Dear Miss Eliza
Dear Miss Eliza,Will you have sex with me?
--Alone In Anchorage
Dear Alone,
No.
Here’s why.
First of all, you don’t want to have sex with me. I promise. I’m just not that kind of girl. And by not that kind of girl, I’m not talking about the usual type of not that kind of girl. I’m talking about the perfectly non-cliché version of not that kind of girl. I’m not that kind of girl that you meet in a bar and buy a drink for. That’s the kind of girl that I’m not that I’m talking about. Get it?
I’m the kind of girl that walks up to you and starts making strange unfollowable conversation (drunk or sober, it’s just as retarded) about hippopotamus education and fleeting moments of pretty cake. Basically the random stuff that I go on and on about here. It’s really, really unsexy, and very scary for the male species.
I’ve got this psychological problem in dealing with the world. It’s based on this wacky theory that conversation should stimulate the mind. And unstimulating conversation is a sign of an unstimulating kind of mind from which I will walk away before you ever get a chance to show me your moves.
Another reason you don’t want to have sex with me is that I smell like cocoa butter. The male population finds this aroma repulsive. I can only assume that all your collective mothers forced cancer inducing amounts of sunscreen down your throats when you were wee small things. This was in the early days of sunscreen, when doctors believed that ingesting sunscreen would protect your liver from harmful UV rays. (Note to future writers, the words UV rays must always be preceded by the word harmful. Otherwise you are uttering a massively derogatory statement aimed at polar bears.) And to this day the smell summons up relapses of Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome.
The final reason you don’t really want to have sex with me? My vocabulary is dangerous and intimidating. Have I mentioned how easily I can drop the word impotent into a conversation? What makes you think I would be any kinder to you? On the contrary, the better I know you, the more free I feel to bash your psyche against a very large, very sturdy rock.
Oh dear, Alone, you’ve made me go and talk about myself. What’s with that?
--Miss Eliza
Dear Miss Eliza,
Is there such a thing as a stupid question?
--Poser in Paradise
Dear Poser,
yes.
But don’t let that stop you from asking them. Because it is impossible to tell whether a question is stupid or not, before you get it out where anyone can analyze it. And it’s not that we don’t know whether your question is stupid before you ask it. It’s that your question has not decided yet whether to be stupid or not. The moment of decision is while it is passing your vocal chords. At this point it can be documented and calibrated and measured. If this is confusing to you, research Schrodinger’s cat.
Now you must not be self conscious about asking stupid questions. They are my favorite kind. If you don’t know who to ask your stupid questions to, ask me. They are my bread and butter. Or, to make this analogy more fitting to my situation, they are my fresh vegetables and frozen fruit drink concentrate.
You see, you don’t need to be afraid of how your question is received. If those around you fall silent and stare and you for a few seconds while they try to stick their brains back into some version of order, that only means that you’ll have a story to tell your grandchildren about. In fact, I’ll share one of my own. It doesn’t involve a question, but the key word isn’t question, it’s stupid. And I really know how to say something stupid. Let me annecdote.
Once upon a time, I was visiting my roommate’s family in a foreign land called Connecticut. We were at her uncle’s house watching a movie. Her uncle (an antique dealer) had a movie progector and rooms and rooms stocked with movie reels. On this particular night, we were watching… what’s that Burt Reynolds movie where he plays the stunt double? Anyway, we’d come to the end of the second reel and they younger natives were growing restless. It was time to get to the real movie theater for the last showing of Dawn of the Dead (the remake) and they were wondering whether to leave or to stay and watch the end of this Burt Reynolds movie. I, in my infinite wisdom and wit, offered the statement that maybe, in the third reel of Burt Reynolds, everyone’s heads would explode. Nobody got the joke and I was treated with caution by all for the rest of the evening.
Jokes are very similar to questions. They either go down like chocolate or tea tree oil. And there are such things as stupid jokes, too.
The moral of the story is: ask stupid questions anyway. And if people look at you like you’ve got two heads, you may be in the wrong galaxy.
--Miss Eliza
posted by Sarah Eliza @ 12:33 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home