You’re no good

There’s this part in Clueless where Brittany Murphy tells Breckin Meyer that she wishes she could skate.

He tells her not to. She asks why. And he says something to the effect of, “Then what would boys have to impress girls with?”

I think about this line a lot. I’m still impressed by the same juvenile things I liked when I was 13: good hair, musical talent, nerdiness for the gods and a penchant for danger.

I blame, in large part, that antihero we all loved back in the day: Jordan Catelano.

You don’t marry the Jordan Catelanos of this world. You keep them in a time capsule of misspent youth. Those guys don’t grow up to be John Kennedy Jr’s. They grow up to become insurance agents or massive fuck ups who live in the past.

And yet the allure never quite goes away.

I’ve had things with a few Jordan Catelanos in my time. The strange part is that I end up taking on the parts of them I like and sort of leaving them for dust once I’m done.

I don’t want to be with the cool guy. I want to be the cool guy. I’m somewhere between an Angela and a Jordan.

At some point in these relationships, I’ve out guyed the guy. I can’t stand when they’re sorry for themselves and hold onto what could have been if not for all the intervening factors that kept them from being contenders. Self-pity is repellant. They stop impressing me and I get bored. And they get mad. Rightfully so. I’m still capricious.

Does the man exist who has a bit of mystery, great hair, encyclopedic knowledge AND is down to earth and hyper masculine who would not only put up with my antics but would find amusement in my Fraggle-ian energy?

If he does, maybe he lives in Wyoming. Or Alberta. Or Perth. Or Johannesburg.

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