I’ve been content. Truly happy even, over these past months. Context, which has probably led to me not blogging. It would appear, that my inspiration for writing, well, writing anything meaningful, my muse, is a darkness within me. A resentful, cynical place that festers like an infected wound that will not heal…especially because I keep picking at it, during these very times. That said, of recent, I have been in a place that hasn’t inspired any sort of rant or random opinion. Don’t get me wrong, I am still one judgmental bastard, that part of me hasn’t diluted, but for whatever reason, I have not been able to summon enough conviction (and strength of words) to actually put it down on paper.
I have been moved. In a deep and profound way, that that part of me doesn’t crave its feedings as often as it used to. But, as I’ve said, it doesn’t mean that it isn’t there…
You see, beyond meeting that person, I still feel contempt for the average person that I cross or re-cross paths with, mainly because one way or another, they validate my age old philosophy…that most of you are fucking retarded. Lacking self confidence, an appreciation for context, and most importantly, conviction. This judgment still stays with me, as the general stench of your weakness of character disseminates through a room.
I have been through interesting periods in my life since my last post. Pretty high highs coupled with decently crippling lows…yet still, I feel like I see a world clearer that you. A world where people fill in the gargantuan holes in context with make believe stop gaps. Sticky taping square pegs into round holes or worse yet, not even acknowledging that those gaps exist. A weakness displayed either through irrational articulation or ignorant silence. Either way, I’m still, as I’ve generally been, pissed with the lack of thought process by the other pawns on this chess board.
Of recent I have had to endure medical drama, family drama, financial drama, distractions, frustrations and most recently, the loss of a friend. Yet through all of this, somehow, I feel like I am one of a select few that sees things with a certain element of clarity. Surely, I am not as smart as I think that I am, the only one willing to appreciate and understand situations and their context, repercussions and legacy?
Which essentially leads me to my core thought and inspiration for this post…how smart are you? For that matter, how smart do you think you are? Are you aware of your intellectual limitations? How aware are you of the emotional atmosphere of situations that surround you? How fucking aware are you in general? Are you a listless tool that merely chugs along like a meandering tugboat whose only purpose is to keep moving? Irrespective of what metaphorical cargo in whatever philosophical ship?
How aware are you of the false relationships that you foster? How aware are you of the varying degrees of bullshit that you dish out to those participants? Are you convinced that they can’t see your cracking exoskeleton of insecurity? How confident are you that the moving parts of you aren’t merely held together by bubblegum and only given an impenetrable sheen because your audience lacks the insight and foresight to figure you out?
How smart are you, friends? Emotional centering, amidst knee jerk decisions disguised as conscious thought and considerate communication? Romance based on filling in your partners deficiencies? Work relationships held together by subordinates not wanting to stir the bee hive for fear of retribution? And within that, peers not challenging peers due to their emotional maturity rivaling that of a used shopping packet?
I realize that for more or less the better part of the last 2 odd years, I have exhibited fledgling signs of clinical depression. This is due to a catalogue of issues, self enforced and environmental. With all of this, I still feel that I get it, more than you do. I see the holes in our society more than you. I am more aware of the pseudo intellectual conversations we tell ourselves that we’ve had. I am more comfortable with the short comings of relationships. I am more convinced that I know what I’m talking about than you. I process faster and better and with more detail than you. How and why is this the case? Based on me not actually being as smart and as centered as I believe I am, how the fuck am I still working this out, whilst you, flitter in and out of your consciousness with reckless abandon, as if life doesn’t keep score…
I do not believe in Karma, I do not believe in fate, I do not believe in a turning wheel. But continuous ignorance in your life, is like the retarded 4 year old running around with a pair of scissors, eventually someone will get hurt…so decide. Are you the person who is actually trying to be self aware and happens to get stabbed in the leg, or are you the mongoloid smiling at the shiny, sharp object as you run into a wall and have it impale your temple?
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Sometime around Midnight
As I performed my weekly ritual of popping around the nearby Spar to grab the boring weekly essentials for lunch, snacks and potential dinner ingredients, I saw a man, fairly shabbily dressed. He looked like the stereotypical bum. The quintessential wastage of society. Battered, bruised and certainly not donning the latest variation of Armani Mania, this man walked through the car park, into the store. As he took each step, almost leaning on this worn out back pack, his shoulders hunched like a man not wanting a world to see him, his cap pulled low, like a man not wanting to see a world, I noticed that he had with him a companion. An equally scruffy looking, mangy, medium sized dog. Casually walking beside him. No collar, no leash, no restriction. This dog calmly walked beside the man, as if in complete knowledge of the next destination. Not perturbed by the cars funneling in and out of the car park, nor the people hustling towards their next social stop on the busy Sunday that lay ahead.
This, almost equal respect, that the two exuded for one another, had piqued my interest. On getting out of my car, I feverishly looked to confirm my initial suspicion that a man devoid of respect for and from my Northern Joburg suburb would have cavalierly walked in, with dog in tow. Instead, I was rather surprised to find our not recently washed Fido, calmly, casually, sitting at the entrance of the store. Still, no leash nor anything resembling a restriction. It surprised me that this dog, which in all likelihood, wasn’t formally trained was so composed and content with having to just…hang out, and wait.
With my intrigue firmly activated, I grabbed my basket as I walked past the dog, and with me not taking my eyes off him, he propped his head, glanced at me and turned away. Almost to say…well, nothing really. It was as arbitrary a glance as people walking past one another in a mall with no specific intent to actually look at each other.
I found the mystery man, picking up an unsliced loaf of bread. He didn’t stop for any other piece of consumable good. He didn’t pick anything else up, window shop in any specific isle or even look around. He just walked with his loaf of bread, to the check out point, paid for it and walked out.
I feverishly grabbed most (my curiosity got the better of me) of my list and hurried through paying for them. I then grabbed my packets and made for the exit as if I had shoplifted the entire contents. To my sadness, I could no longer see our Rip Van Winkel, nor his well behaved companion. I then packed up the car and settled for the fact that my career as a purely voyeuristic private investigator was over.
Until, as I turned out of the car park, I found the objects of my intrigue, nestling under a nearby tree. It was at that point that the man pulled out of his bag, a small plastic bowl along with a bottle of water. He pours a decent amount of water into the bowl and then breaks the loaf he had earlier bought in half. Both are gently placed near the dog, now comfortably sitting next to his friend. They both then proceed to dig into the loaf, stopping every now and again to wash down the dry bread with quick sips of water. The man, affectionately ruffling the fur of his canine companion.
This image instantaneously brings a smile to my face. Not only does it remind me of pets gone by, but also instills in this low on hope individual, pure, unadulterated economy sized packets of confidence in humanity yet. This mans selflessness, for whatever reason, speaks volumes of the potential of the human psyche. Who knows why he looked the way he did. Who knows why he was the way he was. Sure, I run the risk of over romanticizing and over dramatizing the event, but the simple, undiluted fact is, it was what it was and he did what he did. The dog knew who his friend was and so did the man. Those few seconds that I shared remotely with them, made me wonder for many more hours about the very decency and emotional centering that exists around me.
I am filled with rage. Passive aggressive with extra aggressive. I have become a whining malcontent within myself at the very callous personas that punctuate my life. The frivolous change of opinions and sheer lack of respect at the concept of processing things on an intellectual, logical level. The people shaped baskets that contained many, many egg shaped emotions are starting to come apart at the bloody seams and it feels like I am the only one who sees it. I am filled with contempt towards actions and behavior that has little to do with and minimal impact on me. I feel a growing void between myself and the rest of the world based on the lack of insight, introspection and analysis performed within those that surround me.
With witless tongues we articulate without filters. We act on impulse and go back on paramount philosophies. We throw away who we are in the search for that most instant of instant gratifications. Consuming ourselves in trivial games that have little or too much bearing on our journey. We affirm shifting beliefs with actions hoping that they will become true. Though all they ever end up being are half truisms. We sleep walk our way through it all…passively acting on predefined scripts of what we think we are supposed to want and do.
As I sit, perched on my crucifix, with my comfortable dwellings, clothes filled cupboards, more than decent salary and plethora of other proverbial creature comforts…I wanted to be this traveler, under a tree, breaking bread and sharing a drink with sincere friendship, loyalty and respect…in complete trust and honesty.
“live…love…fight”
This, almost equal respect, that the two exuded for one another, had piqued my interest. On getting out of my car, I feverishly looked to confirm my initial suspicion that a man devoid of respect for and from my Northern Joburg suburb would have cavalierly walked in, with dog in tow. Instead, I was rather surprised to find our not recently washed Fido, calmly, casually, sitting at the entrance of the store. Still, no leash nor anything resembling a restriction. It surprised me that this dog, which in all likelihood, wasn’t formally trained was so composed and content with having to just…hang out, and wait.
With my intrigue firmly activated, I grabbed my basket as I walked past the dog, and with me not taking my eyes off him, he propped his head, glanced at me and turned away. Almost to say…well, nothing really. It was as arbitrary a glance as people walking past one another in a mall with no specific intent to actually look at each other.
I found the mystery man, picking up an unsliced loaf of bread. He didn’t stop for any other piece of consumable good. He didn’t pick anything else up, window shop in any specific isle or even look around. He just walked with his loaf of bread, to the check out point, paid for it and walked out.
I feverishly grabbed most (my curiosity got the better of me) of my list and hurried through paying for them. I then grabbed my packets and made for the exit as if I had shoplifted the entire contents. To my sadness, I could no longer see our Rip Van Winkel, nor his well behaved companion. I then packed up the car and settled for the fact that my career as a purely voyeuristic private investigator was over.
Until, as I turned out of the car park, I found the objects of my intrigue, nestling under a nearby tree. It was at that point that the man pulled out of his bag, a small plastic bowl along with a bottle of water. He pours a decent amount of water into the bowl and then breaks the loaf he had earlier bought in half. Both are gently placed near the dog, now comfortably sitting next to his friend. They both then proceed to dig into the loaf, stopping every now and again to wash down the dry bread with quick sips of water. The man, affectionately ruffling the fur of his canine companion.
This image instantaneously brings a smile to my face. Not only does it remind me of pets gone by, but also instills in this low on hope individual, pure, unadulterated economy sized packets of confidence in humanity yet. This mans selflessness, for whatever reason, speaks volumes of the potential of the human psyche. Who knows why he looked the way he did. Who knows why he was the way he was. Sure, I run the risk of over romanticizing and over dramatizing the event, but the simple, undiluted fact is, it was what it was and he did what he did. The dog knew who his friend was and so did the man. Those few seconds that I shared remotely with them, made me wonder for many more hours about the very decency and emotional centering that exists around me.
