11:44 pm - August 23, 2004
The not-so-Great Pretender
You pitiful conceited jerk. You had my friendship. You abused my trust one night and then dropped out of sight. I was okay with you disappearing--just because I share responsibility for what happened does not mean I have any interest in seeing you again.
But no, that's not good enough. Months later you have to seek me out. Tell me you miss me. Tell me you love me. Tell me you can't stop thinking about me. Tell me you couldn't help yourself and didn't mean to take advantage of the situation. HAH.
I am so tired of you BOYS. There's a Farside cartoon showing a man talking to a dog and what the dog actually hears (Blah blah blah, Sparky.) I think that must illustrate this situation perfectly. I know there exist out there, wonderful, intelligent men who don't see women as just objects to be humored until the sex can begin. I've even had the immense privilege of knowing a few. But the rest, those like you?
You are ridiculous in your stupidity.
You don't even have the courage to admit to your membership in The Boy's Club. I know you. The world may not be populated by just one man, but I sure see the same one inhabiting an awful lot of different bodies. I know you when you look at me. You don't hear a word I say, only the curve of the lips, the breasts, the ass. You have a few practiced lines, trotted out regularly for wide-eyed ingenues. About how you've never been able to talk to anyone like this before...blah blah blah.
But I've known you too long, whatever your name is--Mike, Nick, Gary, Kent, Andrew, Chris, Joe... Anyway, it doesn't matter what name you call yourself, you're still only the same boy. And the idea of you is so dull, so tired that I'm done.
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