I should like dumb girls—most of my friends do—but I don’t. The bleached-blond ditz, with a perfect tan, that likes to home-make, and thought I would be impressed that she finished a Dan Brown book—He’s, like, so intellectual, you know?—does nothing for me; the whole fantasy of dating one seeming more or less equivalent to shacking up with a combo whore/live-in maid. And although I acknowledge the benefits of this arrangement, it all seems like a hollow artifice, akin to purchasing a Roomba with tits.
I’m not looking for a trophy-girl or even someone to take care of me. I’m looking for someone that I can love with all my soul; someone whose best qualities are not simply her ability to reflect nicely on me and mirror back some sham façade that I have cultivated. No, I’m in it for the enigmatic man-eater whose notions of love are drawn from Virginia Wolfe and not The Notebook.
I know the notion of some bluestocking MENSA broad is supposed to terrify me; her penetrating questions and donnish interests a tableau of all that is dull and ruinous for men. Yet somehow I find myself enamored with any girl that can handle partial derivatives or translate ancient Greek; my dream date involving a discussion of Rawls’ vale of ignorance, an acceptance of the Bloomian critique of poetry and joke about regressions to the mean.
This cannot possibly be evolutionary; she will ruin me. Oh well.