"Well, THAT'S the pot calling the kettle FAT." - Jim Jefferies, from the Episode 3 of "Talkin' Shit with Jim & Eddie"
Yeah, I'm on the Fat Wagon again. Pissy day today--just feeling ANNOYED.
The internet dating thing... Argh, what a fucking drag. Does anyone know a little old yenta? I am so up for being introduced to a decent guy who has been fully screened by exacting little old lady. I'm beginning think they had the right idea back in the "Old Country" with arranged marriages.
*sigh*
So Bachelor #2 for this week is a scammer. I will say this for Plenty of Fish: they're the only site I HAVEN'T encountered a scammer on. (Bachelor #2 was from cougarlife.com. That profile is being shut down later. Fairly disgusted.) I had a feeling, but... well, when you check back and the profile is under review... yeah. I'll spare you the details.
Why am I on the Fat Wagon again? I mean, I had a great shopping week--bought a bunch of great clothes on sale. (Gods, I love a good clearance sale. Nothing like picking up half a wardrobe for $100, including jewelry. Avenue finally got the hint and started selling fabulous jeans. I am solidly down to a 24 in most styles, and my favorite pair of 24s I can actually pull down without unbuttoning. That is SUCH a high, although I'm going to have to learn how to alter jeans because I LOVE that pair of jeans. LOVE 'EM.) It IS the dating thing. I hate the place I'm in--my attitude is SO much younger than my body.
The other part... well, there's two other parts. One of them... Argh, COMMERCIALS!!!! I listen to WFNX at work. It makes concentrating on the job easier and keeps me from zoning out (most of the time). However, the problem with listening to commercial radio is the commercials. Anyone familiar with the radio business right now can tell you that commercial radio is supported by just that--commercials, ad revenue--and those dollars are getting scarcer and scarcer. Right now, 'FNX, despite its fairly hip, indie, crunchy attitude, is currently being supported by some of the most offensive fucking ads on the planet. Scam ads--the "my wife look TEN YEARS YOUNGER!" (More on that pile of shit later); ProActive; Weight Loss Shakes; Live Debt Free!; and let's not discuss the Home Desperate and McDeathalds. I'm so NOT loving it. Oh, yes, and of course, the @()*&^&*^$^*() St. Patrick's Day commercials. (Folks, an aside--DO NOT, IF YOU VALUE YOUR LIFE, REFER TO IT AS SAINT PADDY'S DAY IN FRONT OF ME UNLESS YOU WANT TO TAKE YOUR TEETH HOME IN A BAG. "Paddy" is an ethnic slur--if you're not in the tribe, I will reply with an ethnic slur directed at your tribe. Ditto, don't use the term "paddywagon"--again, it's an ethnic slur, and just because it's directed against a group of white people doesn't make it acceptable. Unless you're in the tribe. Then you actually know what you're up against.) I will update and repost my old LiveJournal statement about St. Patrick's Day, or, as I like to call it, the Irish-American Day of Mourning.
Anyway, these commercials drive me up the fucking wall because they're AWFUL. They promote the worst shit on the planet for the worst reasons. I mean, I don't hear any women on that commercial about buying it for their husband's saggy jowls. "He looked 10 years younger! I actually thought about fucking him instead of the pool boy!" Can we PLEASE cut the shit on this double standard? I mean, really, guys--do you think that you're really all that a bag of dicks first thing in the morning? Seriously. The shit we put up with... the farting, the BO!, the insecurities, the sports, the fucking everything! You want to be cut some slack? Give it back, boys. Why is it acceptable for a guy to spend ten minutes on his personal hygeine and five minutes (if that) in selecting an outfit for the day, but a woman is expected to spend at least an hour? Fuck you. I don't have that kind of time in the morning. I'm out of the bathroom in 15 minutes, tops, getting ready for work, and out of the house in another 15--I don't have time to futz around. I am not destroying my skin piling on makeup every fucking day--do you KNOW what that crap does to the skin? How it clogs the pores and causes premature aging because of all of the chemicals? Gods, I'm serious here. Even if you use the expensive all-natural stuff, it's NOT good for you. I'm a minimal makeup girl even for special occasions (and still get compliments on the loveliness of my skin, even at 43; good genes, good hygeine, and Lush products).
One of the reasons I DON'T miss acting: I hate the fucking makeup. Pounds of pancake. ARGH.
OK, so there's the commercials griping my ass. And they are. Annoying the piss out of me (yeah, yeah, I know, I know, I signed up on last.fm, but I just can't be arsed; the uni has limited bandwidth and I really don't feel I have a right to use it when I have a perfectly usable radio on my desk).
And then... then there was Celebricrush's comment that he was fat when I complimented him at Foxwoods. Now, this should not have stuck in my head for two weeks. It really shouldn't have. But it did. It brought home to me how fucking twisted our culture is that a succesful, attractive young man who had a roomful of people laughing themselves sick and most of the women in the room hot for him (and he gets plenty of passes made on his FB) sees himself as fat. I don't know how Jim is doing with his drinking--he quit the hard drinking back in the summer after a serious health scare--but after watching Alcoholocaust the other night, I can't believe how much weight he's lost. The double chin is gone (that was very present in I Swear to God), the beer belly is gone, and he looks FABULOUS. (Yeah, could have used a shave, but whatever. See? There's the double standard working again--I can totally give him a pass for the facial fuzz, but had it been a woman up on stage in a skirt who'd forgotten to strop her legs, she would have been skewered by someone.) He looks healthy. But he's calling himself fat. (He's also done it on the podcast.)
And this is bugging me because I used to hear the same shit from the girls when I was teaching theatre: pretty girls, smart kids, lovely, talented young people, freaking when I'd have to take their measurements for costumes, trying not to look and not wanting to hear because, "Oh, my God, I'M SO FAT!!!"
Now, understand that at that point in my life, I was heading for my heaviest. I mean, seriously, I was well north of 350 lbs, pushing 400, morbidly obese, and here are these NORMAL sized girls seeing themselves as hopelessly fat. So, because I couldn't bear the way these girls were torturing themselves (and because we also had a young man in the cast with SERIOUSLY HORRIBLE hygeine problems), I came up with The Speech Decrying the Cult of the Stinky Artist and the Path to Self-Acceptance.
And it goes something like this:
There are some folks who feel that to be an artist, to attain that necessary purity of soul and spirit, one must forego all the shallow trappings of our modern era. Including the convention of daily bathing and the use of stench-decreasing products. I am here to tell you that your artistic purity will not only NOT be diminished by bathing, your status and respect amongst your fellow artists will increase if you apply soap to your body and deodorant to your armpits, ditto toothpaste to your teeth.
Now, I will have to measure all of you for costumes. These are THE RULES: you will NOT, under any circumstances, come up to be measured and say, "Oh, don't tell me, I'M TOO FAT!" because, ladies and gentlemen, I am telling you that you are NOT fat. You are beautiful, lovely, young people with talent and intelligence and great worth. And you are NOT fat. You wanna talk about fat? *I* am FAT.
At which point, I would point to my pronouncedly overweight self and look at them very, very directly. And those kids would be shocked, many of them, because I was owning it, right then, right there. I wasn't proud of it, but it was my reality. I don't know if it made any difference to any of them, but I can hope.
The thing is, though, it's not just girls who go through this awful issue. I used the exchange with Jim Jefferies as an example, but he's not the only man I've heard this from. My ex-fiance had horrible body image issues (and he IS fat, but he made things so much worse for himself). One of my baristas--a young man so hot, he makes not just my heart but my button ache--showed me his belly at one point, pinched barely an inch (and had to grab a handspan worth of flesh to do it) and declared that he was fat. I was trying not to visibly drool and keep my eyes in my head (and my hands to myself!), at the same time as my heart was wrenched because he was serious! I have two dear, cherished friends around my age--both of them life-long weight lifters, both of them attractive men--whose body image issues are painful for me. One of them is quite possibly the single most beautiful man I've ever met in my life, the one man I would drop anyone (almost) to be with if given the opportunity; the other is one of my best friends in the world. I love them both, have crushed on both of them, and it cut me to the soul when they've expressed the body image issues. These are guys that women have lusted over, drooled over... and they hate their bodies.
The second one... I had to really bite my tongue the last time I saw his parents (and I love his parents--they are good, kind, and loving people, and for the most part, AMAZING parents) because the shit they've given him about his body. This is a guy who can drop forty pounds in a month with exercise and diet. Seriously. I would kill for his metabolism. He develops a small pot and he's tearing himself up for being fat. And I'm like, ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS?!?!?!? I SHOULD BE SO FUCKING FAT!
I guess I'm just disgusted by it all. I hate to see people tearing themselves up over their bodies when it's a lot of bullshit. No, I'm not into really fat guys--I know that. I have my shallow side, believe me (and part of it is logistics--unless he's a good 10" in the cock department, we're going to have penetration issues unless it's all-fours). But I can cut someone some slack for purely physical reasons. I mean, I'm not perfect--what right do I have to ask anyone else to be? Seriously. I hate the way our culture (and I'm rolling the US, UK and Canada into this because, from dealing intimately with people from all three, I think all three countries at this point are FUCKING stooooooopid about this issue, and each country has its own problems with food and how popular culture affects body image). The important thing at bottom is this: are you HEALTHY? Are you eating properly? Getting enough sleep? Keeping your bad habits (drinking, smoking, drugs, snacks) under control? Are you getting enough exercise? Are you taking care of yourself? And I don't just mean physically--are you doing things to make yourself happy? Are you keeping your relationships healthy--dealing with people who support the best parts of you, rather than poisonous idiots who undermine your self worth?
Don't underestimate that last one. Speaking as the person enlisted by a few ex-best friends as their Fat Sidekick--and the person with a mother whose self-image is so badly damaged that she still sees and acts like a fat woman despite having lost over 200 lbs and being underweight at this point, and who put all of those negative images on me so that I ignored my weight issues until it was too late out of sheer rebellion--if you've got people in your life making it worse, if you can't get them to back off and drop it, get rid of them. It's not worth the long-term damage it does.
Trust me on this one, kids. I learned it the hard way, and I'm trying to undo the damage before it's too late to have the life I want rather than the one I've accepted.
Take care of yourselves, kids.
Crankily yours,
Empress
Showing posts with label internet dating. Show all posts
Showing posts with label internet dating. Show all posts
Friday, March 4, 2011
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
TROLL!
Written around 1:00 this morning.
A reminder of the rules: If you play fairly with me, I will play fairly with you. If you FUCK with me, however, I will hand you your head on a platter and kick your ass to the curb. As two beloved students said, “She’s a nice lady. Just DON’T piss her off.” (Thanks, Leesh & D. That quote forever endeared you to me because NO ONE ever, ever understood me so well.)
Today's pic comes from "Take My Siblings, Please," one of my favorite Animaniacs shorts. Yakko deals with the troll pretty damn effectively in the end. Nothing like a mallet to the head to tame a troll.
For March, the Empress is roaring in like a lion, and a troll has gone to the slaughter like a succulent bit of New Zealand lamb. Excuse me, dearest blurkers, whilst I laugh myself silly. Cackle, even (and we all know how dangerous it is when a witch starts cackling). Tonight, I have engaged in my absolute favorite intellectual sport of all, and one that I am so very, very, VERY good at: Troll Baiting.
And what, exactly, is troll baiting? Well, those of us who’ve been around the interwebs for a while and played on usenet and newgroups and forums and public figure Facebook pages are familiar with the inevitable, unavoidable internet parasite known as trollus publicus vulgaris, or the common internet troll, a hopeless, annoying asshole who feels they need to harsh someone else’s groove because they are a miserable, worthless person.
Now, occasionally, a normally decent, pleasant and good netizen will lapse into trollishness. It happens to the best of us—I’ve had my flame wars, especially during the Xanax Days of the month, when my hormones and rage took over my fingers, directly bypassing my brain and common sense. However, age, maturity and sheer laziness (because I honestly don’t give a righteous fuck these days unless someone starts shit that they really deserve the metaphorical Louisville Slugger to the head for) has brought me to the point where I usually stay out of it.
