I’m in one of those “moods” that women get to pretend is PMS. Not that I’m jealous of ACTUAL PMS.
I’m sitting in the university library, just after a 3 hour lecture on Renaissance Drama. I’m not going home because it’s pouring rain, so I set up in the library foyer. I have another class in three hours time anyway, in Victorian Literature.
I keep thinking, “What’s the point of all this work I’m doing? Why can’t I just find a decent job and move out of my parents’ house? Why does the government only hire mindless assholes?” But I’m the one with no value. No economic value, anyway.
I suppose I could just level with you all and admit that this “mood” probably started last night, just before I went to sleep.
I was chatting with Wolverine online, ranting about women, specifically my weariness of trying to date them – really it’s the same as with looking for work. It’s too much work, with no payoff. Women on the site can get hundreds of messages with no effort, and in fact, no picture. So I didn’t really feel like she understood. Anyway, I think I may have offended her, because she said, I probably shouldn’t say that to women I’m interested in. So I told her that I normally don’t, but in her case, I saw no reason to hide. She either already liked me or she didn’t. So, in short, she said “not that way” and I said “good to know” and then neither of us said anything. So it goes.
It struck me as odd, though, because all the evidence suggested otherwise, but then again, maybe I was only seeing what I choose to see. So it goes. Maybe I should stop stealing Vonnegut’s mantra. Bah, he’s dead, he doesn’t need it.
I keep trying to tell myself “who cares? You can’t have been serious anyway.” There are so many other signs against too. All those scars, the creepy ex-boyfriend, her fickle treatment of my own friend. She thinks circumcision is a good idea. She has no female friends. She barely has ANY friends. Just suitors. And anyone can tell you that male suitors are cheaper by the dozen. I keep trying to tell myself, “Malice Blackheart, you’re too good for her.” But still, I’m bothered.
I feel like I’m trapped as one of those guys who just gets ignored, and nobody has the heart to tell him he should just give up and accept that you’re out of the gene pool. I feel like I was never really in it to being with. They say, “Don’t worry; you’ll find love. You just have to stop looking.” Right. I stop looking, and I stop dating. Then I’m just doing nothing. They say “There are plenty of fish in the sea,” and I say, “Have you seen how many God-damned hooks there are in the sea too? There’s six of the motherfuckers sticking out of Wolverine over here!” They say “you just have to lower your standards.” Right. Look at the women I’m dating now! They’re mostly civil servants, for Christ’s sake! The scum of the earth! If my standards get any lower, I’ll be fucking slugs in my back yard!
Speaking of civil servants, there’s this girl in my renaissance drama class who asked me to be in her performance group. This was yesterday. So this morning, after class, she says to me that she’s going to go “print out all the plays on government money.” That irked me a bit, but I asked “what do you do there?” She said, oh, nothing. It’s the department of Justice, so nobody there does anything.” Right. You’re one of the deadweight people in my father’s department who doesn’t do any work so that he has to do extra.
She’s in another one of my classes too. She’s yet another estrogen-powered wonder in my increasingly over-estrogenated Literary theory class. I swear to God, I feel like I’m about to sprout a pair of ovaries! She’s the sack of sour eggs who sits behind me and talks about how much she hates the other stupid people in our class. At first, I thought it was cute, but now I just find it annoying.
Now all I can think is, “you fat, ugly, self-loving sack of liposuction extract. How dare you profane my classes your presence?” Lazy bitch probably gets paid more than my prof to do nothing. I’m in such a fowl mood today that I’ve decided I hate her and I’d rather work alone.