I dropped out of college after three days. 10:00 on a Saturday night, I threw on my backpack, strode to my car, and fled.
Oh, Jane Austen is female? Really? My bad. It’s hard to assign a gender to those bulbous baggy eyes and sloping shoulders. Here’s how “she” was crappy to women: She glorifies uptight chicks. Have you ever noticed her fangirls tend to be on the highstrung “virtuous” side?
It is then that a decrescendo occurs and a cold stream runs through you as you remember that monumental fight you two got into, retreating into your corners of the ring, waiting for the other to send the first SOS, the first apology, the first admittance of wrongdoing.
Androgyny, as I intend for this piece, is not concerned with sexuality. Rather, it is androgyny defined as the spiritually developed person in the Jungian fashion of recognizing the anima (for guys) and the animus (for girls). There is a girl inside every boy and a boy inside every girl, to put it simply.
I pictured our life together. Taking her hand and tugging her to the nearest park to make-out on the see-saw. Discovering mutual phobias like our harrowing fear of neck wrinkles. Selecting matching patterned cases for our decrepit and brutally stained pillows we got from my parent’s storage space.
I shook my head and furrowed my brow, chewing on my lip for a moment in concentration. I looked up at the other three. “I dunno, after four months, maybe five months of a pretty serious relationship? It would have to seem appropriate at the time.”
Text-speak has made it virtually impossible to get turned on anymore IRL, yet there are a few words that actually send icy chills of hatred down my spine. Gchat conversations can lead to romance. Think about that the next time you’re typing, and please, do everything in your power to avoid these three words/phrases.
Here was my dream man. It was all too much. I had signed up for therapy expecting a certain type of therapist. A mother figure swaddled in scarves, with an office stocked with tissues, homey furniture, and chocolate. All things girl. But here he was. All things man. Breathe, I told myself. Just give him an hour session. Then you can switch therapists.
When I walk down to the ugly grey beach of my hometown, I smell a mingling of the rotting of hamburgers with the cloying aroma of a hundred different brands of incense intermingling. I come back and try to go to sleep, but can’t as yet another drunkard stumbles down the alleyway, howling “to hell with it all!”
Undeterred by Jason’s celebrity, I nonchalantly wedged myself between the two men and said, “Hey Jason, you were funny,” before immediately turning to Glaser to declare, “AND YOU ARE AWESOME, DUDE.”