Academic. I despise that word and all its connotations. For three years, I mishaped myself in a misguided attempt at prostrating before exalted academic expectations. In order to fit an ideal-type of the academe, one attempts to fulfill criteria - most of which are matters of vain appearance, i.e. showcasing the front cover of a book nestled under one's arm to affirm one's "exceptional" academic tastes. In order to get laid, one suffers a similar vain neurosis.
As I sat on the swing looking at Elizabeth saunter back to me, I wondered if human attraction was simply academic. Tits. Asses. Thighs. Maybe even eyes. If a girl fits that criteria, most guys - once again, if you ask them honestly - would say she's worth a fuck. Yes, these ribald reflections are misogynist and mildly misanthropic; but alas, that's how the male mind thinks about sex. Sex ain't love and vice versa. Conversely, female thoughts about men, I suspect, are probably equally ribald. But speaking as a man, I can't confirm nor deny this suspicion.
The truth is a dark pallor looms over my observations of the world. I only see lack. Her absence forces me see the world without illusions. This "reality" yields morbid insights into the machination affectionately labeled human affection. From my voyeuristic observations of male-female interaction, women "love" men for the following reasons: 1) money; 2) status; 3) normalcy-security; 4) an undying belief that she can change him; 5) his body, dick included; 6) narcissism - any woman who reads In Style and GQ secretly desire homosexual men and end up together with metro sexual closet cases; 7) sheer desperation as they hear the biological clock tick towards its ultimate conclusion.
From what I can gather by sitting in a Starbucks or on a shopping mall bench; if the youth are the future, we are severely boned. Teenage girls are vain, self-absorbed, vindicative, spoiled, and vacuous creatures. Teenage boys are no better - preoccupied with, first, trying to fuck teenage girls, and, second, trying to preen and pose as tough suburban ghetto youth to massage their insecure egos as well as a means of furthering their hormonal pursuits. If these youth are the future, we are severely fucked. If these youth are the future, I'm pretty much ready to find a sturdy tree - unlike Gogo and Didi - tighten the noose and kick away the fucking chair.
Hell, maybe some nosy passerby with a camera phone could capture the sight of my dangling corpse and circulate it around the virtual universe to entertain the masses bored with repeats of their favorite TV show. Maybe some would catch a glimpse of my massive erection and would try like hell to repress necrophiliac desires for my cold dead schlong. Maybe some would recognize the tattoo on my left buttock of the Iron Lady with puckered luscious lips - if you didn't catch on, I would be stark naked (I mean what's the use of clothes when you're killing yourself) - and comment on the artistry of my buddy Pete's handiwork. Maybe a man of the cloth would say tsk tsk and tut tut, open the good book to say a prayer for a wretched soul, before telling little Timmy to drop his pants because the Lord has said he has been a naughty little boy. Maybe a woman somewhere, preparing for her wedding, sees the dangling corpse of her ex-lover, who killed himself because he could not bear a world without her. Maybe, just maybe, she might shed a tear. Maybe, just maybe, everything would rush back to her and she could feel something for the poor forgotten wretched soul. Maybe...
But, I don't think I have the gumption to hang myself. I've always been partial to the old Roman method - opened veins in a tub - or leave it to old reliable atrophy, accelerated by conscious complacency. But you can't have an awesome 15 second clip for either of those. A self-inflicted gunshot? Too messy. Plunging from a high rise? Too anonymous, too insignificant. A toaster in the bathtub? Might not work. Self-immolation? Far too melodramatic. Yes, the noose, baby, the noose. Nothing like it. Well, apart from a witch burning. There is nothing quite like a witch-burning. But a witch-burning can hardly be classified as suicide. Driving a car off the side of a cliff? Well, we have seen how ineffective that really is.
Well, you get the point. I see the world without illusions. A world without any illusions is a dark place, but surprisingly not humourless. Plus, I'm no longer interested in doing away with myself. My murderous intentions have become externalized - directed at a more worthy target.
Anyways, there was a unique way about how Elizabeth walks. She had a sensuous bounce that was accentuated with every step. But there was a definite softness to her steps, as if they belonged to a little girl. It was an odd combination. To be frank, I found her soft bouncy steps highly arousing. By the time she reached the swings again, I was ready to go. Of course, there was a lengthy exposition before the inevitable encounter.
