First I would like to start this by stating that things are progressing with the young lady that I spent the weekend with.  This would be irrelevant but for the fact that someone from my exes camp, a friend of Zoe’s who happens to know someone that my date knows is spreading rumours and misinformation about me.  I wouldn’t give it much merit except for the fact that they are being malicious and making wild claims about my character and just plain lying.  Saying things like that my ex has a restraining order against me, no she doesn’t.  Not even a little at all.  I cannot directly contact her.  Also, however this is a two-way street and kind of backfired when she made it happen as I showed the police my texts which were the catalyst for the incident and they agreed that she was crazy.  Of course it was in my best interest to stay away from her (I agreed heartily) as I had told her in the text that I would, yet she still called the police… proving essentially that she was spastic.  The police assured me that anything coming from her would be reasonable for me to contact them and have them intervene on my behalf.  Now, in public occupying the same business, like the club I was at, I only attempted to make contact in order to remain diplomatic and she decided to be a drama queen and run to a bouncer like a fucking child.  Whatever.  Great way to make yourself look more sane and mature, well done.  Also these same people were telling my new lady friend that I write a blog about how horrible my ex is… For fuck sake.  Don’t flatter yourself.  My blog is about me as I am way more important than you.  Even if I was a stranger and looked at the two of us I would identify myself as the important one between the two of us.  Save for the fact that you have children.  Most of the entries about Zoe were positive ones until she actively began rejecting me from her life (about a month and a half into our relationship, more on this later).  I worship women, even in my total disgust with Zoe I still love her.  I still find her valuable in a small way.  Despite the fact that she is utterly useless as a mate to anyone and completely self interested to a detriment to her children I still think that she is beautiful.  Even though I think that she is actively doing harm psychologically to both of her children (more on this later) I think that she still deserves to be mother to her children.

At the end of it all really the only thing about this blog that matters in the grand scheme is:  It’s anonymous.  Made up names and places, no ties to any reality at all whatsoever, so unless I told you about it personally you have no way of knowing who is involved or what all of this is about.  I did however tell Zoe.  So this pretty much assures to me that she is personally involved in the attempt to sabotage my character and my current ongoing… I’ll say relationship for lack of a better word as we haven’t defined it, nor do I think we intend to.  So happy birthday Zoe, I hope you are reading intently because I am about to ruin your day.  I would like to remind you that the pseudonym I chose for you came from a prostitute.  Because let’s be honest the best aspect of you was your body and I would say your ability in the sack but that was 80% me.  You were a sex puppet.  Thanks for showing up though, you do have a nice body, as always if you ever get bored look me up.  Hate sex is better than love sex in my opinion.

I want to begin by saying two things: First the only reason that you stick in my mind is not because of who you are, but what you represented, the potential that you had and utterly failed to live up to.  Second, all humans are fallible and I will accept that my assessment below might be a bit biased and not necessarily accurate being entirely from my perspective.  I am going to do my absolute best to remain as objective as possible because I want this to read with purity.  I want it to be understood why I was over you as a person right away yet I cannot shake the idea of you like a supercharged case of chlamydia.

