So I’ve been up for two hours now… finally gave up just laying there trying to go back to sleep. The only thing I was accomplishing was to make the cats happy. My mind wouldn’t turn off, but now that I sit down to type (in notepad, so I can just copy and paste it into this box… it makes me nuts, not being able to see more than a few sentences… then there’s the refresh factor… if I pause typing too long…. it automatically goes back to the top of the post… then I have to scroll back down, find my place, find my thoughts, then by then it’s probably jumped back to the beginning again, so I found a way to make it work for me… it’s a mess… but, as the attorney’s rule goes… where there’s a will… there’s a way to break it… when something is broken, you can do without, or figure out how to make it work, or find another way to make it work… thinking outside the box… coming at the problem from another angle… I’m GOOD at that… anyway, back to the point…

So I sit down to type, and all those thoughts that wouldn’t leave me alone have left me for the moment.

I’m reminded of something I told Dick a while back, so I’ll start typing and maybe something will jump start my brain…

I get told to hang in there a lot…to just have faith that it’ll happen, and to keep trying.

Everytime I try I get burned in one way or another, so when people tell me to keep plugging away it seems to me as they’re encouraging me to go hurt myself again.

I jump into the pool, only to find it’s not filled with water, it’s filled with acid, and no sooner do I pull myself out and lick my wounds, when someone else comes by and tells me to go jump back into the pool to get burned again.

NOBODY decent seems to want me, so why jump back into the pool?

I hurt myself by trying, and I hurt myself by not trying.

Stereotypical Catch-22.

The way I put it to Dick though was slightly different. I told him that everytime I tried it was like putting my hand in the fire, only to discover I’d been burned. Put your hand in the fire often enough, and you learn NOT to… .and there he was, telling me to stick my hand back in the fucking fire, expecting that this time I wouldn’t get burned.

To put it plainly…

When I try to find someone decent, I only find assholes, so I’ve learned not to try.

I also know that by not trying, I’ll never find anyone.

I know that when I get shot down again… even by assholes, it fucking HURTS. I put my best foot forward, and the best I can hope for is a polite refusal, but it’s gotten so bad that even a polite refusal knocks me for a tail-spin. The last rejection had me curled up in bed crying for two days.


And don’t tell me it’s them, because there has to be something about the way I present myself that turns these guys off, or into assholes, or attracts assholes exclusively or something.

And don’t tell me that it’s my negative attitude, because only here do I let that out… this is MY place, and I speak what I speak and if you don’t like it

go fuck yourself

When I’m on a date, or simply out on my own, I’m pleasant enough. My mother taught me etiquette, be nice, polite, smile, be friendly and amiable, and I do all that. I make clever conversation, even when I don’t feel like it. I don’t dominate the conversation, or interrupt you in the middle of a sentence. I don’t talk with my mouth full, or put my elbows on the table.. that sort of simple stuff, and I certainly don’t sit there, texting someone else, making plans for dinner with someone else or using some other way to imply that there are things I’d rather be doing (and yes, that’s happened to me too).

I certainly don’t show up at a first date wearing blue jeans that are covered in paint and a t-shirt that says something stupid on it.

I don’t dress like a slut, to make sure I don’t give the impression that I want only to get laid.

I also don’t dress to the nines. I mean, if some guy wanted to take me to the opera for a first date, I’m more than capable of not only dressing the part, but of enjoying the opera and the company before and after.

I don’t dress like a bum either. I usually wear a skirt and blouse, because I want to give them the subconsious reinforcement that they are with a LADY… not a whore, so please treat her as such. Stating it right out… “Please treat me like a lady” hasn’t gotten me anywhere. The direct approach doesn’t work apparently, so a little visual aid can’t hurt is my opinion, and that’s closer to who I am, so is honest, and I’m big on honesty.

If I check out the sexual possibilities first, then they think I’m only after casual sex, but if I don’t let them know that, should the chemistry exist, I expect sex to be a part of a healthy relationship, then I end up with guys who can’t get it up.

