mahiwaga

I don’t know why I’m thinking about this now. I suppose I am reacting mostly to this blog entry by a 4th year medical student somewhere out in the Midwest discussing his current situation vis-a-vis women (in general, as a demographic constituency, rather than specifically.)

I am also, I suppose, reacting to a very morose and excruciatingly painful journal entry I wrote almost 6 years ago when I was submerged in the abyssmal depths of horrific major depression. (I think I will hold off on posting the actual text until some time I’m feeling a little a lot more masochistic. In some ways it is actually quite entertaining—the way mindless violence and gore can be entertaining—and if I don’t say so myself, I think it’s actually pretty decent writing.)

The thing about me that is verging on frank pathology (that is, if it hasn’t already crossed that particular line) is that I haven’t had a date in about ten years. (At least a date where both parties involved realized that it was in fact a date. Never you mind the details.)

Now, sure, there are real forty year old virgin men out there, and I am not one of them, mainly because I am not forty, but also because I am (perhaps surprisingly) not a virgin. Although I tend to think of myself as a born-again virgin. I mean, ten years of involuntary celibacy has got to be some sort of painful torture to the average 20-something male, and I wouldn’t be surprised if it doesn’t manifest itself as severe psychologic damage. (OK, so maybe it already has.)

The other thing that got me thinking along these somewhat macabre lines are two superficially unconnected things I watched (partially) on TV last night. One was that Ashton Kutcher and Amy Smart movie “The Butterfly Effect” of which I could only stand about ten minutes of before I wanted to inflict self-harm. I mean, I know it’s a bad movie, but I thought the premise was fascinating. Alas, the badness of the movie proved to be too daunting to overcome. But, for those of you who have had the fortune of avoiding the mere mention of this movie, it is about this guy with apparently magical powers to travel back in time and change events in a sort-of Quantum Leap-ish kind of way. (He basically jumps back into his own body at various points in the timeline, instead of possessing other people’s bodies like how Scott Bakula would do it.) Naturally, (much like Homer Simpson’s misadventures with a time travelling toaster) Ashton Kutcher manages to screw things up badly every time he jumps back. (Again, I couldn’t make it past ten minutes, so I really don’t know how it ends.) Amy Smart’s character is basically the person whom Ashton Kutcher’s character seems to revolve around, and sadly, he seems to be forever screwing up her life (particularly by getting her killed). Apparently (I gleaned this from reading spoilers in Wikipedia) he eventually saves her by taking himself out of her life forever.

The other was the season finale of “The Family Guy,” which, among other things, involves Stewie meeting his future self, who happens to be a 35 year old virgin working retail at a Radio Shack-like store.

Sure, the time travelling concept has always enamored me, but the weird connections between “The Butterfly Effect” and “The Family Guy” episode are as follows: (1) time travel (as already noted) (2) there seems to be a theme of pedophilia—Amy Smart’s character gets molested by her father, and there is a scene where Stewie wakes up in Hell, which is a cheap and tawdry hotel room. Steve Allen shows up and takes off his shirt as he says “Let’s do this,” leaving Stewie screaming in horror. (3) there are actors from “That ‘70’s Show” in both—Ashton Kutcher in “The Butterfly Effect” and Mila Kunis in “The Family Guy”

Anyway, back to 35 year old virgins. I mean, in all honesty, it really isn’t the sex. I could certainly buy it if I really needed it. It’s simply the fact that I haven’t had a healthy relationship with a woman in a long time.

I suppose, though, that in some ways, this is an effective defense mechanism. I seem to have the penchant for women who are either high-maintenance or high-drama, or both, and, given the fragility of my self-esteem, this behavior surely puts me in the candidacy for the Darwin Award. So it’s probably for the best that I haven’t thrown myself into the fire. A man could do far worse than having platonic female friends, I suppose.

But I don’t know. It just seems emblematic of something deficient within me. Something I lack. Something that makes me feel less than human.

As I rapidly approach the completion of my thirtieth revolution around this rather unremarkable yellow star we call the Sun, I can’t help that I have become some kind of aberration.

I can’t help but feel like there is some line that, once crossed, precludes returning to the realm of normalcy. (And I don’t know why I am obsessed with normalcy. Who needs it? It’s all bullshit anyway.)

OK, OK, maybe I have crossed that particular line a long time ago.

So I’m a weirdo. No one’s perfect.