Hatred From Love/ Gauntlet of Fire

Well Jack has really stepped in it this time.  Let’s start with why.
Imagine loving someone as hard as you possibly can.  Maybe you already do, perhaps you’ve been lucky enough to have found that person in your lifetime already.  To the point prior to these events I had not.  I had thought so on numerous occasions only to be let down.  Alas, nothing obviously had ever stuck and sadly I had never known the full and true feeling of love.  Extreme fondness?  Yes.  Yet love had eluded me repeatedly.  Love is something that you would expose yourself knowingly to harm for, willingly.  As I have come to find out.

My love Lies on the other side of another relationship.  Not only this, but in a small tightly woven community of lizard minded, neanderthals, predominantly men with outdated views on relationships and gender roles who see women as property rather than people.  So when it was discovered that I was “involved” with another man’s woman (read, “property”) I was very realistically risking my life.  These are men that I considered friends, men that I worked with, men who were close to me.

The facts surrounding our relationship, or her former relationship that nobody else was aware of, were irrelevant.  The fact that she was in an abusive relationship, not physically but emotionally and psychologically.  The fact that he had cheated on her more than once (confirmed to me personally by HIS best friend whom I still have a good friendship with).  These things do not matter when you are a woman, because you are only property.  The fact that she had been repeatedly breaking up with him and the only reason that she had not moved on was simply because he would deny it and point to the children.  The fact that the oxytocin I was providing her was making her healthier by providing her with the will to eat.  The fact that she was for the first time in months happy and excited about something, that she had answers to the psychological issues that had plagued her for life.  That someone was LISTENING to her rather than let her drown at the bottom of her own well.  That like Gelflings in “The Dark Crystal” we were the last two of our kind on the entire planet because our disorders are almost identical which is SUPER rare.

None of the above things matter to other people.  The lizard minds of the mob mentality only want blood.  Which is how my love became a bitter hatred.  The hatred of them for me.  I becometh Frankenstein’s monster.  People fear what they don’t understand and fear turns into hatred.  In turn, I full well understood exactly what was happening and I was offended.  I was deeply wounded that on an individual level people wouldn’t come to me to clarify the details.  There were plenty of people who were mutual friends of both of us, she and I.  Yet they approached neither of us and instead fanned the flames of the rumor conflagration.  These people have only identified themselves as posers.  False friends.  They will not be missed.

There are those however who have redeemed themselves and stayed loyal throughout.  While people were being openly hostile and attempting to force others to choose sides there are those who stood fast.  They will be at the wedding.

That’s right, I want to marry this woman.

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Shining Imperfection

We all go about our lives as though we are perfection incarnate.  As though we have nothing wrong with us and nothing to hide.  Meanwhile we have a closet full of skeletons that we would rather nobody see and kindly request that they ignore the little man behind the curtain.  Even when things are tumultuous and our imperfections are glaringly obvious we continue this charade.  We even dislike people who seem too perfect.  I’m going to pause here to note that it is because of this little game that we are aware that anyone who seems too perfect has the most to hide.  We know this.  We know it in our gut because we have been playing for our whole lives that the people who seem effortlessly flawless are seriously troubled.  Extra disturbed.  The pillars of the community who actually have a glint in their smile and turn out to have a cache of child pornography.  Yet, we always say the same thing: “He seemed so normal, so perfect!  He had a wonderful life!  Two point five kids and a doting wife!  I knew something had to be wrong!”

This is why I respect people who are evidently damaged.  People who have given up on the game.  I don’t mean that they have given up on life, they just embrace themselves for what and who they really are.  Like me.  I always face the phrase: you can’t let your disorder define you.  Okay, cool.  If that’s true then you can’t let your gender and race define you.  Not fair?  Why not?  Oh… It places you automatically in a political social sphere?  Fucking strange that.  Sure, I could hide mine, play the perfect game.  Yet, you see I’m not a liar.  So you can pretend to be perfect and act like nothing is wrong but that’s a little bit like ignoring your issues in the hopes that they will sort themselves out.  Hot tip: they won’t.  Usually they pile up.  Best way to deal with something is to tackle it head on.  I am always dealing with bipolar.