HOWEVER… sometimes the troll is so damned annoying and so deserving of a good kicking, I can’t help myself. Case in point: an incident over Jim Jefferies FB (he deleted the thread, sadly. A pity—there was actually a really good debate going on about netiquette, piracy and digital rights) back in Novemberish in which a troll reared his fugly head and declared to the world that henceforth, he would put every single thing Mr. J had committed to DVD out on the torrents because ART SHOULD BE FREE!
Now, I know there are several writers who check in here and scan my musings. I know there are a number of performing-type people who make their living from their own talent (or try to). There are a couple of people I have zero qualms about ripping off (the Mouldering Bones are at the top of the list) although I WON’T do it because ethics is ethics, dammit; HOWEVER, being a writer trying to get her shit published so she can quit the job she used to adore and now wants to bang the heads of most of her co-workers together, there is no way in hell you’re getting my shit for free (except this because, hey, this isn’t my novel—it may become a memoir, but you’re getting raw data, first draft, brain droppings). I’ve seen Jim Jefferies live twice—the guy works for his living and has a great deal of pride in his work. He deserves the money he makes from his shows and DVDs, and sorry, no, there is no argument that can justify piracy. I’ll agree that there needs to be a change in the delivery system for recordings, especially with the region coding that makes life a misery for those of us who get our entertainment from other places (unless you’ve been introduced to VLC, thank you, Chris & Stas), but for now… now, we need to suck it up and deal.
ANYWAY… the troll annoyed the piss out of me, and being me, I let him have it. And I was mean. I mean, seriously mean—I used logic and insinuation and mocked him openly for being an upper class twit, a trust fund baby who never had to work for a living (because it’s usually people who’ve never had to work for a living OR really retarded idealists who spew that bullshit; working class idiots like myself say, “FUCK YOU! PAY ME! I got bills, motherfucker, and I worked HARD to make this art!” which is why I don’t get Jackson Pollock. Sorry, it just ain’t art to me). Well, I hit a nerve so badly that not only did he freak publically, he sent me a PM, and from the language, I made him cry. (To be fair, he was not a trust fund baby but a drug-addled idealist musician who was making at least double what I make. I don't consider $80K a year to be chump change; so much for the Great Champion of Art For The People. Stooooopid troll.)
Do you know how hard it is to make an English man cry? Damn fucking near impossible without several pints, generally. (Sorry, that WAS mean, and only applies to the assholes who’ve broken my heart.) I laughed for a good hour. I was tickled. Cruel? Yeah, but this moron asked for it. And once in a while, we all need a kick in the arse. I try not to indulge in my more sadistic impulses--and I have a LOT of them--simply because I was raised right, and I can't walk on water unless someone points out the stepping stones. (That's another old chestnut that I love, corny as it is. Something about priest, minister and rabbi jokes always crack me up.)
When is it NOT appropriate to troll bait? Another example (again, Jim Jefferies's FB is involved. Sad, isn’t it?)—I blogged about it, the surreal experience of being taken to task by a woman VERY upset by a bit from I Swear to God about dwarves. Now, while I had ample openings to take free shots, it would have been ethically and humanly uncalled for. Just… just lousy and low on my part. This woman has dealt with prejudice all her life (and I know that one, albeit for different reasons); while she was totally off the mark at tearing down Jim, she didn’t deserve a drubbing by Number One Fan Bitch here. I tried to be as respectful as possible in my reply and be as professional as possible without enabling. I think I was successful.
So… as many of you know, I’ve been doing the internet dating thing for a while with limited success. To say I am unimpressed with the men I’m encountering is to vastly understate the situation. Well, I got a message over the weekend from someone with the handle Mikeneedslove. This alone should have been a flag. Where he was pinging from—same town one of my best friends lives in currently and wants out of desperately—should ALSO have been a warning flag. *sigh* Silly moi. Anyway, we exchanged a few emails via the website. He seemed nice. Note, I said SEEMED. Both of us (allegedly) looking for the same thing. Now, let’s be clear, folks—I am actually looking for a relationship. I don’t want to dive right into a commitment—I’d like there to be a couple of dates in there, a little fooling around before the fucking, some getting to know each other, perhaps a touch of romance… I mean, honestly, I’m not looking for Prince Charming. I’d be happy with a warrior for the working day. I’m just sick of the fucking frogs because honestly, it doesn’t matter how many times you kiss the slimy buggers—a frog is a fucking frog (and PLEASE don’t put in the tongue comment here—most of them don’t know how to use it properly, and a clit is NOT a fly, thanks).
The correspondence:
1. Hi i am mike how are u i read your profile u seem interseting email me by the way it says i dont want kids i do want kids
2. Yes i do want kids thanks for the eye compliment u are very beautifil so tell me about u what are u looking for? I am looking to meet the love of my life and have kids i am getting older and older now
3. like to play sports work out hang out with my nephew spend time with my family go to the beach write songs i am very creative i have wrote ten screen plays
4. I like all kinds of movies i just write songs use to play the drums in school u sound awesome and very sweet do u have a cell phone or is it to early
OK, now, I TRY, repeat TRY not judge a person by their written spelling/grammar skills. I TRY. I mean, I know a number of really intelligent, talented people who can't use a comma or spell certain words correctly to save their own lives. However... *sigh* So I gave him my number. Yeah, I know, stoooooooopid Empress.
I get a text message. I reply to it. He texts that he wants to leave me a voice mail so I can hear his voice. I’m cool with that; besides, I was just getting back to the house and had to wrangle groceries, laptop, satchel, coffee, etc. through the obstacle course that is Hell’s Vestibule. Totally cool. His voice sounds OK—bit husky, pleasant enough, touch of the Boston accent, and thankfully, doesn’t sound like the guy who missed the short bus because his mom didn’t put him out on the curb in time. (One of these days I will explain my issue with the Riders of the Short Bus—of course it has to do with my family. Why else would I have an issue with something?)
Well, I get a text from him this afternoon and replied before I left work. We text a bit. And then, I get this: [Note that texts are verbatim—I’m not editing his atrocious grammar, etc.]
8:00 p.m. (him) Yeah I like staying up at night wish I had someone to spend it with I hate being alone
Now, I’m trying to get out of the office. I’m thinking about the gym, the work I need to accomplish tonight, all the shit I have to deal with, so my response is innocent:
8:01 p.m. (me) Awwwwww. I’m ok with my own company, but it does get lonely. (And honestly, there’s only so much writing even I can do.)
The next texts from him:
10:00 p.m. Are u around?
10:20 p.m. U bought a drum set u won me lets talk do u think I got a sexy voice I can envision talking sexy with u
10:22 I want u to call me we could have a awesome talk
My phone rings around 10:55; I try to answer it, no one there. I text him asking if he tried to call. His response:
11:17 p.m. Do u want to talk do u think my voice is sexy
He calls. I can barely hear him the connection is so bad. I’m in the middle of dinner (a nice, healthy salad--spring mix, fresh mozz, tomatoes, bit of chicken--which he mocks—I mean, I’ve told him I’m working out regularly; why am I going to come home from the gym and pig on bad food?). Can’t understand the questions he’s asking. In retrospect, probably a good thing. The line goes dead.
11:22 p.m. (me) What happened?
11:22 p.m. (him) My phone died i am sorry
11:23 p.m. (him) Do u like to talk about sex
Question: If his phone died, how is he texting me? Yeah, I know, silly Empress, applying logic to a troll.
*headdesk* Yep, my nasty little suspicions were correct. *sigh*
11:24 (me) Errrrrmmmmmmmmmm… yes, but not until I know someone.
11:25 (him) Do I have a sexy voice I can pic me talking about sex with u
11:26: (me) Mike, no offense, but can you rein it in? We haven’t even met yet, I can’t picture anything.
Now, honestly, that’s a bold faced lie. If he had sufficiently enticed me, I could have pictured damned near anything, but I really hate someone faking me out—I hate being told a guy is looking for a relationship when he’s really just looking for a hook-up. This was not Rugby Boy—this was NOT an Adonis—this guy is an ordinary schlub who sounded decent enough to give a shot. Until now.
11:28: (him) Its cool i can picture u and i talking sex u have a sexy voic
11:30 (him) Are u horney though
11:41 (him) If i was to send u a pic of my thing down there would u mind
ARGH. *headdesk* Patience is now LOST. I have work to do, and no patience for some loser trying to get his wank on when I’ve said no.
11:47: (me) Yes, I already asked you to cool it down and you’re pushing. Lose my number.
End of story. I’m not investing time on someone who won’t respect my wishes. I’ve been date raped twice because I was nice; never again, kids.
11:48 (him) Ok whatever i will bye have a good night your number is gone
11:51 (him) Goodbye i don’t care i am a sexy guy with a sexy voice who can get anyone you look like u have a huge ass bush down there bye
WHAT THE FUCK IS AN ASS BUSH? I have never heard this insult before, and I am laughing out loud from it. Yep, gotta live ‘un! TROLL BAITING TIME! And the Empress takes out her barbed troll prod and pokes…
11:53 (me) Nope. You’re a pushy loser with zero respect. Ciao!
11:54 (him) Whatever i have a house and two suvs in my driveway but i am a loser
11:56 (him) U think i am a loser wow i have a lot you’re a fat ugly tramp with a big bushe bush down there
And now… now I am ROARING with laughter over my salad. I mean, seriously laughing out loud in the kitchen. My reply:
12:00 a.m. (me): This is going to make for such an awesome blog post. I haven’t had to deal with such an ignorant little troll in a dog’s age. I won’t give you phone sex and I’m a tramp? BRILLIANT! I’m sure you vote Republican, are a devout Christian, & drink heavily. You certainly can’t spell or punctuate. My readers are going to LOVE this, ditto my stand up. Thanks for the laughs!
I ain’t subtle. And he can’t say I didn’t warn him. But, oh, a troll is a troll is a troll is a troll. And yes, children, he replied. Stooooooopid troll:
12:01 (him) Well first of all i am not a catholic person i don’t care
12:03 (him) I am going to succeed i know u have a big ass bush
12:04 (him) [empty text]
12:05 (him) I am a genuine awesome guy not worthy off u
Yep, got THAT right!
12:11 (him) Why don’t u just go away
12:12 (him) Go away u have a huge ass bush
12:17 (him) U want to see my thing guaretee u would alo e me u have a huge bush
2:05 a.m. (him) Whatever lose my number u are ugly
Note, after my "troll" comment and warning about being the star of the blog today, I said nothing. And he KEPT TRYING. (Mind you, I was having a damn good laugh over on FB with some of you darling blurkers about this already.) Thankfully, the texts stopped after this. I am hoping the drunken idiot passed out. I am still grinning about this because I really ruined his night. He tried to manipulate me into something I didn’t want, I said no, he tried to berate me into it, and in the end, he was the one STILL trying to manipulate. I really love it when a troll thinks they’re smarter and just doesn’t get it.
It amuses me.
There was one barb I didn’t throw: I’m betting all of his (unsold) scripts are for bad porn.
Behave yourselves out there, kids.
Much love,
Empress
A reminder of the rules: If you play fairly with me, I will play fairly with you. If you FUCK with me, however, I will hand you your head on a platter and kick your ass to the curb. As two beloved students said, “She’s a nice lady. Just DON’T piss her off.” (Thanks, Leesh & D. That quote forever endeared you to me because NO ONE ever, ever understood me so well.)
Today's pic comes from "Take My Siblings, Please," one of my favorite Animaniacs shorts. Yakko deals with the troll pretty damn effectively in the end. Nothing like a mallet to the head to tame a troll.
For March, the Empress is roaring in like a lion, and a troll has gone to the slaughter like a succulent bit of New Zealand lamb. Excuse me, dearest blurkers, whilst I laugh myself silly. Cackle, even (and we all know how dangerous it is when a witch starts cackling). Tonight, I have engaged in my absolute favorite intellectual sport of all, and one that I am so very, very, VERY good at: Troll Baiting.
