Ground Control To Major Dumb


It’s hard to open with a reference from a show called Love because I was so proud to be toting my Kuomintang reference hat. The slump back down to girl who watches patchily scripted, yet idiosyncratically quaint Rom-Com TV carries some shame. Now I’m a sentient lump, probably cartoon-esque, but with big eyelashes like Henry The Hoover’s girlfriend. Definitely wide-eyed, because I need to find out if the characters fall in love. Definitely gullible, because shows called Love where nobody falls in love are totally how TV networks invest their money.

I’ll sleep in a white-painted bed with red pelmets and some kind of patterned throw, which will be symbolic of my drama queen flux. Teddy bears on its borders will overlook lipsticks and I will have many types. Matte. Glossy. Somewhere between the two. Probably a shade called Vixen, for when I want to show my wild side.

Considering I own one lipstick and the name faded so long ago, it has no name, this should give some indication of how much I use it. Beanie babies deck my headboard, but in a cool way. I like the way the flamingo and chicken’s legs “hang”. Also, I was the generation who bought these pieces of crap as an “investment”.

I’ve noticed something in TV shows. Actually, I’ve noticed something in life. It’s just better condensed in TV, and also television affords me the vicarious engagement of all my fleeting fancies without the real world- which is effectively dealing with morons, incompetent idiots, and dicks.

Since TV is more condensed and this very much isn’t, let’s pull from examples. The greats and the trash. Shows where the nerd ends up with the cute girl. Which, apparently, we haven’t grown tired of yet. If you find yourself near perfume counters in department stores and the sales assistant gently suggests anti-wrinkle serums, Friends. If you’re still watching Big Bang, I’m not judging you but… dude.

Either way.  They end up dating. Note how the girl will always roll her eyes in dismay at her boyfriend’s interests. They’re geeky. Nerdy. Too intellectual for her pretty little head. However. She must at some point “make an effort”.  At least show “some interest”.  We’re dating, after all. I’m not asking you to take your unused lipsticks and write witty reductions of ribonucleic acid’s representation of your desire to “get in my genes”. Just, you know. Come to a movie with me once in a while. About dinosaurs. Or the origins of robots. You owe me that much.

And she will. Because she owes him.

She gets a counter-argument, though. Whatever. I’ll come, but I’m doing this for you and anyway, this is completely unfair. You never show any interest in my stuff. Seriously. You don’t.

But sweetie, your stuff is synthetically produced liquids in a tube whose greatest achievement is annual revenue for L’Oreal. Your literature is Vogue magazine. It’s ok, though. I still love you.

Right there. He gets away with it. Every time. And the audience always sympathises with the guy. So I guess now I’m done waving sexually conservative flags on my quest to make the world’s riding of the egalitarian dick less lopsided,  I’m weaving a new one. Which isn’t going too well, because I think I just accidentally started waving the flag for dumb.

And now it’s too late to un-dig it.

So, basically, crap.

I’ll try my best. Dear men. All that shit we’re interested in, that doubles up as a prop for your inferiority complex? All the push-up bras. Bow details. Flower arrangements. Matte versus gloss. Contour versus highlight. High versus kitten. The 20,000 hours we’ll spend deciding whether the dress really does make our butt look big, or whether that actually died years ago and junk is in?

Yeah. We use that to make us look cute. I’m sorry, do you want to be banging the ugly girl?

Over and out.