There is a woman talking about using a juice cleanse to cure bronchitis. She is attractive, but I didn’t need to tell you that. Ugly women know enough not to talk about a juice cleanse. Not to talk about astrology. Only a beautiful girl can go through 22 years of life talking about putting carrot juice in your ass to cure cancer, how the doctors all know the real score; all their fancy chemo drugs are just a scam to keep you sick and Big Pharma doesn’t want you to know the truth because freshly harvested organic carrots don’t make them any money. Only a beautiful girl can go through decades of saying shit like this without being told to shut the fuck up. This girl, if you saw her– she hasn’t received so much as a cocked eyebrow over anything since she was twelve. The schlub she’s talking to has such a stink of the unlaid about him that she could start denying the Holocaust and he would be like “wow… yeah. Interesting.” Now she’s talking about her best friend in Brooklyn, some art project this friend has going. My friend is like, Amanda, you need to come out and help with the publicity, but it would have been weird staying there. Her name is Amanda.
This is where I fail. This is why I will never be able to pick up a woman in a coffee shop. She would get interested, she would ask when my birthday is. You know a discussion about astrology is coming, and when you are an asshole, it’s like having your Michael Vick rescue pit bull on a leash in the dog park. You hope he’ll just keep pleasantly sniffing some Labradoodle’s twat but there’s a chance you’ll feel the leash jerk and a spray of warm blood on your cheek and he’s shredding some puppy or child’s intestines… actually, the Earth has tilted on its access since the Greeks delineated the signs; so, it’s all bullshit.
She saw some band. Then she saw an ice sculpture festival, statues as big as houses. She could be reading off bar code numbers. He is going to listen. She has ten more years of this ahead of her and then nothing. You get resentful of women; you think they have it so easy. Remember they have fifteen years and then they get taken out behind the barn and shot. As a man, you at least have a chance. You could get famous.
But when women are in full flower, they fucking use it. Amanda has never lifted a couch onto a Uhaul. Meanwhile this unattractive woman at the other table could drop dead unmourned. She has lifted shit onto a Uhaul. Her hands are rough and strong and when she hits 35 it won’t be a hair different from where she’s at now. She had to learn to take pleasure in other things besides these fucking geeks and their blandishments. She can take joy in the flight of the hummingbird. Good for you, not-Amanda. If I could strike myself blind I would marry you. Take you away from all this. We’d have a warm fire every night and a house full of pets. But no. Two ugly people get laid and the fruit of their union is invisible. She has to look at her phone, pretend someone is texting her. Meanwhile Amanda is talking about Coachella, Burning Man. The same story being told at this exact moment by a million Amandas all over the world. I went to this concert. I bought this sweater. I saw stuff and consumed stuff, maybe I produced stuff if a guy in a band tried to fuck me by having me play the tambourine. Talking about her job. She books bands or something. The ugly chick probably works in a fucking salt mine.