Last year Savage Kitten broke up with me.
If you've visited this blog before, you know that.
Since then I've come to some rather pithy understandings about myself.
The primary realization being that I don't really like women.
No, this is not a reaction to Savage Kitten, nor by any means a comment about the person I have known for more than two decades.
Not an admission of gaiety, misogyny, or tantrumic bitterness.
It's more a reaction to what is out there and allegedly on the prowl for single men.
I don't like high-heeled shoes. Yes, they do marvelous things to the rump and the line of the leg - especially when the woman in the high-heels is wearing very little else - but watching somebody trying to walk in those things is excruciating. Given what they do to the back, and the unstable dangerous gait that they cause, the only people who should be wearing them are big-ass drag queens on Polk Street.
I don't like shopping. Accompanying a women on the hunt for something "cute" or "darling" to wear - and the attendant dreariness of "just looking" - is pure torture. Savage Kitten never subjected me to that, and I see no reason why anybody else should. Perhaps it's just stultifying boredom, or intense irritation. But more likely it's the mind-numbing elevator music, lack of intelligent conversation, and the fact that both my caffeine content and bloodsugar level will plummet to heretofore unheard-of depths.
Mind if I kill that stupid Philippina with the shrill voice at the next rack?
I don't like purses. The perfect purse is a monotone backpack or a briefcase.
All you need is something for your wallet, your lipstick, pads or tampons, a hair brush, and the cigarettes which your parents don't know you smoke. If the item in which you transport those things has heft or corners so that you can clobber someone, so much the better.
If it says Gucci or Louis Vuitton, you've probably sold your soul to the devil.
I don't like weepy films or artistic meaningful movies. It's a love story, he's sick and dying, she's going blind, they're living in a garret in Paris? Excellent! Show me his agonizing death NOW, don't waste my time with heartfelt epiphanies, and do a nice quick funeral for both of them, shot in sepia. Can we get out of this place that stinks of stale popcorn, please?
I seriously need to hurl.
The English Patient was one of the most unintentionally funny movies of all time.
I do not like Hello Kitty, nor do I understand the appeal of the troll feline and her kind. However, I do find Hello Kitty urinal targets, Hello Kitty vibrators, Hello Kitty chainsaws, Hello Kitty zombie tattoos, and Hello Kitty coffins for the deservedly deceased fans to be quite amusing. Not that I would want any of that crap around the pad.
If I were a gun nut, I would have Hello Kitty targets for shooting practice.
Large targets - for very large caliber projectiles.
So yes, I cannot say that I really like women.
I would be delighted to find someone who was not a woman.
An individual of the female gender, with quiet good taste, an occasional affection for skirts, who used lipstick once in a while, did not expose her cleavage, and did not insist on femmy-poo crap.
Comfortable being herself. Did her own clothes shopping. Wouldn't squeal over puppies or kittens. Not given to long passive-aggressive fits. Calm. Rational. With a sense of humour.
Someone who would appreciate a box of chocolates or a bunch of tulips at unpredictable moments.
Dinner together, followed by a quiet evening.
No weird food hang-ups. No yoga.
Not someone who texts, but someone who reads and writes.
Not a woman, but a real person.
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4 comments:
Seems like I've heard this somewhere before
^ That. And also, this. I don't particularly like men. I think their personally unexamined overwhelming privilege makes it harder for me to get a freaking leg up in this world. I think they talk too much, particularly about lady business, particularly about matters such as abortion and our decisions about sex; getting laid or not -> slut or frigid. Thanks for the choices, boys. I think it's obnoxious when men confuse my whole body with the contents of my pelvis, and then complain when I don't use the brain it's attached to in a way that makes them happy. And for Fuck's Almighty Sake, I wish they would learn to aim into the center of the toilet bowl. Is it that much more skill intensive to point your penis at something and shoot than pointing and aiming and shooting a gun? Really? Can I buy you one of those aiming rings that floats in the bowl? Would that help??? I personally would like a man who won't get stuck in ruts, or if he does, won't pull me down into it with him. I'd like a man who is genuinely comfortable with me making decisions and money and love without his input. I want someone with whom I can argue about relationships, politics, economics, feminism, social theory, whatev, without a pouty, defensive, abusive or dismissive interlude. I want a man who will wipe up the pee he leaves on the floor next to the freaking commode. In other words, I'm looking for the same thing you are - not a man, but a real person. FIN.
Agreed about the film version of THE ENGLISH PATIENT. The novel, however, is nothing short of brilliant.
Good luck. It's very hard to find real people, outside of a sci-fi bookstore.
And even there, you're just as likely to find hipsters.
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