And what, exactly, is troll baiting? Well, those of us who’ve been around the interwebs for a while and played on usenet and newgroups and forums and public figure Facebook pages are familiar with the inevitable, unavoidable internet parasite known as trollus publicus vulgaris, or the common internet troll, a hopeless, annoying asshole who feels they need to harsh someone else’s groove because they are a miserable, worthless person.
Now, occasionally, a normally decent, pleasant and good netizen will lapse into trollishness. It happens to the best of us—I’ve had my flame wars, especially during the Xanax Days of the month, when my hormones and rage took over my fingers, directly bypassing my brain and common sense. However, age, maturity and sheer laziness (because I honestly don’t give a righteous fuck these days unless someone starts shit that they really deserve the metaphorical Louisville Slugger to the head for) has brought me to the point where I usually stay out of it.
HOWEVER… sometimes the troll is so damned annoying and so deserving of a good kicking, I can’t help myself. Case in point: an incident over Jim Jefferies FB (he deleted the thread, sadly. A pity—there was actually a really good debate going on about netiquette, piracy and digital rights) back in Novemberish in which a troll reared his fugly head and declared to the world that henceforth, he would put every single thing Mr. J had committed to DVD out on the torrents because ART SHOULD BE FREE!
Now, I know there are several writers who check in here and scan my musings. I know there are a number of performing-type people who make their living from their own talent (or try to). There are a couple of people I have zero qualms about ripping off (the Mouldering Bones are at the top of the list) although I WON’T do it because ethics is ethics, dammit; HOWEVER, being a writer trying to get her shit published so she can quit the job she used to adore and now wants to bang the heads of most of her co-workers together, there is no way in hell you’re getting my shit for free (except this because, hey, this isn’t my novel—it may become a memoir, but you’re getting raw data, first draft, brain droppings). I’ve seen Jim Jefferies live twice—the guy works for his living and has a great deal of pride in his work. He deserves the money he makes from his shows and DVDs, and sorry, no, there is no argument that can justify piracy. I’ll agree that there needs to be a change in the delivery system for recordings, especially with the region coding that makes life a misery for those of us who get our entertainment from other places (unless you’ve been introduced to VLC, thank you, Chris & Stas), but for now… now, we need to suck it up and deal.
ANYWAY… the troll annoyed the piss out of me, and being me, I let him have it. And I was mean. I mean, seriously mean—I used logic and insinuation and mocked him openly for being an upper class twit, a trust fund baby who never had to work for a living (because it’s usually people who’ve never had to work for a living OR really retarded idealists who spew that bullshit; working class idiots like myself say, “FUCK YOU! PAY ME! I got bills, motherfucker, and I worked HARD to make this art!” which is why I don’t get Jackson Pollock. Sorry, it just ain’t art to me). Well, I hit a nerve so badly that not only did he freak publically, he sent me a PM, and from the language, I made him cry. (To be fair, he was not a trust fund baby but a drug-addled idealist musician who was making at least double what I make. I don't consider $80K a year to be chump change; so much for the Great Champion of Art For The People. Stooooopid troll.)
Do you know how hard it is to make an English man cry? Damn fucking near impossible without several pints, generally. (Sorry, that WAS mean, and only applies to the assholes who’ve broken my heart.) I laughed for a good hour. I was tickled. Cruel? Yeah, but this moron asked for it. And once in a while, we all need a kick in the arse. I try not to indulge in my more sadistic impulses--and I have a LOT of them--simply because I was raised right, and I can't walk on water unless someone points out the stepping stones. (That's another old chestnut that I love, corny as it is. Something about priest, minister and rabbi jokes always crack me up.)
When is it NOT appropriate to troll bait? Another example (again, Jim Jefferies's FB is involved. Sad, isn’t it?)—I blogged about it, the surreal experience of being taken to task by a woman VERY upset by a bit from I Swear to God about dwarves. Now, while I had ample openings to take free shots, it would have been ethically and humanly uncalled for. Just… just lousy and low on my part. This woman has dealt with prejudice all her life (and I know that one, albeit for different reasons); while she was totally off the mark at tearing down Jim, she didn’t deserve a drubbing by Number One Fan Bitch here. I tried to be as respectful as possible in my reply and be as professional as possible without enabling. I think I was successful.
So… as many of you know, I’ve been doing the internet dating thing for a while with limited success. To say I am unimpressed with the men I’m encountering is to vastly understate the situation. Well, I got a message over the weekend from someone with the handle Mikeneedslove. This alone should have been a flag. Where he was pinging from—same town one of my best friends lives in currently and wants out of desperately—should ALSO have been a warning flag. *sigh* Silly moi. Anyway, we exchanged a few emails via the website. He seemed nice. Note, I said SEEMED. Both of us (allegedly) looking for the same thing. Now, let’s be clear, folks—I am actually looking for a relationship. I don’t want to dive right into a commitment—I’d like there to be a couple of dates in there, a little fooling around before the fucking, some getting to know each other, perhaps a touch of romance… I mean, honestly, I’m not looking for Prince Charming. I’d be happy with a warrior for the working day. I’m just sick of the fucking frogs because honestly, it doesn’t matter how many times you kiss the slimy buggers—a frog is a fucking frog (and PLEASE don’t put in the tongue comment here—most of them don’t know how to use it properly, and a clit is NOT a fly, thanks).
The correspondence:
1. Hi i am mike how are u i read your profile u seem interseting email me by the way it says i dont want kids i do want kids
2. Yes i do want kids thanks for the eye compliment u are very beautifil so tell me about u what are u looking for? I am looking to meet the love of my life and have kids i am getting older and older now
3. like to play sports work out hang out with my nephew spend time with my family go to the beach write songs i am very creative i have wrote ten screen plays
4. I like all kinds of movies i just write songs use to play the drums in school u sound awesome and very sweet do u have a cell phone or is it to early
OK, now, I TRY, repeat TRY not judge a person by their written spelling/grammar skills. I TRY. I mean, I know a number of really intelligent, talented people who can't use a comma or spell certain words correctly to save their own lives. However... *sigh* So I gave him my number. Yeah, I know, stoooooooopid Empress.
I get a text message. I reply to it. He texts that he wants to leave me a voice mail so I can hear his voice. I’m cool with that; besides, I was just getting back to the house and had to wrangle groceries, laptop, satchel, coffee, etc. through the obstacle course that is Hell’s Vestibule. Totally cool. His voice sounds OK—bit husky, pleasant enough, touch of the Boston accent, and thankfully, doesn’t sound like the guy who missed the short bus because his mom didn’t put him out on the curb in time. (One of these days I will explain my issue with the Riders of the Short Bus—of course it has to do with my family. Why else would I have an issue with something?)
Well, I get a text from him this afternoon and replied before I left work. We text a bit. And then, I get this: [Note that texts are verbatim—I’m not editing his atrocious grammar, etc.]
8:00 p.m. (him) Yeah I like staying up at night wish I had someone to spend it with I hate being alone
Now, I’m trying to get out of the office. I’m thinking about the gym, the work I need to accomplish tonight, all the shit I have to deal with, so my response is innocent:
8:01 p.m. (me) Awwwwww. I’m ok with my own company, but it does get lonely. (And honestly, there’s only so much writing even I can do.)
The next texts from him:
10:00 p.m. Are u around?
10:20 p.m. U bought a drum set u won me lets talk do u think I got a sexy voice I can envision talking sexy with u
10:22 I want u to call me we could have a awesome talk
My phone rings around 10:55; I try to answer it, no one there. I text him asking if he tried to call. His response:
11:17 p.m. Do u want to talk do u think my voice is sexy
He calls. I can barely hear him the connection is so bad. I’m in the middle of dinner (a nice, healthy salad--spring mix, fresh mozz, tomatoes, bit of chicken--which he mocks—I mean, I’ve told him I’m working out regularly; why am I going to come home from the gym and pig on bad food?). Can’t understand the questions he’s asking. In retrospect, probably a good thing. The line goes dead.
11:22 p.m. (me) What happened?
11:22 p.m. (him) My phone died i am sorry
11:23 p.m. (him) Do u like to talk about sex
Question: If his phone died, how is he texting me? Yeah, I know, silly Empress, applying logic to a troll.
*headdesk* Yep, my nasty little suspicions were correct. *sigh*
11:24 (me) Errrrrmmmmmmmmmm… yes, but not until I know someone.
11:25 (him) Do I have a sexy voice I can pic me talking about sex with u
11:26: (me) Mike, no offense, but can you rein it in? We haven’t even met yet, I can’t picture anything.
Now, honestly, that’s a bold faced lie. If he had sufficiently enticed me, I could have pictured damned near anything, but I really hate someone faking me out—I hate being told a guy is looking for a relationship when he’s really just looking for a hook-up. This was not Rugby Boy—this was NOT an Adonis—this guy is an ordinary schlub who sounded decent enough to give a shot. Until now.
11:28: (him) Its cool i can picture u and i talking sex u have a sexy voic
11:30 (him) Are u horney though
11:41 (him) If i was to send u a pic of my thing down there would u mind
ARGH. *headdesk* Patience is now LOST. I have work to do, and no patience for some loser trying to get his wank on when I’ve said no.
11:47: (me) Yes, I already asked you to cool it down and you’re pushing. Lose my number.
End of story. I’m not investing time on someone who won’t respect my wishes. I’ve been date raped twice because I was nice; never again, kids.
11:48 (him) Ok whatever i will bye have a good night your number is gone
11:51 (him) Goodbye i don’t care i am a sexy guy with a sexy voice who can get anyone you look like u have a huge ass bush down there bye
WHAT THE FUCK IS AN ASS BUSH? I have never heard this insult before, and I am laughing out loud from it. Yep, gotta live ‘un! TROLL BAITING TIME! And the Empress takes out her barbed troll prod and pokes…
11:53 (me) Nope. You’re a pushy loser with zero respect. Ciao!
11:54 (him) Whatever i have a house and two suvs in my driveway but i am a loser
11:56 (him) U think i am a loser wow i have a lot you’re a fat ugly tramp with a big bushe bush down there
And now… now I am ROARING with laughter over my salad. I mean, seriously laughing out loud in the kitchen. My reply:
12:00 a.m. (me): This is going to make for such an awesome blog post. I haven’t had to deal with such an ignorant little troll in a dog’s age. I won’t give you phone sex and I’m a tramp? BRILLIANT! I’m sure you vote Republican, are a devout Christian, & drink heavily. You certainly can’t spell or punctuate. My readers are going to LOVE this, ditto my stand up. Thanks for the laughs!
I ain’t subtle. And he can’t say I didn’t warn him. But, oh, a troll is a troll is a troll is a troll. And yes, children, he replied. Stooooooopid troll:
12:01 (him) Well first of all i am not a catholic person i don’t care
12:03 (him) I am going to succeed i know u have a big ass bush
12:04 (him) [empty text]
12:05 (him) I am a genuine awesome guy not worthy off u
Yep, got THAT right!
12:11 (him) Why don’t u just go away
12:12 (him) Go away u have a huge ass bush
12:17 (him) U want to see my thing guaretee u would alo e me u have a huge bush
2:05 a.m. (him) Whatever lose my number u are ugly
Note, after my "troll" comment and warning about being the star of the blog today, I said nothing. And he KEPT TRYING. (Mind you, I was having a damn good laugh over on FB with some of you darling blurkers about this already.) Thankfully, the texts stopped after this. I am hoping the drunken idiot passed out. I am still grinning about this because I really ruined his night. He tried to manipulate me into something I didn’t want, I said no, he tried to berate me into it, and in the end, he was the one STILL trying to manipulate. I really love it when a troll thinks they’re smarter and just doesn’t get it.
It amuses me.
There was one barb I didn’t throw: I’m betting all of his (unsold) scripts are for bad porn.
Behave yourselves out there, kids.
Much love,
Empress
Friday, February 4, 2011
Friday... Thank the Gods, It's Friday
Greetings, darling blurkers, and welcome to the happiest day of the week, at least as far as I'm concerned.
