, exhaling the bullshit. All of it. Do you know how much bullshit is sitting in my chest now? Do you know the smoke consuming my lungs? No? Pretend you’re me for a second. And perhaps, everything I’m describing is incredibly fitting, and you might actually very well be me. Well… close enough.
Okay, so now that I’ve gotten my #pussypower rant out of the way (for now), let’s have ourselves a laugh. So, these said “men,” I have met… let me tell you a little bit about them. These guys still buy paper plates to avoid doing dishes. They leave their black, coarse pubes or beard or whatever-the-fuck hair in the sink and on the counter (and then complain when our hair SHEDS-as if that’s in our control). These “men” have empty refrigerators with the exception of a few beers and a jar of pickles. (I swear-pickles are a huge common denominator here… lol… get it? Pickles?) No, but actually. Dudes love pickles. These men read a couple of Malcolm Gladwell books and think they have mastered life. They’ve got it all down. Their Bumble profiles boast about how they “love to travel!” But shortly after getting to know them, you learn that their last trip out of the country was in 2016 on a college study abroad trip. These said “men” are on the same playing field as my fifteen-year-old brother. Actually, that’s insulting. My little brothers, while they are immature as shit, THEY are men. Okay… not totally… but in the sense that they were taught respect. My parents didn’t abide by or enforce heavy gender norms (which was pretty rare in the 90s, so that was rad of them), so we shared Barbies AND Hot Wheels. I loved doing my brothers makeup (and they are SAINTS for letting me) but I also loved watching Monster Trucks with them. Alec, the older of the two, fucking loved playing with Polly Pockets. And in return... he let me come with him to Boy Scouts because he knew I despised hanging out with the girls. Uh… also… girl scouts literally fucking sell cookies. And I just googled where that money even goes to? I’m still unsure. Okay-anyway. Despite my brother being a total shithead, that sensitive little boy will always be there. And the ladies LOVE him for that! THE POINT: it isn’t a nicely trimmed beard and some bulging muscles that make you a man. It all boils down to just being a decent fucking human being.
I think I’m going to use my dating life as writing material. Each date is a new entry. A new topic. A new story. Every story is more raw and gritty, honest, humiliating, and comical than the next. (I’m going to talk about other things… but the point is—if Stanley Kubrick rose from his grave and decided he wanted to begin directing tragic love stories, my life could be his sole source of inspiration. But because of the seven different plot twists that follow each dating encounter, we might need M. Night Shyamalan to assist as well.