textfiles/magazines/IBFT/ibft025.txt

_____________________________________________________________________________
---------------------------- I Bleed for This? ------------------------------
------11.26.94-----------------------------------------------------#025------

                         /Mode #IBFT -o+b Danielle
                              by Jason Farnon

I do not even know where this is going as everything right now is just a
massive blur of anger and frustration, but I will try my best to convey my
experience to the IBFT readership.  I had what some might call a blind date,
but it was more of a blind date set up by the technology of the nineties.  I
wish my date was blind in the physical sense of the word, but unfortunately
she was just plain ignorant.

Being the lonely chap I am, I decided to waste away on IRC hunting for meat.
Jumping from channel to channel I pass the time away harassing minority
groups.  Once in a while I list all the people logged in from my university
and try to talk to them.  This time I ran across someone with the nickname
'Danielle'.  She was using an account of a friend of mine.  My first guess
was that my friend was impersonating a female to see how far he could get
with a loser like me, but it turns out that he just let her use his account.
Fair enough.  We got to talking and eventually she called me up on the phone.

I spoke to her for a about twenty minutes, always on the defense.  Eventually
I let my solitude get the best of me, and I did let my guard down a bit.  She
did seem a bit like a bimbo but was better than nothing.  And I was bored.
She had just gotten a nose ring and was really into fashion.  She listened to
rap and hip-hop, but also listened to alternative bands like 'Green Day'.
She also thought that 'everyone was ugly except her.' I should have realized
then what I was in for.  But I thought a girl with that much self confidence
is worth meeting.  Most girls are really down on themselves, so when one
really thinks so much of herself, she might be an interesting character.
Again, I should have known better.

We decided to meet in front of a Subway Shop at around 6:30 the same evening.
I don't know if it seemed promising, but it was better than doing nothing.  I
guess I have some stereo-typical assumption that it takes some kind of
intelligence to use a computer.  That people who have access to the net don't
have big hair.  I'm not sure where this ideology came from, but it was
quickly put to rest.

She was not at all what I expected.  But it's okay, because I hardly have a
hang-up on appearances.  As long as all the vital organs are intact, i'm a
happy guy.  She was Italian, and a bit taller than me.  It was cold outside,
yet she was wearing very short shorts, and stockings that went above her
knee, but never reached her shorts.  I guess she was making some kind of
fashion statement.  *shrug* I am too much of a white male.  She was also
wearing these shoes that looked very uncomfortable, and I asked her why she
would want to make herself suffer.  She replied that they were fashionable
and that they really were not uncomfortable.  I shrugged and went about my
simpleton ways.

The remainder of the evening was spent walking.  Walking is what I do, and
it's what I made her do too.  It was also pretty hilarious listening her whine
about her painful shoes the whole time.  When I chastised her for being a
slave to fashion, she said that her shoes really didn't hurt.  At the same
time, every few blocks, she managed to get a complain in about the distance
we were walking.

We first went over to Mrs. Fields at Fannuel Hall, because she wanted a Coke.
I ended up buying some shit cookies or something.  She commented on how some
woman was 'tacky'.  The woman had long blonde hair and was wearing tights and
pumps, obviously a faux pas to the fashion elite.  I made Danielle follow the
blonde woman with me, and actually point out what the hell was so tacky.  She
turned a bright crimson, as she never understood the weight of her
condescending words.  We followed the woman until I understood what was
wrong.  Off topic, but when I got home, I color coordinated both my pairs of
jeans and threw out all the pumps that didn't match.

I kept on telling her that I didn't understand her at all.  I wanted her to
know that I was from a different planet, and had no understanding of her
strange customs.  I wanted her to explain everything to me; everything she
saw that was obvious which was very hard for me to grasp.  We obviously did
not have the same mindsets.  Every time she insulted someone based completely
on their appearance I reiterated what she said in a loud voice.  "Why is she
ugly?  I don't understand!" The woman condemned to be forever ugly by my
'date' would turn around, and an awkward situation would arise.  I hope
Danielle learned something.

Most of the night I spent acting whacky, entertaining myself.  I'd tell her
how I deal crack, or how I sell guns.  I'd tell her how I like child porn,
but I would never deviate too far from what she said.  She found me amusing
and that was cool with me.  I knew I could never make her understand that I
was up in the stratosphere compared to her; instead she thought I was some
novelty she sees on her television set.  That was cool with me, as long as I
didn't have to deal with her on her level.

I found out that her father was very wealthy, her mother had big breasts, and
that her last boyfriend was a football player (surprise, surprise).  The more
I spoke to her, the more I had the feeling that she was a whore.  I could
have been wrong, I don't know.  She seemed like the kind of girl who wouldn't
be happy until a man forced himself on her and choked her with his penis, but
she was too proud to insinuate it.  If a man did it of course, she would
never stop him.  A typical conversation follows:

IBFT: I went through puberty.
HO  : It is obvious you didn't.  [note she didn't use obvious.  I think its
                                  too big of a word for her.]
IBFT: I did but to prove it i'd have to show you something and that might
      disgust you.
HO  : I don't think I would mind.

Variations of this occurred all night.