Your Empress has NOT had the best of weeks, sad to say, although it vastly improved as it progressed. Snowmageddon continues here in the Northeast with more of the awful white shit due tomorrow night. I spent two days in the house because on Tuesday morning, I opened the door, looked outside at the snow and driving wind, and said, "Fuck this." I took a personal day because, honestly, I couldn't face digging out the car, shoveling the walk and driveway, and then fighting my way into work, dealing with the bullshit in here, and then fighting my way home. It also meant I skipped the gym this week (haven't been since Saturday; bad Empress, but am going tonight without fail. I miss it!).
Now, here's something that will make y'all have a damn good laugh: last Friday I said to hell with it and joined CougarLife.
Yes, you read that correctly. CougarLife. As much as I object to the terminology, I have realized how tired I am of old farts, and sadly, so many of the guys my age have become old farts. I am NOT an old fart--I am probably a bit immature for my age. I like to do stuff--I like LOUD, obnoxious music (case in point: rocking out to Green Day whilst designing last night, but more on that later on in the post), I like to road trip, I like to have LOTS of sex, I like LIVING. As badly as I want a family, I don't want one tomorrow--I want it after a couple of years with someone because, honestly, that's the whole point of dating. It's not about falling in love and hearts and flowers and all that other Hallmark bullshit--it's about discovering whether or not you can put up with the other human being in the same living space without killing them and vice versa. (I made this observation during a convo yesterday with a fellow survivor from the Bookstore of the Damned--he's back in town for a couple of weeks, and I'm really looking forward to having coffee with him. One of those folks I didn't realize whose company I truly, truly loved until I hadn't seen him for a while.)
So. CougarLife. Yeah. CougarLife. Six flirts in 24 hours--SCORE! Of course, the one live 'un has no picture. WARNING! Gmail account doesn't show his name. WARNING! Doesn't email after work hours. WARNING! After four days of much emailing, he confesses he's married. *slams head on the desk* WHAT THE FUCKIN' HELL?!?!?!?!? EXPLAIN THIS TO ME--WHY THE FUCK IS HE ON A GODSDAMNED DATING SITE?!?!?! And after I tell him I don't do married men, he comes back with, "We don't have to have sex; we can just fool around."
Excuse me?
EXCUSE FUCKING ME?!?! WHY THE FUCK DO YOU THINK I'M DOING THIS?!?! Girlfriend needs to get laid, dammit! And I'm sorry, kids, but foreplay doesn't satisfy. I want the full magilla, or I don't wanna play, dammit! Dumbass sonofacunt. I sent him packing back to his wife. Why the hell would I hurt another woman like that?
So yesterday was a mixed bag. On the one hand, LOVELY convo and an email from another friend with pics of the amazing things he has crafted for me that are winging their way from the U.K. as we speak. On the other hand... married man.
The good thing about things like this happening is that it sharpens my comedy skills. It does. I am never so on as when I am thoroughly pissed off at a man. So I am very proud to report that, despite not going to the gym, I had an awesome night last night. I went to Sbux, had a great yakyak with Stas and Austin, stopped by Newbury Comics and had another great yakyak with Nico and the other cute guy, picked up groceries and TJ's and had a quick yakyak with Chris, and then went home and did some SERIOUS comedy writing and designing.
If I could make that "YES" flash in multi-colored lights, I would. It was awesome. The bit I've been trying to get to gel that involves sex, dating, and being traumatized by parental canoodling finally came together. I was able to finally do the concept sketch for Ferd for my logo, finalized the design for the customization job I'm doing on my Chuck's, AND the sketch for my military jacket. I feel fuckin' awesome. Higher than hell. LOVE IT!
So happy Friday, my cherished blurkers. I have two meetings to get through (one I couldn't care less about, the other, later, I hope goes well) and then it's the weekend. Just two weeks to seeing Jim Jefferies at Foxwoods. *insert fangirl squee here* Celebricrush gave me a shout out on his FB on Monday (and probably saved me from slitting my wrists after the meeting from hell that I'd just gotten out of that left me feeling raped and weeping) for the rebuttal. It's a small thing, but the thank you... it made my day, considering the rebuttal was about someone misjudging him. After a meeting that had a lot to do with being misjudged by a bunch of narrow-minded, passive-agressive, petty people... yeah.
Your Empress has NOT had the best of weeks, sad to say, although it vastly improved as it progressed. Snowmageddon continues here in the Northeast with more of the awful white shit due tomorrow night. I spent two days in the house because on Tuesday morning, I opened the door, looked outside at the snow and driving wind, and said, "Fuck this." I took a personal day because, honestly, I couldn't face digging out the car, shoveling the walk and driveway, and then fighting my way into work, dealing with the bullshit in here, and then fighting my way home. It also meant I skipped the gym this week (haven't been since Saturday; bad Empress, but am going tonight without fail. I miss it!).
Now, here's something that will make y'all have a damn good laugh: last Friday I said to hell with it and joined CougarLife.
Yes, you read that correctly. CougarLife. As much as I object to the terminology, I have realized how tired I am of old farts, and sadly, so many of the guys my age have become old farts. I am NOT an old fart--I am probably a bit immature for my age. I like to do stuff--I like LOUD, obnoxious music (case in point: rocking out to Green Day whilst designing last night, but more on that later on in the post), I like to road trip, I like to have LOTS of sex, I like LIVING. As badly as I want a family, I don't want one tomorrow--I want it after a couple of years with someone because, honestly, that's the whole point of dating. It's not about falling in love and hearts and flowers and all that other Hallmark bullshit--it's about discovering whether or not you can put up with the other human being in the same living space without killing them and vice versa. (I made this observation during a convo yesterday with a fellow survivor from the Bookstore of the Damned--he's back in town for a couple of weeks, and I'm really looking forward to having coffee with him. One of those folks I didn't realize whose company I truly, truly loved until I hadn't seen him for a while.)
So. CougarLife. Yeah. CougarLife. Six flirts in 24 hours--SCORE! Of course, the one live 'un has no picture. WARNING! Gmail account doesn't show his name. WARNING! Doesn't email after work hours. WARNING! After four days of much emailing, he confesses he's married. *slams head on the desk* WHAT THE FUCKIN' HELL?!?!?!?!? EXPLAIN THIS TO ME--WHY THE FUCK IS HE ON A GODSDAMNED DATING SITE?!?!?! And after I tell him I don't do married men, he comes back with, "We don't have to have sex; we can just fool around."
Excuse me?
EXCUSE FUCKING ME?!?! WHY THE FUCK DO YOU THINK I'M DOING THIS?!?! Girlfriend needs to get laid, dammit! And I'm sorry, kids, but foreplay doesn't satisfy. I want the full magilla, or I don't wanna play, dammit! Dumbass sonofacunt. I sent him packing back to his wife. Why the hell would I hurt another woman like that?
So yesterday was a mixed bag. On the one hand, LOVELY convo and an email from another friend with pics of the amazing things he has crafted for me that are winging their way from the U.K. as we speak. On the other hand... married man.
The good thing about things like this happening is that it sharpens my comedy skills. It does. I am never so on as when I am thoroughly pissed off at a man. So I am very proud to report that, despite not going to the gym, I had an awesome night last night. I went to Sbux, had a great yakyak with Stas and Austin, stopped by Newbury Comics and had another great yakyak with Nico and the other cute guy, picked up groceries and TJ's and had a quick yakyak with Chris, and then went home and did some SERIOUS comedy writing and designing.
YES!
If I could make that "YES" flash in multi-colored lights, I would. It was awesome. The bit I've been trying to get to gel that involves sex, dating, and being traumatized by parental canoodling finally came together. I was able to finally do the concept sketch for Ferd for my logo, finalized the design for the customization job I'm doing on my Chuck's, AND the sketch for my military jacket. I feel fuckin' awesome. Higher than hell. LOVE IT!
So happy Friday, my cherished blurkers. I have two meetings to get through (one I couldn't care less about, the other, later, I hope goes well) and then it's the weekend. Just two weeks to seeing Jim Jefferies at Foxwoods. *insert fangirl squee here* Celebricrush gave me a shout out on his FB on Monday (and probably saved me from slitting my wrists after the meeting from hell that I'd just gotten out of that left me feeling raped and weeping) for the rebuttal. It's a small thing, but the thank you... it made my day, considering the rebuttal was about someone misjudging him. After a meeting that had a lot to do with being misjudged by a bunch of narrow-minded, passive-agressive, petty people... yeah.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Learning to be Lonely...
Child of the wilderness
Born into emptinessLearn to be lonely
Learn to find your way in darkness
Who will be there for you
Comfort and care for you
Learn to be lonely
Learn to be your one companion
Never dreamed out in the world
There are arms to hold you?
You've always known your heart was on its own
So laugh in your loneliness
Child of the wilderness
Learn to be lonely
Learn how to love life that is lived alone
Learn to be lonely
Life can be lived
Life can be loved
Alone. - "Learn to Be Lonely," Phantom of the Opera
There are two songs going through my head right now... "Learn to Be Lonely" from Phantom of the Opera (yeah, yeah, I know I hate Andrew Lloyd Webber, but I'll give him a break for Phantom) and "Jane Says" from Jane's Addiction.
Just had what I hope is the last convo with Potential Paramour. I called him out. And he had a snit and signed out.
Which is fine with me.
Anyone reading this blog knows that sex is one of my main topics of interest. I love it; always have, from the first time I discovered how to make myself feel really good (it involved my backyard swingset when I was still in single digits). Sex--masturbation, fuck I hate that word--WANKING!--and occasionally, sex with another human--is probably the only time I enjoy being physically incarnate.
I've never been exactly healthy. From the time I was little, there have been a lot of physical ailments--whether allergies, bronchitis, injuries, depression-related crap, and then the weight problems (thyroid, arthritis, whatever)--and the only good things about being alive were being creative and having an orgasm.
Because I'm a curious person (in the sense that I am curious about things--I am curious in terms of being a bit of a curio, true), I want to know more about everything that affects me; I want to understand what makes me tick, and why I react to the world and others the way I do. The way I find out about stuff is to talk about it--directly to people, in this blog these days, whatever. The cool thing about the interwebs is that there are a lot of people out there and more ways to connect with them. I have a number of friends whom I have never met face-to-face, but whom I love dearly because via the wires, they have become key parts of my life. (To be honest, I have met most of them face-to-face; there are still a couple I haven't.) I have a few on-line fuck buddies, too--men who are good friends and occasionally, we get it on via IM or text or whatever because we are of the same mind about things, and for whatever other reason, a face-to-face relationship won't/can't work, but we are on the same groove level sexually, and it provides us with an outlet.
I'm not going to debate the "morality" of it. I'm just not. I can't. We have a connection, and we provide each other with a necessary release. I love these men for what they give me--a very private part of themselves that keeps me from losing all hope. What's passed between us has come from very serious, honest discussions about sex--very open, real and wonderful conversations. Now, I've been accused more than once of thinking too much like a guy (which baffles the shit out of me, but there you have it). Maybe it's true; I have a sense of honor that is much closer to a man's than the way most women operate. Maybe because I'm both a historian and a Shakespearean--my grounding is firmly in the past, in times when your word meant something, when Honor meant something real, rather than just a funny concept in books.
I also find sex hysterical--I find the dance that men and women do, quite frankly, ridiculous. I DON'T GET IT. If I tell a man he's hot, I mean it--I find him hot. What makes him "hot" to me isn't about his looks--well, not STRICTLY about his looks--it's about who he IS and how the whole package fits together. I'm not looking for some stupid storybook romance. I'm looking for a damn good friend I can share my life and my body with, and maybe, just fucking maybe, he and I can make each other's lives a little happier. I don't need perfection, I don't need Prince Charming--please, dear Gods, SPARE ME!--I just need someone with a sense of humor who can deal with my shit and who has the kind of shit that I can deal with. I don't give a damn about hard work--every relationship worth having, whether it's with a partner or a friend--requires hard work to keep it real and keep it working. The thing is, when someone matters to you, the work is WORTH it.