It’s amazing how people treat you when you don’t want to play the game.  It makes them uncomfortable.  They are so innured in it from having played it since birth that they are astounded.  Shocked.  I’ve had women hop into my roller-coaster cart for the ride and women fairly fly out.  People become stand-offish.  How dare you not follow the rules!  Don’t you know that you are supposed to play at being perfect?!  You might expose their imperfections!  Which you invariably do.  It can be a lonely road.  When it isn’t though, it can be very rewarding or very dangerous.  When you meet others who don’t play you can become great support for one another.  Or adversely you can become a downward spiral of futility and ever growing morbid fascination.

The irony in all of this is that when you embrace those things about you that are less than admirable, you learn to overcome them.  You compensate and grow.  Making you an actually stronger and better person.  You cannot fix a problem that you have not first identified and diagnosed.  Pretending that you do not have problems is tantamount to not solving them.  Therefore, admitting that you are not perfect is the quickest route to becoming so.

I’m actually rather thankful for my disorder.  It comes with a fair amount of gifts.

Fresh Outlook

I find myself compelled to write a follow-up post to yesterday’s.  Not as an addendum to the two featured subjects: pregnancy delirium and my crazy life.  Rather, I wanted to focus a little more on the woman in my life.  I am hardwired to be skeptical about everything.  My depression and dysphoria has given me a habitually bleak and wicked outlook on life.  Toward the end of my last post I noted that because of my habitual negativity and my fear that people will discover that I am empty inside I subconsciously push them away.  Despite needing them.  This coupled with my hypomanic behaviour has made all of my past relationships very short.  And may I just say: there have been a lot.  Far too many.  So after as many as I’ve seen be they much younger or older, tall or short, blonde or brunette, slender or athletic, voluptuous or petite… it gets a little difficult to be hopeful about one so very young and inexperienced, especially after the last two I’ve been through.  The wife and the rotten, lying psycho mother.  Both having been the worst betrayers I have dealt with.  I love with my whole heart so when I get stepped on it hurts the most.

The woman in my life now doesn’t deserve to be treated to my cynical heart.  She doesn’t deserve the twice bitten thrice shy.  Rather umpteen thousand times bitten and a  gofuckyourselfillionths times shy, but whatever… I do it to myself.  I have to stop using my heart as an icebreaker.  She doesn’t deserve this especially given that I am her first actual solid relationship.  Yeah.  No, seriously.  A man who has slept with just shy of a hundred women with a girl two thirds his age in her first relationship… I couldn’t make this shit up.  Actually, as a writer I wish I could, hey… This would be decent romance schlock given that 50 shades was actually popular…  Anyways, I digress.  If I’m going to do this, which apparently I am because I have been, I should do it right.  Not half-hearted.  She deserves the best from me and she is very sweet.  I would be a total douchebag to just be a jaded old asshole and dismiss her and end up hurting her feeling and perpetuate the cycle.  How do I know that this isn’t going to be the one?  Why have I even been having any doubts?  Why am I dragging my feet?  I don’t even need to convince myself that she’s great, it’s completely evident.  We love each other.  We say so.  So what is my issue?

Anyway, I just felt the need to get some of that off of my chest.  She’s a treasure and if I had any sense I would hang on to her and treat her right.

That Guy.

Now that I find myself in my mid to late thirties without the ability to procreate I am at ever growing odds with those of my peers that still do.  Especially women.  Women in their thirties who are pregnant or have very young children are far crazier than I have ever been (including while on recreational drugs) and will ever yet be.  They completely lose their sense of humour.  I happen to be completely against overpopulation as an aside and I have always been fairly vocal about this both in person with my friends and on social media.  Though, I do have a sense of humour about things and like to cobble together little jokes and memes on facebook about not having children.  About how it saves money and stress.  I’m that guy.

I know that for the most part the average person looks at me and probably thinks that I’m a freak.  That I am unusual.  That I am a man in his late thirties dating a twenty-two year old, living an apparent bachelor life while spending his money on designer luxury items.  I’ll tell you this:  It’s really nice not to have a bunch of cheap, broken shit covered in dirt and snot.  It’s nice to have sex with someone with no stretchmarks who is utterly obsessed with me.  There’s another thing, my girlfriend is five foot eleven and weighs a hundred and thirty pounds.  She’s a very slender girl but genetically so.  I found myself becoming bored with her and now I feel guilty because truthfully she is a total blessing.  For all intents and purposes my life is perfect.  Except it isn’t.