I am filled with rage. Passive aggressive with extra aggressive. I have become a whining malcontent within myself at the very callous personas that punctuate my life. The frivolous change of opinions and sheer lack of respect at the concept of processing things on an intellectual, logical level. The people shaped baskets that contained many, many egg shaped emotions are starting to come apart at the bloody seams and it feels like I am the only one who sees it. I am filled with contempt towards actions and behavior that has little to do with and minimal impact on me. I feel a growing void between myself and the rest of the world based on the lack of insight, introspection and analysis performed within those that surround me.
With witless tongues we articulate without filters. We act on impulse and go back on paramount philosophies. We throw away who we are in the search for that most instant of instant gratifications. Consuming ourselves in trivial games that have little or too much bearing on our journey. We affirm shifting beliefs with actions hoping that they will become true. Though all they ever end up being are half truisms. We sleep walk our way through it all…passively acting on predefined scripts of what we think we are supposed to want and do.
As I sit, perched on my crucifix, with my comfortable dwellings, clothes filled cupboards, more than decent salary and plethora of other proverbial creature comforts…I wanted to be this traveler, under a tree, breaking bread and sharing a drink with sincere friendship, loyalty and respect…in complete trust and honesty.
“live…love…fight”
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Sooner or Later
In an era of the manufactured, the generic and the default, what exists for a purist that puts stock in the lesser spotted concept of hope. Yes, good people, I once again find myself delving in the plethora of self loathing that I embrace as my protective cloak from the rest of the world. I have found that time away from fellow mortals merely catalyzes self analysis and hamster processing about who I am, what I do and what I want. As I drown in an endless sea of pointless personas, the world chugs along…with dismissive disregard for this self proclaimed professional appreciator of life…
Having experienced a recent period of cavalier binge drinking and party going amidst the corporate request of 40 hours a week, I have discovered that I am in a familiar, yet not recently seen doldrum. Whilst memories are made, acquaints acquired and self validation found, I can’t help but feel that though I have removed a decent portion of my head out of my ass, that I remain critical to the concept of the cycle I, and for that matter, others, find themselves in. Now though I believe I don’t contribute to the wonderful statistic that fall under the column of “working to jol”, I am, however, enjoying the cheaper thrills of this, the poor man’s New York.
After now, spending a weekend in, with the most damaging substance possible, my thoughts, I find myself questioning the concepts of loneliness, companionship, friendship and essentially, all possible variation of relationships. See, I am in a weirdly needy place. Perhaps needy is a strong word, but it seems the truer articulation of “lonely, strong self loathing, fragile, sensitive” is just a divulgence too far…wait…damn!
Like the teenager that after masturbation, no longer wants the object of his ejaculatory affection, but rather the nice girl, that “gets” him, that communicates and clicks as if it were dialogue from Juno, I too crave more connections with people that resemble a personification of context and insight…and intellect.
My recent endeavors, be they quasi romantic or otherwise, have proven to be constant reminders of the vast void between myself, and so many others. Now, I know I project, but is it too hard to expect someone to be able to hold my attention? I am not of the MENSA brand, much closer to the MENS HEALTH variation really, yet constantly am exposed to life forms that are devoid of anything resembling interesting. I have been critiqued that I am too critical on others for the lack of ability to hold my attention, that I expect a certain word quota of enchanting and disarming. But is that such a ridiculous request…or hope?
I do not read, so that absolves me of that sub culture, I do not go to theatre, I do not frequent dinner parties or other variations that carry the inference of “cultured”. I do not expect a girl to tell me of the glory of Kevin Smith movies. I do not expect her to tell me which formation best suits my Manchester United. I do not expect her to tell me that when she hears the Kings of Leon that she is in fact reminded of Terence Trent D’Arby. I do not expect her to want to try to keep herself attractive, not by virtue of ridiculously priced cosmetics, but rather going to the gym 3 times a week. I do not expect these things…but fuck me, I sure hope for them. Is that wrong? That I burden them, both potential exes and friends alike, with such unrealistic expectations?
If so, why am I then judged by these very standards, if slightly varied? Why am I shunted into a specific percentile based on my inability to recite Shelly, to acknowledge the quality of the variations of wine, to appreciate the early work of fuck knows what author?
We are the only species that makes excuses and care for the weak. We go against Darwinism, and rather manufacture and maintain environments in which the slow, the weak, the non ambitious, the unintelligent, the unimaginative, the inarticulate and the uninteresting can exist. What the fuck are we doing?
My inference that we need to go on a massive population control program is purely based on my interaction with various demographics and with vastly varying context. For me, one of the most startling has been in the context of romance. I have no issues meeting women, but women that have the ability to keep me interested, by virtue of their opinion, history or the ability to articulate either, are far, far too rare. As I troll through both my facebook profile and phone book, I find a severe lack of intrigue, context, value…hope.
When faced with our own mortality, are there key figures in our lives that we would wish to spend our last few days? How many couples would be forced to say that their partner features in the countdown, due to the Labrador like companionship that they have evolved in to? How many would choose their random left field friend that was honest, sincere, interesting and funny, as opposed to their boyfriend that has nothing to say since he played in a schools cricket week that one year in university ten years ago? Would we look around the room and do a quick calculation of the percentage of remarkable personalities that surround us? Or do we merely just slide deeper into our metaphorical bed and pull our safety blanket a notch higher?
There are far too few people that have the ability to tell a story that you will remember as opposed to the regurgitation of factoids. There are far too many that will give you the manufactured, the generic, the default. Lacking soul, heart, wit or intrigue.
I have met too many that remind me that Vanilla runs strong. For God’s sake, can I please have some Rum and Raison or Blueberry?
“It was the best of times…if only someone had told me.”
Having experienced a recent period of cavalier binge drinking and party going amidst the corporate request of 40 hours a week, I have discovered that I am in a familiar, yet not recently seen doldrum. Whilst memories are made, acquaints acquired and self validation found, I can’t help but feel that though I have removed a decent portion of my head out of my ass, that I remain critical to the concept of the cycle I, and for that matter, others, find themselves in. Now though I believe I don’t contribute to the wonderful statistic that fall under the column of “working to jol”, I am, however, enjoying the cheaper thrills of this, the poor man’s New York.
After now, spending a weekend in, with the most damaging substance possible, my thoughts, I find myself questioning the concepts of loneliness, companionship, friendship and essentially, all possible variation of relationships. See, I am in a weirdly needy place. Perhaps needy is a strong word, but it seems the truer articulation of “lonely, strong self loathing, fragile, sensitive” is just a divulgence too far…wait…damn!
Like the teenager that after masturbation, no longer wants the object of his ejaculatory affection, but rather the nice girl, that “gets” him, that communicates and clicks as if it were dialogue from Juno, I too crave more connections with people that resemble a personification of context and insight…and intellect.
My recent endeavors, be they quasi romantic or otherwise, have proven to be constant reminders of the vast void between myself, and so many others. Now, I know I project, but is it too hard to expect someone to be able to hold my attention? I am not of the MENSA brand, much closer to the MENS HEALTH variation really, yet constantly am exposed to life forms that are devoid of anything resembling interesting. I have been critiqued that I am too critical on others for the lack of ability to hold my attention, that I expect a certain word quota of enchanting and disarming. But is that such a ridiculous request…or hope?
I do not read, so that absolves me of that sub culture, I do not go to theatre, I do not frequent dinner parties or other variations that carry the inference of “cultured”. I do not expect a girl to tell me of the glory of Kevin Smith movies. I do not expect her to tell me which formation best suits my Manchester United. I do not expect her to tell me that when she hears the Kings of Leon that she is in fact reminded of Terence Trent D’Arby. I do not expect her to want to try to keep herself attractive, not by virtue of ridiculously priced cosmetics, but rather going to the gym 3 times a week. I do not expect these things…but fuck me, I sure hope for them. Is that wrong? That I burden them, both potential exes and friends alike, with such unrealistic expectations?
If so, why am I then judged by these very standards, if slightly varied? Why am I shunted into a specific percentile based on my inability to recite Shelly, to acknowledge the quality of the variations of wine, to appreciate the early work of fuck knows what author?
We are the only species that makes excuses and care for the weak. We go against Darwinism, and rather manufacture and maintain environments in which the slow, the weak, the non ambitious, the unintelligent, the unimaginative, the inarticulate and the uninteresting can exist. What the fuck are we doing?
My inference that we need to go on a massive population control program is purely based on my interaction with various demographics and with vastly varying context. For me, one of the most startling has been in the context of romance. I have no issues meeting women, but women that have the ability to keep me interested, by virtue of their opinion, history or the ability to articulate either, are far, far too rare. As I troll through both my facebook profile and phone book, I find a severe lack of intrigue, context, value…hope.
When faced with our own mortality, are there key figures in our lives that we would wish to spend our last few days? How many couples would be forced to say that their partner features in the countdown, due to the Labrador like companionship that they have evolved in to? How many would choose their random left field friend that was honest, sincere, interesting and funny, as opposed to their boyfriend that has nothing to say since he played in a schools cricket week that one year in university ten years ago? Would we look around the room and do a quick calculation of the percentage of remarkable personalities that surround us? Or do we merely just slide deeper into our metaphorical bed and pull our safety blanket a notch higher?
There are far too few people that have the ability to tell a story that you will remember as opposed to the regurgitation of factoids. There are far too many that will give you the manufactured, the generic, the default. Lacking soul, heart, wit or intrigue.
I have met too many that remind me that Vanilla runs strong. For God’s sake, can I please have some Rum and Raison or Blueberry?
“It was the best of times…if only someone had told me.”
Monday, January 5, 2009
Californication
The title for this particular post is yet again borrowed from a song of recent past. Though apt by virtue of one of its definitions, it is actually inspired by the TV series where in Hank Moody, the lead character, essentially mirrors my life’s experiences and thought processes…ok, minus the ex long term partner and love child….and minus the woman-a-day philandering…and minus the Porsche…and successes as a novelist…and maybe minus the super quick wit and vocabulary…and binge drinking…ok, ok…But, he is strongly opinionated, is a writer, has a failed (yet vastly more continuous) sprinkling of women, a huge volume of awkward situations, and quite importantly, a decent bevy of self loathing…and therein, lays the empathy.