I have a very limited supply of hope left. See, Potential Paramour has been going on and on about us having an emotional and intellectual connection (his words, not mine), as well as a sexual one. *sigh* He's lonely, he wants love, he wants a partner, he wants he wants he wants he wants he wants...
Yeah. What fucking ever. HE wants. And he sporadically gets in touch--there's been a three-month-long IM convo going. I've blogged about it here and there, but I really couldn't take him seriously because well, it's been going on for three months without a phone number or a meeting, and the sporadic nature of his contact told me that I was his "fall back," not his main objective. Which is fine, but he keeps trying to corner me--nail my feet to the floor about a commitment.
Excuse me?
"You are not ready to be a wife."
"You are not ready to be a mother."
EXCUSE ME? The man who starts out a conversation with telling me that he's horny after I haven't heard from him in how long, and who pings me at 1:00 a.m. looking for IM sex, and he's telling me I'm not ready for serious commitment while trying to get to make a serious commitment without having met.
Yeah, right.
Now, I live on the outside of my skin in a lot of ways. There's some stuff I have no problem with people knowing about because hey, I think the whole lace curtain Irish shit is bullshit. Look at the state of the Catholic Church right now, and you KNOW it's bullshit. If you don't talk about the bad stuff, it keeps on happening. I talk about it when people do lovely things for me. I talk about how awesome my friends are (because they are). I don't talk about some stuff because it's private; there's information you need and information you don't, and that's that. When I tell a story, I don't tell people the stuff that I don't think they need to know.
Specific example: the Jim Jefferies review from NYC; there were a few comments, a bit of information, that I just didn't think should be shared. Nothing gossip-worthy, nothing career-impacting, just stuff I don't think anyone else needed to know. Just because he's a public figure doesn't mean every moment in public is for every member of public's consumption. It's like my view on charity--it's a private matter. No one needs to know what I give or how I give it. It's not charity if you're doing it for the laurels. And I'm sure as hell not going to i.d. my internet fuck buddies--what passes between us is a private matter. I don't give a damn what you know about my kinks--theirs, however, are a confidence.
Anyway, I am pretty open about what is going on in my life, particularly the struggle at home. It's difficult; I am dealing with an elderly parent whom I love but who has also taken over my life. Dear friends--GOOD friends, beloved friends, decent human beings--have told me to get the fuck out and leave her and my uncle to their own devices and demise, to take care of myself and forget about it. I cannot do that; I cannot abandon my mother. Whatever emotional abuse and pain she has inflicted on me over the years (and it has been horrible and awful, and there is a part of me that hates her passionately), while she emotionally abandoned me years ago because she was afraid of the child she brought into this world--afraid because I was everything she wanted me to be and so very much like her, yet without the horrible fetters her family put on her, and because she was afraid, she put fear in me... *sigh* In short, because my mother is human and didn't have herself for a parent, she made mistakes. Physically, she never abandoned me. Whenever I have needed something of a tangible nature, she has done her best to provide--a place to live when my ex took off (and when he came back, so she knew I was safe), and stuff... whether an extra $50 to get me through until payday, or paying for my drum kit (my Xmas pressie, Gods love her), she has been there.
That doesn't make any of this process easy. I want my life back. I want to be living on my own, as a functioning, independent adult, responsible only for myself and the things I WANT to do--like writing and performing. I want to be in a relationship, but how the fuck do I get involved with someone when I can't give the relationship 100%?
Now, I have been open with him about what's going on. There has been no information shared on his part. I know nothing about his family, nothing about his job, I know what town he lives in and that he has a roommate. Oh, and that he won't bring a woman back there because the walls are paper thin. *rolls eyes* Please.
So, after all this bullshit--and him saying that we hadn't met because we had no place to go afterwards and he didn't want to fuck me (his term, not mine) in a motel--and him pressuring me to tell him what I wanted and didn't I think we had potential, I threw down. I said, "Maybe. I won't know unless we meet."
And got the run-around and a lot of fucking excuses. He got pissed when I quoted his own words back to him. Made the point that he said he's not looking for a fuck buddy, but is never in regular contact. That he only gets in touch when he's horny. That I knew nothing about him. That I have half a dozen men and a bunch of chubby chasers on POF who want to fuck me.
All of a sudden I was being a bitch and twisting his words.
I'm feeling very, very bitter right now, and I think it's time to give up on the idea of finding a relationship. I know I've said this before, but... *sigh* I think it's time to go to Plan B for having a family, and stick with the IM fuck buddies. At least there are no lies, no illusions, no bullshit, no one trying to manipulate me into being something I'm not. I wish to Hell there was a man out there with whom I could be open and just be me with, and be together. Seriously. It just pisses me off that I accept people--everyone in my life--for WHO THEY ARE. I don't ask anyone to promise me things they can't give, I don't ask for anything I'm not willing to give. Why the hell haven't I found a partner who can give me the same?
So much for dreams. Better to spend my time on my work--at least I can give my characters happiness.
Hugs accepted gratefully.
Born into emptinessLearn to be lonely
Learn to find your way in darkness
Who will be there for you
Comfort and care for you
Learn to be lonely
Learn to be your one companion
Never dreamed out in the world
There are arms to hold you?
You've always known your heart was on its own
So laugh in your loneliness
Child of the wilderness
Learn to be lonely
Learn how to love life that is lived alone
Learn to be lonely
Life can be lived
Life can be loved
Alone. - "Learn to Be Lonely," Phantom of the Opera
There are two songs going through my head right now... "Learn to Be Lonely" from Phantom of the Opera (yeah, yeah, I know I hate Andrew Lloyd Webber, but I'll give him a break for Phantom) and "Jane Says" from Jane's Addiction.
Just had what I hope is the last convo with Potential Paramour. I called him out. And he had a snit and signed out.
Which is fine with me.
Anyone reading this blog knows that sex is one of my main topics of interest. I love it; always have, from the first time I discovered how to make myself feel really good (it involved my backyard swingset when I was still in single digits). Sex--masturbation, fuck I hate that word--WANKING!--and occasionally, sex with another human--is probably the only time I enjoy being physically incarnate.
I've never been exactly healthy. From the time I was little, there have been a lot of physical ailments--whether allergies, bronchitis, injuries, depression-related crap, and then the weight problems (thyroid, arthritis, whatever)--and the only good things about being alive were being creative and having an orgasm.
Because I'm a curious person (in the sense that I am curious about things--I am curious in terms of being a bit of a curio, true), I want to know more about everything that affects me; I want to understand what makes me tick, and why I react to the world and others the way I do. The way I find out about stuff is to talk about it--directly to people, in this blog these days, whatever. The cool thing about the interwebs is that there are a lot of people out there and more ways to connect with them. I have a number of friends whom I have never met face-to-face, but whom I love dearly because via the wires, they have become key parts of my life. (To be honest, I have met most of them face-to-face; there are still a couple I haven't.) I have a few on-line fuck buddies, too--men who are good friends and occasionally, we get it on via IM or text or whatever because we are of the same mind about things, and for whatever other reason, a face-to-face relationship won't/can't work, but we are on the same groove level sexually, and it provides us with an outlet.
I'm not going to debate the "morality" of it. I'm just not. I can't. We have a connection, and we provide each other with a necessary release. I love these men for what they give me--a very private part of themselves that keeps me from losing all hope. What's passed between us has come from very serious, honest discussions about sex--very open, real and wonderful conversations. Now, I've been accused more than once of thinking too much like a guy (which baffles the shit out of me, but there you have it). Maybe it's true; I have a sense of honor that is much closer to a man's than the way most women operate. Maybe because I'm both a historian and a Shakespearean--my grounding is firmly in the past, in times when your word meant something, when Honor meant something real, rather than just a funny concept in books.
I also find sex hysterical--I find the dance that men and women do, quite frankly, ridiculous. I DON'T GET IT. If I tell a man he's hot, I mean it--I find him hot. What makes him "hot" to me isn't about his looks--well, not STRICTLY about his looks--it's about who he IS and how the whole package fits together. I'm not looking for some stupid storybook romance. I'm looking for a damn good friend I can share my life and my body with, and maybe, just fucking maybe, he and I can make each other's lives a little happier. I don't need perfection, I don't need Prince Charming--please, dear Gods, SPARE ME!--I just need someone with a sense of humor who can deal with my shit and who has the kind of shit that I can deal with. I don't give a damn about hard work--every relationship worth having, whether it's with a partner or a friend--requires hard work to keep it real and keep it working. The thing is, when someone matters to you, the work is WORTH it.
I have a very limited supply of hope left. See, Potential Paramour has been going on and on about us having an emotional and intellectual connection (his words, not mine), as well as a sexual one. *sigh* He's lonely, he wants love, he wants a partner, he wants he wants he wants he wants he wants...
Yeah. What fucking ever. HE wants. And he sporadically gets in touch--there's been a three-month-long IM convo going. I've blogged about it here and there, but I really couldn't take him seriously because well, it's been going on for three months without a phone number or a meeting, and the sporadic nature of his contact told me that I was his "fall back," not his main objective. Which is fine, but he keeps trying to corner me--nail my feet to the floor about a commitment.
Excuse me?
"You are not ready to be a wife."
"You are not ready to be a mother."
EXCUSE ME? The man who starts out a conversation with telling me that he's horny after I haven't heard from him in how long, and who pings me at 1:00 a.m. looking for IM sex, and he's telling me I'm not ready for serious commitment while trying to get to make a serious commitment without having met.
Yeah, right.
Now, I live on the outside of my skin in a lot of ways. There's some stuff I have no problem with people knowing about because hey, I think the whole lace curtain Irish shit is bullshit. Look at the state of the Catholic Church right now, and you KNOW it's bullshit. If you don't talk about the bad stuff, it keeps on happening. I talk about it when people do lovely things for me. I talk about how awesome my friends are (because they are). I don't talk about some stuff because it's private; there's information you need and information you don't, and that's that. When I tell a story, I don't tell people the stuff that I don't think they need to know.
Specific example: the Jim Jefferies review from NYC; there were a few comments, a bit of information, that I just didn't think should be shared. Nothing gossip-worthy, nothing career-impacting, just stuff I don't think anyone else needed to know. Just because he's a public figure doesn't mean every moment in public is for every member of public's consumption. It's like my view on charity--it's a private matter. No one needs to know what I give or how I give it. It's not charity if you're doing it for the laurels. And I'm sure as hell not going to i.d. my internet fuck buddies--what passes between us is a private matter. I don't give a damn what you know about my kinks--theirs, however, are a confidence.
Anyway, I am pretty open about what is going on in my life, particularly the struggle at home. It's difficult; I am dealing with an elderly parent whom I love but who has also taken over my life. Dear friends--GOOD friends, beloved friends, decent human beings--have told me to get the fuck out and leave her and my uncle to their own devices and demise, to take care of myself and forget about it. I cannot do that; I cannot abandon my mother. Whatever emotional abuse and pain she has inflicted on me over the years (and it has been horrible and awful, and there is a part of me that hates her passionately), while she emotionally abandoned me years ago because she was afraid of the child she brought into this world--afraid because I was everything she wanted me to be and so very much like her, yet without the horrible fetters her family put on her, and because she was afraid, she put fear in me... *sigh* In short, because my mother is human and didn't have herself for a parent, she made mistakes. Physically, she never abandoned me. Whenever I have needed something of a tangible nature, she has done her best to provide--a place to live when my ex took off (and when he came back, so she knew I was safe), and stuff... whether an extra $50 to get me through until payday, or paying for my drum kit (my Xmas pressie, Gods love her), she has been there.
That doesn't make any of this process easy. I want my life back. I want to be living on my own, as a functioning, independent adult, responsible only for myself and the things I WANT to do--like writing and performing. I want to be in a relationship, but how the fuck do I get involved with someone when I can't give the relationship 100%?
Now, I have been open with him about what's going on. There has been no information shared on his part. I know nothing about his family, nothing about his job, I know what town he lives in and that he has a roommate. Oh, and that he won't bring a woman back there because the walls are paper thin. *rolls eyes* Please.