You were

Things started rough between you and I because you put no effort into anything and your excuse is: “It shouldn’t take effort.”  Actually, if you ask any successful couple anywhere they talk, they argue, they compromise, essentially they are constantly expending effort on making their relationship work.  You had no intention of doing this from day one.  Which is why anything that you have ever complained about with regards to us has been squarely on you.  From very early on you would go to your friends places and bitch about me.  You would fill their heads with all kinds of strange ideas about how I was a terrible guy but then return to me and carry on as though everything was okay.  When I first met all of your friends they liked me.  They liked me a lot.  Then you went to them and cried wolf.  You painted some horrible monster image and they believed it.  In reality it was all just you clucking about growing pains and there really wasn’t anything there except for a loving guy who brought you flowers, cooked you fine meals, rubbed your feet every night, gave you 7 or 8 orgasms to his 1 (or none) and was bipolar and having a tough time adjusting to a small child.  In short, a really good guy trying his very best for you and being repaid in betrayal by a self-centered, entitled cunt.  You refuse to talk about your relationship issues.  Flat out.  This is the stupidest thing I have ever fucking heard I think if you asked any of your friends they would tell you that you should talk over your problems with your significant other.  In fact, rather than do this you went and cried to your friends, whom you’ve known for around 20 years, who are going to agree with and reinforce everything that you tell them.  You did this rather than take it up with me, your boyfriend.  If you had a problem with me, the only fucking person you should have spoken to about those issues was me.  Your friends are only going to commiserate.  They aren’t going to tell you that you are wrong.  They aren’t going to challenge your crazy even though they clearly know that you are crazy.  I’m not shaming you for your obvious psychological illnesses, I have disorders too.  The difference being that I track mine, I take pills, I see a therapist.  While you on the other hand are just running around free to be as batshit cuckoo as you see fit with no checks nor balances.  Your friends are doing nothing to save you from yourself.  Why?  You might ask, because they know that the moment they try to intervene you will go vesuvius.  Your temper is beyond all comprehension.  When I’m dysphoric I am problematic, your regular anger defies logic.

So we can see that you had self sabotaging habits very early on in our relationship.  You didn’t want it to work.  You would say things like that you wanted us to be together for the next 60 years, but then bitch to your friends at work.  While you were perpetually keeping me one foot out the door.  I would talk about ways I would improve your place, at first you seemed kind of part way lightly interested in the ideas.  Ultimately you were never even a little bit interested in the reality, because it involved a future with me.  You wanted to keep a pretty man on the other side of the phone who was good in bed to show up and sexually satisfy you at a whimsy.  Eventually this got old and you began flirting with other men.  You tried to keep this private but it was fairly plain to see.  Where once you would use your phone any old way and lay it down face up you had started using it 3 inches from your nose and setting it face down.  I’m not an idiot.  I eventually called you out on this but you denied it.  Sure, I have no proof but I don’t need any, everything about your behaviour and demeanor during this period was suspicious.  Maybe you weren’t sleeping with him/them, but you were flirting with other men.  I mean fuck, I even saw messages to you from other men.  Men who don’t feel as though they will get a response do not just randomly message women flirtily uninitiated.  Hell, maybe whatever you were sending their way was innocuous, but you hadn’t made that very clear to them obviously.  You had also removed me from your facebook half way through our relationship.  Completely shady.  There was nothing about you that was trustworthy behaviour as a person.   You spoke poorly about me behind my back, you dealt favorably with other men behind my back.  All in all you were a shitty person and a shitty partner.

It would end there except that you are having massive negative impact on your whole family.  All of them.  I really like both of your children and your mother and aunt were very sweet until you turned them against me.  Your self-centered behaviour is spoiling the children’s relationship with their grandmother at times.  You are really needlessly hard on your daughter and yeah I know that you think that you are being helpful or playful or trying to get through to her or whatever the fuck you think that is, but I think it deeply affects her more than she lets on.  You cycle men through your life every few months.  I offered you a long-term stable alternative and you injected it with rot and plague.  The men that you choose other than myself thus far that I am aware of are not what I would call positive examples for your children.  Even myself, you fucked with me so much that you made me a nightmare to them as well… I would have been just fine had you not been perpetually turning me away, casting me aside, treating me like shit and frankly frustrating me to the point of dysphoric fits.  Yes, I yelled on a few occasions.  After you had made my life with you so fucking miserable, been as shady, backstabbing and disrespectful as you could potentially be.  Fuck, even the food I made for you, you made a habit of throwing it back in my face and making statements like: “We don’t eat anything fancy.” or “We just eat normal food.”  I made normal food, you are white trash.  I was trying to elevate you to regular blue collar plus status.

