At Sea... Again. Man Overboard... Again. - 30 (philly)









There is a great deal to be said about the phrase 'sink or swim' in relationships. The brain seems to catch onto the idea fairly quickly, perhaps with a stutter step. The heart, however, sucks in the salt water and wonders why it doesn't taste like a nice single malt.



I don’t hate men. I don’t regret the nut jobs, nor the hedonists, nor the loners, nor the ones who promised so much during the first few months only to shrivel back into the cave they stumbled out of, despairing about the world, brimming so with ennui even a dead fish would roll its eyes. You all have been a bitch now and again, but I know most of you have meant well a good measure of the time—even the emotionally greedy types, even the love-baiters and hope-dashers. I know you guys get confused pretty easily—its all part of the superfun game’o life. That I’m often thrown for a loop when one of you pull one of your magic tricks and turn yourself into a rabbit, a carrot, or a hamster, should come as no surprise, either. That I have this innate desire to date an upright creature, spine intact with opposable thumbs and a New Yorker subscription IS perhaps a surprise… for you, anyway.



You all get us instead and, from what I understand, we’re pretty shitty in our own special way. I’m sure I have my moments. I love being right. I love winning. Winning anything, really. I love being the hot one. I love being the fittest. I love scoring the goals and giving the best papers at conferences and fantasizing about being an evil genius in my spare time. I will have the most inappropriately witty refrain ready after half a Malbec. Or, in all honesty, always—on the assumption I’ve had my two cups of coffee, read the NY times, and it’s afternoon. I don’t do mornings.



We’re all so full of crap most of the time—how are we to sort the crap from the keepers? Do you guys really have any idea what you’re doing? The heart, most certainly, is a freakishly fickle creature… but there must be some HOLY SHIT gene you have that clicks on, at some point, when you really ARE faced with someone you would be ensured IDIOT STATUS FOR ETERNITY if you were to pass up and/or fuck over.



Do you have that gene? How do I activate it? Can I poke a pencil in your eye or something, sneak up behind you and snap a rubber band to your temple—do you all respond better to short snippets of pain, or do I really have to try and talk you all through it again?



You men are weird creatures. And, yes, I know, women have their own set of insecurities and manias. I wish you the best with them. Glad I don’t have to fuck them, too. They suck. You suck. One would think we’d at least be getting better at oral sex along the way or something.



Not really itching to look for any life partners at this point… I think I’m too picky to be much good for anyone at present. Plus, all the artistic men I go for fall in one of two categories: they’re either officially depressed and on loads of Paxil or unofficially depressed and need to be on Paxil. And they don’t play sports, which means they’re half dead, or at least begging for a heart attack.



But, in summation, I think we’re all mutually screwed. I just wish I was better adept at knowing when the proverbial ship was about to go down and to ask—if you don’t mind—please let me off at the last stop. Especially if it’s Barcelona or the Canary Islands.



On a happier note, the Redskins won last week. I've also been told--for real--there is a world outside the Ivy tower. And that somehow, somewhere, people are being... Happy. Sounds like a rumor worth researching--if not fiddling a bit with. Perhaps all is not lost. And I suppose there's always Paxil. :-)



Cheers!