Posted 1 month ago
32 Notes
The Problem with Women
The problem with women is that they’re all so fucking different. You can keep trying to fit them into boxes, and cram them into stereotypes, but in the end it’s fucking hopeless—They’re always going to surprise you. You can take what you learn from one woman and try to apply it to the next, but it rarely works out that way. Instead of finding yourself with just another woman, you find yourself with a whole other woman, and she’s all different, and you’re just at square one again.
You have a couple of choices, even if you don’t really get to choose. A.) You can fall for them all at once, or B.) It can build inside you until it bursts like a dam, and then you can fall, which is maybe easier because then you’re falling into water, but maybe it’s harder because I mean there was like a town down there called “Friendship” and now the water from the dam bursting has washed it all away, and if this doesn’t work out, can that town be rebuilt, you guys? I mean, damn it, maybe the problem was building this dam here in the first place, so close to this other stuff.
And you can let her change you, you can let her make you better. But then what happens if you break up? Then do you just go back to being the lesser version of you? What happens if you don’t break up and you just wake up one day and you love her because you love her, and because you love her you let her change you into her, but now maybe you don’t like you anymore. I don’t know.
You can even begin to feel comfortable in your “type,” in the sort of girl you find yourself attracted to. You can chase the girls that look like the celebrity you were into when you were twelve, you can continue to clamber over the girls who remind you of college seminars and Radiohead listening parties, you can swoon over the girl who reminds you of all your exes, and you can shrug off the girl who’s “just not your type.” You can do all of that, but then in an instant the girl who’s just not your type can flash you a smile in a new way, or tell a joke in a funnier way, or reveal a piece of herself that matches a piece of yourself and it’s like I DON’T EVEN HAVE A TYPE ANYMORE, WHERE AM I, WHY IS THIS GRASS SO TALL, WHERE DID ALL THESE WEEDS COME FROM, ETC, MOTHERFUCKING, SOFTWARE ETC.
Why can’t they—THE WOMEN—why can’t they all be the same? I did this before, I can do this again—I mean, I could do this again if they were all the same. But instead they’re all new puzzles—or worse—they’re not even puzzles, or objects, but actual human beings, with individual experiences and personalities so that they can’t be boiled down in generalities or won over by practicing the rules to a game you read in a book by a douchebag. At the least, they’re a girl version of you—a slightly softer, slightly more fuller-chested version of you—AND FUCK, MAN, you’re just starting to even have the slightest grasp on understanding you. How are you supposed to begin to understand something that’s like you, only slightly more delicate, slightly more complicated, and infinitely better at everything, besides maybe lifting a couch?
In the end, they’re people. Women are people, just like men, only more interesting. And probably you can’t ever really get a real good grasp on them, but maybe that’s the fun part. Or maybe that’s my downfall, I don’t know, it’s still a little too early to tell.