Back to the original point, baby crazy thirty-something women.  I would put this on a scale of somewhere between dysphoric dementia and schizophrenia, or a cocktail of the two.  Pregnant women, specifically in their thirties are completely unreasonable, somewhere past the bridezilla level of berzerk.  I’m talking about women that I have known for a long time, that I have history with.  Women that I have trusted, who have trusted me (even though I was unusual).  So it comes as kind of a blow when interacting as per usual with them and joking as we would when suddenly things take a dramatic turn for the fucking psychotic and I wind up in never talking to you ever again territory.  I’m not totally surprised, hormones and such.  I just wish that this was a recognised thing.  I’m okay with never talking to them again as well.  If you can’t reign it in long enough not to make permanent decisions while you are on a constant PMS cycle I think never talking to you again is just peachy.

Back to how I’m that guy.  How my life should be perfect but isn’t.  I see my girlfriend only on the weekends because I live out in the middle of nowhere, which is where she originally is from.  Except she lives in the nearest major center for work which is two hours away.  Not that big a deal but not worth a daily commute.  I live with three other guys which would be alright seeing as we pay very little to live here except the original signer has his wife here on certain weekends and if I have sex in the house at those times she hears it.  Upon hearing this she freaks out and needs to drive back to her house which is also in the nearest major center… No joke.  At midnight, rather than knock on the door and say: “Hey, we can hear you.”  She makes her husband drive her two hours away without saying a word to me.  We are adults for fucks sake.  I pay rent for a room in a house.  A room that has walls and a door.  If you hear sex, either ignore it, turn on some light music or honestly just go fuck yourself because I really don’t care.  The rent is paid.  The young guy above me fucks in his room and I don’t complain.  If you are this sensitive I think that you probably shouldn’t be married.

I’ve always been a passionate person.  I’m not simply talking about love-making here.  I am talking about the things in which I believe and those things I defend.  The causes for which I fight.  There are times when I rant and go into diatribes, kick up a fuss over things.  I do this because I care about these things.  It makes me sad that people don’t see it this way.  They only see anger and vitriol.  What they don’t realize is that the worst place to be is failing miserably when the people who care the most are silent.  Because when the people who care for you are silent they have given up on you.  When I am ranting about women’s rights or marriage equality it’s because I haven’t given up.  I am a friend and an ally.  Yet I think that people genuinely just see the frustration and assume that I’m an angry asshole.  Which sometimes might actually be true.  Worse still is the glaring silence I receive from everyone else.  Good thing the medication works or I would be dead.  Guaranteed.

More toward ranting, I noticed that I am so in the habit of attaching myself to negative thoughts about things that I dislike that I won’t allow myself to stop.  I am perpetually bouncing from one subject to the other writing diatribes in my head.  Because of this and the way I function I am utterly cut off.  I am difficult to be around.  I am alone.  Some, maybe even most of the time I don’t care.  Except that when I do it matters more than anything in the world.  I have dug a moat around myself and made it impossible for anyone to be close to me.  Partially because I am so habitually negative from the former depression but also from the fear that they will discover that I am hollow.  This is somewhat revelatory for me.  Perhaps this is cliché?

I see the Internet exploding with ‪#‎semicolonproject‬ and at first it seems like a great idea. I would run out and get mine too except that it’s a little too much like eternally visibly branding yourself with a very detrimental psychological disorder. Which you might be trying to raise awareness for, though people are still going to be judgemental and distrustful of you. Especially seeing as you are saying out loud “at one time I very nearly killed myself”. That’s not really something one announces to people they don’t know.
I like the concept but I pity those who are putting it into practice. I commiserate, but this is a stigma magnet.  Seriously think it over before getting it done, you are turning an unidentified minority into a visible minority…

 

Closure.

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.

Hairdresser On Fire.

I’ve alluded to her in the past, my hairdresser, the one who I was flirty with when I started my relationship with Zoe has always been a crush of mine.  We are always a near miss, on our way into a relationship when the other is out.  Well this time I have my fingers crossed.

Things did not work out with the other lady I was dating.  I kind of blew my cool for what I thought was a fairly legitimate reason.  Now I don’t think I’m out of the running entirely but even if I am I am totally not sweating it.  I still have a tryst to attend when I go visiting here on my week vacation and now it looks like the hairdresser could be moving back into the picture.  We will call her Samantha.  So she and I have always had the open hots for one another, never so much flirted as simply stated: wow, too bad you aren’t single, I would totally scoop you up!  For real, just blatant, no fucking around, spit-it-out, statement of fact.

