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GLINT


I know it is hard to believe, but unwanted attention is not an oxymoron for me. As much as I grovel to the world to “look at, listen to meeeee,” there are times when I desire precisely the opposite. Here are some of them:

The hit: Of course, this gets first billing. Lessee, how does this one work? Right. I am female. Therefore, I get hit on. I could spend a few minutes extolling the virtues of my tight ass, pert breasts, and fetching face, but why bother? Once, a long, long time ago when I thought my love life would be gravy and fanned the flames of a fiery infatuation with Ponyboy Curtis, I thought that when guys hit on you it meant they thought you were purty or maybe even intriguing in other ways. (!) Since age 12, I have met the world of men and am older and wiser and am here to tell you that the guys that hit on you when you are clearly not amenable to such efforts are the guys that hit on absofuckly anything they can. Don’t hate these fellas, ladies. They are dreamers. They hold fast to the hope that you will leave the bus stop/ stop signing for your package/ halt in walking swiftly and purposefully down the street/ pause in fumbling in your wallet to pay the tab so you can escape the bar without the leering freakazoid hitting on you to gaze into their eyes and return their amorous intentions by gleefully fucking their ever-loving brains out right there, right then, on the spot, as if we are all inhabiting the same porno-cum- Mentos -ad fantasyland. Oh, and socially acceptable lechery can really tug at the heart strings too.

Gossip: The ridiculous thing about gossip is that I don’t ever seem to recognize and/or care about it until a) it wends its way to me; and b) it is about me. Both are predicated on frequent and consistent social interaction, something which may or may not induce feelings of loathing directed toward myself or others. With rare exception, I don’t tend to be frequent or consistent in my social activity. [Diagnosis: Social constipation?] The sad part is I am not above feeling a slight egotistical spasm when I first hear that I have made the gossip mill. Naturally, this is followed by twinges of self-righteous “I can’t believe he/she said blahbitiblah” because the mill does not preserve the integrity of its grist—it chews it up, mangles it, and spits it back out in itsy-bitsy fragments. Even ‘good’ gossip tends to be as cloying and disingenuous as the people who produce it. By and large, it’s a sound policy to view gossip as the load of crap it genuinely is. It’s like Dorothy P. said, “I don’t care what anybody says about me, as long as it isn’t true.” (I take this, like everything she said, on good authority because if one becomes publicly drunk and bitter, gossip is sure to follow.)

Peeping-Toms: This is weird because it started me thinking about unwanted attention in the first place. I tend to hang about in the nude at home and sometimes pass before a window that is as naked of dressing as yours truly. Big deal, I say. In fact, I said just this to a friend of mine and insinuated that anyone who took that much interest in my naked body passing in front of a window was not really going to get much of a show. And my friend says, “Sickos don’t care. It’s not a form of flattery. That’s like saying you’re not pretty enough to get raped.” To which my reply has to be: Yick.


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