I Enjoy Being a Bitch

“You’re…difficult,” Mark once said to me.

“You can be a bit…now, don’t take this the wrong way…I don’t want to upset you…but you can be a bit…”

“Abrasive?” I know it’s kind of rude to interrupt one’s shrink, but honestly, the amount of time he would spend trying to make me not upset would use up too much of our rather expensive time together. It’s my dime, so I chose to move things along.

“Dude, it’s ok. I know. How about we work on some elements of my personality that you have some snowball’s chance in hell of changing? Basic building blocks of my personality are such a lofty goal.”

I used to feel kind of bad about this whole “hey, dude, you’re kind of a bitch” thing. Then I realized something. Being a bitch isn’t the same as being an asshole. Assholiness, yes, I’m working on. I’m working on saying “thank you” more. I’m working on trying to phrase things less abrasively so they’ll have a bettter shot at being heard. I’m working on being more supportive, not blocking intersections, and being nice to the people at Comcast even when they’re total dicks to me. Hell, I might even start recycling.

But you’re still going to know exactly what I think of you. One of my selling points as a human is that people always know exactly where they stand with me. I have no poker face. It’s not for everyone, and that’s fine. Might as well be hated for who you are and not who you’re pretending to be, and I might as well be zen about my “fuck you” attitude because it’s not going anywhere. Birds gotta fly, fish gotta swim.

This, I suspect, is why the dudes I end up with are usually IT guys or guitar players. They’re the only guys with enough ego to survive me, and I’m the only one stupid enough to tell them, “hey, you’d better dial it down a notch.” It takes all kinds. Some dudes enjoy bitches, and God bless those dudes. I’ve dated some very nice guys, but the trouble there is that it frustrates the piss out of me to have this conversation:

“Where do you want to eat?”
“I don’t know.”
“How about _____, _____, or _____?”
“I don’t care.”

And then I feel like I’m always making all of the decisions, like he’s secretly resenting me for always picking the restaurant/movie/whatever. So I start trying to guess at what he would want. It’s exhausting, and I gave up on that years ago. If he can’t voice an opinion, then fuck him. He doesn’t get one. I’m not going to spend my life trying to guess the cinematic desires of someone who can’t even decide between Saw II and Beaches. And when he throws that up in my face (and they always eventually do), I’m just going to be like “well, you never voice an opinion…you forfeited your vote.” And then he’ll say something like “well, you’re a scary bitch.” And then I’ll say something like “I don’t recall putting a gun to your head to date me.”

What was my point, besides reminding myself that I’m glad to be single? Screw it. Will be coherent tomorrow.

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