(In reference to how seriously fucked-up I am.)

I’m randomly surfing the web instead of doing what I’m supposed to be doing, and here I find The Hot Librarian which is, from what I have read thus far, a highly entertaining blog. It is amusing (in a car crash sort of way, or more likely, in a getting caught masturbating sort of way) to find her post about why a lot of guys find themselves in the Friend Zone™… which is that most women aren’t rude enough to tell you why you suck to your face.

Now I’ve thought this for quite some time now, although mostly it’s because I have major depression and also some serious self-esteem issues. When I’m in my saner moments, I try to console myself with the thought that there’s some other reason for why I always get rejected other than being fat, ugly, boring, and probably creepy. (That is the key turn-off right there—creepiness.)

On one hand, it’s nice to know that I’m not always delusional about being despised by women. On the other hand, well, I might as well give up, shave my head bald, and take a knife to my testicles. Tibet here I come. I’ve always wanted to be a Shaolin monk.

But it is interesting how the Hot Librarian alludes to the core matter: why some guys get these weird complexes that frequently lead to a lot of misogyny—by transferring blame from his own shortcomings to the women who despise him, a misogynist can feel justified in his mistreatment of women. And so the cycle of violence continues.

Now I’m not trying to blame the victim here—regardless of why misogyny develops, it doesn’t matter if you start violently beating up on people. That’s just plain wrong. But I can see why there is a lot of political and social tension locked up in this issue.

As a guy, you hear it all the time, really. I’ve been the guy-friend for so long now, I assume the role quite naturally and rather comfortably. I’ve given up on the keening pining, the lost nights of sleep, the missed meals, the sense of having your heart squished and mangled. It may be entertaining in the beginning, but in the end, it can be exhausting, so I tend to skip that part and meander straight into the Friend Zone™.

But even the level-headed, realistic women I’ve met will let it slip once or twice. They want a guy who is hot, and who knows how to fuck. And I suppose there is a lot of cultural baggage attached to just proclaiming that honestly. Most women are brainwashed into thinking that it’s not right for them to be expressing such things. But unfortunately, this socially-programmed dishonesty ends up sending a lot of mixed messages to guys who are more naiéve. (Yes, yes, I admit it. It is the guy’s fault for being such a putz and not knowing enough to untangle the social cues.)

There is a part of me that longs to be liked for who I am now. It grates that I will probably have to change my outward appearances in order to be liked. I mean, such is life and nature. Our most long range sense is, after all, vision, so it’s natural that outward appearances account for so much. And I guess it is true—some guys may think that while their outward appearance may be average or worse, there are a lot of good things about him underneath it all. If you take the Hot Librarian’s judgement at face-value, it seems that most guys who think this are wrong about that.

While looks can be deceiving, and all that is gold does not glitter, and all that, there is something to the idea that the outside tends to reflect the inside. You can tell by a person’s face if they are generally healthy or if they spend a lot of time smoking and boozing and even sleeping around. Sometimes just by looking in their eyes. And simply put, obesity suggests sloth. (Yes, yes, I know, there are evil things out there like McDonald’s and candy bars and potato chips, but I doubt someone is actually putting a gun to your head to eat these things. I shouldn’t be one to talk given my own lack of dietary vigilance, but, no matter how addicted you are to something, there will always be an element of personal responsibility. Even for the smack addict, despite the fact that heroin is one of the most addictive substances known to humanity—bested by probably only nicotine and glucose.) So I understand that you can’t just neglect your outward appearances.

But nevertheless, I think there would be fewer misunderstandings if women threw off the Puritanical chains of sexual circumspection. I mean, I don’t know anyone who doesn’t like a good orgasm. It’s your body, it’s your life. And it’ll get us creepy guys off your case, because we know when we don’t have what it takes in that department.

Yeah, most guys may think they can be romantic, they may delude themselves into thinking they’re sensitive and caring, that they’re spontaneous and fun. But most sane men know deep down inside that they may not look so hot. They will never admit it, certainly never to each other, but they keep it buried deep in their heart of hearts, trying to pretend it doesn’t matter when we all know it does.

I think the reason this happens is interesting (and rather convoluted.) Guys can’t use looking good as currency among other guys, unless they happen to be gay. No heterosexual male, no matter how non-homophobic he is, is going to tell another guy that he looks good, or that he doesn’t. This is in stark contrast to how women are able to treat each others appearances. Women will honestly (and sometimes quite brutally) critique each others looks, will give each other advice, will tell each other what makes them cute, what makes them look fat. Straight men are programmed never to do this sort of thing, even if some of us may be thinking it in the back of our heads. You know, like when you’re listening to your best bud describe this woman he met, and how he can’t get her to go out with her, and he doesn’t understand it, what is he doing wrong, and in the back of your head, you’re thinking, it’s ‘cuz your a fat and ugly slob, bro, but you can’t say anything like that because guys are not allowed to comment on other guy’s looks.

Now onto another topic: you know how they say that when you’ve hit bottom, at least you can’t go any lower? Well, I don’t think that’s true. Or, more likely, most people have no idea how deep that abyss actually goes. It’s the kind of hole that you can fall in and be dead before you hit the bottom because of the G-force. I’ve learned this in the past seven years: they can always hurt you more. So it kind of worries me that I’ve stopped feeling a damned thing these days. Oh, there have been rejections, but they are always expected, I always know it’s my fault, that I did something wrong, or I didn’t do something right, or I’m just an inadequate human being, and if I were a more optimistic person, I’d do something about it. I’d realize that I could change and be a better person.

Call it laziness, call it depression. I just can’t do it. I’m stuck.

There’s a truth to this whole process of life that I’ve known for quite some time now. It applies to individuals as well as to whole species and is in fact integral to evolution. The maxim for all life is this: Change or die. And since I can’t seem to change, there really is only one alternative.

Then again, it’s really hard to will yourself to die. You’ve got to be really suffering to hope for that. I think I’ve suffered some, but probably not quite that much, because I’ve never actually tried to kill myself. So I can’t imagine the magnitude of pain one must be experiencing in order to attempt suicide. (But I guess if the bottom is almost infinitely far, you can always fall pretty far no matter how high you climb up…) These days it’s more like this low-grade wearying misery, this grey, cold mist that clings to me as I try to muddle through each day. I can never seem to finish anything, and it’s all I can do to keep the most important things from falling to the wayside.

I feel like I’m just barely competent to perform my duties at work, and I frequently let my financial and personal matters spiral out of control.

Clearly this is not healthy.

So—to tie this all together—I guess I do think I’m a nice guy—who can’t get laid—but clearly I’ve got serious issues I need to tackle, things that I’ve been struggling with for several years now, making little-to-no headway, and that alone makes me pretty toxic to sane women, nevermind my outward appearances. Still, I suppose, like most things, it’s all about small victories. Like someone once told me, the medications don’t really make you happy, they just make you stop wanting to kill yourself, and I suppose there is some respite in this. I can at least dissect these issues one by one, and examine them dispassionately without growing hysterically disgusted with myself. This is who I am, and as horribly flawed as that is, if I can’t learn to love myself unconditionally, then how the hell do expect anyone else to love me?