So your daughter is a wonderful girl and intelligent, I hope that when the time comes she is smart enough to see what is wrong with you and just accept you for you and carry on with her life.  Your son however… I have spoken to my parent friends.  None of their kids are afraid of the dark nor piss the bed at 4.  You know why?  Because they don’t mollycoddle them.  They weaned them off of those things, got rid of the night lights.  Your son is a sweet boy.  He has a very mild and kind disposition.  I do actually miss him a great deal sometimes.  I reach for kinder eggs when I am out shopping and observe that I have no reason to buy them,  realize what I have done and I get a little teary.  Everytime I’m in the dollar store I think about getting finger lights and again… same thing.  I’m actually crying as I type this right now.  You daily accused me of hating him.  That little bastard has a spot in my heart and you dared to say that.  Every fucking day.  The only reason we ever had conflict over him was because I cared.  I cared in the outcome.  So I’m sorry if I offended your perfect parenting sensibilities but being a helicopter mother who is creating a mothers boy the likes of Norman Bates frightens the shit out of me.

The idea of you was that of a readymade family.  A woman with a comparable lifestyle and income with a home and the intention of improving her life.  You have no interest in improving anything.  You have your myopic Zoe-land where you will continue to go out dancing at the same shitty small town club with your bimbo 25 year old friend because it keeps you feeling young and desirable.  The same 25 year old bimbo who stole a boyfriend from you no less.  The same 25 year old bimbo who is doing her best to sleep with everyone but her boyfriend, that didn’t make me uncomfortable at all, you are the company you keep.  Yet, you never do get approached there.  You have all of your high school friends, which should tell you something about yourself.  You never did really move past the high school stage of your life and they will take everything that you say as gospel.  You will never grow, nor change.  Yet you are probably happy with this because you will have a never ending supply of fresh horny dudes who want to use your body poorly to gratify themselves.  And you had a champion.  I’d pity you but anyone who throws away as much as you have without a concern is too stupid to pity.  If you were an animal you would be so pathetic nobody would even take the time to put you out of your misery.

I’m sure there are loads more things I could say but this is all I could think to type up in a minute or two and I really don’t want to waste anymore time on you.  I only did this because these things have been rattling around in my head and needed a way out.  I have a life to live and other better women in vastly better places to explore.  FYI: I won’t live in this region for long so if you can manage to shut your pie-hole about me that would be just fucking peachy sweetheart.  I’m no longer any of your business, so if you could kindly refrain from spreading manure and lies around about me that would be swell.  The offer still stands though, if you want to get together for a cheap thrill in a motel 6 my number hasn’t changed, I promise not to call the cops if you call me.  Unless it’s for anything else.



Lightning By Twos.

My weekend featured a rather strange series of events with a few twists.  First I will begin in my therapists office.  There I am with Lilith and we have come to the conclusion that because I can no longer contact Zoe (my most recent significant ex) I cannot gain closure.  Therefore I still harbour some unresolved issues that are hindering my progression.  She notes that I have a changed demeanour since she met me (when I was still with Zoe).  That my habits have changed and that I seem less focused.  I admit that this is true, that I suppose without someone else in my life, someone else to look out for I have no reason to work on me.  If it’s just me on my own I can ride whatever wave of debauchery or destruction suits me.  She suggests that maybe for my own sake that I write (maybe even here in my blog, which I will in fact do next) a letter of closure addressed to Zoe, get it all off of my chest.  Say all the things that I wanted to say that were left unsaid.  I like this idea so I am going to do it, of course.  Though, speak the devils name and she shall appear.  I have not encountered nor caught the faintest glimpse of this woman in several months in the tiny, shitty community to which we are inured.

I have my standard Friday Karaoke only this night I have assisted a female colleague, who is nearly a decade my junior and quite pretty, to dress as a woman.  You see, she has a bad habit of dressing as though she is a teenage male nerd.  She “doesn’t know how to girl” as she puts it.  Of all the people she could go to to solve this issue, she came to me and I feel quite touched and proud that she trusts my taste.  We go shopping and I make some suggestions (including really sexy Calvin Klein formal evening heels that were on sale for super cheap) until she eventually begins selecting clothing that I approve of.  She dresses herself for the evening entirely in items that she selected (with my approval) proving that she can in fact “girl” with a little light guidance.  There is a birthday party taking place at our regular watering hole for one of our co-workers hence the requirement to put in the effort.  We arrive earlier than we normally would in order to make well-wishes to the birthday boy.  There are drinks and mostly good times, the ladies in attendance are astounded by my colleagues newfound feminine appearance and quite impressed with her taste.  I receive some credit but feel it important to point out that she chose the entire outfit with the exception of accessories.  She is actually the best dressed woman in the group.  I am proud.

