Last week I had a column come out for the L’s "Sex Issue" that was supposed to be–and I say "supposed" because my grasp of effective satire is nebulous, I guess–a tongue-in-cheeky parody-type thing of every other female columnist for a New York City publication. Specifically, the fake "Sex and the City" column SJP writes for a fake paper on the television, and even more specifically, Amy Sohn, whom I’ve loathed since her days with the New York Press (along with most of the rest of New York, according to her bullshit fake-oh-look-how-many-people-hate-me web site, God I still hate her!). Or, more specifically, whose work I’ve loathed; I’m sure she’s a very nice person. Who writes insipid bullshit about human relationships that is so insipid that people like me are forced into the same category of insipidity by default. Which I resent, because I am insipid for entirely different reasons. Really complicated ones that you couldn’t possibly understand because I
am deep, OK? And I demonstrate my depth by sitting around in my parents
backyard crying. And also because for some unfathomable reason Amy Sohn makes a living and I write this crappy blog.
Anyway, this column was supposed to be a parody of sex/relationship columns the world ’round framing a rant about Dennis Kozlowski. Because I kept the political/current events crap in the last paragraph, some people actually read it this issue; or rather, some guys did.
And now every day I have been getting email from guys. Guys everywhere. Nice ones, don’t get me wrong, well, most of them at least–one asked me quite forcibly if he could have the column if I gave it up because he’s always wanted a column (who the fuck hasn’t?) and where should he apply? Which, congratulations, made me decide to keep writing it for the time being out of complete shallow vanity, oh hooray. Anyway, now I am getting mail from guys all day long because I guess they decided I was being sincere and since I wrote half-assedly about being single, making fun of the idea that nothing is more pathetic than being a single woman around 30 (see previous backyard espisode if you are not convinced), I guess they all figure I must be super-desperate and totally fair game. Nobody ever writes me when I write about Karl Rove.
I would like to come up with some sort of insight into all this, but the best I can do is that men love to approach women they perceive as desperate and pathetic, because then that whiff of desperation gives them the shot of confidence they need to ignore their crippling insecurities for two seconds (insecurities that are, let’s face it, probably deserved, as we are all hopelessly flawed in so many fantastic ways). One of my friends suggested recently that I should try to write short stories about human relationships but I fear they would all look kind of like this; or, worse, like some awful Amy Sohn column or, even worse, like one of the cringe-inspiring "the guy down the hall made out with me and then told all of his friends and never talked to me again" college-dorm chick-lit pieces of crap I enjoyed turning in in college to make all the rest of the people in my class realize how classy and pained I was.