What I need is to learn how to cope with rejection, because every rejection hurts worse than the previous one, even if it’s obvious from the get-go that it’s a total mis-match… I end up wondering how I managed to do it again and review everything yet again to figure out what I did wrong… what did I say to give that impression… what did I do to give that impression… what, what, where, when, how, etc.

And I spend hours and hours crying.

Then I spend hours and hours cursing at myself because I’ve let the problem become a bigger problem by curling up in a little ball, crying instead of doing what needs to be done to pay my fucking bills.

But I can’t stop myself. If I try, I end up not focusing on what I’m doing, let my mind wander off into what am I doing wrong, and, at best, find that I’ve spent hours and hours sitting in front of my sewing machine doing nothing…. at worst, I find that I’ve spent hours doing my task wrong and have to spend even more hours to make it right.

There has to be an answer.

It’s friday, and I have to go to work today… I’ve been up for three hours now… and it’s only 6:45 am.

I’m once again going to have to gird my loins for another day of tourists.

Put on the armour.

Paint on the smile and be pleasant.

It gets harder every day to do this.

Sooner or later, someone will say something that totally horks me off and off I’ll go.

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Back to Square One — AGAIN

So I go to a therapist, and after one session, some brief emails, and a few blog entries, she refers me to another therapist… four of them actually, two male, two female.

I chose her initially for a few reasons:

1. She was female. Call me straight-laced or something, but I feel uncomfortable talking about the assholeness of males, and other male-related problems, with a male. It just doesn’t work for me. I’m sure they’re both excellent therapists, just not for me.

2. She was older, so had more life experience. I got nothing against youth, but, as the saying goes, older is wiser, and the longer you do something, the more likely you are to do it well, if you have any sense of pride.

3. She wasn’t a beauty queen, nor did she appear to have ever been one, so she may have had her share of difficulty with men.

4. She WAS older, so (I thought) it was more likely that she’d be a bit more traditional, and a lot less new wave. New Age positive thinking makes me feel like I’m being treated like a child…. pat on the head, kiss on the boo-boo, then shoo’ed out the door to go play nice.

5. I liked the price.

Back to reading reviews I guess.

I feel like screaming sometimes, but wasn’t that considered therapy back in the ’70’s?

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–verb (used with object), verb (used without object), -ized, -iz·ing.
Definition: to convert or attempt to convert as a proselyte; recruit

That’s the word for the day folks, and I have a thought or three here.

In my humble opinion…. proselytizing is wrong.

I believe in the spirit of what the U.S. Constitution says…. Freedom of Religion.

Note I said “spirit.” I believe the intent there applies to ALL religions, so Jews are free to practice Judaism, Catholics their version of Christianity and so forth. This also applies to religions that either weren’t recognized then (like Wiccan), or religions that didn’t even exist back then, such as New Age, that are now considered religions…. or belief systems if you prefer that terminology.

As I said, I believe in the spirit of what they said, so I believe that it’s wrong for one person to try and convince another person that his or her belief system is the wrong one, and that theirs is preferable. For instance, it’s wrong for a Catholic to try to convert a Muslim and vice versa…

Well, maybe not try to convert… I’m a big believer in educating people, so it’s ok to tell a person what your beliefs are (if they ask for that knowledge, or seem to require it), but if they choose to not believe in your beliefs, that’s their choice. If at that point, the proselytizer continues… THEN it’s wrong.

I even remember something in the bible about it…. Jesus said somewhere (Corinthians I think) that if they be ignorant, let them be ignorant.

Unlike some Christians, I’m NOT taking this out of context if I remember correctly from Sunday School oh so many, many years ago. To paraphrase what I remmeber from the verse …. someone asked Jesus about preaching and his response was to spread the word, but if they still chose to be ignorant, it was their choice.

So it’s ok to tell people about your belief, but it’s wrong to try and force them to believe as you do… this is my basic problem with ALL religions. It’s the “we’re right and you’re wrong” attitude that makes me walk away every time. “We get into Heaven, and you’re going to Hell — neener neener.”

