“Don’t cry over spilt man.” On the verge of my 24th birthday I realized that crying over split milk is one thing, but crying over spilt man is rather, well, monotonous. Forgive my melodrama, or even my attempt at meaningful poetic ramble, but I’m sure we could easily cover the entire surface of the earth with the tears that women have cried over men. Now, could that be said for the amount of milk that’s been spilled over time? In my current cynical state, I would reply with a “doubtful”.
I remember the 6th grade when the extent of my male-female relationships was looking outside Mrs. Hall’s 6th grade classroom’s window at Garth playing basketball when he shouldn’t have been. God, what a rebel. That boy, in all his 8th grade glory, was the greatest thing to have happened to me. Did we date? God, no, he was beyond my awkward reach, but I watched him play basketball, and thought to myself, “wow, if this is how good ‘liking’ feels now, I can’t wait for future ‘likes’ to come my way”. Now I know my 6th grade self should’ve probably captured those feelings in a time capsule of emotions because it was all downhill from that moment on. There is a certain patheticness to having peaked at 11 years old. If I had known back then what I know now, I would’ve run up to Garth on the basketball court and asked him to marry me. It would’ve been the one and only time I would get close to having a man propose to me… while I was proposing to him.
I’m coming too close to feeling what I’ve always promised myself I would never feel, hopelessness. Is there nothing but shit out there in the Y chromosomed world? I hope not, but in that “hope” I’m also feeling hopelessness which means I’ve obliterated any anticipation of a “one day” and “some time” where I would feel some modicum of adult feelings which would be reciprocated by another adult. Now that is a long sentence to get across one simple point…men blow! The crappyness that is the male has led me to kill any residual good feelings I have for that sex and now I must sit at my local Starbuck’s woeing and moaning about “WHY?” and “HOW?” this could’ve happened to me. Being miserable and single was one of the first trends to have entered my life and it has never left. I’ve washed that down with chocolate cake, pizza and every hamburger that McDonald’s has ever put out into the consumer world. I hate men and my ass hates me.
So me and my fat ass are feeling rather like we’ve paid our dues (and believe me that treadmill time looming over my head says enough) and now we’re looking to be cashed into the good times. Fuck you, man, you owe me, and I’m coming to collect because I’m no sucker. Okay, maybe I have been a sucker, but not any longer. I found my Carly Simon tapes, and Janet Jackson CD’s and I bet you think this piece is about you, because you’re so vain and a very nasty boy! God, Janet and Carly know me and my soul.
I also remember a time when listening to the predictably overly sentimental tunes of a man’s voice telling me “he’ll love me forever” and that “I’m his soul mate” would make me curl up in a ball of optimism. Now I hate Brian McKnight, and Boyz 2 Men, and I would burn their CD’s if I wasn't still a fan of Motown Philly (which is not about love, or making love, or doing other stuff with regards to love, but about doing the running man to the beats of the 90s). An angry woman song…that’s what I need. I’ll be listening to a little “Love is a battlefield” courtesy of the lovely and angry Pat Benatar. The 80s were good for at least one thing (80s…one, men…zero).
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