So, after all this bullshit--and him saying that we hadn't met because we had no place to go afterwards and he didn't want to fuck me (his term, not mine) in a motel--and him pressuring me to tell him what I wanted and didn't I think we had potential, I threw down. I said, "Maybe. I won't know unless we meet."
And got the run-around and a lot of fucking excuses. He got pissed when I quoted his own words back to him. Made the point that he said he's not looking for a fuck buddy, but is never in regular contact. That he only gets in touch when he's horny. That I knew nothing about him. That I have half a dozen men and a bunch of chubby chasers on POF who want to fuck me.
All of a sudden I was being a bitch and twisting his words.
I'm feeling very, very bitter right now, and I think it's time to give up on the idea of finding a relationship. I know I've said this before, but... *sigh* I think it's time to go to Plan B for having a family, and stick with the IM fuck buddies. At least there are no lies, no illusions, no bullshit, no one trying to manipulate me into being something I'm not. I wish to Hell there was a man out there with whom I could be open and just be me with, and be together. Seriously. It just pisses me off that I accept people--everyone in my life--for WHO THEY ARE. I don't ask anyone to promise me things they can't give, I don't ask for anything I'm not willing to give. Why the hell haven't I found a partner who can give me the same?
So much for dreams. Better to spend my time on my work--at least I can give my characters happiness.
Hugs accepted gratefully.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Another one bites the dust...
Quite possibly the one Queen song I never need to hear again. (Although I have a soft spot in my heart for "Fat Bottomed Girls" for obvious reasons.)
Well, it's my last full day in Nova Scotia for this trip. WAHHHHH!!! Yeah, my heart is already aching at the thought of going (forget about packing. Argh). If you've never visited up here, you need to. It's like getting the best of New England with the best of the Midwest scenery-wise, and the people... The people are the best. I think I've heard one car horn since I left the States (and it might have been mine). People are friendly, relaxed, genuinely nice.
And the men... oh, giiiiiiiiiirrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrlllllllllllsss, the MEN ARE FINE!
And, sadly, for the most part either taken or gay. *sigh* Saw my last Canadian Crush last night--his girlfriend is damn lucky.
Which, of course, brings us back to my sordid love life.
Potential Paramour is out. No meeting will happen, and all further communications will be cut off. Those little warning signs I spotted? I was spot-on.
I've mentioned the Xanax Days in the month--the 2 or 3 days I need to pop half-a-tab of Xanax to control the hormonal attacks from the PMDD--well, one of them hit the other day. I was CRANKY. Of course, Potential Paramour showed up looking for IM sex that night. We got into a convo first, and I was a bit contrary.
He said I was cute. *looks for shotgun* *realizes I do not allow myself firearms* *pouts*
As I have said, I AM NOT CUTE when I am cranky. I am a pain in the arse, a royal bitch. Now, by this time in the evening, the Xanax had taken effect so I was calmer and not irrational. We were talking about my drive home; I made a 10.5 hour drive in 8. I am hoping to do the 12 hour drive in 10 but of course, will adjust speed for weather conditions (especially if the conditions on the road are anywhere near as bad as they were here yesterday; I am crazy--I AM NOT stupid). He keeps warning me; I state that I have Jedi reflexes and a serious measure of common sense. And then am told not to let my vanity get the better of me.
Say what? There are a couple of people who have seen my Jedi reflexes in action behind the wheel--no vanity involved. Experience, skill and confidence, no arrogance.
The conversation goes on a bit.
I mentioned I was feeling bratty (because I wasn't allowing him to take the convo into sex).
To which he responded: "You need to be roughed up."
Me: "I beg your pardon?"
Him: "hmm a spanking maybe and later sweet love"
Me: "Uh huh. "
The conversation ended there. He was on-line for another two hours; I worked on my book and other things before having a good sleep, and no word since.
I'm good with that. I'm really good with that. See, I realize that I might have read too much into the "roughed up" comment with my history and all, but at the same time... No. Abso-fuckin-lutely NOT. A sensual spanking has nothing to do with being "roughed up"--it's a game, a bit of fun, and there is no implication of violence. (Yes, I realize the contradictions in that statement, but if it's the kind of game you play, you know what I'm talking about--it's fun, it's exciting, but it's also SAFE, and you know that while your bum may be stinging, you don't have to worry about your lover going psycho and putting you in the hospital. It's a fine line, I know, but it's very, very real.)
My advice to anyone considering bottoming: LISTEN TO YOUR INSTINCTS. If the little voice in the back of your mind is saying, "RUN AWAY!" - LISTEN TO IT.
And yes, I am listening to mine. Besides, I'm not interested in getting involved with someone who will require me always on the bottom, not when I have so much more fun being on top.
*slams head on the desk*
You'll notice I'm not talking about the Captain. He's on probation with me; we shall see. Ooohhh, yes, we shall see indeed.
Well, it's my last full day in Nova Scotia for this trip. WAHHHHH!!! Yeah, my heart is already aching at the thought of going (forget about packing. Argh). If you've never visited up here, you need to. It's like getting the best of New England with the best of the Midwest scenery-wise, and the people... The people are the best. I think I've heard one car horn since I left the States (and it might have been mine). People are friendly, relaxed, genuinely nice.
And the men... oh, giiiiiiiiiirrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrlllllllllllsss, the MEN ARE FINE!
And, sadly, for the most part either taken or gay. *sigh* Saw my last Canadian Crush last night--his girlfriend is damn lucky.
Which, of course, brings us back to my sordid love life.
Potential Paramour is out. No meeting will happen, and all further communications will be cut off. Those little warning signs I spotted? I was spot-on.
I've mentioned the Xanax Days in the month--the 2 or 3 days I need to pop half-a-tab of Xanax to control the hormonal attacks from the PMDD--well, one of them hit the other day. I was CRANKY. Of course, Potential Paramour showed up looking for IM sex that night. We got into a convo first, and I was a bit contrary.
He said I was cute. *looks for shotgun* *realizes I do not allow myself firearms* *pouts*
As I have said, I AM NOT CUTE when I am cranky. I am a pain in the arse, a royal bitch. Now, by this time in the evening, the Xanax had taken effect so I was calmer and not irrational. We were talking about my drive home; I made a 10.5 hour drive in 8. I am hoping to do the 12 hour drive in 10 but of course, will adjust speed for weather conditions (especially if the conditions on the road are anywhere near as bad as they were here yesterday; I am crazy--I AM NOT stupid). He keeps warning me; I state that I have Jedi reflexes and a serious measure of common sense. And then am told not to let my vanity get the better of me.
Say what? There are a couple of people who have seen my Jedi reflexes in action behind the wheel--no vanity involved. Experience, skill and confidence, no arrogance.
The conversation goes on a bit.
I mentioned I was feeling bratty (because I wasn't allowing him to take the convo into sex).
To which he responded: "You need to be roughed up."
Me: "I beg your pardon?"
Him: "hmm a spanking maybe and later sweet love"
Me: "Uh huh. "
The conversation ended there. He was on-line for another two hours; I worked on my book and other things before having a good sleep, and no word since.
I'm good with that. I'm really good with that. See, I realize that I might have read too much into the "roughed up" comment with my history and all, but at the same time... No. Abso-fuckin-lutely NOT. A sensual spanking has nothing to do with being "roughed up"--it's a game, a bit of fun, and there is no implication of violence. (Yes, I realize the contradictions in that statement, but if it's the kind of game you play, you know what I'm talking about--it's fun, it's exciting, but it's also SAFE, and you know that while your bum may be stinging, you don't have to worry about your lover going psycho and putting you in the hospital. It's a fine line, I know, but it's very, very real.)
My advice to anyone considering bottoming: LISTEN TO YOUR INSTINCTS. If the little voice in the back of your mind is saying, "RUN AWAY!" - LISTEN TO IT.
And yes, I am listening to mine. Besides, I'm not interested in getting involved with someone who will require me always on the bottom, not when I have so much more fun being on top.
*slams head on the desk*
You'll notice I'm not talking about the Captain. He's on probation with me; we shall see. Ooohhh, yes, we shall see indeed.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Don't EVER Call Me "Cute"
So, I posted Part 2 of the Captain Strap-on Saga earlier tonight, and, of course, it's got me thinking.
Today is a national holiday up in Canada--Thanksgiving. Unlike the U.S., Canadian Thanksgiving is actually a harvest festival that falls during the harvest. They're a little less commercially-oriented than their neighbors to the South, the socialist bastards. ;-) Well, I had something that doesn't happen at home for Thanksgiving--I went to a family dinner. Not a huge one, but a three-generational dealie. And, of course, it was lovely. Good food, good company, and just a nice time.
Now, yesterday, I was in touch with Captain Strap-on, and he has reiterated that he's serious about this. I set the rules before I left, but you know they haven't been followed. This has become more of an experiment at this point in time, a failed one, really. I'm just fascinated by it, in this really horrible way. It's like watching a 50 car accident on a slick highway that also involves three oil tankers, a garbage truck, a bullet train and a truckload of live chickens. It's utterly horrible but somehow, very entertaining.
Something's gone wrong--I can feel it in my chest right now, this awful hollow feeling. I always know when something's wrong with someone important because that feeling hits me. I hate it.
Anyway, of course, I'm thinking about the two very different situations I'm dealing with--two men with very different approaches and desires.
I don't know if I want either one of them at this point.
All this talk about wanting a family--you know that even if the sitch comes to fruition with Captain Strap-on, it's not going to be a lasting relationship. As for Potential Paramour... argh. I've finally figured out why I'm hesitating. It all has to do with the word "cute."
I hate it. As a friend pointed out, puppies and kittens are cute. Baby bunnies are cute. Forty-two-year-old women are NOT cute unless they are dressed thoroughly inappropriately (and then, they're not cute--they're fucking WEIRD or mentally ill). I realized why, too, I hate it--it's a bastard word that makes something dangerous safe.
It's why I coo over baby tigers--they ARE cute, but the little fuckers can kill you. Ditto for polar bears--adorable as hell, but one of the single most vicious predators on the planet. Don't fuck with 'em--they CAN lop your head off with the swipe of a paw.
Now, I'm not a polar bear (although I'm currently insulated like one--working on reducing that, but it's still going to take a little time), but I am pretty deadly. I mean, I won't pull out a sword and decapitate you physically, but I will verbally kick your ass if you cross me. I hate being diminished--made safe. I'm not safe. I never have been; I never will be.
No human being is, nor should they be. We all have edges, secrets... dark places that don't need to see the light most days. I have a lot of those places in my soul; to be expected with the life I've led. Now, I'm sure my therapist will have an interesting time dissecting why I feel more drawn to Captain Strap-on than to Potential Paramour.
Captain Strap-on is familiar--I've known guys like him forever. Plus, there's the added dimension of crazy sex, something beyond vanilla. Now, honestly, I have no problem with vanilla sex. I like it--it's fun, it's joyful, and it's good. Ideally, I'd rather this whole strap-on adventure be happening a part of a normal relationship--another dimension to a committed relationship, something added to a repetoire of healthy adult play. Ideally, but ideals are for dreamers.
Potential Paramour... he's not familiar. He's something new, from a different culture and background. He's definitely traditional in his views. The IM sex has been interesting--fairly vanilla but with a few twists that I'm good with. The whole "cute" thing was OK until he threw another word into the mix that sent up a red alert of klaxons screaming, red flags springing up like dandelions on the lawn... "daddy."
I didn't use it. I don't. I went through that phase of need a long time ago and got past it. The closest I ever get is a playful "big daddy" said with a thick Southern accent and a glint of mischief. I don't use it during sex--I think it's creepy. Well, he said something to the effect that "daddy knew what his girl needed."
SKEEEEEEEEEEEEEEVVVVEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! *shudder* Really? REALLY? I don't fucking think so, I really don't. I mean, REALLY?
