I know I said I would call. You all but made me promise that I would. How could I say no? And it really isn’t work at all to pick up the phone and dial. I could do it while I walk home, or while I clean the dishes, or whenever. It is not a time thing. Anyone that says they don’t have time to call is either too poor to have a cell phone or completely full of shit. I just don’t want to talk to you. Sorry. I know how these things work. If I call, then invariably you will call me some other night, and I really do not want to hear about how your boss is a bitch, or how smart your cat is, or whatever else you think I would remotely care about.
And next time we run into each other, if you ask, I’ll say that it’s not you, that it’s me. This will be a lie. It is you. I just don’t want confrontation. I would rather things regress to awkwardness, than have to deal with them head on. Call me coward. Call me a caitiff. Call me a lying son-of-a-bitch. Just don’t call me. Please.
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.
Posted in Interpesonal Quirks, Relationships
Tagged Dan Brown, dating, Harald Bloom, John Rawls, love, MENSA, overwrought statements, Relationships, Roomba, should but don't, shouldbutdont, The Notebook, trophy wife, Virginia Wolfe, women