For me, all girls are the same.
It’s been like that since I can remember. I could never understand the meaning of the phrase “No, this one is different”, when all of them seem similar to me.
I’ve already tried to comprehend, study or research about the modus operandi of the central nervous system of this common species, known has women. I do want to understand the difference between them, but all the facts that I gathered, point and prove the premise that I had established for so long: different on the outside, but in the inside the fundament is the same, even when some paths are quite interesting, I’m always driven to this same conclusion.
At least, in my 22 years of living, I could find a way to objectively differentiate some girls… well, I can say when one is pretty or not, hot and even if they have personality or lack of it. And of course I could find someone attractive and interesting enough to start dating, but in the end, it all becomes… indifferent.
I’m in my fourth year of med school, with other 200 students, and I’m yet to find someone who leaves their imprint. Someone that fires my heart rate, as if they would’ve stumbled on my aorta cross, leaving their footprint.
I’ve started thinking that the problem could be mine, but my blue eyes have earned me some nice nights, but it’s just that… a night. Maybe it is just me that is nonchalant about a love life. But I’ve been trying. I swear. I am not one to just go to bed with someone, because they’re pretty or hot. I like to have a conversation first.
I have to find them interesting and I try to find the difference, but there is no denying on how girls are becoming so vulgar these days. Let me explain…
The first ones, and personal favorites, I like to call “Clotherectics”: the ones that, when they look at the mirror, are kind like the anorectics, but instead of seeing fat where it doesn’t exist, they see clothes (let me just say that fat is often present).
They seem to find that their reflection shows a lack of skin, so they change from the mini skirt to the micro skirt, but… even then they feel like there’s a lot of coverage and they’re only happy when wearing the nano skirt and I can see just a tip… of their uterus. I’m almost sure that they can’t read or count, because if they could, they’d probably identify the sign that says “Adult” and not “child” in cloth stores and would find clothes with different sizes from “9-10 years”… well at least they can count until ten. I’m saying this, because I’m sure they all buy clothes in the child’s section. That’s the only explanation I can find.
And what about their personality? Well, I do not know. When I see their figure I won’t even let them open their mouths and talk to me. A girl who thinks that has to dress like that to attract a boy, needs to work first in their self-esteem. I hope that one day they’ll understand that’s not attractive or interesting at all, I mean, all of it is already exposed… there’s nothing left to imagine and explore.
Next come the “tomboys”. Let’s see, I don’t want to hurt feelings or else and I’m not against liking who we are and what we look like. I’m all for it actually… but everything has a limit! Because the girls that I include in this group like beard… and not in men… if you know what I mean.
When I see them, I have this prompt need to buy a jar of wax and say “girl, wax; wax, girl”, so they can meet for the first time. I even think that they pee standing better than me… and even I start to want to pee sitting down. I can’t achieve a conclusion about their personalities, because when they talk I can only notice how theirs Adam’s apples are more prominent than mine and hear the testosterone reflected in their voices, making me shiver and my spermatic chord retract so much that I start to think maybe I’m gay.
The next group I call “The offsets”. Remember the girl in the corner of the bar? The one with her hands in the pockets, sometimes moving just the head in the rhythm of the music and that look like the bar is the last place they’re comfortable in and want to flee? Yes, that’s the one.
They are completely dislocated from their natural habitat… just like a lizard living in the North Pole.
Some of them are pretty and all, but the expression, as if their suffering from bowl pain draws all the attractiveness. When you approach them, you have to make an effort to remember what you see in BBC wildlife. You need to be careful and soft. Any brusque movement and you’ll start to see the pouring sweat, the tense neck muscles, the jumping carotid and the hard breathing. At that time, when they see you are making a move, the adrenaline will kick in and they’ll be responding with a “fight or flight” reaction… either you’ll be leaving with a black eye or she’ll be running for the hills, and someone will call the police, because you’ll, certainly, look like a stalker.
I mean, I’m attractive, but I’m not Brad Pitt or something.
The next group I’m about to describe doesn’t have a name, but I refer to them as “teen stupidity”.
Everyone can guess the age of the members, can’t they? First thing, I would like to know, how is it possible, that the parents of these 13 and 14 year old children, let them go out at night… but we all know that the progenitors have been loosing, from generation to generation, their figure as authority. But, well… they’re funny to see.
They don’t even understand their ridiculous figure when they enter the bar half-naked (I say half, because the child’s section still fits) and with bras, evidently filled with cotton, so much that one breast is pointing to China and the other to Brazil. They apply a layer of make-up, thinking that would make them seem older, but let’s be honest, it just seems like they rubbed robbialac paint on the face, with a brush. I laugh really hard at the way they walk in those high heels, like they’re practicing equilibrium in a balance rope.
The peak of my night is when they try to make a move on me. They gently pass through me, light touching, so they can apologize next, claiming it was an accident. My only instinct is to tease them more. I’ll buy them a drink, which they hold high, so that everyone can see that they’re drinking, while the other hand holds a cigarette, as they continue to talk to me, trying to hold back the cough and tears caused by the smoke. I never pay attention to conversation… I’m really trying not to laugh out loud, until I can’t hold it anymore.
At that time I just say it’s after midnight and they should be in bed. They act really insulted, saying that they’re 18 years old and try to leave me there, as quickly as they can, but the heels are a bitch. And, again, I laugh. Laugh to avoid crying and thinking that this is our future society.
And last, but not least, there’s the group of the normal. The ones that go out at night to escape from day stress, but with whom you could easily initiate a conversation in any other place besides a bar.
They’re the ones that don’t overproduce themselves to attract a boy and, because of that, their features are more delicate and endearing.
There’s something interesting that catches your attention and you want to meet them again, so you ask for their number to grab a coffee again. The ones you feel like talking about goals and the future and even surprise you with their structured opinions. You start to feel they’re special; you’re attracted to them and you consider having a relationship.
I’ve met, in my whole life, three girls like that. I’ve thought that, each one of them was “the one”, but the initial physical attractiveness passes and I feel no emotion. It’s not that I don’t care for them anymore. I’m still fond of them, but they seem happy with the routine and the talks become lesser and lesser. You miss passion and the initial flame that burnt your insides with desire has extinguished.
Everyone has flaws… but you would want to mold to theirs with no effort. You would even think those are the characteristics that made them different… the perfections of their personality. I can’t classify what I feel. I just know that I feel empty, when I should feel complete. They’re fulfilled with the ordinary, when you want the extraordinary.
And I know that’s not their fault.
Ordinary, common, normal, extraordinary, different… they’re just words, and words are relative. To other’s eyes, my relation will be ordinary, but it’s in my eyes that should exceed expectations… or I would hope that. I’ve accepted that I’ve been idealizing the perfect relationship and that my expectations are too high… or I’m just stupid.
My only conclusion is that my brain cannot accept the meaning of different applied to girls.
Why? Because it's unscientific, illogical, inconsistent. Because I know that people are different because of their genes and not because the way you feel about them. Because reason won't let me.
Reason... some call it a gift. I even think like that, but deep down I known it'll be my curse.
But I’ve settled with that.
Until I’ve met her.