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*Wednesday, April 14, 2004*
The rare and elusive virgin.
The Peregrine Falcon and I have something in common - we're a dying breed. Now, I know you thought I was going to go for the obvious similarity of the gift of flight, but that's down the wrong path. And no worries to the human race, I'm sure as a whole we have plenty of good years left before that rather nasty Armageddon business. No, what I'm referring to is a slightly different, the virgin. A virgin. That's what I am, and the way guys react, you'd think I was the last one on Earth.
Usually, when a guy finds out that I'm a virgin, I get two basic reactions: 1. shocked and horrified, or 2. excited and challenged. It seems that once that basic fact is out in the open guys either see me as an impossibility and pursue me no further, or they see me as a possible trophy that few ever receive, and one that they alone deserve.
Frankly, I'm tired of it. For me, being a virgin has always been a source of pride, the fact that I lasted through high school knowing my popularity (as slight as it was) was based solely on my personality was quite a wonderful revelation for me. And still today, to know I still have that is a great feeling, and I am in no way ashamed. I'm still young, afterall.
The hard part is being immediately labeled. Because I am a virgin I am: a prude, ignorant, naive, an easy target, and too conservative. The mere thought that I might be a free-thinking intellectual is beyond most's comprehension. Even those who have met me and known my personality and tendencies first, change their views completely once they find I've never had sex. Most think I've just been playing all along, and their views change. Even once I've made clear my likes and dislikes as a person, I am immediately put under the blanket stereotype of "virgins" that I mentioned previously.
Many have this idea that I can't be talked to about anything, that I might be too sensitive or easily offended. Listen up, unless you talk about unecessary violent acts, using eggplants in casseroles, harming those close to me in any way, or flat-out call me an imbecile - I don't care. It's very difficult to offend me. But once the virgin subject is out; it's goodbye conversation, hello awkwardness. Most get slightly miffed that I didn't mention the "virgin thing" up front. What do you want me to do, "Hello, yes, nice to meet you too. I'm Averie. I'm a virgin."? Hell no. I'd alienate myself immediately.
For me, this virginity thing has always been one of those rock-and-a-hard-place factors. On the one end I have my interests
AVERIE *
12:31 AM
*Sunday, April 11, 2004*
It's not love, it's indigestion.
At 18 I am already a cynic about love. It is a strange feeling, this cynical heat that wells up inside me like an overheated Goodyear blimp. I always believe that maybe what I'm feeling is indigestion from too much pizza, but no, it is a feeling of immense sarcasm and irony at this thing called love. I scoff loudly inside.
I know this pessimistic sense stems from every person's, male and female, inability to prove themselves mature when it comes to a relationship. I watch men act like toddlers, showing both their immaturity and inability to behave in a sensible manner, and women demean themselves to catty and horribly malicious levels with an attitude of pure spite and competition.
It would be nice to think that as I grow older, people change and mature....unfortunately, I see the same patterns. It could be that I have been desensitized by movies and television glorifying true love and fairytale endings. And though desensitized I may be, stupid I am not. I do not believe that I will look across a crowded room, lock eyes with a mysterious stranger, and fall hopelessly head over heels in love. Why should I believe that? I've locked eyes with mysterious strangers before, and the reactions I usually get are lewd motions or "crazy eyes". If I'm lucky, the mysterious stranger will move along without so much as a smile in my direction. It's not that I don't secretly hope for it, no, my heart holds a tiny place that hopes for Prince Charming. But I don't stand around in crowded rooms with my eyes taped open trying desperately to make any sort-of eye contact.
I guess I should blame romantic comedies for all these digusting displays of "love". They are responsible for the mushy sentiments, the romantic walks in the park, the chance meetings. Please, don't make me projectile vomit. There is nothing more awful than a drippy romance full of sappy stories that make the audience feel that their own personal love lives are less than spectacular.
To the audience: your love life may not be what you see in the movies, but that's because it's realistic. Don't sit around waiting for some John Cusack look-alike to find a book with your phone number in it, it ain't gonna happen. That's just a shiny image that wishful thinkers have made up, hoping to find some rosey tidbit. Listen, you want true and unconditional love? Get a dog.
The worst of it is, all these love-seekers look at the world through rose-colored glasses. I simply and flat-out refuse. How stupid would it be to walk around with pink specs on your face? Not only do they do nothing in the way of UV Protection, they make you suseptable to any and all stupidity that could possibly cross your path. Too many times have I had my heart ripped out and stepped on with golf cleats.
For instance, say I find the perfect man. He likes everything I like. He's nice and wonderful and good-looking. He laughs at all my jokes, he tells me I'm beautiful without me having to say something like, "Do I look fat in this?", he says the right things and means them. Perfect, right? I sure as hell think so. Now, if I was looking at things through rose-colored glasses, I might be blissfully oblivious to the fact that my perfect man could love someone else.
Now, you might say, "Hey Averie, you're not giving him a chance. What if he doesn't love someone else? What if he really loves you?"
Sure, that could be the case. He could really love me a lot. More that anything. But what if I put those rose-colored glasses on again, I suppose I could be blissfully unaware of the girl trying to steal him from me, because she too realizes how perfect he is.
Now, again you might say, "Hey Averie, what if you're just being paranoid and pessimistic?"
I suppose you could be right. I'm just giving scenarios of what COULD happen.
And what HAS happened to me enough times to write books and books about.
It's a good thing I don't wear rose-colored glasses.
Okay, some people may find love. I'll give the world that, at least. But let's face it, the actualities of the movie-esque love most are waiting for is nothing more than a dumb and overrated fantasy. Try to look at it realistically.
So, though there is no moral to this story and I've just been blabbing and blabbing about how sick being lovesick is, I suppose what I can give you is this:
Next time you think it's love, ask yourself this question first, "Did I have pizza for lunch?"
AVERIE *
10:12 PM
*Thursday, April 08, 2004*
Reality TV. Neither reality nor TV. Discuss.
Today, I get the same amusement from watching TV as I do by sticking my head in the crapper and flushing. And with the options that await me in my TV Guide, I'm more apt to do the latter. Call it nit-picking, but when I flip channels and I go from "Whores on Dates" to "As Half-Naked As TV Will Allow Whores on Dates" I seriously begin to question why I sat down in the first place.
It seems as if all the major networks got together and simultaneously regurgitated their lunches onto the office table and formed it into a script. Hence, "The Bachelor", "Average Joe" and other similar crap.
The worst of it is, quality programming is becoming a rare and elusive entity. Actual shows with actual scripts and actual actors are close to extinction. With the network poachers on the reality show case, we can expect even more sub-par reality plot lines and an endless parade of talentless people whoring themselves for a show that was probably pitched over the executive water cooler.
Most of all, I flat-out miss watching a good script. Whatever happened to talented writing squads? I, personally, am so desperate to see something actually WRITTEN that I would resort to watching Tori Spelling talk about socks. Well, maybe not THAT desperate...but it might be more entertaining that four people on an island wearing tie-dye and eating sand.
It's hard knowing that out of 300 channels, you will only find one semi-decent program - two minutes later, you're fed up and you change it to the classical music channel purely out of spite. It just seems to be a bit of an outrage when idiots with no social skills get to star in their own TV show simply because their hair is an extra shade of "shiny".
Sure, TV has had it's sit-coms that suck and dramas that bite, but let's face it, reality TV is the bottom of the network barrell.
AVERIE *
10:13 PM
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