"Can we, as a country, all
: December 2002:
What's Your Fucking Problem?
Stud. Yeah, you. Remember you told me to smile and
I didn't? You said, "It's not that bad! Smile,
why dontcha?" Then I told you that what would
make me smile would be to see you slam your head
into the bar until your nose bled? You're right,
I am a dyke. Or more accurately, I WAS a
dyke, just then. You see, my sudden vagitarianism
came upon me like a fever at your approach. Your
wreaking man-pungency filled my pores, and I panicked.
So I backed into the safest corner I could. You
called me on it, and I was embarrassed...so I cowered
at the altar of Sappho until you were long gone.
a big YO to the white guy with the corn rows and
a cool rap name (that I forgot...something like
T-Bag...) A shout-out to Bih-zeaverton, Yo. Remember
you hung around me like an oily fart mumbling your
lines at me? You spoke in an urban vernacular so
thick that I just couldn't get it. I'm not up on
my MTVisms...I suck, I know. You were trying so
hard and got so upset; I was, after all, dressed-up
and OUT. Leading you on like a sweet hunk of apple
pie cooling on a rack to tempt you. Standing there
with my epidermis showing, in YOUR sites, askin'
for it. You're right--I'm a bitch and I'm sorry.
the gentlemen on the bridge passing a bottle back
and forth between yourselves as you walked. You
called to me, "Girl! HEY GIRL! SSSSSSSSSS! HEY!!"
It was a cold day and you were shuffling along home
from your long, hard day of harassing people on
Burnside for beer money. I spotted you a ways off,
and you saw me, too. You boys were only walking,
drinking, and talking, probably about how you both
were unselfish lovers and would love to orally please
a woman. And who comes along but stupid me on my
bicycle...how many bridges are over the dang river?
Plenty, and I picked yours. Here I come, pumping
my pedals suggestively, causing my hips to roll
around in a false promise. I heard the call, but
as I got closer I saw right away that you were both
too good for me, and it would've killed me to see
your eyes go dim in disappointment. I lowered my
head and pushed my bike past you in shame. You were
so kind in continuing your kissing and sucking noises
at me as I passed. I should've stopped and knelt
in acceptance to a meaty swordfight in my mouth...but
I didn't, and I am sorry.
at last to my sweet one. The one who made me feel
so vulnerable. You caressed and pushed my buttons
like a true pro and threw my switches into overload
that night. I have no excuse for my behavior, but
hear me out. I was cocktailing, so I was distracted.
Plus, it was so very busy, I just wasn't on my game.
I was actually burning uncontrollably for a wall-eyed
butthole with a mullet that night, and when you
lurched toward me, I wanted to take your thick hand
and shove it up my ass through my pants....but you
beat me to it. Somehow you felt my ass calling your
hand, and your hand heeded that call. All I can
say is, sometimes a woman likes to be the one who
makes the first move, and when her bluff is called,
she needs to dramatically deny her attraction to
save face. Ah, what a strange game of hard-to-get
I played with you! A game that I ultimately lost.
You were so much bigger than me, I thought you'd
think it was cute how hard I hit you. I envisioned
you would grab my wrists and smile, we'd kiss and
then have a good laugh at our love games. But you
didn't stop me--you just bled and bled. I went a
little overboard on you, Sweetie, and when they
pulled you out of the club, I got a big shot of
whiskey...I pulled bits of your skin off my trembling
and sore hands and hoped you would forgive me one
day. Baby, I'm sorry, I was on the rag.
is an open letter of apology to all the men who
have only wanted to love me, but I was unworthy
of their affections. Merry Christmas, boys. Don't
give up on me--I'm sure I'll come around. I'll keep
trying if you do!
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