I found this on an old blog I wrote back in 2003. It made me laugh.
It has recently been brought to my attention that I might be a frat boy trapped in a woman’s body. I’m beginning to think that I was a boy who wished too hard for tits of his very own and was reincarnated as me.
This is a somewhat traumatic realization for a young woman to make in her prime dating years. Flip through every men’s magazine and you’ll see articles about how to “woo” the woman of your dreams or how to “wow” her with your style. They always mention the common misnomer that women are the ‘cleaner’ species. Emphasis on clean.
I am not. I live in an apartment that basically houses my fort of empty beer bottles, cases, and pizza boxes. I almost built a real fort today, but then I realized that not only would I be a frat boy, but I would be an assinine one at that (although some would argue that the noun frat boy assumes assininity). I had a volcano ashtray that was spewing ash all over my desk. My sink is overflowing with dishes and pots that used to hold whole wheat noodles and light margarine that now look like mac n’cheese. If it had smelled like mac n’cheese, I don’t think I’d be complaining as much.
Oh there’s more. My bookshelf is actually an empties holder. My books are mostly hidden in cracks and crevices in and around my bed rather than in the piece of furniture so aptly named. And, furniture? I have a futon and a bunch of silver outerspace themed pieces from the posh store IKEA (I’m sure you’ve never heard of it since it’s so exclusive).
The one luxury I have that probably indicates my feminity is my bed with the rose duvet and 1000 thread Egyptian Cotton sheets. Oh, and the fact that I drink Amstel Light. Of course, one could argue that a frat boy may be watching his weight so he can “score” with the “ladies”, but most of the frat boys I knew were hardcore Bud drinkers or Sam Adams guys. Granted, one could argue more that it’s because I lived in Boston, but we all know that the men in Boston are the perfect stereo-typical frat manchildren. Oh yes. And the cat. But most of the guys I knew in college had a cat of some sort and the cats were always named “My Butt” or “Godzilla” or “Action Cat” (oh wait, that’s mine) or something equally “hilarious” that they could yell out at parties.
I despise cooking. I’d rather sit on my balcony than pick up after myself. I do laundry once a month (that’s where I catch up on my spanish soap operas).
So despite this rather sad anti-domesticated side to me, I think that one should remember that I am indeed a beuatiful. No matter what they say. Words won’t bring me down.
Oh crap. Now I have to go to talk about my emotions. :’C