If I had been born to a teenage mother I would probably have aspired to become an orphan. I cannot remember a time when I didn't hate them, though if I search my memories I suspect that the loathing may have been started by a babysitter named Heather who did not know how to spell. To a five-year-old me an inability to spell correctly was absolutely inexcusable in an adult (She was probably FOURTEEN years old, which is like 89 in human years) and my disdain was immense. Still it feels like I always hated Heather, even before I learned that she was not, in fact, a dictionary with nascent breasts.
Some people get past their hateful phobias as they grow older. They get a pet spider or mouse and learn to love it. They figure out that asparagus makes your pee smell funny and grudgingly accept it. They see that Kennedy is really a nice guy when he offers to drive them home from a party on Chappaquiddick. Familiarity breeds contempt or comfort, both anathema to fear.
I never became comfortable or contemptuous of TGs because my main encounters with them were in the halls of the hellish wasteland I like to call High School. There the TGs roam in loud packs searching for trends to follow. Occasionally one of them would stop to physically assault me or one of my friends, because girls are bigger than boys at the beginning of high school and have become increasingly dangerous ever since they went wild. Later in the school process I shot up and filled out to the point where no girls would dare assault me, but they wouldn't date me either (This may have been related to my screaming "YOU'LL NEVER GET MY SOUL!" whenever one would say 'hello' to me, but I can't confirm or deny) and they continued to regularly say things so inane that they made Yogi Berra look like Abraham Lincoln.
Awhile ago, in the supermarket, I saw three teenage girls looking at the bagels. Since I wanted to buy some bagels I stayed and observed as the pack of them carefully examined the boiled dough rings and chattered quietly among themselves. I thought this process would take maybe 30 seconds, you pick a bagel, you bag it, and you're out. It took them literally 15 minutes. I watched them point and giggle and move their lips, and yet they lacked the communication skills to select their preferred bread products. It was almost as if Teen People had failed to publish their "Hot Carbs of '05" special issue and these poor girls had no idea what to purchase without external prompting. I wanted to scream out "It doesn't matter which you pick, you're just going to throw it up later." or "Sesame Seeds have fewer calories than a mouthful of semen, take the bagel and learn to spit!" One of them attempted to reach for a muffin, but her compatriots pulled her back and it took them 7 more grueling minutes to hash out what they wanted. In the end they picked a total of one plain bagel and skittered off down the soda aisle where they probably remain to this day, trying to choose between Diet Pepsi and Pepsi One.
Meanwhile by the time I got my bagel and made it to the checkout line my Milk was Cottage Cheese and my Cottage Cheese had eyes.
One of the reasons I am so against dating is that within each adult woman, no matter how clever or interesting or graceful, there lurks both a past as a teenage girl and the ability to produce new ones. It's like women are the Alien only well-disguised to look like humans. Each of them has hatched from the most vile and dangerous form of life known to man, and each is capable of creating more if they can only obtain the essence of a man using their secondary maw. And then when they're done he feels an uncontrollable urge to sleep, an urge she can add to by accessing her powers of inane prattling, leaving him unconscious and vulnerable.
Spiders? Spiders ain't nothing.