He says, “All due respect but those boobs,” then a hearts-for-eyes-smiley-face, and then two hands clapping.
He says, “Older women help me fulfill my total potential.”
When I am offended, he says, “Well, it’s just the facts, you are older.”
I read it with violent intonation. I read it like it’s new information.
You ARE older. YOU are older. You are OLDER.
He waits for a response not knowing that I am already bored with this, doesn’t understand that I am turned off by his selfishness; he has never even thought to ask himself what it is that he offers me, them, us.
It is nothing. He offers me nothing. He is without an offering.
Why am I always expected to provide, to be something, to give of my body and my mind. Smile for them. Make them laugh. Show them your body. Give them everything they want. Be kind. Be pleasant. Be a thing worthy of their idiotic conversation, their tedious ill-thought out plan.
Have they even considered that they are unloveable, unlikeable?
Why is being alive enough? Why is existing and being attractive a thing? Why are the numbers of people who cannot think a thing through so large?
I know there is a bitterness spreading in me, growing slowly, insidious, like ivy on my heart. I’m thinking about learning math instead of men. I’m thinking I could be happy without kissing if I had something interesting to turn to. I wonder if I could write jokes about numbers. I wonder if I could turn this bitterness into a formula.
I’m thinking thinking thinking why does no one ever worry about my full potential?