This was the introduction to my earliest surviving diary from five years ago (I have a habit of burning any and all of my old writing and art if I feel like it’s not a representation of the best of the best. It satisfies my pyromaniacal urges and cleans out the clutter for a fresh start). I have a feeling that this says a lot more about me than I care to disclose.

“At first glance, from far away, I look like a deranged librarian – Hair disheveled, eyeglasses askew. I appear fiercely intelligent, yet socially unapproachable. This is the mas that does not exist. This is disguised femininity. This is the only thing that allows me a bit of dignity in the wasteland of humanity. This is the thing that keeps the whistles and the jeers at bay. Otherwise I feel as though I have nothing to protect me but sheer force of will. Or seclusion and booze. But I’ve already tried that once, and I wound up masturbating. You see, I am in an odd position, and I don’t mean the scissor hold or any other so-called bedroom acrobatics. I mean to keep prying eyes away in order to assess and claim my only true worth in this wasteland of humanity. I am strong and strong-willed. I own my sexuality. I own my mind, my soul, my heart as well. For this reason, I cannot let the general population see merely the blonde hair and the curvy body. Women have on e and only one currency at their disposal in the corner of geography where I have landed. And that is sex. Even if it’s just for the sacred institution of popping out children. Their, and our, worth is established by their resemblance either to a pinup, or how much the woman claims to love Jesus. Sometimes both… usually both. Anything else about her that cannot be used for cheap labor (such as with, wisdom, creativity, knowledge, strength) are ignored or used as bonus points on some sadistic wifey checklist. She is, for all intents and purposes, a walking vagina/uterus combination who “sangs purrdy” in the church choir. I see this in the eyes of eery attention-whoring female wearing cheap Wal-Mart t shirts emblazoned with the words “sexy” or “sweet like chocolate”, calloused tan hands dug deep into the pants of her boyfriend-of-the-week. I see this in the glazed-over expressions of young mothers who gave up all semblance of personality in favor of trading baby stories and coupons for diapers. It’s all some game to them: sex, marriage, the very act of snagging a man and continuing the cycle of life. But what kind of life is this? And this godamn pasttime isn’t even done well, for all prospect of romance is rooted in mere praise for the woman’s body. I cannot do this. It breaks my heart just to watch. I know that I and we posses something more. So I put on the disguise and draw the curtains. I lead a double life. I lead a double life. I hide behind long skirts and disheveled hair so people will leave me the fuck alone. But, behind those curtains, is something far more hedonistic and exciting and deviant than any of those desperate attempts at sexy I see on the street. It is real. It is perverted and pleasure-seeking. But, it’s not advertised, so it sits below the radar.

And it is not the fault of the men any more than the women. If shallow transparencies weren’t the order of the day, I wouldn’t have to keep up this ruse. But, for some reason, the game leads to the final conclusion of some sorority mentality – the sluttiest girl wins! All the while, the prize of the game is just the next round, and the next round leads to emptiness and eventually a murder-suicide. I just want no part in it. I am not sucked into their social and faked sexual atmosphere. I refuse to show and tell, but the things I do behind closed doors would make the seediest pornographer blush. I have the freedom away from prying eyes to become a raging sexual dynamo, seducing with something deeper than just a pretty face and a willing body. The best part is, no one but my lovers are the wiser. Everyone leaves me alone because they think that by not playing the game that I am a genderless asexual freak. I am excluded from the drinking games and necking in the corner. I have grown my heart, soul, body and mind so as to become a real person. And if I so choose, a real lover instead of an object. No one thinks to ask me when I am going to settle down and share in the joys of mindless domesticity. I am not one of the giggling girlfriends in the entourage of beer-guzzling adolescent jerks who cannot form a coherent sentence with their penises erect. What I have scares the pants off of the over-compensating majority. I have a chance for real human connection, and I will only combine souls with a man who sees the beautiful creature that I truly am. I exist outside the nerver-ending hodown. I am invisible because I am truly passionate. My heart is pure, my intentions are just. My VD tests are completely clean. I am a complete person and becoming stronger and smarter and more intimidating by the day. My flame cannot be extinguished, for the smoke clouds the vision of all those who would seek to tie me down in the stereotype of the helpless female. I am actually anything but helpless. I am labeled unsexy and therefore unmolested except by those who choose to look deeper. So I may look a fright: crazy hair, minimal makeup, deranged expression, but I am truly, truly free.

