I've never passed a shoe sale marked more than 50% off, and I've never met a mixture of chocolate and mint that I didn't like. Left ten minutes without lip balm I begin complain. Bitterly. I want to taste the local cuisine in every locale, and I don't mind dragging my travel companions off their sore heels to find it. I want, then, to be coached through recreating those exotic samplings and I want to take it out on my kitchen when I fail as a basic chef. Fuck you, beignets. But these are surface fixations. If I'm honest...
"Here I go, here I go, here I go again. Girls, what's my weakness?"
Men.
Coming from a proud line of feminists, lesbians, single mothers, and lonely uggos, I realize what a disgrace I have become. But if women are the fair sex that makes menfolk the brutes, and I have a soft spot the size of Marilyn Monroe's vaginal canal for big dumb beasts (see also: any posts on dogs). Don't worry, this isn't an all-inclusive offer on penis-holders. Just like bridges in Minneapolis, I'm weak in certain spots.
I have been late for work because I ride the train purposely past my stop, eye-stalking businessmen as they fidget up and down the aisles. It would be against this woman's personal religion to miss the spectacle of a handsome brute as he either puts on or takes off a good tie, obviously too safari-souled to wear such a (beautiful, designer, Armani?) noose minutes past the prescribed duration. I walk blocks out of my way to follow a delicious cologne and a broad back across Manhattan in high commuter traffic.
Because I lie often and without allegiance, helpless honesty strips me down to the marrow. Country boys only have to confide that they "just can't lie" to earn my unflagging devotion, my rabid protection, my sudden and inexplicable desire to teach them the ways of dishonesty (therefore destroying what is it I love about them). Even dishonesty in men seems so...remedial class. Women invented lying about witchcraft, lying about pregnancy, even lying about orgasms. Men lie to get women into bed, and if those women are over the age of 14, they can see it coming about four drinks away. But how cute is it? No, I know; I'm sick.
If there's a bespectacled fellow with a beard and a book in a four-mile vicinity, you will soon find me at the nearest armchair playing mathematician with mirror angles and half-slash lashes. An accent cultured in the United Kingdom turns my own New Yorker snort into a purr. And don't even get me started on the sort of man who's had to order refills for his passport pages.
Listen, I can't bring myself to date men with brown eyes. It's a (bad) daddy thing. But I have a deep weakness for imp-green eyes, for hazels that fade gray-green at the edges, for blue that sunburst around grass green like summer in a black hole. This fixation does not, I insist, stem from four years of chasing a jungle-eyed ghost through the fog, but rather because green eyes are inarguably (and cruelly) the prettiest when they cry.
Being both a pacifist and a laze, it surprises me just as deeply as it does you that my pelvis tugs toward soldiers and sportsmen; that I'll argue all night over the ethics of warfare in hopes that some battlefield could be recreated in bedrooms further down the road. You can keep your models and musicians, but if there's another guerrilla war, send me in. I can spot a man in camo print two hundred clicks off.
Now you know my kryptonite. Luckily the internet journaling world is only 5% men or else I might have been distracted from writing this very entry. Miss you.
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