DREAM FOR AN INSOMNIAC: an article for the ladies
Alright, if your reading this column right now and you are, biologically, a member of the male gender, I need you to go away. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the fact that you’re reading my column; quite the contrary, actually. Normally I’d welcome you with open arms and maybe offer you a light snack and some beverages. But today, this is a column strictly for the womenfolk. I promise that next week you can come back and we’ll talk about a violent movie that involves lots of kicking and some really pretty explosions. But for now, vamoose… get going… see ya in hell.
Are they gone? Men????
(Silence)
Ah, good. Hello ladies. So I suppose you’re wondering why I’ve decided that this article is specifically for you. It’s because I’m about to do something that, when I have finished, will require the sensitivity and general nurturing that is naturally exhibited by the female of the species. I cannot have a bunch of greasy, rough humunclosi laughing and snickering, sloshing their wide-mouth bottles of Mountain Dew Red as they jockey for position to be the first to mock me in a public forum. No, I can’t have that, for it is now time that I talk openly about my… Romantic Troubles. Well, they’re not so much “troubles”, as they are “vague annoyances,” much like the gnat that’s flying around my head as I type this or Freddie Prinze Jr. It seems that, for the last few months or so, every woman that I’ve met is either currently dating the world’s best boyfriend, a lesbian, or a fan of NASCAR. What is up with that? Where have all the good girlfriends gone? I remember a time, not so long ago, when I was in an extremely happy and fulfilling relationship. It was then that good girlfriends roamed the earth without fear. I know this to be true because I met many of them. Some of these fabled creatures were even interested in ME! But I was, as I said, otherwise engaged, and was forced to turn them back out into the wild where they were apparently poached and captured. All I see now is empty jungle. Not that I’m feeling sorry for myself. I try to look at it as simply “ a dry spell.” I mean, for all of my teens and into my twenties, I barely went two weeks without a girl on my arm. I suppose that it’s only fair that I see a little time on the bench. However, my ass is getting my mighty tired of the splintered wood that is singledom and would much rather be back in the game of dating, where the excitement is. And I apologize to all of you for being the nine millionth male to make a love-is-like-football analogy, but I suggest you get used to it. If we could, we’d use football talk in our WEDDING VOWS! But I digress. It just seems like, no matter how hard I try, I keep coming up with a great big handfuls of nothing and it’s got me a little blue.
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