Last night I did karaoke.  I am also a really good singer.  I’m not just tooting my own horn here, I went with a group of seasoned musicians and vocalists and my first song was “Sober” by the band Tool.  If you aren’t aware of this band or it’s vocalist Maynard James Keenan, he is debatably the most talented male rock vocalist alive.  His only challenger might be Matt Bellamy of Muse.  With the company I had, experienced in music and knowledgeable I wasn’t sure that my chops would make the grade.  Sure enough when I got back to the table after thunderous applause I got a huge round of congratulations and compliments.  One statement being: “When I saw that you chose Tool I thought ‘Wow, is he really going to try to sing Maynard?  Is he crazy or stupid?’ but then you got up there and did it and man… I was blown away! Good job!”

I was really touched by this reception.  Not only because these people know what they are talking about, but also because they are a new group of budding friends.  They are people that I am growing fond of and close to.  But I digress.  The lady who runs the Karaoke happens to be Samantha’s best friend and I know this.  So I approach her after nailing a few Killers songs.  I say to her: “You should say hello to Samantha for me.” with a wink.

She and I, let’s call her Rachel, end up having a good long conversation.  She doesn’t like Samantha’s boyfriend, which she knows isn’t a good sign for the relationship.  She gets super friendly with me and likes me a whole bunch, which indicates that Samantha would last a while with me.  The night carries on and all goes well, my group closes the place with a quartet of “Bohemian Rhapsody”.

The next day I go for a haircut.  Normally when I go for haircuts my stylist, Samantha joins me in my car for a cigarette.  She does today as well.  We talk and because I’m hung over, turned on and giddy I don’t even veil nor attempt to make my flirting even a little discrete.  I say things like: “I am so glad you wore jeans today, I can’t keep my eyes off of your bottom.”  To which she replies with genuine enthusiasm: “Thanks! I haven’t felt good I’m glad someone thinks I look good!” Among other things that were less lewd like how pretty she was etc.

We talk excitedly throughout my haircut, light flirting included and at the end she doesn’t charge me.  I insist but she doesn’t yield so I graciously accept the free haircut.  Sexiness has its perks.  Throughout our conversation she did partially confirm that things were not going well with her guy and in so doing I laid it out there that I was available and willing as she already knew.  I felt a little guilty but really… I should have been with her instead of Zoe.  Zoe was a mistake that I should have abandoned for Samantha.  I even said to her that I wasn’t attempting to give her incentive, I was simply reminding her that we’ve missed the opportunity twice now and we haven’t stopped flirting since we’ve known each other.  There’s something to this.  As I’m writing these very words she is telling me how handsome I look these days through facebook messenger… Wow, we are in this thing deep.

As she is getting done work she messages me to tell me that she is going tanning.  We chat a bit and she invites me to join her though she doesn’t have much time.  I go.  I get 9 minutes of stand up because my tan is just about where it needs to be and all I really need is a maintenance.  After I get out I wait for about a minute and she comes out looking glossy and fuckable in yoga pants.  She has such a bubbly and vivacious attitude I could just grab her right there in the middle of the tanning studio in front of the ugly people and show them what pretty people look like when they mate.  She drives me totally wild.  She has curves.  I love it.  She isn’t big but she’s also not petite.  She certainly has something I could put my hands on both up front and on the bottom.  She has the best wavy, wild, full volume brown hair, the brightest blue eyes, her whole person lights up when she speaks.  I am smitten.

She will be mine.  Oh yes.  She will be mine.  In the meantime I have Sylvie to make sweet fuck to.  I’m looking forward to rectifying that little lapse in performance.  The woman is gorgeous and since Zoe I’ve been lacking any real activity.  I’m in my thirties as attractive as I’ve ever been and feel more now than ever like my best before date is approaching…  I want to let my freak flag fly and I am kind of stuck in the middle of nowhere with few options other than to mine my facebook for past lovers, which is pathetic, it’s like a crackhead raking through the carpet looking for a rock to smoke (something I’ve been privy to sadly). Yeah, Tinder is sparse, Plenty of Fish may as well actually be populated with REAL FISH.  It’s pretty bad out here as I’ve mentioned in past posts.  I do better than most out here and it isn’t all that grand.

Let’s hear it for hot hairdressers!