They say eyes are the windows to the soul. What does that even mean? Most of the eyes I look into are dead. There’s no soul behind those eyes, no signs of intelligent life. The SETI Institute picks up more signs of intelligent life from across the universe than I encounter in the glassed-over vitreous orbs of the Bug Men that stare back at me.
There’s nothing as profoundly alienating as the blank, bug-eyed stare people give you when you interrupt them during one of their monologues. These people don’t want to talk with you. They want to talk at you. They want to tell you all about their dog, or why their car brakes were squeaking, or about the myriad of virile, young Italian soccer players that have been stalking them in their fertile age of 52.
Unmarried women should be forced to become nuns and hit little Catholic school kids on the fingers with rulers. That would prove a larger boon to society than a legal secretary or a medical office receptionist or whatever else these surplus women do with their miserable little lives. I don’t feel pity for them because they’re usually awful bitches deep down. You can tell when you try to correct one when she’s babbling on about something mundane. Correct some minute, inconsequential detail about her monologue. Go ahead, try it.
First, you’ll get the bug-eyed stare. That’s if they hear you in the first place. They forget they weren’t talking to their precious puppy, forget that you are a sentient being capable of transmitting complex forms of thought (hopefully), and are pulled out of their reverie by your sudden comment. Confusion strikes initially. Then irritation, frustration, and even anger manifest.
How dare you bring her back to reality? She’s childless, alone, and spends her nights with light romance novels and phallic vegetables. She must be allowed to live in Disneyland (she is a princess after all). Besides wine and Xanax, it’s her only coping mechanism. Your comment shatters the illusion, ushering her back into the cold, cold world. Now she hates you. She’ll make a snide, passive-aggressive comment. You won’t say anything back because you need to cheat off her test and don’t want her to start sitting on the other side of the lecture hall. You realize why nobody loves her and why nobody ever will.
I need to stop listening to people. I’m going to start charging for my time. They pay their psychiatrists and I’m essentially fulfilling the same function. What a terrible job. I do not envy the psychiatrist. Well, I envy his unlimited access to medication. Don’t take any of that shit, by the way. You won’t be able to hear the voices anymore.
The big question is how do we prevent ourselves from becoming like this woman in our own middle age? Smith & Wesson are always there for you if you feel yourself too far gone down that path, but there must be a more economical solution. Bullets are expensive. I suppose a vibrant social life in a multigenerational, homogenous rural community would do the trick. But that’s as unrealistic as these bug-eyed women not dying alone and incontinent in some godforsaken hospital bed.
I’ve longed hypothesized that neurodegenerative diseases like dementia are due to social alienation in old age. There’s some island in the Mediterranean where these types of diseases don’t seem to occur. Scientists haven’t quite been able to figure out how being surrounded by friends and family, eating and drinking well, and living on an island in the Mediterranean is good for health, however.
It seems the possibility of having this type of life grows ever smaller with each passing year. I’m making enough money where I have a roof over my head in a nice part of town and expensive eggs from Whole Foods. But it’s not fulfilling. Nothing ever is fulfilling. Not even chasing girls. The hunt is fun. But by some miracle when you manage to catch one you grow quickly tired of her. You’ll do everything you can to avoid having sex and dump her after a month or two.
I nearly went home with a co-worker last weekend. She was a pretty Russian girl, drunk out of her mind in traditional Russian fashion. Guys were buzzing around her like flies all night, buying her drinks and trying to make her laugh with lines they stole from some idiot comedian on Comedy Central. I walked by her and she called my name, anything to swat the flies away. I flirted with her, she with me. Her eyes were different: vast blue oceans of profound, immeasurable depth. Was this the fabled Russian spirit?
The only Russian word I know is пизда because that’s all Russians say when you’re wrestling. I could beat everyone in my BJJ class in college except the stout Russian guy from Kazakhstan and the instructor (also Russian). I’d last about fifteen seconds and find myself pinned under two hundred pounds of Slav. No escape. I would have my revenge with this girl. We weren’t going to have sex, we were going to wrestle and I was going to make her submit to America, to freedom, to capitalism.
Eye contact is the second hardest thing in the world. Eye contact with Russian women is the first. Their women are genetically engineered in Soviet labs to sniff out weakness. American men are faggots, she told me. I agreed. You don’t look American. I’m not, I lied. I made her guess what European country she thought I was from and she guessed Italy. Good enough.
She was married and all throughout the conversation her husband (an American faggot, she reassured me) was blowing up her phone with frantic, worried messages. Please respond. I guess green cards are hard to come by these days. She opened up the Uber application and sent for a ride home. Where do you live? I pointed to the left. She paused and embraced me and left the bar, left my life.