Shoeless Smoog, the ungirlie zithead pen murderer
I am a pathetic excuse for a female.
come hither - back off
Really. Name me one female stereotype. Any one. Do I like pink? No, it makes my eyes bleed. Do I get turned on by men's asses? No. As a matter of fact, it doesn't even occur to me that I should be looking in that direction. Do I like shopping? Hell no. I despise it. If I need to purchase something, I do a week's worth of advance research to pinpoint the exact location of said something so that, should I be forced to venture into a retail outlet, I can barrel forward to the home of my desired purchase, grab it, tear for the tellers, throw money at them, and leave before ever having to draw a second breath. Wardrobe? I have enough clothes to ensure that a) I don't go outside naked, and b) people who see me daily don't begin to suspect I have only one outfit and never wash it. Ask me how many pairs of shoes I own. Go ahead. Ask. Three. Three pairs. One is a pair of suede loafers that are my lazy ass shoes, for when I don't feel like bending down and tying knots. One is a pair of very sturdy, thick-soled Doc Marten knockoffs / hiking-style boots, which are my standard pair of footwear year-round. Lastly, one is a pair of zip-up ankle-length high heel boots I bought for a job interview and never wore again. At least they served one useful purpose: they reminded me that high heels were invented by men with leg fetishes and a strong sadistic bent. Three pairs of shoes, even with one of those pairs being a pair I've worn only once, are more pairs of shoes than I've had in years. Usually I just have one. After all, why would I need more than that? They protect my feet when I go outdoors and keep them warm, which is exactly what shoes are supposed to do.
That is the most I have ever talked about footwear in my life. This, of course, just confirms my ungirlieness.
I've never understood the obsession that some women have with shoes. It's not as if men give two shits, so it can't be a sexually-based obsession. It's not like the obsession to have boob jobs that so many women indulge, purely for men's sakes. After all, other women, even other women with boob jobs, lose all respect for females with fake knockers. We sit back, point, and scoff, "Fake. Fake. Fake. Definitely fake." Excuse me, but does a man honestly think that breasts grow from a woman's chest without any lead-in, but rather like sudden butte formations from a completely flat plain, buttes topped with rubbery-looking nipples so strained they appear about to pop off into your eyes, blinding you for life? They look buoyant, like they're filled with helium. Lighter than air, defying gravity. Oh look, there goes Lola. Watch out for the power lines, Lola, saline is highly conductive. I suspect men know. They just don't care. The boobie instinct in straight men is so strong that even certain types of overripe produce can trigger a sexual response. Wait. I was talking about shoes, wasn't I?
Then I thought perhaps shoes were seen as status symbols: the more shoes one owns, the higher one's status among society. But that's not it either. You just have to see the look in a woman's eyes, be she rich or poor, as she walks by a high-end shoe store -- that rabid, hungry, needy-shoe look -- to know it's far more basic than that. A woman will buy 5 pairs of the same shoe because it comes in different colours. A woman will buy a pair of shoes half a size too small because they look cute and it's the only pair left, regardless of a guaranteed future full of festering, throbbing blisters. A woman can talk about the pair of shoes she just bought for an entire week. I know. I've been the one who has had to listen to it. That's longer than it takes to swim the English Channel. How can someone think exclusively about a pair of shoes that long? The last time I checked, a pair of shoes consisted of hunks of material, be it cloth, leather, and/or rubber, that you stick on the lowest of lower extremities and that the majority of the population will never bother to look at. Except other rabidly-obsessed shoe fanatics, of course.
I don't do that. Ever. My friend Rae once took me shopping in the hopes that moral support from a shopping-obsessed shoe fanatic would hopefully awaken some deep-seated, lost hormonal reaction that was never activated during puberty. It didn't work. OK, I did spend an inordinate amount of time playing with one of those rectangular cubes of tiny metal sticks that, if you press them into your face, hold the impression of what you look like, and I also fiddled with Michaelangelo fridge magnets with matching magnetic wardrobe, read a wee book entitled Life's Little Destruction Book: 512 boorish, insensitive, and socially obnoxious pointers for leading a simple, self-centered life (Destruction #47 - remind people that their freckles could be cancerous), and played with all kinds of other fascinating and totally pointless doodads in the San Francisco novelty store. But I didn't even slow down at the sight of a shoe store. Rae deemed me irredeemable, a human stain on the face of women's delicate sensibilities everywhere, bought me a double-scoop mocha almond fudge ice cream cone, and drove me home in disgust as I happily licked. I think I heard her say something about "childishness" too, and maybe "geek", but I can't be certain. It was mocha almond fudge, after all.
