2001-08-10 - 4:50 p.m.
no more mr nice guy
yeah, so i'm back. still hanging on at work, trying to look productive until i can actually blaze.
i feel like i'm always waiting for something.
"never his mind on where he was. what he was doing."
thanks yoda, i needed that.
lemme tell ya something. i hate big pickup trucks. i think they're ridiculous vehicles that have no business on city streets.
i will, however make one exception. every day there is a huge (and i mean *huuuuuge*) black pickup parked in the lot outside work. i make an exceptions from hating this truck, because it is driven by an insufferably cute woman. even though she drives this behemoth *and* smokes (blargh!) she is damned cute.
i've got something for the bad girls.
not that i've ever really dated a "bad girl". not that i've dated much at all recently.
i might be tempted to say something here about nice guys finishing last, but i've decided not to refer to myself as a nice guy. i'm sick of the social cachet that that phrase carries. too many expectations, most of them false, or at least misleading.
also, i hereby vow never to be a doormat again.
once, in the year-long break between my contacts with K, i ran into her at a concert. i later told eRoommate that i'd seen her and how it brought back all of my feelings of anger, and bitterness, and just general frustration. he asked me how i dealt with all that.
"i bought her a beer".
no more mr nice guy. from now on, i'm just a guy. if someone judges that i'm nice, well and good. i'll try to be honest, and trustworthy (and most of the other crap from the boy scouts, except the bigoted homophobic bit), but i will no longer aspire to the moniker of "nice guy".
not that it really matters anyway.
last time i checked, there weren't any women lined up to judge my date-ability just now.
always back to the angst. i'm gonna be eighty, out golfing with my nephew (i hate golf, but then again, i don't have a nephew either), and i'll still be blathering on how a nice guy can't find any good women in the nursing home. how all the "bad girl" septuagenarians hang out with the sixty-five set.
there she goes, strutting across the parking lot, cigarette in hand.
time for me to skeddadle, kids. there's some microbrews in the beer fridge at home, and they're not going to drink themselves.