This impressive, dark and twisted series aside, I have decided that in this post, I shall reveal yet more behind the famous façade that is ultimately the front that a majority of men walk around with…you see, the series itself, is based very strongly around the sexual exploits of our star man, along with a few of his dreams and fantasies, we are very much exposed to his endeavors. These famously clichéd and sometimes far fetched exertions combined with my own events have destined this post to be about the second part of its amalgamated title…fornication.
Sex, as opposed to Wet, Wet, Wet’s 90’s hit, is all around us. It is heavily used in advertising, music lyrics, music videos and themes of movies. Media pushes the philosophy that sex is fairly easy…both to acquire and accomplish. I however, oppose this theory. Though on paper I am no better than our beloved Hank, I have to speak up against the fact that it is all straight forward. For as much as I have had decent “practice runs”, it always seems borderline unreal that it is actually happening…and, to me.
From the first awkward experience in the back of a car behind a public library (classy, I know) to the more vanilla of the bedroom, sex has always seemed something surreal to experience. Now before anyone thinks this is going to be an over romanized diatribe about how beautiful the whole thing is or should be, settle down, for I chastise the very basis of the festivity of copulation and its by/pre products.
Yes boys and girls, for all of the conquests, the checks on the “guy list”, proper romantic passions shared and one night stands endured…I loathe the pressure put by the fact that its “only natural”. Bull! The fact that everywhere around us, we are told that it’s a simple case of girl mildly likes boy, boy doesn’t care just so long as girl holds still long enough, boy inserts penis, girl moans, everyone (not the girl) climaxes, end scene, infuriates me. The simple truth is that I have regularly suffered one version of erectile dysfunction (ED) or another during many if not all of this, the most simple and “obvious” of human activities.
ED is a mechanical failure as much as it is a psychological one. Studies have shown that when the hamsters are too busy upstairs, things south of the border don’t feel like playing their part. Like the footballer that begs the coach to put him in, then pulls a hamstring making his first pass, I have enjoyed the crippling effect of the latter.
I am proud, in some sort of really dysfunctional way, to say that I have endured some of the biggest character building situations in modern day history. From the lack of the ability to climax, to the lack of ability to find where on earth its supposed to go, to the final piece of the holy trinity, equipment failure! Now, we could easily place focus on the fact that my penis is just as self loathing as I am, or that the one affects the other (because I do sincerely believe they are two separate entities) but I think the context that exists has to be appreciated…and well, articulated.
See, my initial thoughts as a younger man pre sex, was that prematurely taking the penalty kick was the worst thing that could happen. As such, my hamsters banked this fear as priority above classified and I think, put the proverbial “cap” on any clichéd experience. Then there was my first sexual experience. Being with a woman that was experienced, I expected that all I had to bring to the table was an erection…wrong. It appeared that I needed to have a vague idea of where to put my penis along with what seemed to me as the most unnatural thing in human behavior, the dreaded missionary thrust!
Now, to say that my little soldier did his darndest would be a grave under appreciation of his attempts. That said though, I believe that the awkwardness (emotional and physical) led to a decent amount of loathing being festered toward myself for not knowing what to do, and towards my unwitting partner. All this did, was portray sex as the devil. I’m of the opinion that I then even somehow developed what I believe is clinically called “Vagina Fear”…the documented medical definition being when the penis is erect and unsure if the next step, being penetration, is really what it (said penis) wants.
Anyway, all that led to drama, tears, and me smoking…and loathing. Not entirely the Hollywood-esque routine of man, woman, sex, climax, nicotine. Moving forward, my next encounter was a few months later and as my penis had the memory (if it was the only thing resembling the related size) of an elephant and proceeded to freak out. Though full penetration was obtained, happy feeling felt, climax proved unattainable. Enter further thought. Considering that partner was pretty much anything a hot blooded hetro male would want, I struggled with the notion that it wasn’t enough to get me off…for God’s sake, I was an Olympic medal winning masturbator, this was the same, but better…right? Wrong again.
Enter more thought. For along with penis size, premature ejaculation and the lack of a homing beacon guiding my way, I then began to contemplate my nakedness, my ability to physically keep up (this would be the thrusting motion) and lest we forget, the self loathing. See, for me, sex for some reason, always seemed surreal. The concept that someone would put themselves in such a vulnerable position, for me, seemed, awesome, in the context of how the word awesome was meant to be used, not like the teenage mutant ninja turtles way. It almost always seemed like something that shouldn’t have been happening to me. Though I know that I should take full responsibility for the actual opportunity presenting itself, I couldn’t help thinking…”I wish my friends were here”. Not in a vile voyeuristic sorta way, but to high five me that I was actually getting laid. Needless to say, the plethora of thoughts hindered performance beyond the realms of my actual physical profile.
As I became better at the game of getting women to actually want to sleep with me, my thought process about being a premature ejaculator faded, but many (thoughts) of the others remained. As such, sex with me became like a Keith Sweat song theme…all night long. Essentially only stopping when one or both parties were tired or one (not me) was tired of getting off…and subsequently got off. I was left, unsatisfied. Many were left, questioning.
It was sad to note that perhaps a majority looked within themselves as they felt responsible with not being able to do this simplest of human activities as per its predefined script. The truth however, was, as much as it sounds like a cliché, it wasn’t them, it was me. And so the numbers continued to tally up, the positions changed but the coital climax still remained elusive. Until…
With a greater thought processes within myself (one of the hamsters decided to re prioritize the “thinking during sex file” again), my once steady and reliable penis, had begun to fail me. With what I thought was newly discovered mechanical failure, I ventured forth trying to essentially “walk it off” with a trial and error philosophy. Let’s just say that the test subjects weren’t all that impressed.
As the erections (with partners) continued to fail in differing context, the self confidence so too continued to die down (pun unintended), like…er….going to leave out the simile for that one. And so began the sexploits with my “umm friend”. Which though sporadic over a decent amount of time, became the go to scenario. And yes, at that very point, it was 5 years of sexual quasi experience, but never a climax in any way, form or semen shape. Until she did something really right. And then it happened again, and then again, and then again. In fact, she got so good at doing that, that that’s all she wanted to do. Unfortunately, that thing was not penetrative sex, and so, the already Grand Canyon rivaling void with “normal process”, grew larger.
The most pressing inspiration for this post is in fact, that since her, I have “tried” to have sex with another, with comedic consequences. For during that latest foray into what has become a predefined path of carnal knowledge, I have had the most humbling of experiences. Mechanical failure beyond Elizabethan or Biblical proportions. For when a man hears the line he rates up there with such cult horrors as, “there is a lump”, “your sperm is dud” or “Liverpool have won the league”….”Is it in yet?”, everything changes!
I found it hilarious. For some retarded reason, all I could do, was laugh…for during the process of which my penis went from being erect, penetrated and dead, I had play by play questioning commentary…in my head.
With each thrust that my erection became weaker (which wasn’t many), I began thinking that I was more just bashing her nether regions with my groin than making Don Juan de Marco type love. When she eventually asked the question, all I could do, was refer to the questions that were already in place…”Am I even in?”, “I wonder if she can feel how fast its fading?”, “I wonder if I shouldn’t have done triceps at the gym today?”, “oh shit, am I even hard?”, “holy crap, I went from hard to soft whilst being in her, does that mean my penis is minute?”, “can I use the fact that she is so wet as an excuse or take it as a compliment?”, “I wonder if United will buy another striker this season?”…
She took it like a trooper, and we agreed that it was funny. Since then, my beloved member has come to the party, on occasion, as further attempts (she still let me) to have sex lasted longer, but a similarly disappointing ending. One thought kept bouncing around, the fact that it was missionary (queue flashback memories). As I believe I am a heavy boy, with a less than grandioso penis, this allegedly most natural position, is most unnatural to me, as yes, I had become very much a girl-on-top or boy-behind-girl type of guy. My council tells me, that as with a dodgy golf swing, only with practice, will the problem be exorcised…and that, my esteemed audience, are where we are at…
To conclude, I share a few of my meandering thoughts about the matter of coitus, or in my case, coitus interruptis. ED, with its most recent starring role, has definitely made itself an important fore and after thought in my day to day dealings. I now question whether I will be able to even have children, for should the erection last, the climax seems as existent as the clitoris (I’m just kidding ladies). But yes, it is a weird sorta fear, even though I have no interest in having children at this point.
Due to my lack of actual sexual ability, which I gladly disclaim and advertise, I have become pretty damn epic at the concept of foreplay and acquiring a non penis penetrating related orgasm out of the core demographic. Though some have chosen to enjoy the fruits of my self deprecation, many have chosen to focus on the fact that it was either sad that that’s what I would prefer doing (which is pretty awful I think, considering I am trying to get you off here!) or even worse, condemned me, for being this good, means I am actually pretty bad, in the context of practice makes perfect…the inference being that being a philanderer allows the technique to be tested and proven.
The human psyche is an intriguing piece of engineering. Well, that’s as logically as I can state it. The well documented fact that women can go from hot to dry (yes, that is an actual path) in 0.2 seconds is exclusive by virtue of genitalia, is in my opinion, wrong. For though, on occasion, by penis has shown its more tenacious side, it too aborts mission pretty dramatically based on a rift in the force…be it a tasteless statement, or maneuver poorly executed or any other number of dramatic fails.
Where does it all end folks? Do I just need to get drunk every time to start getting over the enormous load of issues my hamsters choose to process? Do I seek salvation in the little blue pill and hope that my thoughts won’t override drugs? Or do I just wave to a world lacking context, passing by? Libido…check. General working parts….check. Does not prematurely ejaculate…check. Comfortable in own skin….check. Clear mind….I dare you…
“A pair of powerful spectacles has sometimes sufficed to cure a person in love.”
This impressive, dark and twisted series aside, I have decided that in this post, I shall reveal yet more behind the famous façade that is ultimately the front that a majority of men walk around with…you see, the series itself, is based very strongly around the sexual exploits of our star man, along with a few of his dreams and fantasies, we are very much exposed to his endeavors. These famously clichéd and sometimes far fetched exertions combined with my own events have destined this post to be about the second part of its amalgamated title…fornication.
Sex, as opposed to Wet, Wet, Wet’s 90’s hit, is all around us. It is heavily used in advertising, music lyrics, music videos and themes of movies. Media pushes the philosophy that sex is fairly easy…both to acquire and accomplish. I however, oppose this theory. Though on paper I am no better than our beloved Hank, I have to speak up against the fact that it is all straight forward. For as much as I have had decent “practice runs”, it always seems borderline unreal that it is actually happening…and, to me.
From the first awkward experience in the back of a car behind a public library (classy, I know) to the more vanilla of the bedroom, sex has always seemed something surreal to experience. Now before anyone thinks this is going to be an over romanized diatribe about how beautiful the whole thing is or should be, settle down, for I chastise the very basis of the festivity of copulation and its by/pre products.
