A Personal Note to Strange Women

Maybe I have some kind of disease. Some yet to be chronicled affliction that in reality, lots of people have, but nobody knows because it's never been diagnosed.

Then again, I probably don't. However I still don't understand it. Women kill me. And I mean, they kill me. Like the other night, it was late, I was walking home from some fucking thing I'd been working on, a meeting or a script or a website or something annoying, and crossing a street this woman turned up the same street about 20 feet in front of me.

I couldn't see her face, but she was dressed professionally (not whore professionally, like business professionally) but in a stylish manner; heels, a peacoat, long skirt, nice hair. Anyway, she stays walking in front of me, and as she gets to the top of the hill, end of the block, she stops and leans against a lamp post. As I'm getting closer to her, using only her foot, she removes one shoe and starts sort of massaging her leg with her foot. I think her feet hurt. Or her legs.

Anyway, it was amazing, but I don't really know why. As usual, I didn't say anything, or even look at her as I went by (I always feel weird about that, especially at night, maybe because I don't want whichever woman I want to look at but inevitably don't to think I'm some sort of predator or weirdo or something, even though, I probably am a bit of a weirdo), I just walked by, didn't say anything or even sneak look, then thought about her and her sore feet for the next three days.

The problem is though, this doesn't just happen intermittently. Like once a month, or even once a week for that matter, I could deal with. But that's not the case. A woman kills me basically every time I go outside. Every time one passes by. Every time one smiles or flips her hair or hangs up her phone or does her laundry or stirs her coffee or waits to cross the street. It's all killer. They're all killer. It really is a terrible disease.



I think the worst thing about it is that somewhere in the back of my mind I know that every time I see some woman do something small and sexy and I think it's the greatest thing on earth, I know that it's probably not. Not that it's NOT sexy, because it inherently is, that's not what I mean. What I mean is that because the woman's a stranger, I can imagine her to be anyone I want. So when she does something like bite her nail before answering her cell phone, I can imagine she's some great lady with brains and a sense of humor who's a great kisser and loves shitty movies and debates current events at dinner with her friends and happens to be nervous about answering some important call on her cell. The problem is that in the back of my mind, I always suspect that she's not any of those things, and that she and I wouldn't get along too hot or she doesn't know who Sarah Palin is or she's got some terrible laugh or she hates baseball.

And that makes it worse in the sense that even though I know she's probably not the fantasy I've just whipped up in my brain, I still imagine it and think whatever she's doing is the sexiest thing ever and I fall in mini-love 87 times a day just walking around the city. That's a lot of falling when you think about it.

But what can I do about it? Obviously I can't just stop falling in love every 6 seconds. If I could control that I wouldn't have this undiagnosed disease. Maybe I could just look at the pavement when I walk around. You know? Never look up or make eye contact or watch my surroundings or something like that. But if I did that I'd probably get hit by a bus. Then there are other dangers like low hanging tree branches or some other stupid obstruction I would likely whack my head on or trip over or bump into accidentally. So that pavement thing probably won't work.

I could try to just stop imagining how awesome she'd be if we were dating or screwing or whatever. But for some reason I don't think that's going to work either. Have you ever tried to stop yourself from imagining something once you're already heading down the path to imaginationland? It's frickin impossible. It's like, "Hey, wouldn't being a big shot playboy billionaire be totally awesome? Quick don't imagine it!" It's impossible. So that option's out too I guess.

I think my only real option is to diagnose myself and live with it. Which is difficult considering I can't even really tell when I have a cold. This can't just be me who walks around like this. I should probably try naming it for all the other people who have it too. Something like Fantastasia mitosis. That sucks. I can't name this. All I know is that I have a horrible and debilitating disease which causes me to fantasize about total strangers all the time. Yeah, I am definitely a bit of a weirdo.

Maybe women could just stop doing those things. I mean, I know I'm asking a lot here, and asking it of a lot, well, all women. But seriously, could you just think about us lonely daydreaming losers for a minute before you go out and sneeze cutely? Is that too much to ask? Probably it is. Shit. Well, women, if you could just cut down on that crap I'd really appreciate it.