God’s Gift

Last Season at Edinburg Stadium

I never understood my fellow man’s constant need of hitting on women. In high school, while most of my friends were trying to get laid, I spent my time perfecting my humanistic qualities. That’s not to say, I didn’t notice girls my age. I did. They were remarkable creatures filled with so much emotion that it made it hard for me not to notice them. That’s not to say guys aren’t emotional creatures – they are; society, however, instructs them otherwise.

A guy who attempts on expressing emotion is often labeled queer, gay, a faggot, a homo, a sissy, etc. They’re mocked and bashed for it. And while I’ll never understand why – often time, the only emotion I truly grasp is confusion – society functions better this way. Still, I don’t understand guys’ constant need of hitting on women.

Late last week, two of my morning crew members decided to up and quit. They disagreed with how we were running things – i.e. their pay. Both were replaced by a newbie. While this new guy is a great worker, his priorities are skewed. If a pretty girl were – say – appear underneath a tree by the bar, typing away on her laptop while her son was out on the field with a university baseball player, he will drop his responsibilities and focus all his attention on picking her up. Of course, assuming that is her son out on the field with the university baseball player, and that ring on her finger is her wedding band, we can draw to the conclusion that, rather than being – possibly – flattered by his verbal assault of what he’d like to do with her, she’ll probably find him – well – annoying.

The same thing happened when he first came to us and the blonde in spandex pants – I’m not really sure if they were spandex, but was told they were (and it makes the story slightly more interesting, don’t you think?) – appeared in the exact spot laptop girl appeared today. He spent about an hour sweeping the same spot, I kid you not. Yesterday, a receptionist was present in the front office when they were signing him out. It caused me to state, “No flirting with the receptionist, please.” And today, A. also fell victim – if you can call it victimization – to his pathetic attempt of flirtatiousness.

I gotta say, though, if I understood the need to pick up as many women as possible, I’d probably attempt it myself (but humans – for the most part – disgust me, so this could never truly work out).

Another thing I realized I’m terrible at is talking about women around guys. I’m terrible. When they’re going on about how great certain assets of a female’s body are, I’m the person who comments on her hair – which, if you’re not the person commenting on the hair comes off as either homosexual (sorry for the stereotype here, gays guys) or a serial killer (yup, again, sorry).  And I always fear that, when talking with the fairer sex, my communication will come off as flirting – which it has been mistaken for in the past. (Let me break off here in order to note that I do flirt, but not because I want to bag some “fine ass honey.” Flirting, I’ve noticed, isn’t just a way to get into somebody’s pants, it’s also a way to get something you need – in a nonsexual way, of course. People who feel flattered are more inclined to listen, to provide services – again, nonsexual – or get you free stuff.)

Okay, before people start calling on my bullshit – I do happen to notice when a woman is – for the lack of a better phrase – well-endowed, beautiful, drop-dead gorgeous, fine, stunning, sexy…well, you get the point. After all, I am human. But all those “assets” hold a time-limit. Sooner or later, gravity will do its work and not matter how advance cosmetic surgery is, it will never win the battle against nature, so give it up. What matters to me is a woman’s ability to keep me interested in what she has to say. Because life bores me. This world is filled with superficial beauty that it irks me. I love communication, arts – in short, a woman with a brain.

Well, that and an ability to make me feel – well – normal. Lucky I’ve already found that someone, hu?

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