Dating : Why Writers Don’t Like Women

My sister called me the other night and said I needed to sit down for this.

Naturally, I ignored her request, lit a cigarette, and went for a walk around West Hollywood.

“What’s up?” I ask.

“I found your wife,” she tells me.

“Is that so?” I reply.

“Yes,” she says. “She’s the perfect Russian mom for you.”

“Hmmm,” I mutter in between words and smoke. “I do like Russian moms,” I add, jokingly.

“No,” she insists. “This girl is amazing. I showed her a picture of you and she’s already in love.”

“Is that so?”

Women always fall in love for the dumbest reasons.

“Yes — and she wants to have kids,” she adds.

And dumbness comes in pairs. Another dumb reason.

“Well,” I say. “She sounds sweet.”

“She is,” my sister insists. “I would never hook you up with anyone bad. That’s why I’m calling you. She’s the real deal. You need to fly up here to see her.”

To be fair, I’m actually quiet interested at this point.

“Well, fuck it. Send me a picture,” I reply.

Men also fall in love for dumb reasons.

She sends me a few pictures from the girl’s Instagram account.

It’s a blonde.

And everyone knows I don’t date blondes.

“Ummm,” I mumble. “She’s blonde.”

The cigarette is starting to go out, so I light another one.

I cough.

“I mean, she’s cute, I guess,” I say, examining the pleasant array of pixels on my phone.

“She’s twenty-four,” she says.

That’s a good age,I think. Every girl at twenty-four is a romantic.

We talk a little bit longer about the girl’s characteristics. My sister knows me well enough to know what I like and don’t.

She hangs up the phone, and I take another glance at the girl.

Yeah, she’s not bad. Who knows?

I put the cigarette out and realize we’ve been on the phone for a while. I’m far from home, past Château Marmont.

It’s a long walk back.

“Well, fuck it,” I whisper as I begin the long trek. “Gives me enough time to plan my wedding.”

Within the span of half an hour I plan the wedding in my head. I’m a writer, and wedding planning is what we’re best at.

I get home and it’s already our sixtieth anniversary and we’re celebrating our niece’s graduation from Harvard.

It’s been that long.

In my head, all kinds of things that normally take decades to come into being come into being within minutes. I’m still trying to figure out if this is a good thing or a bad thing.

I make some tea, and it’s late at night. I’m an old man, at this point. And, for all I know, I’ll be dying soon.

But I have my blonde wife to cling to.

Romance is always better with blondes.

Granted, she’s in her eighties now, but it’s been a wild ride.

I settle into bed and realize it’ll never happen.

I call my sister up.

“I don’t think this will work,” I say.

“What are you talking about?” she asks. She already forgot about my wife and blah blah blah.

“I don’t think I want to date anyone right now. I’m about to launch my career. I don’t need a woman to take that from me.”

“You guys haven’t even met,” she begins, slightly offended.

“I know. And we shouldn’t meet. It’s a done deal. I’m not flying anywhere to see anyone. I like my life the way it is. I’m in charge, and I’m not worrying about some dumb fucking blonde in goddamn Seattle. I fucking hate Seattle.”

“Well — ” my sister tries.

“I don’t even like women,” I interrupt. “Most of them just ruin careers and turn men into fucking docile losers. I’ve sacrificed everything to get to where I’m at. I even cancelled my preordered Corvette so I could continue recording a rock album. I’m not letting anyone interfere with my dreams, especially not some dumb blonde. Besides, I don’t ever write well in a relationship. It’s a talent-killer.”

“It’s Mother’s Day,” my sister murmurs.

Goddamnit, I think. Women always have to interrupt me when I’m doing my best thinking.

And that’s why writers don’t like women.

We don’t write well.

And writing well is all we live for.

By the way, happy Mother’s Day! (And definitely don’t let your mother read this.)

But if you’re feeling incredibly generous, you can buy your mother a well-deserved gift right here.