Hell Hath No Fury Like a Bitter Blonde
I'm thinking of becoming a blonde again. Now, I know what you're thinking...okay, I actually have no idea what you're thinking. But I'll go ahead with my rationale anyway: after months of study, I have determined that blondes do have more fun (or, at the very least, that I had more fun as a blonde). Additionally, many more men hit on me when I was a blonde, and given the current circumstances it seems I may once again be in a position to need to meet men. Put more succinctly, if I'm going to become a bar floozy, I might as well floozy it up.
This is all very dangerous, of course. The temptation exists to punish Men in General for the sins of Men in Specific, and there's nothing worse than a bitter blonde in stilettos. It's not that I hate men. In fact, I love men. I just hate that I love men and that I still believe, despite all evidence to the contrary, that I'll meet an intelligent, funny, thoughtful man who will (and here's the kicker) actually treat me with love and respect instead of taking me for granted. Is that so much to ask? Apparently, yes.
Again with the bitterness. I apologize. If it helps to make this any more understandable, my parents' divorce was finalized on Wednesday, and it's throwing a serious wet blanket on my illusions of love. That, and the fact that Robbie and Jill broke up. This is, perhaps, more devastating than my parents' divorce, if only because it makes a lot less sense. Jill, if you're reading this (and I doubt you are): What the FUCK are you thinking? Robbie, if you're reading this (and you might be), ask Jill what the FUCK she's thinking. Jesus, guys, get it together. This is totally unacceptable.
In a totally transparent attempt to distract myself (and, as I told Dusty, to reinforce my shaky moral ground with the knowledge that I'm a future practitioner of The Right Thing), I've spent a lot of time poking around the literature on the Partners in Health website (www.pih.org). Suffice to say that I feel really bad moping about boys when there are people with HIV and multiple-drug resistant tuberculosis, so I comfort myself by thinking about how, in a few short years, I'll be on the front lines fighting against things like maternal mortality, and won't have time to worry about Men in Specific. So there.
That's all the vitriol I can spare for now. Tonight, besides being the Worst Night of the Year (Kirkland's annual Incest Fest), is a night for drinking. Steph, Ansel, Robbie, and I were going to go ice skating on the Frog Pond, but given the weather, we're just going to drink ourselves Irish at a bar downtown. Wish me luck.
This is all very dangerous, of course. The temptation exists to punish Men in General for the sins of Men in Specific, and there's nothing worse than a bitter blonde in stilettos. It's not that I hate men. In fact, I love men. I just hate that I love men and that I still believe, despite all evidence to the contrary, that I'll meet an intelligent, funny, thoughtful man who will (and here's the kicker) actually treat me with love and respect instead of taking me for granted. Is that so much to ask? Apparently, yes.
Again with the bitterness. I apologize. If it helps to make this any more understandable, my parents' divorce was finalized on Wednesday, and it's throwing a serious wet blanket on my illusions of love. That, and the fact that Robbie and Jill broke up. This is, perhaps, more devastating than my parents' divorce, if only because it makes a lot less sense. Jill, if you're reading this (and I doubt you are): What the FUCK are you thinking? Robbie, if you're reading this (and you might be), ask Jill what the FUCK she's thinking. Jesus, guys, get it together. This is totally unacceptable.
In a totally transparent attempt to distract myself (and, as I told Dusty, to reinforce my shaky moral ground with the knowledge that I'm a future practitioner of The Right Thing), I've spent a lot of time poking around the literature on the Partners in Health website (www.pih.org). Suffice to say that I feel really bad moping about boys when there are people with HIV and multiple-drug resistant tuberculosis, so I comfort myself by thinking about how, in a few short years, I'll be on the front lines fighting against things like maternal mortality, and won't have time to worry about Men in Specific. So there.
That's all the vitriol I can spare for now. Tonight, besides being the Worst Night of the Year (Kirkland's annual Incest Fest), is a night for drinking. Steph, Ansel, Robbie, and I were going to go ice skating on the Frog Pond, but given the weather, we're just going to drink ourselves Irish at a bar downtown. Wish me luck.
posted by A at 12:01 PM
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