Earlier this semester, I got an e-mail from an ex of mine who called me “the most selfish person on the face of the planet.” Now this, of course, I know is true, but it smarts a bit when articulated by somebody else.
Although I have admittedly been going through a selfish phase that’s lasted 21 years, it was not always as bad as it is now. I used to be a good girlfriend. I was sweet and understanding. I brought the guy flowers on my dates and would, for instance, not hold against him the fact that he actually wanted to see “George of the Jungle” (although I admit that the scars have yet to heal from that one).
Why the change, you may ask? Or, for my fellow comrades who’ve also sold their souls and have been watching “Temptation Island,” why have I become less “Valerie” and more “Ytossie”? Perhaps in high school I was just young and romantic. Maybe I was just excited that, after enduring a humiliating middle school experience of being 5-foot-7-inches and weighing 87 pounds, guys actually acknowledged my existence rather than mistaking me for a halogen lamp (yeah, did I mention that I had a ‘fro as well?).
Either way, something had to be done. And so, bypassing the alternative choice of having the surgeon general put a warning on my ass: “Dating Noelle may be hazardous to your mental health because she is much cooler than you and will always win. Yes, always,” I decided to try to find out why my current outlook on guys is about as positive as that of a 48-year-old divorcee (the real low-point being when I start referring to all my white tanktops as “husband beaters”). And when I was on my quest to figure this out, something happened on Saturday night which serves as a pretty good explanation:
In order to create a more perfect Noelle, I decided to dye my hair strawberry blond. And after one misadventure that involved a maroon abomination on top of my head, I finally got it right. Suddenly, in my mind, I was Nicole Kidman — despite my curious lack of her looks, talent and religion that sounds like a Group IV class.
Saturday, 11:00. Thus began my night o’ belligerence. I went to a party and ran into someone who’d apparently woken up on the wrong side of the cage that morning (actually, the words “padded” and “cell” come to mind). Let’s call him “Eric,” because that is his name. I realize that it is unethical to use one’s column as a tool for revenge, but as I always say, I have no journalistic principles (or principles of any other kind, for that matter).
Eric greeted my friends and me with the social graces of a character from “Deliverance” (cue: Dueling Banjos), becoming immediately belligerent and, well, weird. He made the unfortunate mistake of arguing with me, but then ran out into the middle of the courtyard where he, for some reason (OK, alcohol was the reason), proceeded to do some shadowboxing-like jig. Apparently, he wanted to impart his side of the argument in the form of an interpretive dance. And so I laughed and figured that, like myself, he was just joking around. He relieved me of this theory moments later when he poured a beer over my head. No longer Nicole Kidman, my hair now looked like that of the skank on “Temptation Island.”
I almost ripped the man’s heart out and ate it with some fava beans. Until that moment, I’d never thought I’d be in favor of gun violence. What ensued can be seen on the upcoming Fox Special “When Texans go Wild: Mauling and Brawling.”
Now that I realize that a couple of bad apples have been spoiling my view of the whole bunch, I’ll try not to be so biased. Why let myself be affected by one loose cannon who wandered too far from the Ponderosa? In fact, I might even have let this go had it been an isolated incident. But after this happened, I heard from numerous sources that this is completely normal behavior for our young warrior (he supposedly did the same thing to another girl the weekend before, and another time apparently took the tobacco “dip” out of his mouth and flung it in a girl’s face).
And so I decided to dedicate this column to Eric, a man who consistently can be seen pouring beers over girls’ heads because he is too obnoxious to get them wet any other way (OK, now that was immature, but hell if it ain’t funny!). Hopefully, in writing this column, I can save a fellow girl’s ‘fro and keep her from sharing in the experience. Because, as my ex pointed out — I’m selfish. And after all, we don’t like to share.
The cold, hard numbers behind this column:
Number of references made to Temptation Island………………………..2
Inches grown since being a 5’7″ middle schooler…………………………. 2
Pounds gained since being an 87-pound middle schooler……………….43
Animals hurt in the writing of this column……………………………………..1 (if you include Eric)
Noelle Hancock is a junior in Saybrook College. Her column appears on alternate Fridays.