Thursday, January 15, 2009

In Which I Will Always Love Her More than Anyone and This Is Why

[So, she sent this to me with a note that was like, "I know I am not to e-mail him any more but admit it THIS IS GOOD," and I was like, "no! You should not e-mail it to him! You should e-mail it to the world! For it is vulnerable and true and funny and assy/cynical/mean in ways that I think things about bad dates should always be, and also contains jokes about girls who study dance at Tisch, which are always welcome in my own life!" And she was like, "if only there were some forum in which to make it public without my own personal name attached." And I was like, "hmmmmmmmm..."]

[UPDATE: Also I made some tiny changes because I thought they didn't reflect her intent, so I should take accountability for that and let you know that it's happened. Which means basically that any critique of the piece as made public here should be aimed at me, and is welcome and I'll provide a space for it.]

The Women I've Slept With

You have steered me down some utterly unserious road of bisexuality that I am certain I don't belong on. I don't really fancy the idea of a woman sexually, nor would I ever date a woman. But with their gigantic scarves and peacoats in this New York City winter, I see them everywhere: women you'd rather be with. I am nothing short of a tornado, you said to your friend about me once. Of course you don't know that I know you said this, but if the lesson we learned with each other had a title, it would undoubtedly be, "Things Get Found Out".

And with me like a tornado, spilling out on every corner I stop at to gather my thoughts and the contents of my purse that have fallen, I see a beautiful woman. I stare hard at the pores on her face, as hard as I can without seeming as creepy as I probably am. She appears to be wearing no makeup at all and yet looks like a Maybelline model. Is this a cruel joke? I'm not laughing. Maybe she's just better at makeup than I am. And of course I praise the concept of looking flawless naturally, but I feel weak and resentful that I can't pull it off and I'm angry with all of these models prancing around Union Square, totally unaffected by the cold. What the fuck is that about? Even the squirrel that sat next to me earlier on the bench wasn't so arrogant as to pretend to be warm.

A blond beauty. A red-headed beauty. A brunette beauty. They must all be NYU students, what with their fully-rested skin. I bet they complain over drinks to their friends about how busy and difficult their lives are. Well, they can just wait. Wait 'til they're at my ripe age of 24 and suddenly they'll be wondering how such morose despair could have stricken them before they've reached even a quarter of a century in life. And do these girls eat nothing? I would consider myself thin. Not average, but thin. And yet these girls here make me feel as though the whole 3 eggs and goat cheese/mushroom sandwich I had today were too much.

You can take these girls. I hope you find clever ways to approach them on the street. I imagine you intentionally bumping into the girl with the French braid. You know, the 19 year old who is, I guarantee, studying dance at Tisch. You'll bump into her and make it seem like an accident and turn that into a conversation about the stars and 2012, I guarantee it. What makes me sick is that the next month or two of this girl's life, lets call her Ally, will be plagued by you. It's only Ally's first or second year of school, after all. She will email her sister and drop tons of undeserving adjectives around your name and you will impress her with the same nonsense you impress every girl with. Home cooked meals will seem like such grandeur to Ally since there is no stove in her dorm. Your massages will be warmly welcomed because she has only had coked up post-Lit sex thus far in New York, probably in a bathroom.

And I suppose this is precisely how you go about finding them. (Girls like me.) Right? You know which section of the pond to hang your bait in. The dark section where the fish constantly get caught and thrown back. No one wants these girls but you, and all you want is to perform an exaggerated extended version of cruelty unto them which has already been performed by said coked up bathroom fucking hipsters. And in light of your absence, which has not even been moderately light, I now see every woman on the street as a prospect for you. A woman with whom you'll intentionally lock eyes just so that you can notice what she is reading just so that you can post it tomorrow morning in your post on the Missed Connections section of Craigslist and wait for a response that you'll invariably deem fateful should it ever come.

And while this may all seem so intensely passionate and fair in a city this large to you, it seems mercilessly unfair to me and that is not only because I am the victim of your jokelove here. It is because it is unfair. Serial monogamy isn't too far off from serial killing, and no, I'm not being dramatic. I never invested enough in you to show real drama. What difference should it make if we're talking about lovers or we're talking about victims? Either way you are picking out people one after another, to, in time, break. It's fucked up and I want to tell the blond across the subway car sitting with the Whole Foods grocery bags about you. I want to nudge her and say, "Ya know, just in case he ever hits on you, you should know, he uses that vegetarian line with everyone."

I suppose if I employed tactics like these, about half of the girls I approached would think I was crazy and not listen to me and I suppose that the other half would probably think I was crazy and still listen to me because they too have met guys like you. And really, they're everywhere. Who doesn't want everyone? You aren't special. This is about having an inkling of a spine, a taste for tact.

I would guess that the blond with the Whole Foods bags would tell me that she's an ex of yours already. Or currently dating you. Either way, I will suddenly look at her as a person I have had sex with and I find that grossly disturbing. I should be able to pick my own sex partners, but with you and your persuasive condomlessness (and yes, I know I am the only one to blame here. I have been down this path before twice and the feeling of sickening remorse and vaginal invasion seems to only worsen with time) I have been forced to not have that choice. All of NYC is an orgy to you and forgive me, but that makes me want to puke every memory of you out into this coffeeshop toilet.

I've heard you talk about your exes before, in the most patronizing light, which a new girlfriend can only write off as "understanding" because she is hanging at the hand of hope.

"She called me unstable once, but she wasn't thinking clearly."
"She was an alcoholic and took her emotions out on me."
"She was insecure and afraid to be alone."
"She was only actually mad because her ego was bruised."

And just for one second, I wish you'd evaluate the incredible sums of both time and money you would save yourself if you looked to discover the cement common denominator here between yourself and all of these 'emotionally unstable' women. The common denominator is you. So either every girl you date is fucking nuts or you are. I will play this one objectively in regards to myself. I am possibly fucking nuts. To think of the time I've wasted already writing this about you when you are, invariably, chatting with an art student on Facebook and making her laugh. It's good you make girls laugh in the beginning because if there is any sort of karma exchange program in the universe, at least we might be able to balance your jokes out with your ruthless heart wrenching on some celestial scale.

But I'm not sold on being a part of the big picture, so for now, fuck you. Go fuck every girl I've seen in the last 3 hours with flowing locks and gleaming eyes. I hope one of them kills you one day.


  1. This was amazing.

    I have added you to my blogroll btw, you are amazing.

  2. I will let the person who wrote this particular post know this, for I agree!

    Oh, and I also like your blog. Magical how these things happen, right?

  3. I think she must have been writing about my ex.