There comes a time in every woman’s life when they’ve recently finished Eastbound & Down and it’s 2AM and they’re staring at their Netflix queue and suddenly lock eyes with Michael C. Hall and realize “it is time.”
But seriously, I’ve been meaning to watch it for like the six or seven plus years now since it’s been on, mostly out of a sense of responsibility rather than interest, and it never jumped out at me, but the other night, my crippling indecisive Netflix anxiety subsided for a brief moment, parting like the Red Sea did for Moses (was it the Red Sea? the bible is also languishing in my queue of life) and said “go forth, for Michael C. Hall is hot, so even if this show sucks, it will not be a complete loss.”
And omg, not since I got into Brian Cox’s unique brand of utter despair delivered by a peaceful floppy haired DILF have I debated immediately re-watching episodes because I’m not sure if I’m lost because I missed something that went over my head or because I was lost in instinctive fantasy mode where I plan our entire lives together.
I don’t think all girls do this, I know not all girls do this, but I’d be willing to bet I’m not the only one who suffers in silence from this affliction. Anytime I am remotely interested in a guy (or Rachel Maddow, or Tegan or Sara, depending on the day) irl or on television, I immediately suffer some sort of seizure where I can’t stop thinking about a) casual drinks b) our wedding c) justifying every shitty quality this person possesses. I realize this sounds like some lazy romantic comedy woman stereotype, but I swear I’m being 100% serious, despite being reasonably independent and self-possessed, I will watch Dexter and have a train of thought that looks like, he has the perfect level of stubble… his eyes are the color of an Italian sea… I could date a sociopath. As long as he would cuddle, do I really care if he’s enjoying it? You don’t really need emotions do you? As long as he wouldn’t murder you? We could learn so much from each other. Maybe we could have really fascinating conversations about the nature of morality. Would I be more of a Bonnie Parker or a Carmela Soprano?
I think I’m the fan base PR teams’ wet dreams are made of.
I’m beginning to think I was custom engineered by Jesus/Allah/Christopher Walken as punishment for men. Or punishment for myself. Or punishment for something. Or maybe we won’t go creationist on this one, because I believe in fossils and Bill Nye. Maybe I am a cluster of seriously shitty genetics. Or maybe Greek/Roman myths are real. If my Mom had her choice she would have named me Cassandra, after Mama Cass, who she loved, and who did not die choking on a ham sandwich, but died a tragic death nonetheless. I always identified more with Cassandra, the mythological figure who could foresee the future but was never believed. Either way that’s got to have left a negative imprint, although my Dad wanted to name me Debbie so maybe the larger crisis was avoided.
I have scrawny little legs on an otherwise average sized body. Kind of like a bipedal deer. I have emotional problems which have so far confounded 4 psychiatrists, including one who was like “hold on, I gotta write this shit down.” He looked like a Wes Anderson character and constantly made what I thought were inappropriate jokes but he would then glare at me when I laughed. He prescribed me Ambien, for my insomnia, then said “be careful with this, we don’t wanna have you goin’ down like Whitney Houston.” I chuckled, and then he looked me straight in the eye and said “it’s not funny lots of people die that way.”
I’m lactose intolerant. I’m gluten intolerant. I probably have irritable bowel syndrome. I get an insatiable urge to hit people while drunk. I’m smart but in the useless way where I question everything and enjoy nothing. I have Daddy issues. I have Mommy issues. I’m terrible at small talk. I have a bitch face and a loud mouth which do not go well with being painfully shy. I have the combination of self-loathing and the desperate need to be liked that seems to be a prerequisite for anyone who wants to be an artist. The possibility of dying alone arises every once and a while, but I think my deeper fear is that one day someone will love me despite all the shit mentioned above. Because then it will be reckoning day. Then I’ll have to figure out if I’m capable of feeling loved.