Yes boys and girls, for all of the conquests, the checks on the “guy list”, proper romantic passions shared and one night stands endured…I loathe the pressure put by the fact that its “only natural”. Bull! The fact that everywhere around us, we are told that it’s a simple case of girl mildly likes boy, boy doesn’t care just so long as girl holds still long enough, boy inserts penis, girl moans, everyone (not the girl) climaxes, end scene, infuriates me. The simple truth is that I have regularly suffered one version of erectile dysfunction (ED) or another during many if not all of this, the most simple and “obvious” of human activities.
ED is a mechanical failure as much as it is a psychological one. Studies have shown that when the hamsters are too busy upstairs, things south of the border don’t feel like playing their part. Like the footballer that begs the coach to put him in, then pulls a hamstring making his first pass, I have enjoyed the crippling effect of the latter.
I am proud, in some sort of really dysfunctional way, to say that I have endured some of the biggest character building situations in modern day history. From the lack of the ability to climax, to the lack of ability to find where on earth its supposed to go, to the final piece of the holy trinity, equipment failure! Now, we could easily place focus on the fact that my penis is just as self loathing as I am, or that the one affects the other (because I do sincerely believe they are two separate entities) but I think the context that exists has to be appreciated…and well, articulated.
See, my initial thoughts as a younger man pre sex, was that prematurely taking the penalty kick was the worst thing that could happen. As such, my hamsters banked this fear as priority above classified and I think, put the proverbial “cap” on any clichéd experience. Then there was my first sexual experience. Being with a woman that was experienced, I expected that all I had to bring to the table was an erection…wrong. It appeared that I needed to have a vague idea of where to put my penis along with what seemed to me as the most unnatural thing in human behavior, the dreaded missionary thrust!
Now, to say that my little soldier did his darndest would be a grave under appreciation of his attempts. That said though, I believe that the awkwardness (emotional and physical) led to a decent amount of loathing being festered toward myself for not knowing what to do, and towards my unwitting partner. All this did, was portray sex as the devil. I’m of the opinion that I then even somehow developed what I believe is clinically called “Vagina Fear”…the documented medical definition being when the penis is erect and unsure if the next step, being penetration, is really what it (said penis) wants.
Anyway, all that led to drama, tears, and me smoking…and loathing. Not entirely the Hollywood-esque routine of man, woman, sex, climax, nicotine. Moving forward, my next encounter was a few months later and as my penis had the memory (if it was the only thing resembling the related size) of an elephant and proceeded to freak out. Though full penetration was obtained, happy feeling felt, climax proved unattainable. Enter further thought. Considering that partner was pretty much anything a hot blooded hetro male would want, I struggled with the notion that it wasn’t enough to get me off…for God’s sake, I was an Olympic medal winning masturbator, this was the same, but better…right? Wrong again.
Enter more thought. For along with penis size, premature ejaculation and the lack of a homing beacon guiding my way, I then began to contemplate my nakedness, my ability to physically keep up (this would be the thrusting motion) and lest we forget, the self loathing. See, for me, sex for some reason, always seemed surreal. The concept that someone would put themselves in such a vulnerable position, for me, seemed, awesome, in the context of how the word awesome was meant to be used, not like the teenage mutant ninja turtles way. It almost always seemed like something that shouldn’t have been happening to me. Though I know that I should take full responsibility for the actual opportunity presenting itself, I couldn’t help thinking…”I wish my friends were here”. Not in a vile voyeuristic sorta way, but to high five me that I was actually getting laid. Needless to say, the plethora of thoughts hindered performance beyond the realms of my actual physical profile.
As I became better at the game of getting women to actually want to sleep with me, my thought process about being a premature ejaculator faded, but many (thoughts) of the others remained. As such, sex with me became like a Keith Sweat song theme…all night long. Essentially only stopping when one or both parties were tired or one (not me) was tired of getting off…and subsequently got off. I was left, unsatisfied. Many were left, questioning.
It was sad to note that perhaps a majority looked within themselves as they felt responsible with not being able to do this simplest of human activities as per its predefined script. The truth however, was, as much as it sounds like a cliché, it wasn’t them, it was me. And so the numbers continued to tally up, the positions changed but the coital climax still remained elusive. Until…
With a greater thought processes within myself (one of the hamsters decided to re prioritize the “thinking during sex file” again), my once steady and reliable penis, had begun to fail me. With what I thought was newly discovered mechanical failure, I ventured forth trying to essentially “walk it off” with a trial and error philosophy. Let’s just say that the test subjects weren’t all that impressed.
As the erections (with partners) continued to fail in differing context, the self confidence so too continued to die down (pun unintended), like…er….going to leave out the simile for that one. And so began the sexploits with my “umm friend”. Which though sporadic over a decent amount of time, became the go to scenario. And yes, at that very point, it was 5 years of sexual quasi experience, but never a climax in any way, form or semen shape. Until she did something really right. And then it happened again, and then again, and then again. In fact, she got so good at doing that, that that’s all she wanted to do. Unfortunately, that thing was not penetrative sex, and so, the already Grand Canyon rivaling void with “normal process”, grew larger.
The most pressing inspiration for this post is in fact, that since her, I have “tried” to have sex with another, with comedic consequences. For during that latest foray into what has become a predefined path of carnal knowledge, I have had the most humbling of experiences. Mechanical failure beyond Elizabethan or Biblical proportions. For when a man hears the line he rates up there with such cult horrors as, “there is a lump”, “your sperm is dud” or “Liverpool have won the league”….”Is it in yet?”, everything changes!
I found it hilarious. For some retarded reason, all I could do, was laugh…for during the process of which my penis went from being erect, penetrated and dead, I had play by play questioning commentary…in my head.
With each thrust that my erection became weaker (which wasn’t many), I began thinking that I was more just bashing her nether regions with my groin than making Don Juan de Marco type love. When she eventually asked the question, all I could do, was refer to the questions that were already in place…”Am I even in?”, “I wonder if she can feel how fast its fading?”, “I wonder if I shouldn’t have done triceps at the gym today?”, “oh shit, am I even hard?”, “holy crap, I went from hard to soft whilst being in her, does that mean my penis is minute?”, “can I use the fact that she is so wet as an excuse or take it as a compliment?”, “I wonder if United will buy another striker this season?”…
She took it like a trooper, and we agreed that it was funny. Since then, my beloved member has come to the party, on occasion, as further attempts (she still let me) to have sex lasted longer, but a similarly disappointing ending. One thought kept bouncing around, the fact that it was missionary (queue flashback memories). As I believe I am a heavy boy, with a less than grandioso penis, this allegedly most natural position, is most unnatural to me, as yes, I had become very much a girl-on-top or boy-behind-girl type of guy. My council tells me, that as with a dodgy golf swing, only with practice, will the problem be exorcised…and that, my esteemed audience, are where we are at…
To conclude, I share a few of my meandering thoughts about the matter of coitus, or in my case, coitus interruptis. ED, with its most recent starring role, has definitely made itself an important fore and after thought in my day to day dealings. I now question whether I will be able to even have children, for should the erection last, the climax seems as existent as the clitoris (I’m just kidding ladies). But yes, it is a weird sorta fear, even though I have no interest in having children at this point.
Due to my lack of actual sexual ability, which I gladly disclaim and advertise, I have become pretty damn epic at the concept of foreplay and acquiring a non penis penetrating related orgasm out of the core demographic. Though some have chosen to enjoy the fruits of my self deprecation, many have chosen to focus on the fact that it was either sad that that’s what I would prefer doing (which is pretty awful I think, considering I am trying to get you off here!) or even worse, condemned me, for being this good, means I am actually pretty bad, in the context of practice makes perfect…the inference being that being a philanderer allows the technique to be tested and proven.
The human psyche is an intriguing piece of engineering. Well, that’s as logically as I can state it. The well documented fact that women can go from hot to dry (yes, that is an actual path) in 0.2 seconds is exclusive by virtue of genitalia, is in my opinion, wrong. For though, on occasion, by penis has shown its more tenacious side, it too aborts mission pretty dramatically based on a rift in the force…be it a tasteless statement, or maneuver poorly executed or any other number of dramatic fails.
Where does it all end folks? Do I just need to get drunk every time to start getting over the enormous load of issues my hamsters choose to process? Do I seek salvation in the little blue pill and hope that my thoughts won’t override drugs? Or do I just wave to a world lacking context, passing by? Libido…check. General working parts….check. Does not prematurely ejaculate…check. Comfortable in own skin….check. Clear mind….I dare you…
“A pair of powerful spectacles has sometimes sufficed to cure a person in love.”
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Blurry
I have spent the last few months, post last blog, proactively trying to live my life the way I want to…amongst other things, salsa lessons, attempts at learning to play the guitar, reading, writing my screenplay and going to the gym…in the moments that work (and self indulgence in the form of laziness) has not consumed me…
These times have been punctuated by the odd attempt at quasi romance and include pearler one liners such as “what does this mean to you”, “I’m not normally like this” and “It’s so comfortable with you”…all have dripped with bullshit. The only bit that’s an epiphany to me is the fact that that bullshit is not only from one party.
In the time since my last post, which proved to be terribly therapeutic and cathartic, despite the castigation and worries of friends, I have felt better than I have for most of this fucking year…a year that somehow managed to be more of waste than the regrettable drudgery of 2007.
At a place of all too familiar confusion, apathy and yet, frustration, far too early in the year than normally experienced, too much of this fucking year has hinged on the whims, reactions, retorts and actions of others. For a person that considers himself to be fairly centered and well rounded, I have let myself be affected by far too many of the inane and dispensable category.
I have not blogged for a while because for a decent part of my accidental sabbatical, I have been ok. As this page has become my safe place to rant, bitch, vent or judge, I lacked the required material to populate with anything worth reading, or for that matter, worth writing. I could have blogged about rainbows and butterflies and the sweet smell of rain in the fucking morning, but that would be too much of a stretch even for my imagination. For though I have not been as fucked off, as disenchanted, as disinterested as I normally have been for this God forsaken year, I haven’t quite felt an inkling of contentment, let alone the sight of happiness on any proverbial horizon.
In a world filled with valor and bullshit, honesty and cowardice, hope and regret, I find myself continually affected by the fucking variables that people are. Though this post was inspired by specific events, ultimately, the combination of recent events have provided the ambition and back bone of it.