I’d always seen this phrase on hipster t-shirts, and chuckled to myself upon reading it, because it sounded like an oxymoron. The stereotype always goes that the guy or girl that goes after books instead of looks is always destined to remain a virgin forever and die alone in their parents’ basement. But, I’m beginning to wonder if maybe it might be at least partially true, in an overly-complicated way. Involving math and other smartypants things.

This thought occurred to me recently after reading something that my ex’s current girlfriend wrote at the beginning of their relationship. She kept gushing about how he seemed to know everything about her, and could almost read her mind. She saw this as some sort of emotional depth, that she couldn’t wait to know more about herself through his eyes. It sounded very famiiar to me, but was the opposite of my own experience with this particular guy. When we were together, I was the one that amazed him by seeming to read his mind, and he would hang on every word I said. He made no secret about the fact that he would read everything I wrote and act like some sort of sexual detective. It threw him for a loop, as he was usually the one so in charge of his own emotions. But yet I seemed to be able to break him down in no-time flat, with little to no effort. In fact, the breaking down of his aloof veneer unhinged him so much that he got to the point where he would only ask me questions during conversation, and change the subject when turned the questions back around on him. He was trying to remain mysterious around me, but at the same time get to the heart of who I was. We were two enigmas trying to unlock the secret of one another, but on my side I didn’t break. I thought it was very amusing that something that I found sort of irritating about the guy was probably the one thing that reeled this girl into a deeper relationship. He is smart, but the right kind of smart, and therefore it makes him sexy to others.

Everyone knows that dateability is based on certain factors, of things that a potential boyfriend or girlfriend can bring to the relationship. Looks are one part, but there’s also emotional maturity and compatibility. Interests, skills, creativity, spontaneity. Those aren’t necessarily things you can learn from reading a book about physics. But, what if that doesn’t really make a person smart, after all? Smart is the ability to solve problems and learn, not just regurgitate facts. A person who is smart, at least the right kind of smart, can improvise and deal with situations very easily. Smart people are interesting, because they know at least a little about a lot of things, and probably have lots of interesting stories. And, smart people are good at experimenting, and that’s something that probably, at least in my experience, makes them very good sexual and romantic partners.

But, at the same time, that only seems to hold true for other smart people. Non-intellectuals, even those that aren’t “dumb” by any stretch of the imagination, seem to see intellectuals as one of two flavors: boring, or crazy. So, in that regard, smart is sexy, but only to other smart people. So, maybe all of these stereotypical forever-virgins need nothing more than to start picking up dates at the library. It might do them a world of good, to be able to flex their brainy muscles in front of their peers.

Favorite quote of the day, from Stephen Colbert: “And, most importantly, DO NOT USE GLITTER. Okay, that is good thinking, because glitter can be a real mess. You spill that stuff, it’s impossible to clean up. Total. Disaster. And God forbid that it get on any wildlife. There is no sadder sight than a glitter-soaked pelican. I myself had and accident at a craft fair in 1998 and I still have a bad case of the disco lung”.

Something I should file under the “introspective realizations” category: I don’t make friends. No, I really don’t. I don’t make casual acquaintances, or people to hang out with. My guardian angel instincts dictate that the people that come into my sphere of influence embark on a full-fledged emotional relationship with me. That makes me wonder: what the hell is it about me that keeps me invisible socially, but causes the people who are closest to me to fall in love? I’ve been struggling with the fact that I’m invisible for most of my adulthood, but now that I know some of the story with that phenomenon, I still just don’t get it.