There is a small amount of drama surrounding the posting of pictures to facebook that I rise above because frankly I have better things to do and women to sleep with this very night.  When I am done with the birthday party and Karaoke I round up some of my young male hang-abouts and we head to the one local dance pit.  I am admittedly a tad sliced, someone else pays my cover and gets my first drink.  Young males tend to like Jack McBastard when he is let off the leash.  Tonight Jack is being genial because I think he knows that we have similar goals.  I get to the dancefloor and spot you-guessed-it Zoe.  I take a few steps toward her to let her know I want nothing to do with her, I’m here to get laid and could care less about her.  You do you, I’ll do me.  However… as I take a few steps, like a childish twat, she and her bimbo friend go scurrying, and  mean scurrying as though they had planned this manoeuvre, behind the nearest bouncer who watches over the dancefloor.  In my state I think to myself: “Oh shit… this psycho bitch is going to get me kicked out.”  Keep in mind that I have never done the slightest thing against this woman (I admit I shouted at her a few times, though it was in extreme cases and I am in fact bipolar, no excuse, I know).  Keep in mind that when she texted me to threaten me with police action for completely inexplicable reasons if I texted her again, to which I agreed, she took THAT as a reason to call the police on me…  The woman is entirely unstable and I’m not sure that she should be responsible for children.

There I am worried that she is telling the bouncer that I am a stalker or worse, so I decide to just go face the music.  Better to get it out of the way rather than be jerked off the dancefloor by your neck.  I approach the bouncer and express that this whole thing is dramatics, that I am no threat to anyone and that she is being completely silly.  Oddly enough, though he does not look friendly nor pleased he simply tells me to go mind my business and have nothing to do with her. To this I am in full agreement, probably to his surprise.  So I continue on my business, though it doesn’t end here…  I dance with the intent of finding a woman.  I find a few and they find me, however everytime I get even close to Zoe’s half of the dancefloor she and her friend once again scurry behind the bouncer.  Which I catch only in passing out of the corner of my eye and only because he is on a raised platform.  Each time this happens and I manage to see it I think there is easily expressed on my face a look that states “are you fucking kidding me?!”  Because I genuinely do not care.  I am getting attention and giving it to women who are more than a decade younger than me.  Ultimately it is a pair of these that I settle on.

Cousins.  I like the taller one and I think the shorter one knows this the moment I dance up as she pushes my pelvis right into her cousins hips.  Bingo, too easy.  After dancing with them for a few songs the tall one goes to the restroom and the shorter one takes a table just off the dancefloor.  I take this opportunity to go get a drink.  Upon my return I find them sitting at the table with a bald man standing there with them, his back to me.  I walk up to the tall one with whom I haven’t yet exchanged a single word, throw my arm around her look at her and say something to the effect of: “Hey sweetie who’s this guy?”

The bald man grabs his drink off the table and darts into the crowd without a word.  The girls thank me profusely but then the tall one asks me what if she was interested in that guy?  I answer instantly: “Oh that’s easy, he was competition and he disappeared into the crowd so fast you’ll never find him again.  I win.”

She admits that this is pretty clever but reassures me that she is way more interested in me.  At some point between getting drinks and cigarette breaks I have a chance to talk to the cousin and she tells me that she was trying to find the tall one a cute guy and I say to her that she isn’t going to find anyone more attractive than me.  I guess she must have agreed because I take the tall one home no more than thirty minutes later.  She’s twenty two, I have more than a bakers dozen years on her.

