While in the shower this morning I wrote [in my head] a
fucking genius blog. This always happens. I write cripplingly hysterical
material when I’m nowhere near a computer or a device by which I can record my
thoughts. So instead, I present you with this piece of shit.
I can’t say for certain why I began thinking about why I have
so few female friends; perhaps I like the masochistic act of itemizing my
faults. The perfectionist that I am, I will likely alphabetize them also. There
I was though, cataloging reasons why I might not be popular among the ladies.
*clarification: I’m very popular with some ladies,
they just usually have short hair, wear sneakers, have facial piercings and
enjoy being called babe. Or they’ve done time in the penitentiary. *
Self-reflection is a long and arduous process that is not to
be taken lightly; this would be no different. Now, being fully enlightened, I
put away the coffee creamer I had pulled from the fridge when I started this exploration
of psyche. I had come to understand. It’s not that women don’t like me, they
seem to really enjoy me. They enjoy me on more than a ‘I want to make scissors with
you,’ basis. It’s almost unfortunate. I can’t hang with women though – at least
not for very long, and here’s why…
Women are fake as fuck. We all talk about wanting to build
another woman up, but the reality is we only want to build that bitch up so
that she is level with us. God forbid she gets better than us at something.
That’s when shit goes sideways. Maybe not directly. For instance, maybe I’m not
a cunt directly to her face, but I definitely
start talking shit about her to my boyfriend – because that shit is safe. He won’t say anything. He’s
probably not even listening. I’ll be talking to him about my day at work and
*oops* slip some shit in like “and then this thing with Mary is pissing me off
because she always has to make a point of listing her accomplishments when we’re
out at lunch; like she wants to remind me of my place. It’s just annoying. Ya
know what I mean? What do you think I should do? Honey? Honey…are you even
hearing me?”
If you’re a woman and you just read that, and you didn’t nod
your head in the up and down direction - even just a little, you’re fucking delusional. You know you’ve done that shit. Own it. And that’s what
I mean, we lie to ourselves. We lie to ourselves to make ourselves seem more
wholesome and good-natured. Why? We’re not fooling anyone. If you think you
are, you’re scary stupid. Even men, who admit being a bit obtuse when it comes to
intuiting things, will be the first to notice a chick that has “major crazy eye”
or is “batshit crazy.” If these super-sleuths can detect our BS in these
instances, why would we think they’d not see through the thinly veiled ‘Lift a Bitch’
campaign? I don’t even buy the shit I try peddling.
So… I’m honest with you folks here. Do I love my girlfriends?
Of course, I do! Do I want to see them succeed? Ab-so-fucking-lutely! Do I want
to be better than them and have them look to me for comfort and advice? You’re
damn right! Will I try to out-run each one of them if you put me on treadmill
next to them? Yep. Will I bow out of social gatherings where I’m not the
prettiest? No. That’s fucking stupid and I’m not that much of an asshole. I’ll
just limit my time there because my ego is soft and bruises like a ripe pear. I’ll
also go home and tell my boyfriend about the whole thing and how I’m never
doing that again because Mary wouldn’t
shut up about herself. Then I’ll fish for compliments about how pretty he thinks
I am. This is what honesty looks like. Therefore, I spend A LOT of time alone.
So, you see, masterpieces are written in the shower when I
can’t do anything about it. What’s left is this shit. I’d apologize, but then I’m
lying again, and I can only handle so much disappointment in one day. We’ll
start fresh tomorrow.
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