There was this girl in middle school who was pretty, and nice, and she talked to me once. That was enough for me to fall in love with her. I’d like to think I’ve matured since then but that’s still about all it takes. By my count, I fall in love on average about four times a week. Sometimes I sneak in a stipulation regarding intelligence in an attempt to augment my standards but I often find my regard for it muddled in the sub-conscience desire I have to put my penis in, on, or at least next to the girl in question. It’s not a conscience choice because I’m so self deprecating that even in a state of reverie I can’t get laid. In my imaginary world, that I have complete fucking control over, I somehow manage to shit all over everything. I end up with a modest fantasy about getting coffee with a girl I know nothing about, and with Pygmalion like control, shape her as I see fit, chiseling away the imperfections and filling in the cracks until she is perfect. Having carved a woman from ivory who is far too good for me, I am of course rejected and am forced to go home and masturbate myself to sleep. But that’s in my fantasy. In real life I’m actually masturbating fantasizing about masturbating after rejection. Rejection itself seems great but I never get that far. It’s very confusing. It’s like watching Inception but with your dick in your hand and considerably more crying.
I blame all of this on Marry Poppins of course.
You’d like me to explain that wouldn’t you? Okay.
Every person around my age or younger had that one movie they would watch over and over again as a child. Usually around the age of three or four we would come across a cartoon, fall in love, and that’s all we’d ever want to watch for the next year. I think this might be the first thing we ever love actually. I didn’t know this until about a month ago, or maybe I had banished it to the deep, dark recesses of my forgotten nightmares, but when I was four years old my cinematic love affair was with a retarded musical by the name of Mary Poppins.
Sweet merciful Christ, there’s no way that didn’t fuck me up, right? You might be able to watch that movie a couple times and still maintain your sanity, but not everyday for a year straight. This rosy cheeked nanny, who clearly dabbles in cocaine as much as she does witchcraft, comes down from the clouds on a fucking umbrella, blows a bunch of little old ladies down the street, and then has the audacity to declare herself perfect in almost every way like she’s the the second coming of the messiah. She’s a selfish, disciplinary bitch who is about as pompous as the pope and is so implausibly happy she can actually sit through a fifteen minute dance routine between five animated, indentured penguins and a lunatic chimney sweep pretending to be a penguin.
I’m surprised I have my shit together as well as I do now. It should be considered child abuse to let that happen. Make me watch racist shit like Dumbo. Hell, make me watch Dwarf Goes Fishing or Ernest Scared Stupid. Anything. But Mary Fucking Poppins? Really? Children are very impressionable at that age. It surely messed with my developing brain. I have undoubtedly been carrying around some serious mental baggage from it that will stick with me until I die, like one of those nasty STDs you get from banging a Tai hooker. Instead of letting your kid watch Mary Poppins, do them a favor and just give them herpes instead. They’ll be better off.
But instead of having a parent who loved me and would never do that to an innocent child, I was subjected to a crazed musical countless times over and now I am incredibly attracted to Marry Poppins. That’s the amazing part. It freaks me out but I can’t help it. Maybe it’s something about her outfit and the way she speaks. She’s all proper and has a nice British accent. She has really great hair too. And nice hats. That has always sort of done it for me. It’s enough for me to excuse the fact that she probably abuses LSD on a regular basis. In my defense, when the film came out Julie Andrews was only 29, so not all that much older than I am now. I tested to see if maybe I just have the hots for a young Ms. Andrews. I threw on The Sound of Music. Nothing. I actually sort of hoped the Germans would kill her whiny, singing ass. Victor Victora? Too old already. Cinderella? She was my age in that film but I’m not feeling it. No, I don’t care for Julie Andrews. That’s not it at all.
While I was visiting Albany over the holidays, one of my best friends had me chart out my ideal woman. He thinks I’m a sad, lonely bastard who drinks too much and needs a nice girl to make me happy. This activity was supposed to help. It involved describing this elusive damsel’s disposition, personality, interests, tastes, desires, and of course her body. I had to come up with places I might meet her, the first thing I’d say to her, and how I might go about seeing her again. It filled up several pages of a Moleskin and took multiple cups of coffee to finish at the Ultraviolet Cafe (trying desperately to relate this to Albany somehow). Of course I just had to run Mary Poppins through this gauntlet of dissection. She didn’t do too well. She got points for her looks and having a fashionable wardrobe. I figured she can cook pretty well and probably has a nurturing side even if she is a total cunt. Personality suffered a dreadful loss however. I doubt we’d have much in common. I definitely wouldn’t be running into her outside a Scorsese flick. But I don’t care. I still want to do nasty, perverted things to her.
This has been a difficult revelation for me to live with. For the longest time as a child, being raised by an athiest, whenever people talked about God, I thought they were talking about Godzilla and they were just abbreviating it. When I found out what they were actually talking about I was very confused and my insides felt funny. That’s how I’ve felt the last month. Maybe I’m overreacting.
I think this might have leapt the boundary from comical into bizarre. Actually, I think it sprinted across that boundary naked almost five paragraphs ago. I’m writing this with my friend Jim Beam and he whispers peculiar things in my ear while I’m trying to think – stops the dogs from barking at least. I suppose I’ll just end with a warning: If there are any pretty, nice, optionally intelligent girls out there (preferably with a Mary Poppins costume), who are willing to talk to me, prepare to be fantasized about in really weird ways.