Being the 90s man that I am, I would never give her what she wanted deep down
inside.  I could never have sex with that heathen, because I would never
forgive myself for it.  I would be dirty forever, and only death would purify
me.  Unless I forced myself onto her, sex in my book involves two people
consenting.  I know some of you think that sex involves a warm body and an
optional pulse, but I digress.

By my humble standards, the "lovers" are at the same level, and have some
semblance of respect for each other.  I had no respect for her.  The only way
I could touch her is if I was in a dominant position; if what she was doing
was so submissive that I could never feel guilty about it; and the only thing
I could think of was oral sex.

I was turning eighteen the next day, so I had some way of justifying this
plan.  It was all going to go downhill after that; my teeth and hair were
going to fall out soon, so I might as well be gluttonous while I can.  But
for some unknown reason I couldn't touch the wench.  She made me so fucking
sick.  She told me she didn't like Asians because they were 'ugly'.  I tried
my best to find out what she meant, but I couldn't get beyond the ugly
generalization.  Why she really hated these Asians is way beyond my basic
understanding of human nature.  We passed by a GBLF (Gays, Bisexuals,
Lesbians, and Friends) poster in which two lesbians were kissing.  She
promptly make a scowl and yelled how disgusting it was.  It wasn't as
disgusting when people walked by us, because she seemed to quiet down.

My next plan was to score some brain lubricant.  In the past it has always
helped me deal with awkward situations and do things that I would regret the
next day; I was sure it wouldn't fail me now.  Its no use for me to buy
alcohol because i'm a white boy; they won't think twice about carding me.  So
I asked her to do it.  She looked older, and had the advantage of being
female.  Danielle reluctantly agreed protesting, "what if they card me?!" I
carefully explained to the wench that if they do she should show them her
license anyway.  They might not sell her alcohol, but they might.  If they
don't, she can just leave.  What can be simpler?

I can understand feelings of insecurity.  A fear of being humiliated in a
liquor store.  Those feelings are a part of all of us; I know I get nervous
when I try to purchase alcohol, but I have been turned down so many times I
have practically given up on the cause.  What I couldn't understand is a how
could a girl with so much supposed self confidence for herself and disrespect
for others have such a hard time trying to purchase alcohol.  I saw fear in
her eyes, and it wasn't the fear of the police getting called.  She was just
a hypocritical bitch.

After many vain efforts we got some alcohol; peach schnapps.  It was nasty
shit, but it seemed to be doing its job.  Since I am on the whole often quite
dissociated, it doesn't take much to get me out of sync to the reality we
take for granted.  I was feeling better about myself and about the situation
in general.  But every time I turned my attention to her, bluntly, things got
real fucking weird.  I didn't see a purple giraffe; nothing that extreme.

I saw what she symbolized, and her little imperfections got the best of me.
It was like she was this demon I never wanted to touch.  No matter what was
at stake, no matter what I was given; touching her seemed something I would
regret for the rest of my life.  We sat down somewhere, and it was just a
pathetic scene.  We just sat there, and I could tell by the expression on her
face that she was just dying for me to do something.  Maybe I am just
inflating my ego, but I ask you to give me the benefit of the doubt.  Alas,
following my principals, I didn't lay a finger on her.

The rest of the evening was uneventful.  I could see her become extremely
agitated and annoyed on the trolly back.  It was almost as if her evening
wasn't complete without a broomstick shoved in her asshole.  She never fucked
a "freak" like me, and, simply put, it was just an unsuccessful mission.  She
was fighting with herself, and I could see it.  On one hand she was angry at
me for not doing anything; on the other hand she was upset at herself for
being such a whore.  But she will do it again and again; I can promise you
that.

She looked very disappointed, and I sincerely felt bad for her.  Felt bad for
her fucking kind.  I ended up asking her for a kiss.  That was the only real
contact I had with her that night which would be considered something that
was a bit more than friendly.  But I felt so dirty afterwards.  I felt dirty
for days afterwards; it was just filthy.  That stupid fucking vile bitch.  I
only wish on her, her own kind.  So she will stay with them, and stay the
fuck away from me.

Happy Fucking Birthday to Me!

Surprisingly she kept on calling my place.  So much for giving someone your
real number.  I had no idea what to tell her.  I didn't want to hurt her, as
I genuinely could she that she just didn't get it.  She said that she "had a
great time" and went on to say that she wanted to see me again.  Uh.  I ended
up telling her that the things she said made me really sad.  That its a sad
commentary on America today, and furthermore I wish for her husband to ignore
her when Monday Night Football (tm) is on.  I went on to say that if I ever
saw her again I might be inclined to hurt her physically, and I really didn't
want to do that.  Sadly that didn't phase her.  When I finally just told her
she sucked, she started crying, and (thank god) I haven't heard from her
since.

I saw her on IRC the other night flirting with some guys on #boston.  Nothing
has changed.  Surprised?  There is some ideal man for her; wearing a B.U.M.
sweatshirt, cruising in his bitching Camaro which he dropped out of school
for, and showing disrespect to the kind of women who want that exact kind of
attention.

==============================================================================
            IBFT: If we hate you, you don't deserve to know why.

                                Information:
                           bleed@unix.amherst.edu
       ftp.etext.org:/pub/Zines/IBFT  The Eleventh Hour (617)696-3146
==============================================================================