So, if I don’t believe in the same things you do….?

That’s my choice to make.

Yours is whether or not to accept my decision and continue interacting with me, knowing I don’t worship (for lack of a better word) the same way as you.

Simple enough really.

If I say anymore, then I guess I’m guilty of what I’m condeming in others.

Your choice to make.

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Government Spending

So there’s this bridge here in town that the city is spending millions of dollars on to install an “anti-suicide fence” around.

Dick thinks this is a GREAT idea

I disagree. I understand the arguement..

The city is concerned for the well being of those who consider suicide and the aftermath of suicides on their friends and families. Preventing suicides also protects the growing number of people who live, work and travel below the bridge. These people are at risk of physical harm when someone jumps from the bridge and are often traumatized by experiencing the aftermath of suicide attempts.

Preventing suicides also enhances safety for emergency responders, including those who must make emergency dives into the murky and debris-filled waters of the Ship Canal to save people who jump from the Aurora Bridge, and for those who often risk their lives trying to restrain people from jumping.

Great argument! Good thoughts, all of them, but the bridge isn’t the problem, so their fence doesn’t solve the problem in the least. Here’s why…..

You spend 2.9 million dollars to put ONE fence around ONE bridge, when the world is full of bridges and tall buildings (and razor blades and poisonous plants and gas stoves and guns and pharmaceuticals…..)

My point is that preventing people from jumping off of one bridge doesn’t mean that person won’t simply find some other method if that person really wants to.

Wouldn’t it be better to look at the BIG problem isntead of the small one?… the big problem being that there are some people who simply cannot cope with their problems and choose to die to get away from them.

So instead of spending a gazillion dollars to stop people from jumping off of ONE bridge, wouldn’t it be better to look at the long-term problem and find a solution to it so you won’t have to spend that much money on every bridge, every rooftop (or window above the 4th floor for that matter), or regulate everything that can be used harmfully? I mean, I can’t go buy antihistamines without filling out a form because if you buy enough of them you can make crystal meth, and they want to know who’s buying how much of it?

People commit suicide because they cannot cope, so wouldn’t it be better to teach people how to cope? Use that money to set up some form of education to help people? Imagine all the money all over this city/state/country/world spent on projects like this added all up together and you have the funding for some type of free mental health care for these people. Wouldn’t that be a better solution? Yes, I know there are suicide hotlines, but that only provides them an ear for a short time… not a long-term solution… not real help, and since people are still killing themselves, obviously the suicide hotlines are NOT enough.

Find the root of the problem… and tear out that root… no more problem. Ok, so there’ll be some grow back, and you’ll have to put down more weed killer, or go in and rip out some more roots, but you’ll cut back on the problem and help keep it under control…. if you’ve ever had pervasive weeds in your garden you’ll understand what I mean by that.

To me it seems obvious, but the city thinks it’s showing concern by putting one fence around one bridge.

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Oh my, I really need to go off on a rant for a moment here, and I know you’re not going to like it, but here goes because I’m done with NOT speaking my mind when I need to …..

Let’s talk about new age crap shall we?

If one more person tells me to think positively, or surround myself with white light, look at myself in a mirror and smile, or tell myself I Love You… I’m going to go shoot somebody!

I used to think like that, but it has proven to be another useless crutch like trusting in the Lord, having faith in the goodness of man, or believing in Santa Claus.

I’ll go into the particulars of what started this whole mess another time, but let’s just synopsize for a moment.

For the last two years of my marriage, I kept thinking that maybe this time he’ll listen to me, and maybe we can work out some solution, or compromise or something. I’d tell him why I was unhappy, and try to get him to talk to me, and he’d say sure, and for a brief time I’d have hope that things would get better…. they never did. I thought positively time and time again…. rewording things, coming up with different compromises, different possible solultions, and his response was always… sure, ok, let’s do that, and nothing would change for the better… it just continued to get worse and worse, and I got more and more miserable until finally I asked him to leave. He said sure, but then he phoned me at work and said he wasn’t leaving… he couldn’t leave me… so I went home, packed as much of my stuff into my car as was possible, and left the rest behind… he still has it all in storage somewhere, holding it ransom. He can have it. If I’ve lived without the stuff for 10 years, I can live without it for the rest of my life.

