The Douchebag Bible (30 page)

to suffer in the shadows. I want people to know that I’m in pain—

just like I want them to know when I’m angry or happy. I always

want everyone to share in my emotional state27.

The night my father died taught me a number of important

things. It taught me that I fart a lot under stress. It taught me that

I have a thick southern accent when I get really upset. It taught

me that no matter how full of life someone seems, they may be

close to death.

Most importantly, it taught me that life isn’t fair. We’re

told that all the time growing up. I couldn’t possibly count the

number of times I was told as a child that life isn’t fair—but I

didn’t really realize it until I was 23 and my father died before

ever even getting to wear the watch I bought him for Christmas.

Oh well. Life goes on. . . .

Until it doesn’t.

27 It is this trend in my behavior, more than anything else about me, that makes

writing vital to my existence. Plenty of people have told me that I lack talent, that

I have a tin ear for language—they act as though this means something or is

someone a point. I write because I can’t go through life without putting words

down.

Bitches Be Crazy

So there’s this girl. . . .

I wonder how many stories start that way. I’m betting that

most of the stories men tell start with some variation of those

words. Love stories start that way, hate stories start that way;

tales of everything from redemption to obsession start with “a

girl.”

Girls are capable of an intensity of emotions that most men

could never muster. Any man who has ever argued with a girl

knows this. Reason and logic are thrown out the window the

moment that a girl’s feelings are hurt.

Some will call these sentiments sexist, and rightfully so—

because they are. This has little bearing, however, on my subject

matter for this chapter. I have a little bit of a story to tell you, and

in telling you this story I hope to prove a point about gender and

about America. Failing that, I hope to amuse you with a tale of

obsessive behavior. Gather ‘round children and allow me to tell

you a story. It starts like this:

So there’s this girl named Gwen. That’s short for Gwendolyn but

that doesn’t really matter since Gwen is not her real name.

She’s an overweight teenage vegan who dreams of being

famous. She is straight edge28 but is considering quitting so that

she can do cocaine. She greets people by saying, “Wanna get a

28 Someone who doesn’t do drugs because they’re a pussy.

pizza and fuck?” Her mother is a lesbian social-worker. She is

obsessed with Vanilla Ice. She yells at people when they eat eggs

because it’s animal cruelty. She hates all the girls that like me

because they like me. She brings up interesting topics in passing

and then discusses boring ones at length. She frequently alludes

to fantasies wherein I have sex with my brother or my friend Cody

for her pleasure. She has Charles Manson eyes and gigantic tits.

She will IM me for hours solid even if I don’t IM her back even

once. She alternately tells me that she watches all my videos and

tells me that she’s only watched two or three of them. She thinks

the Columbine killers are cute. She thinks she’s a good person,

but she does not value human life. She hates me one day and loves

me the next.

She is unaware of most of these traits.

I’ve told her that she is a crazy bitch. I’ve called her dirt.

I’ve been as mean as possible to her. I’ve talked to her in ways that

would have driven some people to take a razor to their wrists—

and she’s taken no offense. Other days I have vaguely alluded, in

the politest possible term, to strange idiosyncrasies in her

personality and reduced her to tears and rage.

She asks me for advice at times. She is terrified of the

future. She doesn’t want to be an adult. She fears that it will be

more difficult to make friends, even though she has no friends.

She fears that adults don’t have enough sex, though she doesn’t

have any now. She’s essentially afraid that adulthood will be

different by being exactly the same.

When I was a kid only my gay uncle ever told me the truth

about being an adult. When I asked 99% of adults what it was like

to be a grown-up they’d tell me that it was awful and that I’d

better enjoy my childhood while it lasted. My gay uncle didn’t

bother with that smokescreen. “Being an adult is way better,” he

said. “You don’t have to put up with a bunch of people telling you

what to do all the time. You can sit around in your living room in

your underwear with a joint and a bowl of soup and no one gives

a fuck.”

So I essentially told Gwen the same thing, but for her it

seemed like a nightmare. I asked her then, “What are you afraid

of Gwen?” The following is her exact answer:

“Getting an obsession, not getting married, not having

anyone fall in love with me, spiders, having kids with worse

mental problems than me, being fat the rest of my life, not being

successful, my cat dying before me, never being "hot", my agent

(she scares the shit out of me), people who are really nice to me

to the point I don’t know if they’re real, being dependant on my

meds, not getting into college, and ketchup.”

It’s hard not to pity someone with so many fears. I felt a

tinge of sympathy for her. I have my moments of humanity29.

Then I began to wonder, “Do I even have the right to by

sympathetic?” I’m as obsessive as she is and I fear that no one will

ever love me. I’m scared of having kids even more fucked up then

me. I’m scared of not being successful. I worry about my sick dog.

29 Well, not really. But it makes for better writing.