I wake up next to Delilah and ask her what she’s doing for the rest of the day.  She tells me that at some point she needs to do laundry but other than that nothing.  I ask her if she wants to take a trip to the big city to pick up my new Hugo Boss suit that is finished being fitted.  She thinks that sounds like fun and off we go.  It’s a good day, we have lunch in a well-known, slightly upscale pub downtown (my treat).  The food is phenomenal.  We just enjoy the ride in the car together, the music, the company.  When we return to my place we spend more time between the sheets before I take her home so she can get her laundry done.  I use the term “home” loosely here because it’s actually her cousins as she is currently residing in the big city that we had just visited for work, though she is originally from the area local to me.  Before I drop her off we make plans for that night.

I pick her up around eight thirty and I take her to a restaurant that I only just recently discovered.  As I walk in the front door I recognize a voice resonating from a large table of around ten women in the middle of the main room just off the entrance.  I see a woman I recognize named Gwen who is not speaking that happens to be best friends with you-guessed-it Zoe.  I step past a column that was blocking my view and sure enough there she is with her back to me, easily identified by the large, half-sleeve shoulder to elbow, floral tattoo.  I utter an actual ‘You have got to be fucking kidding me…’ out loud before I grab Delilah’s arm and turn her around quickly explaining.  As I glance back past the column I see Gwen interrupting Zoe’s diatribe with what is obviously: ‘Dysphorian is here’.

I take Delilah to another restaurant where I know the owners husband as he is a co-worker of mine.  A fabulous place that specializes in a particular french cuisine in a cozy little romantic bistro setting.  After a marvellous meal we retire to my place where we yet again spend the night in one another’s arms naked and carefree.  The next morning I return her to her sister this time who is moody that she didn’t tell her where she was nor that she was early enough as she likes to return to the big city early on Sundays.  We have the intention of seeing each other again from here going forward, she is genuinely very interested in me and very turned on by me.  You know, right now maybe that’s all I need.  We haven’t defined this, I don’t think we will either.  She’s young and she will likely move on before long but if she doesn’t that is totally fine too.  I’m not sure I need the closure at this point but I am going to write it just to get it out of my mind.

One Way.

In retrospect I see how little by little the signs are there.  The indication that things are slipping.  That a relationship falls apart.  Of course, I’m socially retarded so at the time it is rather difficult for me to see it as it occurs.  Gradually I see myself doing everything I have done and perhaps a little more.  Maybe I will try a little harder because I can see that she is not as happy as she once seemed.  Or maybe she has openly expressed a dissatisfaction of some kind and because I’m a wooden boy I don’t take it for what it really means.  I believe that I can fix it, make it better if I only try.  The issue here is I now realize that there is no fixing these things from without, she has to want to fix them.  Gradually she becomes more annoyed by my kisses and attempts to cuddle.  I do more and more around the house in order to please her as she does less and less.  I give and give, especially in bed while she can’t even look me in the eye when we kiss or make love.  She begins to prefer doggy style so she doesn’t have to look at me.  I become more irritable despite trying to be nicer because she treats me like shit or doesn’t interact with me at all.  She triggers my dysphoria regularly and blames everything on me when we argue because I can barely control the things I say or do in my mixed states.

I can never recover from these things.  No matter how much good I ever do I will never dig myself out of my hole.  This all began because of hypomania.  Jack Mcbastard and lust conspired to find me a sexual partner and I ended up in a relationship.  Sure enough she made her way into my heart and now she is doing her very best to wreck the fucking thing.  And of course she succeeds.  They all do.

This is Jack’s most effective weapon against me, that prick.

Poorly defined.

There is an idea of a Patrick Bateman, some kind of abstraction, but there is no real me. Only an entity, something illusory. And though I can hide my cold gaze, and you can shake my hand and feel flesh gripping yours and maybe you can even sense our life styles are probably comparable, I simply am not there.”  – Patrick Bateman from American Psycho, by Bret Easton Ellis.


I have spoken in the past of my poorly grafted frankenpersonality and my social mimicry, now it would seem that it is time to revisit this subject.  Because I truly believe at my core that I am empty, a hollow shell of a human-being with nothing of substance inside to offer.  I have been asked by my therapist, Lilith, to make an exercise of it.  To determine who I am.  When I was a teenager, around fifteen I think I wrote two poems and coined a term for what I believed myself to be.  The term is the title of the first poem as follows:

Never Man:

I am the reflection of a paperback novel,
I am poet type casted as a murderer.
I am an act but not an actor,
I am blessing under cover.
I am a fact but not a factor,
I am a lesson as a lover.
I am a demon on vacation,
I am the product of experiments.
I am your roaming free spirit,
I am the bearer of an evil eye.
I am the season of winter,
I am a psychological sneeze.
I am an antisocial nocturn,
I am a black and white collage.
I am never going to happen,
I am Theodor Geisel’s biggest fan.

