Fantz
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As I sat belly-up to the bar with Science, I explained that so many of my problems in past relationships have revolved around a lack of understanding when it comes to emotions — on both sides. If I’m sad and want to cry, I’ll unabashedly weep.  But my past encounters with dudes have found that if they’re sad, they get mad and brush it under a pile of power tools and beer cans.

So I asked Science: Can you inject some emotion into dudes? Like just a little bit? I’m not too finicky, but it would be cool if a spark would go off in their emotional sack that screamed, “Hey, tell her she has a beautiful soul and that you enjoy talking to her.”

And on that note, can you unject some emotion into broads? Like just a little bit? I’m not too finicky, but it would be cool if a spark would go off in our emotional jug that screamed, “Hey, don’t cry this time around, just take a deep breath and open the pickle jar.”

I know that “unject” isn’t a word, but I have the floor. I asked Science if it had a hack that could help place men and women on similar levels emotionally.

My best pal Murray always tells me emotions are useless and I shan’t pay them heed: “I have emotions. They’re there. Right next to my testicles. Relegated to the position of useless.”

“So Science, is this true?” I asked it, tossing back another rail whiskey.

“Fantz, men have feelings. However, many of them may be chained to that dated socialization theory that it is not cool for dudes to cry. They need to keep everything on track, all the ducks in all the rows and to hold down the fort, so there’s no time or sense to evoke emotions when they need action,” it said, tossing back some sort of ridiculous low-ABV millennial concoction that looked like rainbow shit.

“I feel like I’ve always been able to convey my feelings properly, but the dudes I know really don’t or can’t. I feel like it would be sexy as fuck if a dude opened up to me, bleating like the 5-year-old me at the end of ‘E.T.’  A sordid day back in 1982 when I threw a handful of change on the floor of the movie theater so Grandma Fantz would think that’s why I was crying. Not because E.T. went home. But I was 5, so that was age-appropriate,” I said.

I explained to Science that when adults deflect like that, I get pissed off, not assuming that they’re probably upset about some deep-seated pain they’re trying to learn to embrace. Rather, I think they’re enraged that I used the last of the D batteries in my own power tool.

“I feel like life would be easier if you could make us some sort of rad psychedelic drug that would have us all fly together, then cry together,” I said.

“That sounds horrible,” Science said.

“Well so does your drink, fool,” I said. “As I was saying, it would be super if you could find a neat science-y way to put men and women on two pages that are a little closer in proximity than the beginning and end chapters.”

Science added: “I think that one issue is that men actually do express emotions but often have lacked the support, therapy or understanding that they need to convey them.”

As I hugged Science to tell it goodbye, I put my hand on its leg and looked it in the eyes, genuinely thanking it for listening to me and offering me its outlook on emotions.

“Yeah baby, that’s the spot. Now I have a boner,” Science said, a smirk spreading across its face. “I’m going to have to sit this one off for a few minutes.”

Science would be a fucking dude.

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