From the bitterness desk

Yes, the rumors are true. Lara Samuels is running for president in 2016 and her friend, the Blasphemer from the Hinterland, is agreeing to be her campaign manager. Well, if you equate the phrase "no I will not" with agreeing to do something. Of course, making this assumption is consistent with my favorite philosophy that half of a successful life is showing up and the other half is completely ignoring what people say.

 

Actually, though I would make a good president and the Blasphemer would be the perfect campaign manager, since he is ruthless and has his finger on the pulse of modern politics (which is why he is always calling 911), these aren't really the rumors of which I speak. The rumors (and by rumors I mean those things that I and my cats know to be true, or lies my cats make up about me, that fly around my apartment and might make it across the hall to the crazy neighbor's ears if she weren't so zoned out on Xanax), are that Lara Samuels has returned to hell. And by hell, I mean Lara Samuels is going to start dating again.

 

But, this time, there are going to be rules.

 

First, a little relevant history. It's been a long, painful journey from the quick demise of the long-term serious relationship that I  thought was going somewhere until my gullible boyfriend left me for an imaginary lover. Then there was a couple years of not giving a flying fuck, and not even getting a flying fuck, or even a walking one, unless you count the legendary road trip to Uglyville where very strange, out of character things occurred. What was the road trip to Uglyville, you ask? Let's just say I ran over an Armadillo, smoked an entire pack of American Spirits, didn't sleep for three days, and had sex with a man that I would describe as resembling in body, mind and spirit, a giant squid. I don't like to talk about it. Though I do enjoy mollusks having sexual relations with one is a completely different thing.

 

Alright so maybe squid-man isn't that relevant. But if I were to summarize what materialized from this barren period of no intimate companionship (besides the fact that I met the Blasphemer, who has enriched my life immeasurably except when he is making me drink whiskey) I would whittle it down to two things. First, and totally ironically, I discovered the orgasm, and second I discovered myself. Yeah, I know BIG DEAL.

 

"Orgasms and yourself? Wow, that was a productive period. Next you're going to tell me you also discovered girl scout cookies make you fat."  I'm not sure who is saying this. Satan, perhaps, or somebody equally as sarcastic.

 

Anyway, Satan, or whoever you are, now that I know who I am and how to vibrate, I am ready for the boat men of match.com, or the horny grey silhouettes from 600 miles away.  Of course, I'll bat them all away like flimsy little gnats unless they rock my world. Here's my truly awful profile:

 

I'm funny as hell. I will keep your life full of fun, art, song, love, nurturing. I am a feminine woman who keeps bees and drives a truck. I have no baggage. I have no kids. I value autonomy as much as you do. I  have skills. I have vision. I have ideas. I care about the world. I love to debate and discuss and ruminate and philosophize and analyze. I love to do things. Art, music, go places, get out. I love nature. I'm experimental. I love trying new things. I'm passionate but not unstable. I have huge emotional outbursts and then I move on. I'm alive. I'm on fire. I'm electric. My mind is expanding, not stagnating. I take care of myself and look better than ever.  I believe in forgiveness. I'm reasonable. I like to communicate and not play games. I don't care if you have money as long as you are productive and basically responsible. I'm self sufficient. If you have kids, great, I love kids, and I never got to have any of my own so it would be a treat. If you don't have kids that's fine. I love  not having kids. I love animals. I don't have many hang-ups. I'm easy going. I can curse if  you like it or not if it bothers you! I'm flexible, in other words. Flexible, but not passive. I have no major health problems. I don't care about material objects, I want to shed them, I want to live simply and consciously and always grow. I want to travel the country in a trailer and play music with you. I sing like a bird, and I love to dance. I am always being creative, writing, doing art, doing music, cartooning. I'm not into anything too weird but I'm unconventional....and, and, and... oh fuck it. Why bother? I might have better luck in a graveyard.

 

The sad truth is that men (insert middleclass American if you want) don't want a real companion. Like my ex boyfriend who left me for the rich equestrian princess who went to Julliard and had a body like Tinkerbell and wore flowing muslin scarves that blew around her angelic face whether there was a breeze or not, and who turned out to be a fat old man with congestive heart failure living in a trailer park, they want a fantasy.

 

And what are they fantasizing about ? This is my guess, if you'll allow me to generalize shamelessly. In my experience men of my generation and culture want one of two things, and neither one of them is a "friend" who is going to stick with them through thick and thin, love them unconditionally, and connect with them on every level. This doesn't matter to them. It matters to us. Either they want a fragile, vulnerable fawning princess who floats on air and smells of sea breeze and has a laugh like a tumbling waterfall and admires their every move and reminds them every day how great they are, or they want a sadistic bitch who digs her claws into their face then turns her head away and scowls when they don't meet her expectations and reminds them every day what a piece of shit they are. To control or be controlled. Dominance or submission. I don't want to ruin the perfect dichotomy but I guess some of them also fantasize about their mothers and want to be nurtured.  

In any case, this leaves most of us scrappy gals of a certain age who are just plopping along with our stomachs rumbling, cute, perhaps, but not stunningly beautiful, stuck with what we can get. Settling for something less than we deserve. Never able to reach our full potential because these half-dead male bodies weigh us down. And they believe that they are settling as well, but not because they are, only because the vision they had in their heads was impossible for us to attain.

 

It's also a matter of mathematics. Most men want one extreme or the other. Most women aren't in those categories. There is a deficit. Some of us are open minded enough to defect to the other side, but most of us just end up unhappy, whether it's going to bed every night with a man who doesn't appreciate us or with youporn and a bottle of wine. Given the choice, I prefer the latter, and this mentality will protect me from bad decisions and help me stick to rules.

I know my life would be richer with the right person, but not any person. I'm hopelessly heterosexual and I'm not settling for somebody who wants me to be something I'm not and will never appreciate fully who I am. That creates resentment. The regular sex and having somebody to talk to all the time is not worth it. I have what I need: mother nature and my expanding, growing mind. I can give myself orgasms. I can take care of myself financially. Eventually, I can buy some land and build an ecohouse by myself. I can get a trailer and travel the world playing music by myself. I am not alone in the world, I have the world.

 

I'm not waiting for you anymore, you stupid brute with your stupid fantasies. Let me know when you are ready for a real life.