I'm An Asshole

The problem with this isn't 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.

John Waters said in Pink 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 well.

There's a good reason 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.

Fortunately, though, this 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.

My tastes are very particular, 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.

The sad thing is, I'm 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.

Point being, I can't 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.

This isn't to say that 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 wreck.