#9

It is extremely difficult to tell the truth about women without sounding like the kind of prick that talks about women the way miners talk about their ore of expertise: a slim, practically nonexistent vein of something worth everything, surrounded by an incalculable tonnage of worthless, dangerous bullshit; stuff that'll kill you just because you're there.

Ah, well.

I guess sometimes all there is to say is what you get for changing your entire life around because another organism really thought it would be best is:

• No more of the stuff that convinced you it was a normal idea to act like such a fool in the first place. 
• Being told three ways you're an idiot and an asshole before you even have breakfast in your mouth.

No matter how hard I work or how carefully I lay out boundaries, the scene iterates with each particular firmly in place: I get clear of a woman and start working on my head and getting used to the space. A woman comes along with all this hope and energy and undeniable life force. Ere long, half of everything is hers, the other half was a stupid idea and really ought to be got rid of if it ain't already gone, all my money's spent, my friends have changed their phone numbers, and getting yelled at is a daily appointment I keep without fail. This persists until, maddened and near catatonia, I break up with her. She cries so hard I think the cops will come. Bit by careful bit, I get clear, start working on my head, getting used to the space. A woman comes along.

Ladies, if you please. Instead of going around looking so damn fine and having so much smart stuff to say, you could instead stab me in the chest, just shove a blade right up into the old body cavity. This technique is known as The Shortcut; young men may misread it as antipathy, but I will thank you with my dying breath and any male witnesses who have been around the block a couple of times will nod sagely, tip their weathered hats, and respect you as an honest woman.


--JL