You know, I was probably more clever and switched on then than I am now.  That kid has me figured out.  He was utterly correct and still is.  The second poem is a continuation in the negative, titled the same, part two!  As follows:

Never Man II:

I am not an artificially intelligent ego,
I am not a self inflicted sacrifice.
I am not among the socially profound,
I am not a hedonistic daydream.
I am not the product of our society,
I am not the echo of an afterthought.
I am not without a sense of tragedy,
I am not going to wait for life to happen.
I am not a reality addict,
I am not interested in what others believe.
I am not going to allow myself to delegate,
I am not the conductor of routine ritual.
I am not a dissipating disappointment,
I am not your enemy.

Oddly enough I think I’m working against the grain on the second one.  I mean, yeah I may not be those things but I am slowly drifting toward them.  It looks like I need to shape up.

The Neverman is poorly defined and has been since.  Nothing has changed.  Dysphorian and Jack are one and the same and both are a middle shade of grey.  Sure, my behaviours may land in the extreme but are they all that defines me?  Almost.  I have few hobbies.  Few friends.  Few relatives.  No pets.  No mate.  No accomplishments, unless you count surviving depression but to what end?
There are always soft skills.  I can undo a bra through a shirt with one hand.  While mixing a martini with the other.  Just kidding.  About the martini, the first part was true.  I’m fashionable.  I’m fashion conscious, tapped in to changing trends and I advise others when the situation arises (sometimes when it isn’t even requested).  I am a very fine cook when I have the required equipment at hand, owing to an endeavour that I never saw through to the end.  I refer of course to my culinary experiences.  I haven’t finished any schooling, I hold no tradesman papers and I have no certificates.  I am not an angler nor a hunter.  I am a novice archer.  A promising novice archer at that.  So am I defined by an antiquated skill with an obsolete weapon/tool?  I am not Dysphorian the archer.

I hold it true, whate’er befall;
I feel it, when I sorrow most;
‘Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.

Canto XXVII of In Memoriam by Lord Alfred Tennyson,

I have abundantly loved.  If such love is lofty and I have ascended, my descent was equally thus and tragic all the more.  My heart is an icebreaker.  Carving through tundra ice shelves until run adrift on craggy sharp rocks and dashed.  This is where my lust takes me.  I have a passion for women that cannot be sated.  I pursue them with the intention of no more than a sexual encounter.  Instant carnal gratification.  Alas, my foolish heart becomes mired in the ice, carving away at the austere exterior of a woman I only just met.  A woman fascinated with Jack’s boisterous and charismatic nature.  They are quite taken with me right away.  I will be honest here, I usually go through the motions because I don’t have the heart to be mean, I lack a killer instinct as I’ve mentioned in the past.  I cannot simply walk away on them and while I am physically attracted to them there is always the chance that we could carry on sleeping together…  Then it happens, I begin to fall in love, my own lust and passion becomes legitimate emotions, feelings of attachment.  As this is occurring, little by little she begins to lose interest in me.  This is why my longest relationship has lasted 2 years.  The rest of the time the plan mostly works, I meet a woman who is in it for the ultra short-term and she calls it quits before either of us becomes invested.  Win-win.  There are pros and cons to this.  Pros:  I understand female sexual anatomy better than about 99.99997% of the standard male population, I’m very pro-women out of an organic relationship with femininity and I usually put the seat down when I’m finished.  Cons: I will grow old alone.  Are we defined by our relationship with a spouse?  I’m not even sure that monogamy is natural to humans.  So no, we are definitely not defined by our partner, those come and go, die of cancer, cheat on you and leave, or just betray you because they don’t like the fact that you are depressed.  If you rely on other people to define who you are, I think you need to do some soul searching.

