I got to see Greg Fitzsimmons, Louis CK, and Dave Attell perform all in one night in a really intimate venue.
Too good to be true? Well, it is. The night couldn't have gone any smoother, until I had to open my big fat self-righteous mouth. What happened?
...love your looks...
I insulted the host, par accident. (Cocky son-of-a...!)
The conversation went a little something like this:
- Host: Love your looks.
- Me: And? And what? Now you want my number? (...is what I wanted to say.)
Instead, I buckled and said, "Do you work here?"
"I'm the host," he responds.
One for me. Zero for Cocky Bastard.
Listen, for all those who haven't met me, I know I'm attractive. You don't have to remind me. And I promise you, I'm not vain or self-absorbed about my looks in anyway. I'm actually a very humble and God-fearing person. And if anything I downplay my looks so as not to be in limelight all the time. I would much rather be in the background. Back in the day, I was an expert wallflower.
For some strange reason, it seems that in order to be attractive to a man in NYC, all you need to have are two legs and a crevice. Trust me. You don't have to remind me that I'm attractive. Each and everyday I try to forget, but some a$$hole has to say something stupid to bring it to my attention---something typically male and condescending. It's usually black men, specifically New York men. (I don't get this in Chicago or L.A.)
Get ready for my rant:
"Don't step to me like I'm supposed to know you, or that we have some relationship that exists only in your head. Speak to me like you would approach any other person. I'm not some ghetto-fab girl or some enamored teenager that you can just talk to like a smitten groupie. I can and will care less."
Whew! There. Done. Glad I got that out of my system.
I must day that it's different. It's drastically different being an attractive girl who has no means to capitalize on her looks. To me, someone else mentioning my looks is a constant affront--even when girls do it. Girls are also sizing you up because we're "competition." Are you kidding? Like I'm going to compete the with the vapid airhead, who carries kneepads in her purse for "special occasions." I forfeit. She wins.
Actually, I would almost be happy with you mentioning how unattractive I am. Not because I would take any more interest in what you have to say next, but because I know it doesn't matter to me what I look like to you.
To be honest, I would rather you mention anything else but my looks. Let me get on my soapbox, for bit: (I mean, that's why you came to this blog, right?)
There are some girls who love, love, LOOOOVE to be worshiped for their looks and body. Especially, if they can squeeze their size 10 body into their size 4 jeans and get praised for it by taxi cab drivers and constructions workers. Good! Great! Thank God for them! More power to them! Because I know I don't want that kind of attention. I want it to be deflected onto them.
Back to the comedy show:
So in four words I ended up insulting the host. I'm glad he knows enough to keep away. I can't stand men like that.
Honestly, if you're reading this and you're male, take a hint--get a clue!
There are some women that fiend for that kind of attention, and they dress the part--slutty. Take a clue from that! They WANT it! Give it to them--not to me! And even if these women are trolls, they still get it (I'm referring to "the action.") GOOD! I say all the better! Go for it!
But I'm not the type. I don't dress that way. I don't ask for it. So in other case, leave me out of it. I ask all you men, "Be able to differentiate between those that want that attention, and those that don't."
In fact, maybe this amazing simple poem with help you guys to make the distinction.