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Friday, January 31, 1997

BEHAVIOR:

Looking out for oneself has its benefits but can be destructive for everyone involved

As you may or may not know, the Daily Bruin recently saw fit to pull my last column with no warning whatsoever. It felt the need to protect you ­ the reader ­ from my observations on the sensitive and controversial subject of sex toys.

Believe it or not, I'm not actually trying to offend anyone when I write. I can't help it that my personality is so naturally offensive. Therefore, I have elected to write this week's column on how much of an asshole I am, which hopefully should offend only myself. (Even as I write this, I'm incredibly offended.)

In many ways, I am an asshole. I'm not going to go into specifics; just take my word for it. (Don't believe a word I say; this column is seething with mendacity. I am a perpetrator of lies and deceit.) Suffice it to say that a majority of my friends have collectively chosen to describe me as "impenetrable." I assume they mean this in the emotional sense, and not the physical one. Don't make me connect the dots.

OK, never mind, I'm not really an asshole.

Wow, that threw you for a loop, didn't it? I mean, here I start a whole article about what an asshole I am and now, all of a sudden, I'm not.

Man, you'll believe anything. I can control your thoughts!

Ha ha ha! (I'm an asshole.) No, I'm not. (No really, I'm a jerk.) No, no, don't listen to me; I'm really a nice person.

If I had to trace my personality flaws to a source, I would have to choose my parents. My dad is a lawyer and my mom is an artist; whenever they get into an argument, it's like watching the right brain pick a fight with the left brain. It's all the powers of reason and logic against the forces of emotion. It's sense and sensibility. Trust me, it's not pretty. The subject of my parents fighting brings to mind the interesting question: If Superman and Wonder Woman were to engage in an all-out battle, who would win? Neither one ­ it was a trick question. Because everybody loses when we resort to fighting, so can't we all just get along? OK, here's another one: If you buy me a drink at Maloney's, will I invite you back to my love den for a night of passionate lovemaking, the likes of which you have never before experienced? There's only one way to find out.

If my parents ever try to give you advice on your love life (although I can't imagine why they would), not only should you not follow it, you should do everything in your power to avoid hearing any part of it. Science has not yet devised a method for measuring the negative effects of their phenomenally bad advice but if my relationship skills can be taken as any indication, theirs may be the only advice on the planet bad enough to constitute a felony offense.

When I was in first grade, I remember playing a game of truth or dare during recess. One of the little girls dared me to kiss my boyfriend on the cheek. I was a sassy little 5-year-old, so I accepted the dare. But when this brazen act was greeted with high-pitched squeals of disgust (from the other girls, not from my boyfriend), I immediately pushed him away and said, "I hate you." With some minor modifications, this has pretty much been my standard m.o. (modus operandi) for the last 17 years.

When I was in fourth grade, I liked another boy. I made my affections known by letting all of the air out of his bike tires. Similarly, last week I saw a cute boy at the grocery store, so I slashed his car tires when he wasn't looking. The halcyon days of note-passing have been replaced by the maddening era of phone tag, but the common thread of my ever-present psychosis remains a constant.

I operate by my own patented "Katherine-asshole" rules, because I don't know any other way. They just come naturally to me. As far as I'm concerned, relationships are not a game. They are full-blown wars, and if everybody listens to me, then no one gets hurt. Well, OK, that's a lie. But I don't get hurt and in the end, isn't that all that really matters?

My friend Sarah recently offered to lend me her copy of the popular book, "The Rules." I think books like this are the root of all evil. First of all, I'm not going to bend over backwards for any man. Well OK, maybe for David Duchovny. And even if I decided it would be a good idea to abandon any trace of my feistiness or personality in favor of docility and passivity, I wouldn't need a dumb book to tell me how to do this. It would just be "Yes David," "I agree, David."

I haven't actually read the book, but I understand it's one of those "Don't call him, wait for him to call you" deals. That's preposterous. If you like a boy, call him. Call him a lot. Call him constantly, at all hours. Make him regret the day he gave you his home number. If you suspect that he might be dating other girls, leave extremely provocative messages on his answering machine, even after you've broken up. This is not guaranteed to win him back, but it is extremely therapeutic.

Helen Gurley Brown once wrote a book, not unlike "The Rules," called "Sex and the Single Girl." In it, she revealed her secrets to seduction, like "sitting very very still is sexy," and "maintain a mysterious silence; this is sexy." In other words, don't appear to be too bright and the men will line up to take advantage of you. Look, you don't really want to be that person. It's not worth it. Those tactics only work with boorish Neanderthal men. You don't want to date a Cro-Magnon ... too much body hair for starters.

So, do what you like, say what's on your mind and stalk your victims if you have to. Somewhere out there, the editors of "The Rules" are having a heart attack over the way I deal with boys, but I don't care what they think. In fact, if you will recall, I am an asshole ­ I don't care what anyone thinks but me. I'm sorry if I happen to hurt people's feelings, but that's just the way I am and hey, I love me, don't you? Actually, I'm not even really all that sorry; I was just saying that to be nice.

I would like to take this moment to point out that I do not, in any way, advocate acting in this manner. (Actually I do. I'm offensive. I'm evil and manipulative.)

There are, however, obvious benefits to behaving like an asshole. Your Your friends (on second thought, maybe these are just my friends) give you kudos for being a stud and making men suffer. You never get hurt, because you never let yourself get hurt. You put your own feelings before everyone else's. Most importantly, men seem to love bitchy women. So maybe men have a few psychological issues of their own to work through. It can't be all my fault. (It's all my fault. I am evil incarnate. I am the devil; hear me, worship me. Obey my fiendish whims and diabolical designs.)

But, in the end, being an asshole is not rewarding. In fact, being an asshole is its own form of punishment. So for all you nice people who have dated a total jerk, it's your turn to feel smug. Because that person is going to wake up one morning and realize how pointless and dissatisfying their life of meanness and selfishness is. And their whole day will be ruined. And the next day, and quite possibly the next, and so on until one day when they discover the magical healing properties of alcohol and drink themselves into a liquor-soaked stupor every night thereafter. Not that I know this from first-hand experience. (Beelzebub Mephistopheles! 666!)

I think we deserve a support group; call it Assholes Anonymous. We can meet at the bars and learn to conduct meaningful and sensitive dialogue with one another. I, for one, am there.

My name is Katherine Tom, and I am an asshole. (Hey, you read it in The Bruin; it's gotta be true.)