“We are what we repeatedly do.  Excellence, then, is not an act, but a habit.”  – Aristotle

I’ve held many jobs.  This and nothing more.  I’ve never had a career nor a vocation.  I’ve never been truly passionate about anything other than the feminine form and the destruction of dislogic.  I cannot abide the spread of misinformation and falsehoods which grows alarmingly contrary to what you would believe given our increasing connectivity.  You would imagine that with breakthroughs in science and technology we would have become more enlightened and have been able to disseminate this information more effectively to the masses.  One would like to think that the population of Earth would be better informed and able to detect myths and fallacies.  However things are going the opposite direction.  The religions of the world are doing their best to confuse and obscure the truth from the masses.  They are actively attempting to sabotage and even shut down educational and scientific research programs in favour of religious teaching.  There are conspiracy based “concerned parents” clucking like Chicken Little over the sky falling about every little thing from drinking water, vaccines, what our food contains to GMO’s.  None of which is remotely a concern to anyone.  At all.  In fact, the opposite is true in every case.  They are rallying for a worse planet.  People who are free of disease, with a virtual limitless supply of clean drinking water, plenty of food and places to live. These people are actively attempting to reverse all of these by combating science and replacing it with prayer because that’s working so well everywhere in the world that this is the case.  So I am in the habit of trouncing this whenever and wherever it crops up.  I am also in the habit of finding myself on/in/under any or all attractive women I can find who are willing to do so with me.  I don’t know that this makes me excellent by definition but my fourteen year old self is giving me a high five.  Good enough.  Again, not sure if these are viable ways in which one gauges or qualifies themselves.  They are traits, but defining?  Distinctive, definitely.

Self improvement is masturbation.  Now self destruction is the answer.”  – Tyler Durden

from Fight Club, by Chuck Palahniuk.

I put effort into appearance.  For the sake of women.  For the perception of responsibility and competency.  The clothes often do make the man.  I go out of my way to present myself well.  I exercise as a matter of course for my current occupation.  I am in good shape.  I am no body builder but I am fit.  I am naturally attractive and I take steps to preserve and highlight my features in order to accentuate my natural allure.  I am man pretty.  So much so that as I have mentioned in the past teenaged girls have remarked on my appearance.  I don’t know why but I consider this a big deal, if young women still find you attractive then you must still have something.  This being said however, and for as much as I love being appealing, I think that improving yourself is mostly a self-indulgent exercise.  Not saying that you shouldn’t do it.  As I wouldn’t tell you not to masturbate.  However, this is all that it is and nothing more.  Now, getting to the heart and fun of things is when you tear it all down.  The act of ruin is what I excel at and infinitely more exciting.  There is something that becomes giddy and effervescent inside at the thought of binge drinking (possibly doing drugs, I won’t lie) and sleeping with random women.  Like the thrill of throwing yourself out of a perfectly good plane.  Or perhaps more extreme such as Russian roulette.  In any case the thought of going so wild I might never come back sometimes is all that gets me through.  Life is so dreary, it requires chaos from time to time, otherwise what really is the point?  I am not entirely certain how this defines me though I am certain that it does in a fairly big way.


I who am dead a thousand years,
And wrote this sweet archaic song,
Send you my words for messengers
The way I shall not pass along.

I care not if you bridge the seas,
Or ride secure the cruel sky,
Or build consummate palaces
Of metal or of masonry.

But have you wine and music still,
And statues and a bright-eyed love,
And foolish thoughts of good and ill,
And prayers to them who sit above?

How shall we conquer? Like a wind
That falls at eve our fancies blow,
And old Maeonides the blind
Said it three thousand years ago.

O friend unseen, unborn, unknown,
Student of our sweet English tongue,
Read out my words at night, alone:
I was a poet, I was young.

Since I can never see your face,
And never shake you by the hand,
I send my soul through time and space
To greet you. You will understand.

To A Poet A Thousand Years Hence, by James Elroy Flecker.

