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The Dick Gods
May. 9th, 2005 11:29 am... and it came to pass, that Matty did decree that I should post something/anything on his birthday. "A real post, not just a couple of lines, you dick." And lo! It became so.
Trouble is, it bears no resemblance to what I set about to write. I was gonna tell y'all 'tard stories.
Lately, though, I've been thinking about a personal website I stumbled across, which admonished something like, "You think that just because you're handsome, and have the perfect beard, and have washboard abs and a gym-toned body, that it gives you the right to mistreat people? Well, think again!"
And I thought about it. And I thought again. And I came to the same conclusion.
Dude, it does. It totally does.
Pretty men have every right to mistreat the rest of us. They have that right, because we give it to them. They have that right, because for every frumpily-dressed, non-descript, pathetic shlub that they mistreat, use, and then kick to the curb, there are five more equally pathetic shlubs waiting in line to be treated the same way. Pretty men have an endless supply of us to mistreat. That's what gives them the right.
We're like that screaming, hysterical, twelve-year-old girl who knows— just fucking knows— that if she can only get close enough to them, that the New Kids On The Block will spy her in the crowd, and see through the mousy hair, braces, and skin eruptions, and see her true Inner Beauty, and then the pure light of their combined love will erupt out of them powerfully enough to lift her out of the crowd, and they'll all fly together to some faraway land where they will see only her face, and hear only her notebook poetry, and they'll be moved forever to write songs about her, and maybe let her play tambourine.
We're like her, because when we throw ourselves at pretty, ruthless men, we throw ourselves in the face of rationality. These guys always come with horrible reputations, a litany of abuses, and still we line up. We know how badly they've fucked our friends over, and yet somehow, somehow we believe that it will be different for us, because, well, we're special, and Mr. Pretty Ruthless Man will recognize that, and take us in, and show us off to his Pretty, Ruthless Friends, and we'll be accepted because of our glaringly obvious specialness, and eventually the friendship will spring into love when he realizes that he cannot live without us, or at the very least it will remain friendship with more and more frequent sex on the side, because, yeah, special, and all of this will happen in logical progression if we can just get close enough goddamn it; just a fucking introduction.
There is a slight chance that I am projecting at this point.
The problem with this belief is that we have forgotten something important. Namely, our specialness is lost on these guys. All that work we've done over the years to make ourselves worthwhile, decent, magical? Totally lost on them. They don't appreciate it. They don't even understand it, because they never needed it themselves. They're pretty. It did the work for them. As a result, Pretty Ruthless Men are usually doomed to their own company, with a small, droning nimbus of pathetic shlubs who are so pathetic in their shlubbiness that it never occurs to them to grow a spine and move on.
I'm shallow. This shit makes me happy.
But in the meantime— do they have the right to mistreat us? Hell, yes. As long as we willingly sacrifice our dignity to the Dick Gods, they'll continue to have that right.
Trouble is, it bears no resemblance to what I set about to write. I was gonna tell y'all 'tard stories.
Lately, though, I've been thinking about a personal website I stumbled across, which admonished something like, "You think that just because you're handsome, and have the perfect beard, and have washboard abs and a gym-toned body, that it gives you the right to mistreat people? Well, think again!"
And I thought about it. And I thought again. And I came to the same conclusion.
Dude, it does. It totally does.
Pretty men have every right to mistreat the rest of us. They have that right, because we give it to them. They have that right, because for every frumpily-dressed, non-descript, pathetic shlub that they mistreat, use, and then kick to the curb, there are five more equally pathetic shlubs waiting in line to be treated the same way. Pretty men have an endless supply of us to mistreat. That's what gives them the right.
We're like that screaming, hysterical, twelve-year-old girl who knows— just fucking knows— that if she can only get close enough to them, that the New Kids On The Block will spy her in the crowd, and see through the mousy hair, braces, and skin eruptions, and see her true Inner Beauty, and then the pure light of their combined love will erupt out of them powerfully enough to lift her out of the crowd, and they'll all fly together to some faraway land where they will see only her face, and hear only her notebook poetry, and they'll be moved forever to write songs about her, and maybe let her play tambourine.
We're like her, because when we throw ourselves at pretty, ruthless men, we throw ourselves in the face of rationality. These guys always come with horrible reputations, a litany of abuses, and still we line up. We know how badly they've fucked our friends over, and yet somehow, somehow we believe that it will be different for us, because, well, we're special, and Mr. Pretty Ruthless Man will recognize that, and take us in, and show us off to his Pretty, Ruthless Friends, and we'll be accepted because of our glaringly obvious specialness, and eventually the friendship will spring into love when he realizes that he cannot live without us, or at the very least it will remain friendship with more and more frequent sex on the side, because, yeah, special, and all of this will happen in logical progression if we can just get close enough goddamn it; just a fucking introduction.
There is a slight chance that I am projecting at this point.
The problem with this belief is that we have forgotten something important. Namely, our specialness is lost on these guys. All that work we've done over the years to make ourselves worthwhile, decent, magical? Totally lost on them. They don't appreciate it. They don't even understand it, because they never needed it themselves. They're pretty. It did the work for them. As a result, Pretty Ruthless Men are usually doomed to their own company, with a small, droning nimbus of pathetic shlubs who are so pathetic in their shlubbiness that it never occurs to them to grow a spine and move on.
I'm shallow. This shit makes me happy.
But in the meantime— do they have the right to mistreat us? Hell, yes. As long as we willingly sacrifice our dignity to the Dick Gods, they'll continue to have that right.
