Studying for the GRE.
Call me a pedant.
I'm the book that beat the speed-reader, and I'm the card the dealers won't touch. And it's just not true I'm a man-eater; all the same, we should probably go dutch.
The things you pick up as you go.
Good god, I hate specifically-literate hipsters.
Ohhhh, you only read Kerouac and Hunter S. Thompson with small dalliances into Frost and Ginsberg? You think getting trashed all weekend long on whiskey and PBR with a side of hash is fucking great? You’re so ARTISTIC and in love with your Nikon DSLR and your iPhone 4’s Instagram shots of your Ray Ban sunglasses reflecting the New York skyline from your Brooklyn rooftop where you live off of take-out Chinese whose white containers live in perpetuity under your bed (excuse me, futon,) because you never can be arsed to throw them out, let alone empty your ashtrays? Or maybe you ran away out West, to work in the “snow industry” and get to board all day long and shoot “movies” with your gnar buddies to host “screenings” of later and hold off actually using your Liberal Arts degree because after all, didn’t Steinbeck tell you, “Go West, young man!” (No, actually, it was Horace Greeley who said it in association with the westward expansion and the Manifest Destiny period in American history circa 1850. But that’s history, so therefore, it doesn’t interest you.)
How FUCKING original. Yes, I’m sorry. Your mono-generic reading list obviously trumps every idealistic thought I’ve ever had. I’m sorry for enjoying women’s magazines and hunting for designer labels on discount. You and your “brahs” and “bros” who pretend to only love those terms to make fun of the frat boys who started them while secretly having adopted them for your own terms of endearment who leave cryptically lyric-ridden messages for each other on your Facebook walls OBVIOUSLY are far above a subscription to GQ. How could I EVER understand your deep psychology, you, who touts Christopher McCandless as your personal Jesus, though you’ve only ever SEEN “Into The Wild.” You’re right. Growing up self-dependent in the country really renders me incapable of understanding your and his plight. (You’re from the Connecticut suburb of New York, right?) I’m sorry I write about sex and relationships and gender communication instead of writing nihilistic reviews of deeply terrible indie bands who only tour inside of the boroughs, or witty “avant-garde” fiction novellas based on the events that happened at that music festival you went to. (Do you EVER actually do anything than go to music festivals, fuck horribly dressed hipster chicks who insist they’re “one of the guys” while not wearing a bra to make their tits more obvious, smoke, and then broodily write about it?) This obviously renders me much less qualified to be a thinking, valid, intelligent human being than you are. I’ll go back to querying agents while you watch “The Big Lebowski” in your bathrobe for the 750th time.
Do you want to talk about the economic status of Europe?
How about the need for handlers in the elephant orphanages in Africa?
Did you hear Einstein’s theory of relativity was proven wrong?
Who was Bradley Cooper’s last serious girlfriend?
What’s the next biggest trend in women’s cosmetics, which would be a clever thing to know, if for no other reason than getting to play the stock market and make some wise investments?
How do you feel about Amazon starting bookstores, and how that will affect Barnes & Nobles’ monopolization of the chain bookstore?
You MUST have SOME opinion about what Rick Santorum has been saying about women’s reproductive rights and religion in America.
No? No? No?
When it comes down to it, it is HILARIOUS how easy it is to spot child-adults. I love bohemians. Bohemians live the talk and walk their own walk. They create and inform and expand and laugh and cry and love willy-nilly because they know emotions are really what we have to express in life. I hate hipsters and their cold, clique-y lack-of-personalities.
I am done, OkStupid. No more hipsters. I don’t want you to show me any more hipsters.
I’m staying at my best friend’s house right now while my college roommate Melissa is also in town here so the three of us can catch up and spend time together at the British Invasion classic car show, and her roommate’s clever little black dog, when told he had to stop seeking attention from his owner, and then was invited up onto the couch next to her a minute later, decided to punish her for punishing him, and walked over to the couch I was sitting on, hopped up beside me, leaned in and cuddled up to me, and put his paw on my hand, all while staring intensely at his owner, letting her know he knew EXACTLY what he was doing…trying to make her jealous.
I have NEVER seen someone punked by a dog before. It was INSANE.
I recognized the move from having done it before to guys I’ve dated, MYSELF. I thought only people knew this trick. I lost my shit. The dog is my new best friend.
Random troubles if a shy girl: I REALLY like this one boy in a class of mine. We have a lot in common and he's very laid back and approachable, but I literally find nothing about my physical appearance attractive. My hair always looks funny or my hands too chapped... I can't catch a break for looking "pretty" in a way that might make him think as such. I'm really lost; he's the bee's knees and I feel like a breathing potato :/Anonymous
Dear Shy Girl,
I am SO GLAD you wrote in, Shy Girl. Because I have a secret that I want to share with you, and ONLY you, that you remember every. single. second of every. damn. day when you start thinking about your funny hair or your chapped hands: You, and your intelligence and your interests and your passion, are worth a million of those stereotypical vapid “pretty girls.” And I’m not just saying that because I like you.
I’m going to guess that judging by the fact that you met this boy in class, you’re still in high school or college. (If it’s high school, I am so, so sorry, but most of us survive and one day, you’ll be out of there, too, into a world that is a better place than that living hell.) The problem with both high school and college is that every day, you’re surrounded by “cute” girls who chip away at your self-esteem with their perfect, straight hair and their glowing, perfect skin and their luminous, perfect make-up and their perfect, size-4 jeans. They seem to have it all. But guess what— they don’t. Because behind that perfect hair and skin and jeans and make-up and teeth, THIS is happening: _______________________.
