Why? Why? Why?

Why? Why? Why?

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Dear Diary:

Today, I find myself upset and confused. Even more than normal.

Diary, I'm not sure where to turn or who to talk to.

Since you are my most bestest friend in the whole wide world, Diary, I need to tell you why I feel this way. Because you're the only one who will listen to me, most goodest buddy.

I know that you may not really be able to help because you're nothing more than blank sheets of paper I use to write about a lot of things. 

I write about my hopes. I write about my dreams. But mostly, as you know, I write about Britney Spears. 

Still, it helps knowing that you're there. Accepting of all my illegibly-written, often misspelled words.

Which brings me to my problem, Diary.

Dear Diary:

Why don't all the pretty girls stare back at me?

The thing is, I spend so much time every day looking at all the pretty girls, and they never, ever, ever stare back. 

Diary, I'm starting to feel that they don't really like me staring at them all the time.

It's either that, or all the pretty girls are just not nice people.

Because nice people would stare back, wouldn't they, Diary? Wouldn't that be the polite thing to do?

I mean, if a pretty girl stared at me -- and Dear Lord in the heaven above, I pray for that every freaking second of every freaking day -- I promise that I would stare right back at her.

But it never works that way. At least not for me.

I'm always the one doing the staring. And I never get it back.

The thing is, Diary, I really think they should stare back, because I'm not like other guys. 

I know, I know, I know. 

I know all guys say that they're not like other guys. But the only reason they say it is because they think that's what pretty girls want to hear. 

"Hi, pretty girl. I'm Joe. I'm not like other guys."

I say it because it's true. I'm not like other guys. 

I mean, I see the way other guys stare at pretty girls, Diary. And they have no idea what they're doing. 

They pretend they're not looking at a pretty girl, then they'll give her a sneaky little glance when she walks by. Because they don't want to be caught looking at the pretty girl by the pretty girl. They'd be embarrassed.

Not me.

When I see a pretty girl, I think, "Hey, that's a pretty girl. I'd like to look at her."

So I stare. Sometimes for a super-long time.

The thing is, Diary, I believe God put pretty girls on earth to be stared at. God even made it more convenient with his invention of the Victoria's Secret catalog.

And while I believe pretty girls were put on earth to be looked at, Diary, after 40 years, I now believe that pretty girls were not put on this earth to stare back. At least not at me.

And that makes me sad, Diary.

Sometimes, I used to think that maybe the pretty girls didn't stare back because they were just playing hard to get. 

Honestly, Diary, it would be nicer for me if the pretty girls played easy to get. But I guess that's why God invented ugly girls.

No, after 40 years I now believe that all the pretty girls aren't playing hard to get at all. I think they're playing, "I don't want you to get me."

There was a time in my life when I thought that maybe the pretty girls just couldn't see me staring at them. I like to call those my "Hiding In The Shrubbery At Night Days." So after a while, when I saw a pretty girl, I would walk right up, stand next to her and stare. 

I wouldn't talk unless she talked to me first, because I never wanted to come across as rude. 

One time after, like, 10 minutes of staring at this pretty girl, she said to me something like, "Can I help you?" I just smiled and kept staring at her crotch.

The reason I smiled is because I wanted her to see that I wasn't just any crazy, freaky, lecherous starer. I was one of the nice starers.

I also smiled because she had a really nice crotch and that made me happy.

It didn't work out, though. That particular pretty girl walked away really fast. I guess she must have had to go to the bathroom or she needed some coffee or something.

Another time I was staring at this pretty girl and after a few minutes she looked at me and seemed to be kinda mad when she said something like, "What the hell are you looking at, dickhead?" I said, "I'm staring at your round, firm breasts."

The reason I said I was staring at her round, firm breasts was because I'm an honest person. And I was staring at her round, firm breasts.

It took, like, three solid weeks before my black eyes got better. Remember that, Diary? 

This other time, I was staring at this pretty girl in the mall and the whole time I was staring at her, it seemed like she just kept looking over her shoulder at me and walking away kinda panicky, y'know? I didn't really understand why she seemed to be so afraid. I mean, I was just standing 10 feet from her, staring and not saying a word. What's the big deal? So I tried to catch up to her to ask her if there was a problem. But she just kept running faster. 

It's weird, but I get that running away fast thing a lot.

One time, I drooled on this pretty girl I was staring at in a super-fancy restaurant. She wouldn't look back at me, so I kept getting closer and the next thing I knew, my saliva and her hair were like best friends. Personally, I thought it was kind of cute that I shared some of my slobber with her, but she didn't think so. And neither did those three police officers.

I guess it's nice to know that emergency dispatch can respond to a 9-1-1 call that fast, though. 

The thing is, Diary, why would the pretty girls look so pretty if they didn't want me to stare at them? Why wouldn't they just wear big, baggy sweat pants and big cowboy hats and no make-up and not wash their hair for a week so they wouldn't look so pretty?

No no no no no.

Instead they wear their jeans below their belly button. They've got the hair and the make-up and the jewelry and the shoes and the white teeth and the tight shirts and the walk, and gosh darn it, Diary, those pretty girls just look too pretty, don't they?

How can I not stare? I bet you'd stare too, Diary. If you weren't a pile of two-dimensional sheets of unlined paper.

If you ask me, Diary, I think the pretty girls think they want to be stared at, and then as soon as I stare at them, they think that maybe they don't want to be stared at anymore.

That's why I'm so upset, Diary. The truth hurts. And after 40 years, the truth is that all the pretty girls just don't want to be stared at by me.

This really hurts my feelings, Diary.

The thing is, I look in the mirror every day, Diary. I know I have flaws like anyone else, but does that make me unstarebackatable? 

I see the gray hair. And the balding forehead. And the bags under my eyes. And the yellow-stained teeth. And the big nose. And the huge ears. But if you look beyond that like I do everyday when I look in the mirror, I think I'm not half bad.

In fact, after I finish shaving in the morning, I like to rub my chin like they do in the razor blade commercial and think to myself, "Y'know, you're not half bad."

Then after I think that, I wait for the pretty girl in the robe to wrap her arms around me in the bathroom and admire my six-pack abs, just like in the razor blade commercial. But it never happens.

Maybe I should start doing sit-ups, though. Just in case.

The thing is, all I ever wanted was for one of the pretty girls to stare back at me. If she did, I swear I would stare at her all the time and tell her how pretty she was. 

I would be one goddamn-dedicated starer. 

If one pretty girl stared at me, I'd stare back and never stare at another pretty girl again. But that's not going to happen, is it Diary?

I don't know Diary, I'm just sad. But I'll get over it. I always do. 

Just like that time I felt sad when I cheated off the smartest kid in economics class. But then when we both got the highest grade on the mid-term, I felt really good about being so smart.

Remember that, Diary?

Dear Diary:

You are the most greatest friend a friend could have. Thanks for being there for me. Thanks for having blank pages to write on. Thanks for never laughing at my most privatest words. Thanks for listening to me complain about pretty girls never staring back at me.

Thanks, Dear Diary. At least you stare back.

Just like my girlfriend Britney does when I'm watching her sing to me on TV.

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