Musing: Marxism, Men, and Mice

OK, so I'm not writing anything about mice in this blog, but I felt compelled to include a third "m" for alliterative purposes. I want to make my writing super colorful and interesting, you know? Mice were what I thought of first. Especially next to "Men." Reminds me of Steinbeck's "Of Mice and Men," and also the time I went white water rafting in Tennessee and told my guide (he considered himself a true outdoorsman) that I was reading "East of Eden," and he said he really liked Steinbeck's "Men and Mice...." I wanted to hit him with my paddle, but figured that I should just hold my tongue. I did, albeit begrudgingly. So maybe "mice" is because of that, or maybe that means I just associate rodents with the letter "M." Or if you're Freud, maybe I grew up without a mother.

Anyway. A few days ago, my "knight in shining armor" (and by "knight" I mean short, corpulent redheaded Jewish leprechaun who sounds as if he suffers from Progeria) bestowed upon me a bouquet of irises and daisies, along with a card where he wrote Shakespeare's Sonnet 98. I have exchanged maybe three words with this fellow. While I love a pretty iris and a sonnet, I do not appreciate receiving it from someone who gleaned this information from my Facebook. I especially do not appreciate receiving it from Lucky the Leprechaun.

Anyway, he came up to me in his too-tight blue oxford, sweat stains increasing their radius exponentially with every step he took, and forcefully handed me the flowers with an emphatic thrust of his freckled arm. "HERE!" he said.

Taken aback, I gave Lucky a simpering smile, and said thank you. I had no idea what else to say; I was eating lunch with my friends and did not want to look back up at him.

Unfortunately, Lucky stayed. "Aren't you going to say HEY," he whined.

I looked to the ginger. I could see my reflection from the pool of sweat that collected on his upper lip. "Hey," I sighed.

He let out a nasaly chuckle. "Haha, I can only stay for five minutes, so--"

"OK," I interjected. Why was this necessary for him to disclose? For that matter, why was any of this necessary? The flowers, while pretty, creeped me the fuck out, and the fact that he knew my favorite sonnet made it that much worse. Although I had to give him credit. No one has ever really done that for me. Had he not looked like he had a pot of gold and carried four leafed clovers with him wherever he went, and not sounded like a five year old, perhaps I would have been more flattered. However, as with almost all men, he was just another disappointment.

Which brings me to my main point. Marx says that all history is the history of class struggles, but I have to say, I think all history is the history of men being disappointing. Think about it: King George disappointed the colonists, so they ousted him. Czar Nicholas II disappointed the Russians, so they got rid of him and his whole family. And let's not forget Jesus. The Jews didn't like him as their king, so he was out too. Even Jesus was a disappointment.

What am I looking for? Not Jesus, not Lucky, and, well, all I can think of is what I'm not interested in. I want to be challenged, but because I am apparently insecure about myself, I view almost all "challenges" as an attack and respond accordingly. By "accordingly," I act as a female praying mantis and rip the head off of my mate. Just kidding, I don't have mandibles. Maybe that's why I can't find anyone. My sense of humor is certainly "eccentric."

Moving on. I think my problem is that I hate confinement. I hate labels. I hate the term "boyfriend," I cannot stand being known as so-and-so's "girlfriend." I am not a possession, mind you. I have been told that I am half good, and half bad, and I don't know where my behavior in relationships does stand. Judging by past ones, I certainly have had a lasting effect on the people that I've dated, although I cannot say if the effect is positive or negative. I'm worried, slightly, that I drive people slightly insane when I date them. and I feel that with my self-destructive tendencies, and hot temper, I'm not necessarily the ideal "girlfriend."


Anyway, I have to go to work at the nursing home. Or so it seems. With all of the ancients carrying canes and riding Hoverrounds with their oxygen tanks, asking for more cantaloupe samples (they can only eat the melons because it doesn't bother their dentures) I feel as if I should be carrying a stethoscope and bottles of Ensure with me at all times. Wish me luck, as usual I have no patience.