That’s a flat-line, if you didn’t get it, meaning nothing is happening. Because they spend SO MUCH time on being perfect that somehow along the way, they forget to cultivate a personality and passions. All that hair-straightening is EXHAUSTING, you know.
Now, I’m not saying all pretty girls are walking zombies; some of my best friends are gorgeous creatures who can spin me in proverbial circles. But the lesson here is, "pretty" in and of itself isn’t interesting. "Pretty" is BORING. Most men, once they reach a certain age (unfortunately, the verdict is still out on what that particular age is), realize that they can only spend so many hours staring at a flawless fucking girl without getting anything in return. “But I want to talk about my hobbies!” he thinks, or, “I don’t think she’d even LIKE going to that concert!” A perfect 10, if she can’t hold good conversation, and if he’s too embarrassed by her clueless-ness to introduce her to his friends, isn’t going to be kept around long. Human beings do, after all, search for potential life partners in people who excite, challenge, and understand us. Not mannequins.
I am going to come straight-out and say it: I am not the most conventionally attractive person to ever exist, either. Bone structure does not exist in my face; I do not have a jaw to speak of. My hair hasn’t been cut in a year; my straggly split ends could take over the world. I struggle with my appearance, too, nearly every day— not in so many self-loathing ways, but in more little ways, such as, “My muffin top reflects all those muffins I’ve been eating; that’s an apt scientific name,” and, “I wonder if anyone will notice Mount Vesuvius is erupting on my chin today.” BUT I am dedicated to making the best of it, and if I can’t, making up for it in other ways. I, like I suspect you are, am a genuinely interesting person with lots of thoughts and opinions and passions. And despite my acne— they TOLD me it would go away in my twenties! They LIED!— and the extra 10 pounds I’m carrying between my belly button and my thighs, I constantly wind up dating ridiculously attractive men. I mean, RIDICULOUSLY. Every women from my senile 91-year-old grandmother to Miranda Kerr who has seen them with me has been like, “Dayum, girl; how’d you land that sexy urban lumberjack/triathlete/most popular guy in your class year/young entrepreneur/Italian restaurant owner/Prada model?!” And, dear, sweet Shy Girl, the secret is, I land the hot, interesting boys because I realize that no matter how cool and attractive they seem, they probably have interests, too. And I ask them about them, and talk about mine.
Judging by your witty, humorous, self-depreciating message, I have no doubt that beneath that crippling shyness and funny hair, you have one HELL of a mind, and a way with words when you choose to speak it. And you know something that’s hot to good men no matter what form it comes in? Intellect. So USE those things that you have in common with your class crush. Strike up a conversation with him. I know, I know, how debilitating it can make you feel, talking to a really cute, really great guy (I’m 23; it still happens,) but one of the easiest ways to do this is to ask him a question about something you know you both know about, like, or have in common. Guys like feeling useful; they like answering questions they know they have a good answer to. Play to that. Get a little repartee going back and forth. (Also, a question DEMANDS, by social manners, an answer.) I’m SURE you can think of, off the top of your smart little head with it’s adorable quirky hair, at least THREE things you two could talk about. I’m sure you’ve spent a few hours playing those scenarios through your mind. Because all women do this when confronted with a hot, available man. I bet even Halle Berry does this. Here’s a story to prove to you that I do this, too. And I’ll even tell you the ending— AFTER I mustered up the courage to ask the hot guy a question and chat with him, he wanted my phone number. I turned him down. And then found out he was an international underwear model. Oh, it happened. See what I mean about the clever girl conquering all, even on a particularly bad hair day? (And oh, it was.)
As for your insecurities, I’m going to tell you something very strange that I hope you understand: OWN THEM. Project to the world, “Yeah, my hair may be funny, but there’s a damn good brain underneath it, bi-yatch!” (When in doubt, I finding that pretending that my inner voice is either Tyra Banks or Ru Paul really works wonders for my motivation, too.) Don’t make apologies for the things about yourself that you don’t like, because one day, you may find someone else who likes those things about you. My triathlete whose sweet abs and cut-lines (those hip-lines on guys that make smart girls stupid?) you could grate cheese on BEGGED me not to cut my hair, straggly splits or not, because he said that my “mermaid hair” was something that set me apart to him. My best friend’s gap between her front teeth is something that I absolutely ADORE about her and makes her smile unique. My mother can’t carry a tune in a bucket-loader, and I still love her for it, anyway. The guy I’m currently seeing, his hair is thinning, but so what— it proves he’s lived long enough to have a VERY interesting life and the stories to go with it. A good person— one who is really the bee’s knees— will be able to see past all that superficial bullshit if they find there’s something underneath it all that they find rare and beautiful. And YOU, Shy Girl, are obviously both rare AND beautiful, in whatever way you so choose to be.
…Also, I’m pretty sure no man has ever said, “Oh, I noticed her hands were too chapped and decided I wasn’t going to give her the time of day,” EVER. But if it’s something that really bothers you, I suggest carrying a really good hand cream (I suggest Lotil; it smells like old people but it is the only thing that has ever kept my hands as smooth as a baby’s ass even during Vermont winters,) and a really striking nail polish color.
Really, Shy Girl, a personality is worth a million perfect straight heads of hair. Just please TALK to him! For god’s sake! For MY sake! (And report back and let me know how it goes.)
All the best wishes and sending you love and luck,
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