Why is it that seemingly smart, educated girls can suddenly morph into brainless, eye-lash-batting morons the second a guy winks their way? It is something I must have been lucky enough not to inherit, or drink whatever water caused it, but no matter how many friends I lose to this plague, I cannot for the life of me, wrap my head around why. Once, twice he breaks her heart and yet as soon as the tears dry she runs back for more. And he, of course, feeds off of it, off of all the girls drawn to him like an insect to a Venus Flytrap. SNAP. That charming attraction doesn’t seem quite so sexy does it, after it snaps you in half, cracking your bones and squeezing your blood out as it digests you into a helpless mass of pulp with no remains to speak of.
Try as I may to see the attraction I just can’t bring myself to find their dim-witted, squeaky attempts at conversation (or was that flirting?) anything I’d want to be alone with. How my peers do it, I do not know. I must say I admire their ability to look past the degrading remarks (jokes?), desperate hugs, and open-mouthed, googly-eyed stares, and find something worth enduring for long periods of time. Maybe there is a malfunction somewhere within me, but I just can’t do it. I need at least an attempt at intelligent conversation, eyes that actually-what do you know!-look into my eyes, and a nod or two that portrays a little pretend listening here or there.
The worst thing about these fools, worse even than their over-gelled hair and pasty complexions, is what fools they make out of us. Us being the smart, creative, lovable women who seem to turn into giggling Barbies when they are around. Us, being the incredible friends, strong-minded souls, deeply passionate deep inside, but all that fades away at the sight of a few attractive Venus Flytraps. We have dreams, aspirations, goals and promises to move us forward, but somehow, in some crazy, mystical way all those goals, promises seem to be put on the back burner just to hear his voice. A voice telling of mixed up things, full of confusing emotions, which not even the teller is aware of. And she with her dreams long forgotten, and her promises only a distant memory, nods her head vigorously to every tenure in his voice. I don’t recognize her anymore. All because some sweet-smelling, good-looking, funny asshole winked.
The name Venus, for the god of love, ironically serves the flytraps (or girltraps as I like to refer to them) well, however I presume a better mythological namesake would be perhaps Narcissus*. I have seen too many an Echo fall for one Narcissus, become trapped in the claws of a Venus Flytrap, and on the receiving end of a teenage boy’s ever-changing hormones to know to stay well away. By this time we know how reasonable Echo can be so all I can do thus far, is protect myself.
*if you dont know the tale of Narcissus and Echo-look it up.