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4:18 pm | 04 April 2003 | the brain trust

It has always seemed pretty obvious to me that it's impossible to love someone unless they are as smart as, or smarter than, oneself (or at least they either give that impression and/or are knowledgeable in different subject matters than oneself). It has recently stricken me that this may be just another instance of the insidiousness of gender roles. Clearly, the intellectual capacities of their girlfriends is not really important to most men; or, at least, is less important than said girlfriends' asses, and said asses' appearance when bethonged, and said thongs'...you get my drift.

I do not mean to sound conceited when i say that i experience difficulty in this arena, and that i sometimes despair of finding "that special someone" (gag, blurgle, ughuck, etc) whose intellectual capacities match my own. I am pretty smart, but I am also bookish on top of that, and feel the need to drag others into pedantic conversation about theoretic intangibles pretty frequently, too, and in addition i have little/no tolerance for people who can't write. The odd misspelling, typo, e-mail punctuation omission? Forgiveable. Not knowing how to use apostrophes and quote marks? Please, friend, rather than send me an email such as "Your pretty," just walk over here and jab me in the eyes with chopsticks. They come in convenient packs of two, you know.

I worked as a proofer, editor, and fly-by-night translator for the world's largest subtitling company for more than a year (just until the scale tipped from My fancy LA job is so exciting! to Which is the fastest way to die?). During my tenure there i worked 70 hours a week and was the fastest editor ("Claudia, you proof like the wind," read one performance review) and i also made one mistake. While doing a 3,000 title document (i think it was the Final Fantasy 2nd director's commentary) in under an hour, i missed "derbris." Should've been "debris," of course. I hated myself for fucking it up. Excoriated myself at home. But this is all to illustrate a point. Isn't it? Oh yeah. For me, the writing thing is a requirement. My boyfriend MUST be able to connect words at least coherently and correctly, if not (preferably) elegantly. I tried to stifle this need once (he was so hot) but still i couldn't handle it, the pages and pages of misspelled, grammatically mangled love letters. Oh, i have no soul, now. It's certain.

Bad, too, are those of average intelligence who think they're wicked smart. That would be like me identifying myself as "athletic" when in reality i am little more than a bitter, alcoholic bluestocking with bad habits (smoking! weeping! solo dancing!) and a martyr complex. Oh, sure, i fuck up. I am totally irresponsible sometimes (today, for instance, was meant to be devoted to a certain project, and instead i read blogs and looked contemptuously at emo kids all day, goddamnit), and can have a sort of spontaneous "wait, what?"-type charm. But I know more words than you can shake a stick at, and love each one as though it crawled from my personal birth canal. That is gross, and i am sorry, but it's true. SO DON'T MISPRONOUNCE "ethereal" as "eth-uh-reel," MR. FICTION PROFESSOR, because i will never again believe a single thing you say.

Okay, i seriously forgot where i was going with this. Fuck it. I am smart and would like a smart, hot boy. HOT SMARTYPANTSES, WHERE ARE YOU?!?! clm.


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