Friday, July 22, 2005

Sour Grapes: My Plan for Achieving AF Fitness Standards

Lately, I've been doing a lot of running and weight lifting. I know what you assholes are thinking: "Did our girl get bitten by the fitness bug?" No, not quite. Turns out, I got attacked by a whole different creature altogether: the feelings' cockroach. Allow me to elaborate. Like most everything I do, my visitations to the various wooded trails within a 20-kilometer radius are based solely on selfishness, namely an attempt at mending my broken esteem, that wonderful feeling only a bout of rejection can bring into your life. This isn't your typical run of the mill affair gone bad; no, I fell like an anchor from a battleship for a college grad 2 years my junior, and in a hot minute to boot. I thought I was above this sissified sensitivity shit. I guess I was wrong.

Since the break-up, if you can even refer to it as such thus implying there was ever a meaningful relationship to begin with, I've been trying not to walk around with a mouth full of sour grapes. Upon further reflection, however, I ultimately chose a more drastic course of action to alleviate my negative feelings and resentment over the situation - all at his expense of course. As a side note, we had discussed friendship as a possible alternative, but having had lots of time to analyze some of his behavior and blatant fibbing, I no longer think this feat possible (and I'm sure he will adamantly agree should he ever be privy to this article). I can't say I blame him, but you read this magnum opus and decide for yourself:


"Things You Cannot Learn at Cornell"

- You cannot learn how to throw down like a real man. In fact, with each passing year you spend in this poetry reciting, coke snorting, blue blooded utopia, your ability to defend yourself will systematically dwindle, so much so that you may find yourself at a bar, take a fist to the face, yet tell everybody some drunk jackass of a sailor nailed the back of your bean with a sucker punch, although it is perfectly obvious by the mark near your eye that this is a claim not even President Clinton can substantiate. Furthermore, you should never bear children, especially sons. If you do, spare them the torture of being teased by NOT enrolling them in little league. Ten years from now, you'll be a fanny-pack wearing shit-bag who will no doubt sustain ass-beating after ass-beating at the football field by all the super dads who know what it means to be men.

- You cannot learn how to be an upstanding, forthright, or honest person. Yes, you can take all the pre-law and poly-sci classes that scholarships, student loans, and your parents' money can buy; you can even repeat noam chumsky excerpts verbatim, but it's still futile to deem those experiences from "[my] charismatic teacher who was on the Oprah Winfrey Show one time" as the creme de la creme of education. Why? First off, I could give a flying fuck about Oprah and her book club groupies as much as she gives two shits and a shake about healthy living and AIDS patients. It makes no difference that your psychology professor wrote a bestseller or bought an obscure Picasso - he is just another wine slurping ass clown with a nasaly voice and penchant for pre-ejaculation to go along with his crooked erection that slices a mean ninety degrees to the left.....oh, wait, you see my point then.

- You cannot learn how to be a productive citizen. Productivity and work ethic, much like the character building traits associated with leading an honest life, are not automatically realized immediately after receiving your 1600-point SAT score, nor are they gleaned from a textbook's innards. Let's face it; those of us in the real world are not blind to what really goes on in college. It is a rite of passage afforded to the very rich and/or the very bright, but mostly the affluent because nobody really gives a shit about all those smart kids living in the projects. Truth be told, some of the most hardworking people out there are janitors from third world countries cleaning up the 8-day old puke in your dorm for a whopping $5.55 an hour, and yet you don't see them walking around like somebody owes them a pat on the back for having stepped foot in such a pretentious, er, prestigious institution.

- You cannot learn how to be good in bed. No matter how many classes you take on the history of wine production, the strategies of beekeeping, or any other subject that a real man would never admit to studying "just for fun", you simply cannot learn how to be a fantastic fuck by these methods alone. Being a skilled lover requires months, if not years with one woman or several, and transcends memorization of the Kama Sutra, which only yuppies ever buy anyway. For starters, there is a certain way to move your hips, a certain speed; a certain manner for maneuvering from one position to the next. Above all, you have to drop your "I hate sex/must keep the lights off" act of prudence since the only thing worse than a lousy lay is a complete lack of enthusiasm, but I rest assured you already learned this in your studies of Lesbian Writers of France Circa 1928, or more likely during your jerk-circle congress over dick-on-dick porn.


Damn, I feel better already -- I cracked a bona fide smile for the first time in two weeks and it only got bigger since it came at the expense of a duplicitous jerk. Granted, I may never hear from Naughty again if he ever lays eyes on this article, but I don't suppose Ivy League graduates read anything other than Newsweek and Tolstoy. Besides, whatever would I do without a friend who treated me so poorly when he was a lover? In the meantime, I'm going to keep on running those trails and pumping iron. This feeling of rejection and, more than that, being deliberately lied to by a well educated, intelligent guy who has the nut sack of a 3-year old girl, pretty much makes me feel like a stupid blue-collar box of rocks. I'll run myself right out of this rejected state if it's the last thing I do; I'll run even to the point of achieving Air Force Fitness standards, but more importantly I'm going to keep a movin' and a shakin' until I run into a guy who doesn't have an Ivy League dimploma embedded in his ass.