Of course, if I had a brain, I'd dump both of them and say to fuck with it. I have enough shit to deal with ATM, I don't need this silliness. Is it so bad that I want to be an equal partner in a relationship? I don't want or need a sugar daddy, I don't mind paying my own way (been doing it for so long now, I just don't even think about it), I don't want a "manchild" as one of my friends puts it, I don't want any of the stupidity I've dealt with in the past. I want a partner--I don't give a rat's arse about baggage--I come with a matched set--I don't care about anything but being with someone I can actually share my life with without having mine taken over completely. Why is that too much to ask for? A little acceptance, a little compassion, a little understanding, good sex, good company, and no bullshit.
Why is this so fucking impossible to find?
Today is a national holiday up in Canada--Thanksgiving. Unlike the U.S., Canadian Thanksgiving is actually a harvest festival that falls during the harvest. They're a little less commercially-oriented than their neighbors to the South, the socialist bastards. ;-) Well, I had something that doesn't happen at home for Thanksgiving--I went to a family dinner. Not a huge one, but a three-generational dealie. And, of course, it was lovely. Good food, good company, and just a nice time.
Now, yesterday, I was in touch with Captain Strap-on, and he has reiterated that he's serious about this. I set the rules before I left, but you know they haven't been followed. This has become more of an experiment at this point in time, a failed one, really. I'm just fascinated by it, in this really horrible way. It's like watching a 50 car accident on a slick highway that also involves three oil tankers, a garbage truck, a bullet train and a truckload of live chickens. It's utterly horrible but somehow, very entertaining.
Something's gone wrong--I can feel it in my chest right now, this awful hollow feeling. I always know when something's wrong with someone important because that feeling hits me. I hate it.
Anyway, of course, I'm thinking about the two very different situations I'm dealing with--two men with very different approaches and desires.
I don't know if I want either one of them at this point.
All this talk about wanting a family--you know that even if the sitch comes to fruition with Captain Strap-on, it's not going to be a lasting relationship. As for Potential Paramour... argh. I've finally figured out why I'm hesitating. It all has to do with the word "cute."
I hate it. As a friend pointed out, puppies and kittens are cute. Baby bunnies are cute. Forty-two-year-old women are NOT cute unless they are dressed thoroughly inappropriately (and then, they're not cute--they're fucking WEIRD or mentally ill). I realized why, too, I hate it--it's a bastard word that makes something dangerous safe.
It's why I coo over baby tigers--they ARE cute, but the little fuckers can kill you. Ditto for polar bears--adorable as hell, but one of the single most vicious predators on the planet. Don't fuck with 'em--they CAN lop your head off with the swipe of a paw.
Now, I'm not a polar bear (although I'm currently insulated like one--working on reducing that, but it's still going to take a little time), but I am pretty deadly. I mean, I won't pull out a sword and decapitate you physically, but I will verbally kick your ass if you cross me. I hate being diminished--made safe. I'm not safe. I never have been; I never will be.
No human being is, nor should they be. We all have edges, secrets... dark places that don't need to see the light most days. I have a lot of those places in my soul; to be expected with the life I've led. Now, I'm sure my therapist will have an interesting time dissecting why I feel more drawn to Captain Strap-on than to Potential Paramour.
Captain Strap-on is familiar--I've known guys like him forever. Plus, there's the added dimension of crazy sex, something beyond vanilla. Now, honestly, I have no problem with vanilla sex. I like it--it's fun, it's joyful, and it's good. Ideally, I'd rather this whole strap-on adventure be happening a part of a normal relationship--another dimension to a committed relationship, something added to a repetoire of healthy adult play. Ideally, but ideals are for dreamers.
Potential Paramour... he's not familiar. He's something new, from a different culture and background. He's definitely traditional in his views. The IM sex has been interesting--fairly vanilla but with a few twists that I'm good with. The whole "cute" thing was OK until he threw another word into the mix that sent up a red alert of klaxons screaming, red flags springing up like dandelions on the lawn... "daddy."
I didn't use it. I don't. I went through that phase of need a long time ago and got past it. The closest I ever get is a playful "big daddy" said with a thick Southern accent and a glint of mischief. I don't use it during sex--I think it's creepy. Well, he said something to the effect that "daddy knew what his girl needed."
SKEEEEEEEEEEEEEEVVVVEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! *shudder* Really? REALLY? I don't fucking think so, I really don't. I mean, REALLY?
Of course, if I had a brain, I'd dump both of them and say to fuck with it. I have enough shit to deal with ATM, I don't need this silliness. Is it so bad that I want to be an equal partner in a relationship? I don't want or need a sugar daddy, I don't mind paying my own way (been doing it for so long now, I just don't even think about it), I don't want a "manchild" as one of my friends puts it, I don't want any of the stupidity I've dealt with in the past. I want a partner--I don't give a rat's arse about baggage--I come with a matched set--I don't care about anything but being with someone I can actually share my life with without having mine taken over completely. Why is that too much to ask for? A little acceptance, a little compassion, a little understanding, good sex, good company, and no bullshit.
Why is this so fucking impossible to find?
Sunday, October 10, 2010
But seriously... This is NOT a relationship
So, I've mentioned Potential Paramour. This gent is the latest "catch" from Plenty of Fish.
I'm not going into his details--inappropriate--but I am going to talk about the whole "internet dating" thing.
Because I fucking hate it.
Now, let's be clear here: I am not a bar hopper. Never have been, never will be. I learned a long time ago that, due to my anxiety issues (and solid common sense), I prefer to hang in a place where I know the crowd, know the staff, and am close enough to home that I can either walk it or grab a cab if there's no designated driver. Well, I preferred that back in my drinking days. Now... post gastric bypass and post-everything else, I really don't have to worry about it.
I was also never a clubber, again, for some pretty obvious reasons. One, I am painfully shy. Two, I HATE being touched by strangers. I've almost slugged people for bumping me (back in my less-self-aware days; now, I do breathing exercises to keep myself calm in situations). Three, fat chicks... fat chicks don't do well in club situations. I never wanted to be the "pity fuck," the one who was last choice, y'know? I dealt with that enough on the playground as a kid because I was so hopeless at sports. Four... I hate listening to music that I don't know and don't like with people I wouldn't associate with anyway.
Understand, that I am one of those people who has all the presets programmed on the car radio; I keep it set to WFNX--hit the "5" button on the dash before I shut the car off--no, it's not #1, because I have a touch of OCD and LIKE THINGS IN ORDER! This is why I am a good cataloguer--I have a natural obsession with keeping things in order, either numerical or alphabetical. 92.9 is the #1 button--2 clicks to the left is The River, then two "seeks" to get to 93.7, 2 clicks to get to 94.1... #2 takes me to 'AAF, #3 is Mum's station (I skip this one), #4 is 'ZLX--2 clicks left, 2 clicks right gets me the NH stations, #5 is 'FNX, #6 is MIX [used to be 'BCN. *sigh*], and then, depending where I am in metro Boston, the "seek" will get me anywhere from two to five stations. If I'm awake enough and need contemplative music, I'll hit the #2 button and seek to the classical station. If all of this button pushing hasn't found me a good song or a Red Sox game, a quick flick of the finger sends the adaptor into the cassette slot and the Zune goes live. I will NOT listen to crap music. Life is too important to listen to shit.
This habit drives people crazy. This is why I do not usually play the radio when I have people in the car--a) I can't focus on conversation if I am singing along to the radio; b) I like the music LOUD and can't focus on conversation because I can't hear both; and c) it's rude. The only person who's ever been able to deal with it is Captain Strap-on because he does the same thing (or tried to, on my radio, and almost got his hand taken off. DRIVER'S CHOICE! Touch my radio without my permission, I'll kill you. Or throw you out of the car if the first warning is ignored).
But I digress.
About the only place I "hang" these days because of time commitments, etc., is Starbucks where I have met New Crush and Old Crush, and because I like both of them, of course, I haven't had the cojones to ask either out. Yeah, yeah, I know. Chickenshit. I own it. Goes back to Fat Girl Syndrome. I'm trying to overcome it. Besides,I hate awkwardness. I don't usually feel it--I mean, hey, you're not feeling the attraction that I am, no problem. I don't take it personally--I know how it goes. NO WHOOPER! (This is why the whole thing with Jim Jefferies didn't faze me--I can't imagine how many women proposition him, although he lists himself as "gay" on MySpace. That was a little weird, but hey, gotta check and see if people are paying attention.) But guys get weird in those situations, and I'd hate for anyone to avoid getting coffee because of fearing to run into me. The problem with Sbux is that the crowd in there is a little young--a lot of scenery, but I'm not into cradle robbing. Otherwise... WOW. I mean, it's not like I have a rating system like the movies--"No one under XX may date this woman"--but I also have a grasp of developmental issues. You don't stop growing and changing because you hit the age of 18, and we all develop and change and grow differently. However, I am 42--I've seen a lot of shit, and while I have a lot of compassion and understanding, I also have a limited amount of time and patience.
OK, back to Potential Paramour. Now, he initiated contact via POF (Plenty of Fish). We exchanged a few emails via the site, I gave the wahoo email address, and he sent his picture (normal pic, not a dick shot, thank the Gods). We started chatting via wahoo. It was fine--normal convo exchange, flirting, bit of sex talk. It was fine--normal for these things. He has been very complimentary, very sweet--he thinks I'm cute. OK. And beautiful.
Beautiful I'm OK with--to me, that word has deeper connotations than "cute"--it implies not just physical beauty (and I am pretty; I KNOW that), but something within the soul that shines through. It's why I notice eyes--New Crush hit me like a lightening bolt because of his eyes. (Yes, he's cute--noticed that AFTER--but his eyes... WOW! This has always been the way it works for me when I feel something for someone I meet face-to-face. That was what happened with the Mighty Lucifer--I noticed his eyes before anything else, immortalized in a short story as being like "burning suns"... Jim Jefferies has those kind of brown eyes. Mmmmmm... )
But cute? I am so NOT cute. I mean, I am acerbic, sarcastic, funny... but adorable? Nah. So NOT me. I mean... CUTE? "Cute" comes with a button nose, perky little tits, and a cheerleader attitude. Me... SO NOT cute. And I find that word such a diminutive when a man says it to me when I'm grouchy. I AM NOT CUTE when I am grouchy. I am a PAIN IN THE FUCKING ASS when I'm grouchy.
There is NOTHING CUTE about stating I want to thin the herd of Cambridge bicyclists. Ditto for wanting to execute stupid people. Nothing cute about that--I'd be disturbed if someone I barely knew made statements like that, especially via IM. There is NOTHING cute about me when I'm ranting. I'm funny--hell, yes, I am funny if your sense of humor skews that way--but I am funny only if you are present for the rant and can hear the tone of voice and see the outrageous facial expressions.
I never found George Carlin "cute" when he was ranting; ditto, Celebricrush Jim. (THAT'S a good nickname! I like it better than invoking his full name--I really worry about coming off as a stalker/obsessive fan. I'm not. Following on Facebook is one thing; I have no plans to go to California or the UK over the next few months, nor will I be writing any "fan fic," because, although I do write amazing fucking porn, I prefer for it to be from direct experience.)
I find both of them scary during certain rants; that's what great comedy should be--you're pissing yourself laughing and shitting your pants in fear. VISCERAL. As unsafe as unprotected sex with an African hooker. (Yep, goin' to hell for that one. Join me at my private table by the fire, will you?) It's why certain comics never appealed to me... there were no risks in their material, nothing personal about it. I'd like to find the idiot who made a comment after Carlin died on his material that his earlier stuff was so much better--*SLAM* Louisville Slugger to the head for being an idiot. Or to the balls to make sure he doesn't reproduce. I mean, who would take the Hippy Dippy Weatherman over the Two Commandments? Really? Moron.
This is all a part of my "Sacred Fool" theory of theatre and comedy. I wrote a paper on it years ago; I need to dig it out and expand on it. No, I am not "selling out" and applying to Harvard or Yale or wherever for a Ph.D. (although I'm still toying with the Masters in Counseling/Psych--Dr. Panetta will howl with laughter over that one, if I ever ask for the recommendation. You know you've got something when your therapist wants you to be a therapist. Hey, I'm a director--you've GOT to be an armchair shrink to direct Shakespeare and get your actors throught it without them losing their shit or you losing yours).