Yet again, despite my not so squeaky clean endeavors, I find myself affected by the fucking opaque and vague actions of people…
As has become form, my posts tend to have a theme…a defined bitch or rant, a question with conviction…this particular post finds me just needing an outlet with a need to ask the simple, age old question…WHAT THE FUCK?
With waning interest in the very things that stirred my soul for decades, the shock at how others aren’t chocked or even swayed when their articulations drip with bullshit and a lack of faith in the general populace to acknowledge what the hell is going on and who they are, I find myself completely and utterly confused as to how to not want to say more than I have, which as it turns out, are volumes more than they would.
With recent experiences ranging from half truths, to lack of empathy, to falseness in small doses, to bullshit in large doses, to down right lies, to self absorption, I can but see myself standing in a crowded space, screaming expletives without anyone even hearing a fucking word…well, something like that.
The contrasting personas of people continue to intrigue me, as a person that borders voyeurism with a healthy interest in human behavior, I am constantly astounded by the fucking irresponsible retards you are.
I am no martyr…I myself may have helped situations along their path, though pre defined some have seemed or even manufactured pheromones to assist a certain process along, but I still, despite any heed of “man codes” or reasoning within myself that people need to deal with their own lives, I have articulated truths…as often as I could, as sincere as it was…
The period between the last post and now has included experience after experience beyond the norm. As my independent census has shown, these experiences, their sequence in time and their drama levels, do not oft occur…they have, however, in my life…and as such, I am fucked off!
Burdens of perceptions that other people manufuckingfacture in their minds of a situation with people that don’t exist should not be my concern. Double standards and articulations of do’s and don’ts, questions for reaffirmation and not to leave the lesser spotted, down right fucking lie…
Though I am a person who very much lives in his own head, with varying degrees of success, I find the lack of self analysis as shocking as it is fucking hilarious…What on earth are your hamsters doing? No deeper thought process of what one is saying, doing or as bad, projecting, yet with James Bond like confidence, resolute on the stance that the soap box they find themselves perched on is immune to questions, quizzical looks and just good old fashioned context…
Ah, context, I love that word. For me, no other word should mean more to any one person, perhaps, its only decent competitors are “hope” and “empathy”. Whilst one contributor (to this post) is dismissive to the realities of life, love and everything else, another manufactures a perception of a situation, not leaving out others that down right just don’t process a damn thing or as harsh, are dismissive to how damaging the double trouble combo of “double standards” actually is.
I guess its just a case of my cup runeth over, with regards to the lack of context and empathy that people have had, and the of course, the fact that those “issues” have been either one of, caused by me or happened to me.
One insightful, eloquent, and very centered contemporary ventured the thought that we are in fact our state of mind and tried to make sense of my mental state. His words were sharp, to the point, honest and fucking true. Despite what was an awesome case for the defense in the trial of “Context versus bullshit”, he over looked one critical factor, or rather, and with a certain amount of validity, dismissed the issue of empathy…mine in particular.
With ambition that rivals the next Everest summit party and Obama combined, I can’t help but fucking feel and hope…this is the Achilles heel to my Brad Pitt…that despite my best efforts to control my own universe, I let people in, and allow myself to see them as people with similar thought processes, and for that matter, thought in general…how wrong I am to give such hope and empathy to people that lack the respect for context…
I am tired. Emotionally. The pendulum swings as high as it does evenly and its imaginary Comet like tail leaves with it a residual of deep, depressing, introspection and all too little, the after glow of growth and improving self worth…
We are taught to worry about ourselves, with an eye to not fuck anyone around more than is absolutely needed, if in fact it is needed. We are taught to be strong, self reliant and street smart. Eloquent and articulate. The one thing we aren’t taught, is how to fucking grow up and even if our life depended on it, deal with the fact that there are things we should control, things that we cant control but should accept and things that we can do to make someone else’s journey that little bit less arduous, and empty…even then…its just a case of context, I guess…
I know that this post has nothing but grey all over, alas, a more truthful rant would be less affective towards me dealing with these issues and far too direct for the hapless fucktards that stirred the thought process in the first place. Suffice to say, that the levels of bullshit and complete lack of respect for context that I have recently experienced is as overwhelming as it is real. The sick cycle carousel continues and people shan’t change. These are things I know all too well, but without hope that people grow, deal and make the necessary upgrades within, I face the very disheartening option of an even lonelier existence. Because as the list of people that appreciate the person that I am, in context, shrinks, the constant reminders that I am very much, the only one that will completely get me grows…
A rousing fuck you to those that impose, manipulate, chastise, critique and generally don’t appreciate context. I hope you grow as a person. In context.
“Make the most of your regrets; never smother your sorrow, but tend and cherish it till it comes to have a separate and integral interest. To regret deeply is to live afresh.”
“This is your life, and it's ending one second at a time.”
These times have been punctuated by the odd attempt at quasi romance and include pearler one liners such as “what does this mean to you”, “I’m not normally like this” and “It’s so comfortable with you”…all have dripped with bullshit. The only bit that’s an epiphany to me is the fact that that bullshit is not only from one party.
In the time since my last post, which proved to be terribly therapeutic and cathartic, despite the castigation and worries of friends, I have felt better than I have for most of this fucking year…a year that somehow managed to be more of waste than the regrettable drudgery of 2007.
At a place of all too familiar confusion, apathy and yet, frustration, far too early in the year than normally experienced, too much of this fucking year has hinged on the whims, reactions, retorts and actions of others. For a person that considers himself to be fairly centered and well rounded, I have let myself be affected by far too many of the inane and dispensable category.
I have not blogged for a while because for a decent part of my accidental sabbatical, I have been ok. As this page has become my safe place to rant, bitch, vent or judge, I lacked the required material to populate with anything worth reading, or for that matter, worth writing. I could have blogged about rainbows and butterflies and the sweet smell of rain in the fucking morning, but that would be too much of a stretch even for my imagination. For though I have not been as fucked off, as disenchanted, as disinterested as I normally have been for this God forsaken year, I haven’t quite felt an inkling of contentment, let alone the sight of happiness on any proverbial horizon.
In a world filled with valor and bullshit, honesty and cowardice, hope and regret, I find myself continually affected by the fucking variables that people are. Though this post was inspired by specific events, ultimately, the combination of recent events have provided the ambition and back bone of it.
Yet again, despite my not so squeaky clean endeavors, I find myself affected by the fucking opaque and vague actions of people…
As has become form, my posts tend to have a theme…a defined bitch or rant, a question with conviction…this particular post finds me just needing an outlet with a need to ask the simple, age old question…WHAT THE FUCK?
With waning interest in the very things that stirred my soul for decades, the shock at how others aren’t chocked or even swayed when their articulations drip with bullshit and a lack of faith in the general populace to acknowledge what the hell is going on and who they are, I find myself completely and utterly confused as to how to not want to say more than I have, which as it turns out, are volumes more than they would.
With recent experiences ranging from half truths, to lack of empathy, to falseness in small doses, to bullshit in large doses, to down right lies, to self absorption, I can but see myself standing in a crowded space, screaming expletives without anyone even hearing a fucking word…well, something like that.
The contrasting personas of people continue to intrigue me, as a person that borders voyeurism with a healthy interest in human behavior, I am constantly astounded by the fucking irresponsible retards you are.
I am no martyr…I myself may have helped situations along their path, though pre defined some have seemed or even manufactured pheromones to assist a certain process along, but I still, despite any heed of “man codes” or reasoning within myself that people need to deal with their own lives, I have articulated truths…as often as I could, as sincere as it was…
The period between the last post and now has included experience after experience beyond the norm. As my independent census has shown, these experiences, their sequence in time and their drama levels, do not oft occur…they have, however, in my life…and as such, I am fucked off!
Burdens of perceptions that other people manufuckingfacture in their minds of a situation with people that don’t exist should not be my concern. Double standards and articulations of do’s and don’ts, questions for reaffirmation and not to leave the lesser spotted, down right fucking lie…
Though I am a person who very much lives in his own head, with varying degrees of success, I find the lack of self analysis as shocking as it is fucking hilarious…What on earth are your hamsters doing? No deeper thought process of what one is saying, doing or as bad, projecting, yet with James Bond like confidence, resolute on the stance that the soap box they find themselves perched on is immune to questions, quizzical looks and just good old fashioned context…
Ah, context, I love that word. For me, no other word should mean more to any one person, perhaps, its only decent competitors are “hope” and “empathy”. Whilst one contributor (to this post) is dismissive to the realities of life, love and everything else, another manufactures a perception of a situation, not leaving out others that down right just don’t process a damn thing or as harsh, are dismissive to how damaging the double trouble combo of “double standards” actually is.
I guess its just a case of my cup runeth over, with regards to the lack of context and empathy that people have had, and the of course, the fact that those “issues” have been either one of, caused by me or happened to me.
One insightful, eloquent, and very centered contemporary ventured the thought that we are in fact our state of mind and tried to make sense of my mental state. His words were sharp, to the point, honest and fucking true. Despite what was an awesome case for the defense in the trial of “Context versus bullshit”, he over looked one critical factor, or rather, and with a certain amount of validity, dismissed the issue of empathy…mine in particular.
With ambition that rivals the next Everest summit party and Obama combined, I can’t help but fucking feel and hope…this is the Achilles heel to my Brad Pitt…that despite my best efforts to control my own universe, I let people in, and allow myself to see them as people with similar thought processes, and for that matter, thought in general…how wrong I am to give such hope and empathy to people that lack the respect for context…
I am tired. Emotionally. The pendulum swings as high as it does evenly and its imaginary Comet like tail leaves with it a residual of deep, depressing, introspection and all too little, the after glow of growth and improving self worth…
We are taught to worry about ourselves, with an eye to not fuck anyone around more than is absolutely needed, if in fact it is needed. We are taught to be strong, self reliant and street smart. Eloquent and articulate. The one thing we aren’t taught, is how to fucking grow up and even if our life depended on it, deal with the fact that there are things we should control, things that we cant control but should accept and things that we can do to make someone else’s journey that little bit less arduous, and empty…even then…its just a case of context, I guess…
I know that this post has nothing but grey all over, alas, a more truthful rant would be less affective towards me dealing with these issues and far too direct for the hapless fucktards that stirred the thought process in the first place. Suffice to say, that the levels of bullshit and complete lack of respect for context that I have recently experienced is as overwhelming as it is real. The sick cycle carousel continues and people shan’t change. These are things I know all too well, but without hope that people grow, deal and make the necessary upgrades within, I face the very disheartening option of an even lonelier existence. Because as the list of people that appreciate the person that I am, in context, shrinks, the constant reminders that I am very much, the only one that will completely get me grows…
A rousing fuck you to those that impose, manipulate, chastise, critique and generally don’t appreciate context. I hope you grow as a person. In context.
