I seem to attract a certain type of psycho, like moth to flame.
It goes something like this: boys crawling toward me, prostrate, talking about how they’re not worthy of my glorious time and attention. They scream and cry and reach for me and go, “Strong, smart woman! Fix me! Nurture me! Tell me what to do! FIX ME! LOVE ME! I worship you! WHAT? You don’t LIKE me? You can’t FIX me? I HATE you! I’m going to FUCKING KILL YOU!!”
I so know this script.
Do they believe that I have some sort of Life Secret that they don’t?
Do they believe I will act as some sort of big-hipped earth mother and pet away their woes (far, far, too many men with an interest in me are looking for absent mothers)?
Do they believe they can latch onto me and steal some of my spit and fire and hoard it for themselves?
Do they believe I’m a “fixer”?
Here’s the deal, boys: I don’t fix people. If you open up a conversation by trying to rip something out of me to bolster your own ego, your own fragile sense of self at the expense of mine, it’s not gonna go well. Been there, done that. I don’t take boys under my wing and baby them and raise them like fledgling chicks. I don’t believe you attach yourself to somebody and then figure out all of the things you’re going to “fix” about them. You’ve got the strength to get your shit together, or you don’t. And you work at it every damn day. And you don’t use people as crutches. You don’t steal other people’s souls cause you don’t have one. Period. The end. You’re a fucking adult. Figure out your damn life. Don’t try and steal mine.
I am not a self-help guru. I don’t know any more about life than you do.
So please, all you wonderful boys and borderline psychos out there, don’t grovel toward me like I’m the Female Jesus Christ. I know exactly what tomorrow’s flip side will be. Do not lay hold and scream, “FIX ME!” because the blood and guts on the floor when you’re done aren’t going to be mine.
Get your own shit together.
Feminism isn’t a fucking dating service.
