"No, I don't want no scrubs. A scrub is a guy who can't get no love from me. Hanging out the passenger side of his best friend's ride, trying to holler at me."
There are many things I don't pretend/hope never to know about the mysterious, elusive opposite sex, but the practice of Trifling is not among these. A Trifler, not unlike a Scrub, texts or calls at bizarre or seemingly unrelated intervals and makes plans he promptly breaks. You are left waiting--most often in a very cliched fashion by the phone with hair all done up and nails all filed--to be jerked around later, given noncommittal replies or fumbling "My bad's, what are you doing in the next twenty minutes?" kind of texts. This is Textbook Trifling. I know of no person who deserves such treatment based only on the external merit of his/her good heart and character, but at the same time the whole reason such beings are allowed to exist and walk around untouched or unscorned in this world is because we (I) want them. I enable because I need. It's deeply fatalistic, pursuing a Trifler, yet I find myself fuming while still buying push-up bras or clearing weekends on the offchance I could be...summoned. We ask for all of this and then complain when it happens, and that's how sexism is probably best perpetuated.
Last night talked about Hume, sex and biological tendencies at length with a bunch of girlfriends over a handle of Captain Morgan. Now, have to go to work. Have resolved to spend the rest of this week working, hanging with family, recording songs, writing, working out, reading The Lord of the Rings Trilogy and living a double life that demerits instantly all the previous good intentions--ruthlessly struggling for power via text message with people who likely won't find these "ambitions" interesting. And I'm not even upset about it, I'm just sort of mildly bewildered, when I stop to think. I think.
Pet Names (Before I Forget): Rude Gus, Boba Fet
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