Wow, I'm REALLY digressing and avoiding discussing relationships.
OK, back to Potential Paramour: the IMs have been intense. Sexually, we're on some of the same pages (he's a bit traditional; definitely wants to be the one "on top" as it were, which is OK to a point). What's bothering me is that we haven't met face-to-face yet; we've never even heard each other's voice, and he's pushed for a commitment.
*SCREECHING OF BRAKES*
Yeah. And I had to put my foot down.
Look, while I'll own to being a royal slut extraordinaire in the bedroom, I am NOT a whore. I don't play the field--even when I've had the option to, I haven't. I mean, I've been given permission to cheat and couldn't do it. Not my style. I mean, a threesome is one thing (and it's been years and years and years and I doubt it's something I'd ever do again. One man is enough, y'know? If I really want to go for the DP experience, there are toys for that, and another woman is out of the question. Been there, done that, booooooooooring), but cheating? Multiple discreet partners? *shudder* Gods forbid something slips and I end up pregnant. I don't think I could deal with the shame of not knowing who the father was. (And yes, I would be ashamed and embarrassed.) Hey, I think about these things.
Now, I've been in enough long distance/internet-based relationships to know that the person you deal with via IM is NOT the person you deal with in person. I am who I am--totally WYSIWYG. The crazy shit I say in this blog is the crazy shit I say in conversation. I am this person. I'm good with it. However, what you do not get via the blog is my voice--it's a big voice, loud when I laugh or get pissed off. You don't hear the revolving accents--from Standard American to Brit Posh to Thick Boston to Atlantic Canadian to Irish Brogue to Aussie to California Surf to wherever. You don't get the bouncing moods, from utterly manic to serenely calm to utterly outraged and furious to Writer Mode to grouchy to happy... this is normal me. I'm An Experience.
Not everyone can deal with the Empress Experience. I mean, I'm actually a fairly easy human being to be around, as long as I'm allowed a certain degree of control over myself and immediate surroundings. I let people be who they are and accept them. I only get contentious when someone tries to impose unnecessary demands and during the 36 hours of PMDD. (And then I take half a tab of Xanax, have a good cry, and sleep.) But I know that not everyone can deal with it, especially men.
So... I have not made a commitment, and I didn't allow myself to be manipulated into making one (which is raising a red flag already). We'll see how the face-to-face goes, but I honestly don't have a lot of hope. I'm going to give him a chance, but...
Ah, well.
I'm not going into his details--inappropriate--but I am going to talk about the whole "internet dating" thing.
Because I fucking hate it.
Now, let's be clear here: I am not a bar hopper. Never have been, never will be. I learned a long time ago that, due to my anxiety issues (and solid common sense), I prefer to hang in a place where I know the crowd, know the staff, and am close enough to home that I can either walk it or grab a cab if there's no designated driver. Well, I preferred that back in my drinking days. Now... post gastric bypass and post-everything else, I really don't have to worry about it.
I was also never a clubber, again, for some pretty obvious reasons. One, I am painfully shy. Two, I HATE being touched by strangers. I've almost slugged people for bumping me (back in my less-self-aware days; now, I do breathing exercises to keep myself calm in situations). Three, fat chicks... fat chicks don't do well in club situations. I never wanted to be the "pity fuck," the one who was last choice, y'know? I dealt with that enough on the playground as a kid because I was so hopeless at sports. Four... I hate listening to music that I don't know and don't like with people I wouldn't associate with anyway.
Understand, that I am one of those people who has all the presets programmed on the car radio; I keep it set to WFNX--hit the "5" button on the dash before I shut the car off--no, it's not #1, because I have a touch of OCD and LIKE THINGS IN ORDER! This is why I am a good cataloguer--I have a natural obsession with keeping things in order, either numerical or alphabetical. 92.9 is the #1 button--2 clicks to the left is The River, then two "seeks" to get to 93.7, 2 clicks to get to 94.1... #2 takes me to 'AAF, #3 is Mum's station (I skip this one), #4 is 'ZLX--2 clicks left, 2 clicks right gets me the NH stations, #5 is 'FNX, #6 is MIX [used to be 'BCN. *sigh*], and then, depending where I am in metro Boston, the "seek" will get me anywhere from two to five stations. If I'm awake enough and need contemplative music, I'll hit the #2 button and seek to the classical station. If all of this button pushing hasn't found me a good song or a Red Sox game, a quick flick of the finger sends the adaptor into the cassette slot and the Zune goes live. I will NOT listen to crap music. Life is too important to listen to shit.
This habit drives people crazy. This is why I do not usually play the radio when I have people in the car--a) I can't focus on conversation if I am singing along to the radio; b) I like the music LOUD and can't focus on conversation because I can't hear both; and c) it's rude. The only person who's ever been able to deal with it is Captain Strap-on because he does the same thing (or tried to, on my radio, and almost got his hand taken off. DRIVER'S CHOICE! Touch my radio without my permission, I'll kill you. Or throw you out of the car if the first warning is ignored).
But I digress.
About the only place I "hang" these days because of time commitments, etc., is Starbucks where I have met New Crush and Old Crush, and because I like both of them, of course, I haven't had the cojones to ask either out. Yeah, yeah, I know. Chickenshit. I own it. Goes back to Fat Girl Syndrome. I'm trying to overcome it. Besides,I hate awkwardness. I don't usually feel it--I mean, hey, you're not feeling the attraction that I am, no problem. I don't take it personally--I know how it goes. NO WHOOPER! (This is why the whole thing with Jim Jefferies didn't faze me--I can't imagine how many women proposition him, although he lists himself as "gay" on MySpace. That was a little weird, but hey, gotta check and see if people are paying attention.) But guys get weird in those situations, and I'd hate for anyone to avoid getting coffee because of fearing to run into me. The problem with Sbux is that the crowd in there is a little young--a lot of scenery, but I'm not into cradle robbing. Otherwise... WOW. I mean, it's not like I have a rating system like the movies--"No one under XX may date this woman"--but I also have a grasp of developmental issues. You don't stop growing and changing because you hit the age of 18, and we all develop and change and grow differently. However, I am 42--I've seen a lot of shit, and while I have a lot of compassion and understanding, I also have a limited amount of time and patience.
OK, back to Potential Paramour. Now, he initiated contact via POF (Plenty of Fish). We exchanged a few emails via the site, I gave the wahoo email address, and he sent his picture (normal pic, not a dick shot, thank the Gods). We started chatting via wahoo. It was fine--normal convo exchange, flirting, bit of sex talk. It was fine--normal for these things. He has been very complimentary, very sweet--he thinks I'm cute. OK. And beautiful.
Beautiful I'm OK with--to me, that word has deeper connotations than "cute"--it implies not just physical beauty (and I am pretty; I KNOW that), but something within the soul that shines through. It's why I notice eyes--New Crush hit me like a lightening bolt because of his eyes. (Yes, he's cute--noticed that AFTER--but his eyes... WOW! This has always been the way it works for me when I feel something for someone I meet face-to-face. That was what happened with the Mighty Lucifer--I noticed his eyes before anything else, immortalized in a short story as being like "burning suns"... Jim Jefferies has those kind of brown eyes. Mmmmmm... )
But cute? I am so NOT cute. I mean, I am acerbic, sarcastic, funny... but adorable? Nah. So NOT me. I mean... CUTE? "Cute" comes with a button nose, perky little tits, and a cheerleader attitude. Me... SO NOT cute. And I find that word such a diminutive when a man says it to me when I'm grouchy. I AM NOT CUTE when I am grouchy. I am a PAIN IN THE FUCKING ASS when I'm grouchy.
There is NOTHING CUTE about stating I want to thin the herd of Cambridge bicyclists. Ditto for wanting to execute stupid people. Nothing cute about that--I'd be disturbed if someone I barely knew made statements like that, especially via IM. There is NOTHING cute about me when I'm ranting. I'm funny--hell, yes, I am funny if your sense of humor skews that way--but I am funny only if you are present for the rant and can hear the tone of voice and see the outrageous facial expressions.
I never found George Carlin "cute" when he was ranting; ditto, Celebricrush Jim. (THAT'S a good nickname! I like it better than invoking his full name--I really worry about coming off as a stalker/obsessive fan. I'm not. Following on Facebook is one thing; I have no plans to go to California or the UK over the next few months, nor will I be writing any "fan fic," because, although I do write amazing fucking porn, I prefer for it to be from direct experience.)
I find both of them scary during certain rants; that's what great comedy should be--you're pissing yourself laughing and shitting your pants in fear. VISCERAL. As unsafe as unprotected sex with an African hooker. (Yep, goin' to hell for that one. Join me at my private table by the fire, will you?) It's why certain comics never appealed to me... there were no risks in their material, nothing personal about it. I'd like to find the idiot who made a comment after Carlin died on his material that his earlier stuff was so much better--*SLAM* Louisville Slugger to the head for being an idiot. Or to the balls to make sure he doesn't reproduce. I mean, who would take the Hippy Dippy Weatherman over the Two Commandments? Really? Moron.
This is all a part of my "Sacred Fool" theory of theatre and comedy. I wrote a paper on it years ago; I need to dig it out and expand on it. No, I am not "selling out" and applying to Harvard or Yale or wherever for a Ph.D. (although I'm still toying with the Masters in Counseling/Psych--Dr. Panetta will howl with laughter over that one, if I ever ask for the recommendation. You know you've got something when your therapist wants you to be a therapist. Hey, I'm a director--you've GOT to be an armchair shrink to direct Shakespeare and get your actors throught it without them losing their shit or you losing yours).
Wow, I'm REALLY digressing and avoiding discussing relationships.
OK, back to Potential Paramour: the IMs have been intense. Sexually, we're on some of the same pages (he's a bit traditional; definitely wants to be the one "on top" as it were, which is OK to a point). What's bothering me is that we haven't met face-to-face yet; we've never even heard each other's voice, and he's pushed for a commitment.
*SCREECHING OF BRAKES*
Yeah. And I had to put my foot down.
Look, while I'll own to being a royal slut extraordinaire in the bedroom, I am NOT a whore. I don't play the field--even when I've had the option to, I haven't. I mean, I've been given permission to cheat and couldn't do it. Not my style. I mean, a threesome is one thing (and it's been years and years and years and I doubt it's something I'd ever do again. One man is enough, y'know? If I really want to go for the DP experience, there are toys for that, and another woman is out of the question. Been there, done that, booooooooooring), but cheating? Multiple discreet partners? *shudder* Gods forbid something slips and I end up pregnant. I don't think I could deal with the shame of not knowing who the father was. (And yes, I would be ashamed and embarrassed.) Hey, I think about these things.
Now, I've been in enough long distance/internet-based relationships to know that the person you deal with via IM is NOT the person you deal with in person. I am who I am--totally WYSIWYG. The crazy shit I say in this blog is the crazy shit I say in conversation. I am this person. I'm good with it. However, what you do not get via the blog is my voice--it's a big voice, loud when I laugh or get pissed off. You don't hear the revolving accents--from Standard American to Brit Posh to Thick Boston to Atlantic Canadian to Irish Brogue to Aussie to California Surf to wherever. You don't get the bouncing moods, from utterly manic to serenely calm to utterly outraged and furious to Writer Mode to grouchy to happy... this is normal me. I'm An Experience.
Not everyone can deal with the Empress Experience. I mean, I'm actually a fairly easy human being to be around, as long as I'm allowed a certain degree of control over myself and immediate surroundings. I let people be who they are and accept them. I only get contentious when someone tries to impose unnecessary demands and during the 36 hours of PMDD. (And then I take half a tab of Xanax, have a good cry, and sleep.) But I know that not everyone can deal with it, especially men.
So... I have not made a commitment, and I didn't allow myself to be manipulated into making one (which is raising a red flag already). We'll see how the face-to-face goes, but I honestly don't have a lot of hope. I'm going to give him a chance, but...
Ah, well.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)