It saddens me that poetry is a dead artform.  I blame slam poetry.  I blame New York.  I blame the same people who are watering down our education system.  Don’t get me wrong I love a good rapper, KRS-1, Mos Def and Eminem are all extremely talented poets.  There are also many others who are very good except to be fair a resounding majority of rap is murdering english and making people at large moronic.  So is pop-country.  Not country music, pop-country, there is a huge difference.  Merle Haggard is alright, Johnny Cash knows what’s good.  This modern bleating that is essentially pop music with a steel guitar and a twangy voice can fuck right off.  Also to be fair to everyone else my poetry wasn’t the finest.  I was a blend of Pablo Picasso  and Salvador Dali in English free verse.  I would sometimes blend words for evocative imagery and flow rather than logic or even cohesive ideas.  I left meaning to the reader sometimes at other times I lead the reader and if they didn’t follow I didn’t care.  Once a poem is written my concern with it’s perception and interpretation is over.  So when I say that I was Picasso/Dali I am not boasting, I mean that I adapted these philosophies and techniques, their style and attitude and applied it to words in English and did so quite organically.  Poetry used to be a very large part of who I was.  For a time I was inspired to write and I am the very picture of the tortured, struggling writer.  It isn’t that I don’t have the ideas, more really that I hate them and by extension myself for them.  I don’t doubt that they are better than a majority of what is out there but I hate myself before I even write them down.  I do not take even constructive criticism well.  When I am actually proud of my writing if someone doesn’t like it I pretty much think that they should die instantly for being the stupidest person ever.  I’m actually not kidding.  Not even a little.  I wouldn’t dare to believe that I am a poet.  Or that it is even a badge that I wear.  I’m not published, it is hardly a defining feature.

So who then, am I?

Lonely Morning:

Like shadows christened in your kiss, a gesture only you could know, like sighs that follow laughter.

A winking eye captured in darkness, like squinting at intruding light which rapes the wholesome breath of day. Clouds are forming in your brow, the cigarettes that follow sex; in this we share a single truth.

Lie to me; I prefer your hasty words. I’d rather that I didn’t know what wrinkles lines into your lips. Drying saliva marks your neck with glossy memories of me, which last much longer than the moisture.

Christened shadows awoke your kiss to sighs I breathe into your flesh. Is this the truth we share? Only to hide it from ourselves with lies? You are the sighs that follow my laughter, the sex I smoke away.

Dysphorian, original. Age 16.

My pale, languid sixteen year old body made a canvas of several girls and spat forth this.  Even then a lover and thinker.  Perhaps I was pretentious or a little bit too ambitious.  Maybe I was ahead of my years in so far as my experiences and reflections.  Who can know?  All that we can know is that it is obvious that I was gifted, troubled, alone and hypomanic. I keep hearing from people that I can’t let my disorder define me. This is horribly unhelpful advice. In many ways it’s at the very core of who and what I am. My compulsions, reactions and impulses fueled by it. And I own it. I’m not ashamed of who I am anymore than a leopard is ashamed of its predatory nature. I am what I was genetically predisposed to become. I am raw potential and capability. I am an alpha. An apex predator. So when I hear people complaining to me about my nature, about my behavior. When I hear people telling me that I need to fit in, I feel like a wolf being asked to fit in with sheep. I was born resplendent. So why relegate myself to mediocrity?

So who am I? How am I defined? By what significant feature am I marked? My journey. Upon reflection, what might be considered an identity crisis was only a perspective readjustment. You see, the definition of self isn’t a static picture. No person is ever complete as you are perpetually working toward a more complete you whilst discarding aspects of yourself no longer useful to you. Identity is a process. I am defined by my struggle, so in a way I actually am my disorder. Jack is as much me as Dysphorian. This is not to say that I’m good where I am or that I’m done. Far from it, I have lengths to go and many more trials yet to face. I am defined by the obstacles that I face and how I react to my challenges.

In short dear reader, I am a leopard. The spots won’t change that’s true and I will still be a stealthy and cunning predator. Though I may have to adapt to a new environment to learn to overcome. Accept that I might no longer be the apex predator in these parts and maybe even learn to work in a group in order to survive.