“Make the most of your regrets; never smother your sorrow, but tend and cherish it till it comes to have a separate and integral interest. To regret deeply is to live afresh.”
“This is your life, and it's ending one second at a time.”
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Disenchanted
As inspired by David Benioff in 25th hour…
Fuck societal institutions. The need to find a safe and secure place in your life. Go to school, the false perception of a higher education, find a job, find a girl, get married, settle down, buy a house, have dinner parties, have a child, buy another house, have another child, have a braai, buy a better car…when does it fucking end? A never ending search to find a fucking pillar that you can rely on, but what the fuck does that mean? A reliable job, a reliable partner? Raise a child to continue your name in ignorance? Fuck that, and fuck all those people that accept this as a standard that they should strive for in their lives.
Fuck social standards and perceptions. Fuck the pampered boys and dolled up girls. Fucking manicured toes and designer gear. All adding to the fucking façade that you are. You aren’t fooling anyone you dumb fuck! Grow your hair into a mow hock, shave it off, grow it back longer, color it in, cut it again, give me a fucking break you fake piece of shit! The girls with the breasts perky, asses out, selling themselves for whatever fucking retard that best compliments them as yet another fucking accessory. Honey, you look like a real life blow up doll, worth a look you may be, but what you inspire in me, is fucking violence. The boys strolling around like fucking peacocks trying to attract the maximum number of looks based on the coolness they exude. Shut the fuck up with the grandioso hook ups and parties you false, fake, walking, talking insecurity.
Fuck the institute of marriage and what its done for an old school romantic retard like myself. People settle down with the no importance on the word fucking “settle”. A perception of what they want, what they believe they can only get or fuck knows what else. The removal of some of the financial burden with the “dual income” concept. Are you fucking serious? Men, have their head turned by every other tart, forking out tons of money on strippers and prostitutes, how the fuck did you let it get to this, and willingly! Women looking around and realize that their men aren’t anywhere near happy and that their set up is more of one of companionship fueled by the fear of being alone (which is true for men too) and more of a fucked up platonic friendship. One where trust quasi exists because neither party has enough energy to articulate how fucked up it really is to come home to another “how was your day, dear” conversation. This is your fucking life and you are watching it pass by. People go through the fucking hoopla and drama of going through the fucking ritual, invitation list and catering only to go back on their word and call it a day, for reasons that vary from infidelity to just “not working anymore”, are you fucking kidding me? If you weren’t blinded by the concept, you may have realized how retarded he is or how superficial she was. Play the fucking victim and blame the situation at home as validation enough to fuck someone else. Own your fucking situation; put your hand up and fucking leave with some sense of self worth still in tact!
Fuck beauty/health magazines and the pressure they put on me to lose 10 kg. The fucking impression that when someone describes someone as “average weight and build” they don’t fucking mean me, who the fuck are they? Preaching grooming techniques, work out techniques and cunnilingus techniques, give me a fucking break! Hairless washboard abs, completely disciplined lifestyles, fitted suits, am I supposed to buy into the hope that this is what a real man is right now? In the absence of the “hunter gatherer” concept this is what will constitute me finding a decent mate and a comfort within myself, fuck you! Women’s magazines preaching techniques on how to dress this summer and how to blow your man next winter. What the fuck does it matter when on the one page that they preach how to please your man, and on the next, they articulate the need to not feel objectified. News flash you fucking retarded journos, that’s why men watch porn. Do me a fucking favour and think about how the term fuck is used in context of sex, not her fucking him, but him fucking her, as a fucking object!
Fuck family and their neediness and attachment to the perception of fucking “duty”. Just because you are born into a household you are expected to fulfill someone else’s fucking belief system with regards to religion, sexual preference and general relationship management. Fuck that, I didn’t ask to brought here, yet I’m supposed to be fucking thankful to you. Well, allow me to thank you…for the first time I was dumped and felt heartache, for the first time you didn’t have money for something I wanted, for the first time I didn’t have money for something I wanted, for not protecting me against life’s harsh realities and having to deal with it before I should have, for me having to go through the concept of not being good enough, for me hating myself and for fuck loads more of other unnecessary disappointments that I have had to put up with. It is expected that I am supposed to be a certain brand of family member, caring, giving, considerate, why the fuck? Just because of blood ties I am expected to keep in touch, reciprocate affection and thoughtfulness. Fuck that! The concept of having a child has been severely warped. People need to look within themselves. Younger people looking to older people to help them, older people looking to younger people to need them, fuck off, is that why I am here, to validate your existence?
Fuck the different degrees of friendships and the need to not so subtly be yourself in it. To preach loyalty and not act accordingly. Murmurs of gripes and difference of opinion. Give me a fucking break. If you want to be there, be there. Don’t fucking fake it, I would rather be alone, jerking off than have to believe that the perception of my quality as a friend is me making myself available to fix your fucking problems. They are your fucking problems. Busy fucking passing comments and thought about how you are better in a plethora of ways that I cant comprehend. Grow the fuck up and deal with your own fucking shit. Realize the short comings you have before you believe you have a stance to look down on me…look down on me, fuck you! Seriously, take ownership of your life, but is it that hard to not be a dick, if it is, then I guess that’s enough detail for me. I am fucking tired of giving the affectionate ear to repetitive stories and dramas, being the understanding, sensitive idiot whilst you don’t give yourself the time it would take to properly process the shit you have going on. Wake the fuck up and smell the java. You aren’t as cool as you think, you aren’t as funny as you think, you aren’t as witty as you think, you aren’t as good looking as you think and sure as fuck, you aren’t as smart as you think…own your own shit. Fucking whining malcontents that refuse to be more than they are. Holes in their perception of friendship and their fucking lives. Don’t judge me when you can’t even identify your fucking deficiencies!
Fuck exes. Seeking random bits of validation and affection. What the fuck for? There was a reason you broke up with me, or I with you. Why do we go through the fucking circus of needing to give the perception that there is genuine care there. If you dumped my sorry ass, why the fuck are you still seeking to keep in touch? The fact that you broke up with me, doesn’t make me any less funny or witty or cool or fun to be with, sorry sweet heart, but this shouldn’t be news to you. Now you want all of the friendship and sincerity but none of the admin, fuck you! And for those that I broke up with, I guess I am the weaker one in that I want to make sure you are ok…I don’t seek validation or affection or random bits of flirty shit from you. More often than not, anything I have done, has been for some sort of warped sense of me bettering myself as a person. If I didn’t want to keep dating you, it must be for fundamental fucking reasons, along the lines of you being full of shit, or a variation there of…leave me the fuck alone. To both sets of exes, what we had, is long since dead, go fuck up someone else’s life. A few key thoughts, say what you mean, do what you say, stop using teeth during head, at some point, an erection needs to be used, I really don’t care about all of the fucking details in your day and the fact that your friends are giving you shit isn’t my fault, don’t fucking project! You having past admin that you didn’t deal with is also not my fucking problem and when you dump a guy, be honest, cos fuck knows, that would help him not want to smack you with a wrench when he sees you on the street. Stop hedging your bets, don’t bother with the perception that anyone is going to judge you for the things you do behind closed doors and at what times in your relationship, it’s just you and your partner. Start with dealing with your fucking baggage. I gave you all of me and you weren’t a first team player. I can only be sorry for that.
Fuck the sanctity of self improvement and the need for me to better myself. To gain control of a life I am not sure why I’m living. To know when to stop, to know when to go on, to want to be more. More of fucking what? Be spiritually centered? Be comfortable with the facets of life that are all in limbo at any one point? Better my vocabulary, my literary reference material so that I can participate in conversations of fuck all importance? Why the fuck do I need to better myself? You fucking better yourself and find your emotional centre…maybe then you would wonder what the fuck its all for when you need to better yourself further still, cos fuck knows, it never ends.
Fuck the perception of ambition. The need to grow my CV. Gain work experience, diversify my finance portfolios, expand my education through distance learning and off site courses. For what reason? To increase my salary band? The only immediate gain being that I get to buy more dvds which in turn leads to me not going out and interacting with fucking people. The need to travel the world? And find more of the same shit but with different accents? Pretty new buildings (to me anyway) with history laced bricks that have fuck all to do with who I am or who I will be? Fuck the perception of ambition and the fact that those that believe they have it are better than those that just don’t give a fuck!
Fuck racial prejudice. Well, for that matter, fuck religious prejudice, fuck class prejudice and fuck homosexual prejudice. Judging someone because they chose differently from you? Fuck you, you short sighted, retarded fuck. Its fuck wits like you that stagnate the human race. Gather some fucking like minded friends, go to a random barn and commit mass suicide. You will not be mourned, you will not be missed. You dumb fucks.
Fuck stereotypical fuckheads that force me to spend hours picking my name off the floor. Based on my skin tone and place of birth I have to spend fucking eons answering questions on how come I’m not like the stereotype or being judged on it without a defense. Fuck the need to fit in and its knock on effect on the concept of every stereotype. Jews are miserly with their money, Muslims are terrorists, blacks are violent and steal, Indians in this fucking country are like those from fucking india and whites are afraid of everything not like them. Fucking idiots that buy into this bullshit should not procreate. But what’s worse, is those of the stereotype, perpetuating it further…Jesus fuck, be your own person. Stop being a fucking sheep for a weekend and maybe, just fucking maybe you may actually figure out what the fuck you want and truly enjoy, as an individual.
Fuck you Zoydberg…fuck the need to feel like a fucking victim. Like you are the only fucking one going through the mass overflow of thoughts and emotions. Fuck the need to be a whining bitch about the things you have the power to change. Fucking retarded complaints about all that is not well and as per your fucking wants, but do you do anything about it, no, just sit on your ass, and vent about how fucked up the world is, as opposed to how you hide behind your apathy…Poke holes in every facet of life and all the things you don’t like for whatever reason, but in the end, nothing changes. You are still in the same fucking hole as before and need to pull your finger out. Fuck you and your self perception of well articulated insight that shields you from yourself…Fuck you Zoydberg…
“We are the middle children of history. No purpose or place. We have no great war, or great depression. Our great war is a spiritual war. Our great depression is our lives.”
“Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else's opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation.”
