YrKUWm hates cons. He hates Beardos, Trekkies, LARPDorks and Consluts with feathered hair; he loathes NeoNazi Authority fetishists with walkie-talkies, unsupervised adolescents, and above all, sharing elevators with overexcited fatsos who never bathe. Still, I keep going. I am an idiot.
I got on my friend Colin’s ass about this once. Why? I asked. Well, he replied, it’s simple way to make yourself feel intelligent, well-socialized, and physically fit...
This, while plausible, is a lie. For one thing, going to Cons to improve your self-image is akin to jogging through a cancer ward; further, I know for a certainty that Col goes to these things to chase women.
I go to Cons to chase women, too, however they are usually people I’m already supposedly dating. Something about Cons triggers the “ditch-yer-boyfriend-and-talk-to-random-dorks-as-if-they-were-Ed-McMahon-on-your-doorstep” brain cell cluster in the women I date. This ranks very high on the hate scale, too.
I never meet anyone at local Cons I couldn’t find any night of the week
anywhere in town with an open bar. I meet all sorts of charmers at out-of-state
Cons, but they all live a thousand miles away. Having given up womanizing in
favor of living to dotage, I have nothing to do at Cons except shop and
people-watch, both of which require a strong stomach and an iron sense of
restraint. One can also drink and raise Hell, I s’pose, but I can do that
at home and not have to sleep on shitty hotel carpeting while people I don’t
care for under the best of circumstances attempt intercourse within scant feet of me.
A woman I was dating once tried to explain in rational terms why she went to these things, how it gave her a sense of community or something. I listened, but I don’t really remember what she said. I feel I can be forgiven for this. I met her through my friend Colin, after all, whom she had slept with at a Con.