Here's another girlie thing I don't do: scream when excited. Nope. Not even when I see mice. In fact, I've been known to pick mice up and dump them outside, after which none of my female friends will touch me until I've showered. That's another thing: obsessive showering. What, exactly, is the purpose behind showering twice in one day? It seems to be something about wanting to smell like a chemical, because every bit of natural oil produced by the human body to protect itself, its hair and its skin is stripped clean with what appears to be a barely non-toxic version of paint thinner, then replaced with gobs and gobs of artificial and extremely smelly chemical substitutes that attempt to do the very same job as what was just flushed down the drain but never can. I don't know if it's something of which I should be proud, but I admit that I've occasionally gone a week without showering because I've forgotten, and it hasn't bothered me in the slightest. I didn't receive any comments from others either, but the people at work are scared of me, so that's not necessarily a sign I didn't smell funny.
Spiders. How can you not like a spider? Just look at it!
Is that not the coolest damn thing evolution could come up with? Look at those eyes! And this is a jumping spider too, the kind that can leap 4 or 5 feet from a sitting position in a split second. I'd like to see Ferrari do that.
Now I bet there are women screaming right this second. Aren't you? And those squeals, be they from hearing that their daughter is pregnant or that their boyfriend proposed marriage or that they won a trip to Vegas or that Macy's is having a sale -- those squeals are enough to cause irreparable brain damage. I swear I can still hear the last one, and that was 3 weeks ago. And the squeal is always accompanied by bouncing up and down while flapping one's arms. It looks like great fun. I've never done it.
The one really girlie thing I have, I have to an übergirlie degree. Unfortunately, my one truly girlie feature is the whole menstrual thing. I have no intention of using this stuff. Is it really necessary for me to ovulate? Can we just skip the whole shedding of old uterine cushions to ready for a brand spanking new replacement each month? I can just keep the old one. Really. I don't mind. I believe in recycling. The thing is, I get PMDD -- Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder. That means that not only will I cry when you ask me how my day went, I will pick up an errant ballpoint pen and shove it through your forehead. Then I'll cry. It amazes me the fantabulous strength that just a miniscule droplet of hormone diluted throughout the human body can have on behavior. Of course, I'm amazed after I've finished stapling my boss's head to the desk, eating my way through an entire Godiva store, and crying enough saltwater to replenish the Aral Sea.
Oh, and one cannot forget The Zit. The Zit has 3 preferred locations, so preferred in fact that if you stand close enough to me you can see remnant scars from the previous incarnations of The Zit. The Zit is a monstrous growth that is barely detectable on the surface of my skin, except for a slightly flushed dime-sized pink zone either between my eyes just off of my left eyebrow, the little nook on the right side of my nose, or the left side of my chin about an inch from my lower lip. These are the nation states of Zit. This is Zitland. At certain times of the month, it's even larger than Malta. The majority of The Zit is like the proverbial iceberg: 90% of its mass lies below the surface, festering. Essentially, The Zit feels as if a rabid vole threw itself at my head, climbed up into a nostril, burrowed under the skin, and then began to gnaw towards my skull from a strategic location, vole-end jutting ungracefully out of my face.
I don't necessarily wish I didn't have a period. I just wish someone would beat me upside the head with a cricket bat, knock me unconscious, and wake me up after it was all over.
To any man who's squirming right now -- just replace "menstruation" with "premature ejaculation" in your head and you should be fine. Or replace it with "big boobies". That might work too. Unless you're gay. Then you're fucked.
I have the same problem wondering why people associate Lazyboy chairs with straight, middle-aged men almost exclusively. I don't understand why more guys don't wear saris. Lesbian common threads from which dyke stereotypes spring make a wee bit more sense to me than the girlie ones. Overall, they just seem more comfortable. However, I don't get wearing Birkenstocks in winter, loose flannel in summer, crewcuts as the only available hairstyle one can explore, pants that are belted around one's hips instead of one's waist regardless that the waist is a natural hanger and ensures that no female plumber will suffer from asscrackitis, and a wide variety of other attempts to mask the physical shape of one's body. In other words, deliberate attempts to be ungirlie. I don't get that stuff any more than I get the colour pink. After all, that just means that they've bought into this whole girlie thing just as much as girlie girls, because if they didn't why would they deliberately go out of their way to do just the opposite? I don't get "guy clothes" versus "girl clothes" or "male haircuts" versus "female haircuts". I think it's all a whole lot to learn for no real good reason, and I'm too old to want lessons.
In essence, gender politics confuse me as much as real politics do. Gender politics remind me a great deal of the present California Governor elections. When I'm given the choice between the likes of Gary Coleman, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Mary Carey, or Larry Flynt, I'd rather just have some ice cream and go home.
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