Fuck societal institutions. The need to find a safe and secure place in your life. Go to school, the false perception of a higher education, find a job, find a girl, get married, settle down, buy a house, have dinner parties, have a child, buy another house, have another child, have a braai, buy a better car…when does it fucking end? A never ending search to find a fucking pillar that you can rely on, but what the fuck does that mean? A reliable job, a reliable partner? Raise a child to continue your name in ignorance? Fuck that, and fuck all those people that accept this as a standard that they should strive for in their lives.
Fuck social standards and perceptions. Fuck the pampered boys and dolled up girls. Fucking manicured toes and designer gear. All adding to the fucking façade that you are. You aren’t fooling anyone you dumb fuck! Grow your hair into a mow hock, shave it off, grow it back longer, color it in, cut it again, give me a fucking break you fake piece of shit! The girls with the breasts perky, asses out, selling themselves for whatever fucking retard that best compliments them as yet another fucking accessory. Honey, you look like a real life blow up doll, worth a look you may be, but what you inspire in me, is fucking violence. The boys strolling around like fucking peacocks trying to attract the maximum number of looks based on the coolness they exude. Shut the fuck up with the grandioso hook ups and parties you false, fake, walking, talking insecurity.
Fuck the institute of marriage and what its done for an old school romantic retard like myself. People settle down with the no importance on the word fucking “settle”. A perception of what they want, what they believe they can only get or fuck knows what else. The removal of some of the financial burden with the “dual income” concept. Are you fucking serious? Men, have their head turned by every other tart, forking out tons of money on strippers and prostitutes, how the fuck did you let it get to this, and willingly! Women looking around and realize that their men aren’t anywhere near happy and that their set up is more of one of companionship fueled by the fear of being alone (which is true for men too) and more of a fucked up platonic friendship. One where trust quasi exists because neither party has enough energy to articulate how fucked up it really is to come home to another “how was your day, dear” conversation. This is your fucking life and you are watching it pass by. People go through the fucking hoopla and drama of going through the fucking ritual, invitation list and catering only to go back on their word and call it a day, for reasons that vary from infidelity to just “not working anymore”, are you fucking kidding me? If you weren’t blinded by the concept, you may have realized how retarded he is or how superficial she was. Play the fucking victim and blame the situation at home as validation enough to fuck someone else. Own your fucking situation; put your hand up and fucking leave with some sense of self worth still in tact!
Fuck beauty/health magazines and the pressure they put on me to lose 10 kg. The fucking impression that when someone describes someone as “average weight and build” they don’t fucking mean me, who the fuck are they? Preaching grooming techniques, work out techniques and cunnilingus techniques, give me a fucking break! Hairless washboard abs, completely disciplined lifestyles, fitted suits, am I supposed to buy into the hope that this is what a real man is right now? In the absence of the “hunter gatherer” concept this is what will constitute me finding a decent mate and a comfort within myself, fuck you! Women’s magazines preaching techniques on how to dress this summer and how to blow your man next winter. What the fuck does it matter when on the one page that they preach how to please your man, and on the next, they articulate the need to not feel objectified. News flash you fucking retarded journos, that’s why men watch porn. Do me a fucking favour and think about how the term fuck is used in context of sex, not her fucking him, but him fucking her, as a fucking object!
Fuck family and their neediness and attachment to the perception of fucking “duty”. Just because you are born into a household you are expected to fulfill someone else’s fucking belief system with regards to religion, sexual preference and general relationship management. Fuck that, I didn’t ask to brought here, yet I’m supposed to be fucking thankful to you. Well, allow me to thank you…for the first time I was dumped and felt heartache, for the first time you didn’t have money for something I wanted, for the first time I didn’t have money for something I wanted, for not protecting me against life’s harsh realities and having to deal with it before I should have, for me having to go through the concept of not being good enough, for me hating myself and for fuck loads more of other unnecessary disappointments that I have had to put up with. It is expected that I am supposed to be a certain brand of family member, caring, giving, considerate, why the fuck? Just because of blood ties I am expected to keep in touch, reciprocate affection and thoughtfulness. Fuck that! The concept of having a child has been severely warped. People need to look within themselves. Younger people looking to older people to help them, older people looking to younger people to need them, fuck off, is that why I am here, to validate your existence?
Fuck the different degrees of friendships and the need to not so subtly be yourself in it. To preach loyalty and not act accordingly. Murmurs of gripes and difference of opinion. Give me a fucking break. If you want to be there, be there. Don’t fucking fake it, I would rather be alone, jerking off than have to believe that the perception of my quality as a friend is me making myself available to fix your fucking problems. They are your fucking problems. Busy fucking passing comments and thought about how you are better in a plethora of ways that I cant comprehend. Grow the fuck up and deal with your own fucking shit. Realize the short comings you have before you believe you have a stance to look down on me…look down on me, fuck you! Seriously, take ownership of your life, but is it that hard to not be a dick, if it is, then I guess that’s enough detail for me. I am fucking tired of giving the affectionate ear to repetitive stories and dramas, being the understanding, sensitive idiot whilst you don’t give yourself the time it would take to properly process the shit you have going on. Wake the fuck up and smell the java. You aren’t as cool as you think, you aren’t as funny as you think, you aren’t as witty as you think, you aren’t as good looking as you think and sure as fuck, you aren’t as smart as you think…own your own shit. Fucking whining malcontents that refuse to be more than they are. Holes in their perception of friendship and their fucking lives. Don’t judge me when you can’t even identify your fucking deficiencies!
Fuck exes. Seeking random bits of validation and affection. What the fuck for? There was a reason you broke up with me, or I with you. Why do we go through the fucking circus of needing to give the perception that there is genuine care there. If you dumped my sorry ass, why the fuck are you still seeking to keep in touch? The fact that you broke up with me, doesn’t make me any less funny or witty or cool or fun to be with, sorry sweet heart, but this shouldn’t be news to you. Now you want all of the friendship and sincerity but none of the admin, fuck you! And for those that I broke up with, I guess I am the weaker one in that I want to make sure you are ok…I don’t seek validation or affection or random bits of flirty shit from you. More often than not, anything I have done, has been for some sort of warped sense of me bettering myself as a person. If I didn’t want to keep dating you, it must be for fundamental fucking reasons, along the lines of you being full of shit, or a variation there of…leave me the fuck alone. To both sets of exes, what we had, is long since dead, go fuck up someone else’s life. A few key thoughts, say what you mean, do what you say, stop using teeth during head, at some point, an erection needs to be used, I really don’t care about all of the fucking details in your day and the fact that your friends are giving you shit isn’t my fault, don’t fucking project! You having past admin that you didn’t deal with is also not my fucking problem and when you dump a guy, be honest, cos fuck knows, that would help him not want to smack you with a wrench when he sees you on the street. Stop hedging your bets, don’t bother with the perception that anyone is going to judge you for the things you do behind closed doors and at what times in your relationship, it’s just you and your partner. Start with dealing with your fucking baggage. I gave you all of me and you weren’t a first team player. I can only be sorry for that.
Fuck the sanctity of self improvement and the need for me to better myself. To gain control of a life I am not sure why I’m living. To know when to stop, to know when to go on, to want to be more. More of fucking what? Be spiritually centered? Be comfortable with the facets of life that are all in limbo at any one point? Better my vocabulary, my literary reference material so that I can participate in conversations of fuck all importance? Why the fuck do I need to better myself? You fucking better yourself and find your emotional centre…maybe then you would wonder what the fuck its all for when you need to better yourself further still, cos fuck knows, it never ends.
Fuck the perception of ambition. The need to grow my CV. Gain work experience, diversify my finance portfolios, expand my education through distance learning and off site courses. For what reason? To increase my salary band? The only immediate gain being that I get to buy more dvds which in turn leads to me not going out and interacting with fucking people. The need to travel the world? And find more of the same shit but with different accents? Pretty new buildings (to me anyway) with history laced bricks that have fuck all to do with who I am or who I will be? Fuck the perception of ambition and the fact that those that believe they have it are better than those that just don’t give a fuck!
Fuck racial prejudice. Well, for that matter, fuck religious prejudice, fuck class prejudice and fuck homosexual prejudice. Judging someone because they chose differently from you? Fuck you, you short sighted, retarded fuck. Its fuck wits like you that stagnate the human race. Gather some fucking like minded friends, go to a random barn and commit mass suicide. You will not be mourned, you will not be missed. You dumb fucks.
Fuck stereotypical fuckheads that force me to spend hours picking my name off the floor. Based on my skin tone and place of birth I have to spend fucking eons answering questions on how come I’m not like the stereotype or being judged on it without a defense. Fuck the need to fit in and its knock on effect on the concept of every stereotype. Jews are miserly with their money, Muslims are terrorists, blacks are violent and steal, Indians in this fucking country are like those from fucking india and whites are afraid of everything not like them. Fucking idiots that buy into this bullshit should not procreate. But what’s worse, is those of the stereotype, perpetuating it further…Jesus fuck, be your own person. Stop being a fucking sheep for a weekend and maybe, just fucking maybe you may actually figure out what the fuck you want and truly enjoy, as an individual.
Fuck you Zoydberg…fuck the need to feel like a fucking victim. Like you are the only fucking one going through the mass overflow of thoughts and emotions. Fuck the need to be a whining bitch about the things you have the power to change. Fucking retarded complaints about all that is not well and as per your fucking wants, but do you do anything about it, no, just sit on your ass, and vent about how fucked up the world is, as opposed to how you hide behind your apathy…Poke holes in every facet of life and all the things you don’t like for whatever reason, but in the end, nothing changes. You are still in the same fucking hole as before and need to pull your finger out. Fuck you and your self perception of well articulated insight that shields you from yourself…Fuck you Zoydberg…
“We are the middle children of history. No purpose or place. We have no great war, or great depression. Our great war is a spiritual war. Our great depression is our lives.”
“Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else's opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation.”
Friday, July 4, 2008
Butterflies and Hurricanes
This post is more of a question than my usual strong opinionated or random rant efforts. What is this Zimbabwean million dollar question you might ask, well, it’s “Am I good luck Chuck?” When one of my closer friends strongly suggest I see this movie (read Good Luck Chuck) I immediately thought it was in reference to my affection for the uberly hot Jessica Alba (who is in the movie). Instead it was his not so subtle suggestion that it was a movie that compared closely to my actual love life. See, the basic theme of Good Luck Chuck, is that every woman that he dated/hooked up with ended up finding the person she would be with for the rest of her life after him. As in, the very next person they were to date was their quasi soul mate/life partner/person that completes them. Now, before anyone thinks that my 25 year old self absorbed, highly insecure existence is thinking about settling down and finding Miss Right, the motivation for this post was due to recently discovered information as well as thoughts of the past.
