The problem with this isn’t John Waters said in Pink There’s a good reason Fortunately, though, this My tastes are very particular, The sad thing is, I’m Point being, I can’t This isn’t to say that
just that people disgust me, but, more importantly, I’ve got the sneaking
(okay outright) feeling that I gross others out as well. And over the years,
this feeling has warped me into an introverted girl. Don’t get me wrong–given
the choice I’d be a crack-smoking whore who screwed men penniless and never
work a day in my life. But as things stand, I’ve imposed on myself a strict
regiment of shyness and modesty. Although maybe modest isn’t the exact
word to describe me. Asshole is probably a more accurate description.
Flamingos, There are two kinds of people in this world, my kind of people
and assholes. In my case, my kind of people are assholes. This debunks
the theory that ugly girls overcompensate with sparkling personalities. I for
one am mean, shy, paranoid and acutely antisocial. Actually, I think my main
problem is that I require too much "me-time," or as my roommate puts
it, "Choi-time," which, when I think about it, turns out to be "all
the time." My work is customer-service related, so this leaves me satiated
socially. Naturally, I want to be alone when I get home. My roommates will knock
on the door and I’ll pretend I’m not there, even though they can see
the shadows of my feet under the door. Eventually, they go away and I don’t
come out until morning when I have to go to work again. So, it’s not just
that I don’t like strangers, because I dislike my friends and family as
why I hate interacting with people: I’m socially inept. When people talk
to me, I’m so full of nervous giggles that they walk away thinking I’m
handicapped. I fall apart at fart jokes and become giddy when attractive men
talk to me. And whenever I’m nervous, which is always, my voice gets so
high-pitched that only sorority girls can hear me. All things considered, I
really don’t blame people for not liking me.
isn’t a cry for validation. In fact, you’d be startled if you knew
the heights of unwarranted pride I’ve reached. I walk around my New Jersey
campus quietly revolted by college students. I’m grossed out by skaters,
intellectuals, alternadudes and–God forbid–ravers. Personally, my
dream man is a fry-cook at Houlihan’s. And right now he’s nursing
a baby bottle of beer and watching reruns of Friends. By himself. And
he just released a symphony of farts. Now he’s grinning in his sleep and
baring teeth that look like piano keys.
you see. My picture of happiness is either a lifetime with this dozing gentleman,
or as the proud overseer of a sprawling dude ranch somewhere in Arizona. The
ranch would be peopled by trolls and fry-cooks. But I’d leave it all behind
to be a mail-order bride to a rich oil miner from Texas. Or any dude I could
antagonize with a needy, loving undercurrent–anyone who would play Mr.
Belvedere to my Wesley.
not entirely kidding. In fact, I’m not kidding at all. I truly find myself
drawn to goofy men more so than ironic people–young urbanites terrify me.
I prefer the company of men who refuse to touch a book unless it has a treasure
hunt in it. And if I were a man, I’d feel the same way. I’d be falling
in love with frizzle-headed Jersey girls and hiphop divas like Lil’ Kim.
And Bette Midler and Fran Drescher would be–are–my goddess muses.
take people seriously when they’re trying to be cute. What’s worse
is when they do it on paper. My system recoils at sex columns and I simply can’t
bring myself to write one with a straight face. The thought of it riddles me
with self-consciousness, and makes me hate being a woman and the thought of
copulating with whichever dipshits are finding that sort of thing hot. Reading
sex columns makes me want to shriek and run and hide from civilization. But
this may just be because, once again, I’m an overly critical asshole.
I’m a totally horrible person (although I am). In fact, I can’t help
but like the majority of people once I get to know them (not really). But I
do think the thought of trying to be sexy on paper is silly. My life is too
dull for me to pretend I’m a dangerous whore who wants to rub nasties with
random readers. Truth is, I probably don’t. And not even so much because
people are gross, but because I myself am an insurmountably volatile and nervous
The problem with this isn’t
John Waters said in Pink
There’s a good reason
Fortunately, though, this
My tastes are very particular,
The sad thing is, I’m
Point being, I can’t
This isn’t to say that