Subtitle: But I didn’t.
I scare sex away. No, not kidding. I literally look it in the eye and scream, “Boo!” If I do it enough times, it shies away meekly. Maybe, I don’t scare it away; maybe, just maybe, I annoy it away.
See, I have a terrible track record with men. I’m not one of those girls that gets the guy: I’m the girl who will hold onto him very briefly, until he finds someone else, and stores me in the friend zone. I’m the friend that all girlfriends hate, but they really have no reason to, because I am, clearly, not a threat.
Actually, believe it or not, there’s a lot of working theories on why this happens to me. Some girls think I should be meaner to men, and that way they have something to chase. Other girls think I should be nicer to men, and that way there is no chase and just sex. I disagree. I don’t think the problem stems from there: the root of my problem might be the men I choose. There’s more to it: the root of my problem is the fact that I’m subtly terrified of commitment, and mask that fear with my quiet intensity to drive men away, or at least that’s what I tell myself to feel like I have a shot at not being so lame… Let’s be real, I have the worst taste in men.
Look, I’m not sure why whatever it is I do isn’t working, but I’m giving off a vibe: my singing teacher asked me to prepare “On My Own” from Les Miserables. Dude, I so totally get Eponine, dying unnecessarily for a love that never even existed. My life might not be as dramatic as the inner workings of Victor Hugo (Marius just stepping over her dead body, not giving a fuck), nor am I as cunt-y as the character is in the book, but still I’ve taken one too many metaphorical bullets. JK, I didn’t read the book. I did see the play though, okay fine, the movie, the one in which you just want to get with Hugh Jackman the whole time. Anyways, my bullets are real, brah.
I once talked on the phone with the guy I liked, for HOURS, to absolutely no end, did not make any progress there. Or, what about the time I thought I had gotten flowers from my crush, but they were really for my stepsister? I still kept the flowers though, bitch didn’t deserve nothing. I put up with that flabby-dicked asshole for way too long… And, this is probably one of the major plot themes in the tedious story of my life.
I guess, in a way, you could compare my love life to the movie Australia. My story always seems like it’s about to get its happy ending, but it’s really just a fake out that leads to more tiresome bullshit, until I’m lying alone in bed writing these posts. Keyword: alone.
Obviously, I have little to no endurance for these type of things. Dating is like a fucking marathon. You’re doing fine five kilometers in, thinking you’re all that, having the guy ask you for your phone number. But, halfway through, you’re wondering if all the bullshit is actually worth crossing the finish line. Is any orgasm worth the sweaty, physical challenge that is understanding the closed-lipped male psyche? Perhaps you’d be better off just buying a vibrator and singing your own praises to its tune. (More on complementing yourself out loud during masturbation later: “Oh wow, baby, you have such a great ass.” “Thanks, but you’ve never seen me from behind.” “Just trust me on this.” “Alrighty…”).
I can’t help but laugh internally whenever I remember the teachings of my high school: HAVE AS LITTLE SEX AS POSSIBLE. IT’LL GET YOU POINTS, OR COINS, OR PRIZES, OR EXTRA LIVES, OR SOMETHING. Apparently, you get a low-key level-up every time you resist your unseemly urges, but you can also get a full-blown physical upgrade, liposuction included, if you remain a virgin until you die. So, basically, you can look like Angelina Jolie but only in heaven. Anyways, I laugh because during the classes I used to call “Endless Cunt-y Monologue 101”, we were often recited the benefits of depriving ourselves from carnal pleasures until we were old enough to see menopause in our line of sight. Funny thing is, at this point, I don’t even have to try.
Unfortunately, this has gone on for the better part of my conscious youth. The cycle is clear: I get sick of men (or more like they get sick of me), decide to date women, fail miserably upon realizing that I don’t know how to pick up women, and decide to torture someone else with my affection.