In Good Luck Chuck, he would date a woman, they would break up with him (or him with them) and the very next person they were to date became their husband. Granted, some of you romantic cynics out there may see this as a curse more than some sort of positive outcome, I however find just it disconcerting.
A little re-cap and historical context. The recently discovered bit of information is that my first ever girlfriend (and only girlfriend in high school, yes, yes, I was the cool, indifferent loser) that I dated for an entire 2 week period, has gotten married. This “relationship” of ours was all of 8 years ago. She started dating her now husband, the very weekend we broke up…THAT WAS 8 YEARS AGO! We lasted 2 weeks, in awkward conversation, some sort of physical attraction (well, I thought she had really blossomed) and she dated him for 8 YEARS! Sounds like no biggy, right? Well, strap in, prepare yourself for quite the ride.
That was in 2000. My next girlfriend of note was in 2003. She, though a harlot and eventual philanderer, was the other part in an awesome month long rollercoaster romance. The tears had barely dried when she began dating someone else. THEY ARE STILL TOGETHER. Even the village bicycle has managed a relationship for the past 5 odd years. Yes, she may have had multiple partners whilst still being with before mentioned dude or been the dismissive disarming princess she was to me (maybe more committed), but they still lasted 5 years. Seriously now, what the fuck?
The other ex from 2003, proceeded to date her next boy for approximately…5 years. Yes, that’s right. Their tumultuous and tempestuous relationship has gone on and on and included at least two engagements. They are still together and nearing engagement number three. We dated for 2 months. She is STILL DATING HIM.
Members of the jury, I now turn your attention to the evidence of 2004. I dated her for almost 5 months. It was interesting, and sometimes really, really good. She started dating someone else a week after we broke up as a quasi revenge offensive. THEY ARE STILL TOGETHER! We, as what I refer to it, extreme dated for 5 volatile months before the dramatic end (in which I ended it because I was tired of being told what a shitty boyfriend I was and met someone else) yet she and her new dude are all systems go and well on the path to marriage. Am I the only one seeing a pattern here?
We are now presented with the reason for above break up, the other relationship of 2004. I ended it and she didn’t take it too well. After a sabbatical from all things relationshipy, she started seeing someone in early 2005, yes, you guessed it…THEY ARE STILL TOGETHER! This is stuff that the greatest romance/thriller/fantasy/conspiracy theory novelists couldn’t come up with, even with guest contributions from Quinton Tarintino and Robert Rodriguez. She was a broken woman after our relationship, yet picked up the pieces and missioned ahead with her new guy. They are well on their way to marriage and aiming to emigrate together.
The drama of 2005 references the ex that actually saw suitors whilst we dated. Though those were decently ominous signs as it was, we dated for a record 6 months. It was generally good, till she validated an ex boyfriend more than me. They hooked up, again, after a 2 year period apart and …no prizes for guessing, they are STILL TOGETHER! I mean, what the hell man? We were good together, it was all rainbows and butterflies, but at the first instance of drama, it was death by conversation. Instead, she works it out with the very person that was a real dick to her during dating and even post dating.
We now get to undoubtedly, my most favorite story. The romantic tragedy of 2006. She was pretty awesome, we were pretty good together, her other personalities showed up and out voted the ones that liked me, that was that. We dated for a Nelson Mandela-prison-sentence rivaling 3 months. She started dating someone half an hour after me and…all together now, THEY ARE STILL FUCKING TOGETHER! We barely had a chance to discuss each others child hoods, favorite colors and other relationship shit yet she and her new man, have emigrated together. What the fuck dudes?
Right, now that the evidence is in, we retire to our chamber to pass judgment. They could have just got on better with the next. The next could have been easier to be with. The next could have been better than me in every way possible. In certain cases, the next may have had more personalities than me and as such, been a better fit. The next could have been wealthier and perhaps have a bigger penis and uber abs. But seriously now…it was like I was bringing a knife to a gun fight, in hindsight.
What do you think? The good people of the public domain. Some of you know me personally. Some even closer than that and some of you have just longed from afar. My best friend ventures the insightful “maybe it’s you dude”. As deep and profound as that may sound, I, a student of people and logic, can’t fathom that such a caveman conclusion fits. And even if it is the final prognosis, what are the symptoms and surely, sweet Jesus, surely there must be some sort of pharmaceutical experimental drug out there to aid my terminal state.
Just a sequence of bad choice, bad luck, bad timing…or deeper issues on one party’s side? As I have articulated before, I’m not that bad looking (have been accused of being handsome by the odd sober woman), I am decently insightful, intelligent, charming and witty. I have a decent job (for those old fashioned retards that factor that into a man’s worthiness); I am good with kids, pets and old people. Moms love me, fathers at least don’t generally hate me and I play well with her friends. What might be the problem?
Am I Good Luck Chuck and to be doomed. Destined to be some sort of lucky charm for women in their quest to find their preferable perfect fit? Resigned to fall, be left or leave and end up alone, whilst everyone else picks up the pieces and makes happy postcard-esqe memories. Sunday afternoon “comfy” sex and romantic weekends away? Fighting over what movie to watch, which shade of tan to paint the living room with and where to holiday? All, only after me?
If that is the burden I bear, the cross that I carry, then pretty please, dear Santa, all I ask, is where the fuck is my Jessica Alba?
“Rather than love, than money, than fairness, give me truth”
In Good Luck Chuck, he would date a woman, they would break up with him (or him with them) and the very next person they were to date became their husband. Granted, some of you romantic cynics out there may see this as a curse more than some sort of positive outcome, I however find just it disconcerting.
A little re-cap and historical context. The recently discovered bit of information is that my first ever girlfriend (and only girlfriend in high school, yes, yes, I was the cool, indifferent loser) that I dated for an entire 2 week period, has gotten married. This “relationship” of ours was all of 8 years ago. She started dating her now husband, the very weekend we broke up…THAT WAS 8 YEARS AGO! We lasted 2 weeks, in awkward conversation, some sort of physical attraction (well, I thought she had really blossomed) and she dated him for 8 YEARS! Sounds like no biggy, right? Well, strap in, prepare yourself for quite the ride.
That was in 2000. My next girlfriend of note was in 2003. She, though a harlot and eventual philanderer, was the other part in an awesome month long rollercoaster romance. The tears had barely dried when she began dating someone else. THEY ARE STILL TOGETHER. Even the village bicycle has managed a relationship for the past 5 odd years. Yes, she may have had multiple partners whilst still being with before mentioned dude or been the dismissive disarming princess she was to me (maybe more committed), but they still lasted 5 years. Seriously now, what the fuck?
The other ex from 2003, proceeded to date her next boy for approximately…5 years. Yes, that’s right. Their tumultuous and tempestuous relationship has gone on and on and included at least two engagements. They are still together and nearing engagement number three. We dated for 2 months. She is STILL DATING HIM.
Members of the jury, I now turn your attention to the evidence of 2004. I dated her for almost 5 months. It was interesting, and sometimes really, really good. She started dating someone else a week after we broke up as a quasi revenge offensive. THEY ARE STILL TOGETHER! We, as what I refer to it, extreme dated for 5 volatile months before the dramatic end (in which I ended it because I was tired of being told what a shitty boyfriend I was and met someone else) yet she and her new dude are all systems go and well on the path to marriage. Am I the only one seeing a pattern here?
We are now presented with the reason for above break up, the other relationship of 2004. I ended it and she didn’t take it too well. After a sabbatical from all things relationshipy, she started seeing someone in early 2005, yes, you guessed it…THEY ARE STILL TOGETHER! This is stuff that the greatest romance/thriller/fantasy/conspiracy theory novelists couldn’t come up with, even with guest contributions from Quinton Tarintino and Robert Rodriguez. She was a broken woman after our relationship, yet picked up the pieces and missioned ahead with her new guy. They are well on their way to marriage and aiming to emigrate together.
The drama of 2005 references the ex that actually saw suitors whilst we dated. Though those were decently ominous signs as it was, we dated for a record 6 months. It was generally good, till she validated an ex boyfriend more than me. They hooked up, again, after a 2 year period apart and …no prizes for guessing, they are STILL TOGETHER! I mean, what the hell man? We were good together, it was all rainbows and butterflies, but at the first instance of drama, it was death by conversation. Instead, she works it out with the very person that was a real dick to her during dating and even post dating.
We now get to undoubtedly, my most favorite story. The romantic tragedy of 2006. She was pretty awesome, we were pretty good together, her other personalities showed up and out voted the ones that liked me, that was that. We dated for a Nelson Mandela-prison-sentence rivaling 3 months. She started dating someone half an hour after me and…all together now, THEY ARE STILL FUCKING TOGETHER! We barely had a chance to discuss each others child hoods, favorite colors and other relationship shit yet she and her new man, have emigrated together. What the fuck dudes?
Right, now that the evidence is in, we retire to our chamber to pass judgment. They could have just got on better with the next. The next could have been easier to be with. The next could have been better than me in every way possible. In certain cases, the next may have had more personalities than me and as such, been a better fit. The next could have been wealthier and perhaps have a bigger penis and uber abs. But seriously now…it was like I was bringing a knife to a gun fight, in hindsight.
What do you think? The good people of the public domain. Some of you know me personally. Some even closer than that and some of you have just longed from afar. My best friend ventures the insightful “maybe it’s you dude”. As deep and profound as that may sound, I, a student of people and logic, can’t fathom that such a caveman conclusion fits. And even if it is the final prognosis, what are the symptoms and surely, sweet Jesus, surely there must be some sort of pharmaceutical experimental drug out there to aid my terminal state.
Just a sequence of bad choice, bad luck, bad timing…or deeper issues on one party’s side? As I have articulated before, I’m not that bad looking (have been accused of being handsome by the odd sober woman), I am decently insightful, intelligent, charming and witty. I have a decent job (for those old fashioned retards that factor that into a man’s worthiness); I am good with kids, pets and old people. Moms love me, fathers at least don’t generally hate me and I play well with her friends. What might be the problem?
Am I Good Luck Chuck and to be doomed. Destined to be some sort of lucky charm for women in their quest to find their preferable perfect fit? Resigned to fall, be left or leave and end up alone, whilst everyone else picks up the pieces and makes happy postcard-esqe memories. Sunday afternoon “comfy” sex and romantic weekends away? Fighting over what movie to watch, which shade of tan to paint the living room with and where to holiday? All, only after me?
If that is the burden I bear, the cross that I carry, then pretty please, dear Santa, all I ask, is where the fuck is my Jessica Alba?
“Rather than love, than money, than fairness, give me truth”
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