Wednesday, May 7, 2008

love and reality


Love. What kind of bullshit is that anyway? Games. Two people never on the same page. Never on the same level. I love you more. No, I love you more. Never ending. Yet always the same. Bullshit. Some magic spell. A feeling. For a moment. No more. Fairy dust.

I'm not special. I may not always be typical, but I'm not really any different. Really. It's a complicated thing to explain.

Guys think that women are so complex. So difficult. What's the big deal? It's really cut and dried, if you just look at it from the right angle. It's not so complicated. Really.

Ok, so my point is this: the temporary emotional lust, or even the strong initial connection between two poeple is not love. "Love" is just a joke. A cruel trick of reality.

So I'm on a rant. I'm sick of being treated as some "treasure" that every random idiot believes he discovered. I didn't fall from the sky. I wasn't hiding in a cave for 28 years. I wasn't locked up in a convent. I've been here. Living a problematic life. All along.

Guys even have the nerve to talk about me while I'm sitting right next to them. With their guy friends. With their family. On the phone. It doesn't matter. Each thinking he's found some "diamond in the rough". "Oh, I met this great girl. She's so AWESOME." I'm never going to meet your friends. Definitely not your family. Nor will I probably ever talk to you again.

And then there's the talking to me like he's going to "save" me. "I know you've had some troubles. I can see it in your eyes. Into your soul." Puh-lease! I can't even contain an eye roll at that line.

And what does this poor idiot really know about me? NADA. Two minutes and you think you know me?? A few months seeing me at work and you've got me figured out? HA! Good luck with that. You're not even worth wasting my breathe to tell you to fuck off. Each one of you.

Here's the reality: I work in a bar. As a waitress. It's my JOB to charm you. To smile pretty. To bat my eyes. To laugh at your RETARDED jokes. To feign interest in whatever monstorous subject you happen to allow your pea-sized-penis-ruled brain to twist out at a moments notice.

So don't try to make flirtatious eye contact when your girl isn't looking. I'll do it, when she's looking. And it won't mean a damn thing. Don't ask for my number. I'll laugh at your face. Then turn and saunter away. Don't try to brush past me; like making contact with any part of my body is suddenly going to make me fall madly for you in one night. I'm so over that. I'll shove your sorry ass out of my way. And I will smile sweetly as I mockingly appologize.

I'm very good at my job. I play a great game.


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