Thinking positively got me nowhere… trying got me nowhere… psychics got me nowhere, marriage counseling got us nowhere… being upbeat and trying to change MY ways to fall more in line with his to keep the peace got me nowhere.

Then there was a short time where I was living in my office until I found myself a place… and thought good thoughts about it.. thinking I could start a new life… be a new person… I looked on the bright side… “now I can put all that behind me.”

Then came Mark (not my brother obviously.. a different Mark). I thought Mark was great… he seemed to understand, and for a brief time things were good, but it soon became obvious that the same problems were still in play, so, like with my ex, I tried to communicate, and he didn’t listen…

He wanted me to write a journal… great, I did that, but he never read it, or if he did…. he didn’t respond by changing his behaviour, or making a comment or even telling me I was full of shit and starting a dialogue or fight of his own.


He said if I had a problem I should send him an email… that way, he’d have time to have his emotional reaction, then think through his answer and get back to me with something constructive…. great, I did that and he NEVER answered in any way… verbally, typed, or by deed. Nothing… not one word, not one action, and if I would say I was unhappy because we hadn’t made love in a month, could we please do so? He’d bring me a teddy bear, kiss me on my forehead and fall asleep on the couch… and if I had the temerity to mention it again? He’d go off on me and start a fight, and we still wouldn’t make love or come to some compromise. Each time, I’d come at the problem (not always sex… any problem) with a positive attitude… this time he’ll listen… this time I’ll say it in such a way that something clicks in his thick skull.. .this went on for two years until I kicked him out of my bed permanently.

When that happened, I started online dating, and actively seeking out a new lover(s), thinking once again that I had a new life ahead of me to look forward to, and I didn’t even have to lose all my stuff this time!

Enter the assholes. Each time I’d think positively… “this guy won’t be an asshole”… “this guy is different”… “this is the guy”… “this time things will work better,” but it didn’t happen.

Creeps, assholes, losers, always seem to sit next to me on the bus. I mentioned it to a “new age” co-worker in passing, and she suggested I wear patchouli because it brings success, and creeps and losers and assholes are afraid of success, so they won’t sit next to me on the bus. I can’t stand the smell of patchouli, but I tried it anyway… I mean, maybe it might work? What the fuck?….

Doesn’t work.. not for me anyway. If there’s a creep getting on the bus… he’ll sit next to me every time. I don’t wear patchouli anymore… I’ve gone back to my coconut lotion, and my own nose is happier, but I’m still sitting next to some creep on the fucking bus.

I was told to surround myself with white light as protection from evil….

In another post I mentioned a guy who approached me and told me how much better I looked, but I had a long way to go. I was minding my own business, walking down the street to get lunch, trying to break out of a lousy mood because of the latest asshole, visuallizing myself surrounded by white light as I walked… trying to enjoy the weather, the scents, the good things I let through the white bubble, and here comes this asshole I don’t even know because after looking at my profile and determining that I was too large for him he didn’t even bother to contact me to tell me that I was all wrong for him. I think I posted what he said to me, I should contact him after I’d lost another 50 pounds. I didn’t ask for that. I didn’t approach him, either in person, or online to the best of my knowledge. He sought me out to insult me… So much for positive thinking, and protective bubbles of white light.

Get it?

This lady at the market, who’s really into the new age crap tells me all the time to look in a mirror and say I love you to myself. I know it doesn’t sound like it, but I do love myself… that’s not the problem… the problem is that no male thinks I’m worth knowing, much less loving, and I end up feeling like an ugly duckling in a world full of swans.

It’s not that I don’t love myself, it’s that I feel incomplete without someone else to share my life with… someone who thinks I’m special enough to occasionally put my feelings ahead of his the way I’ve always put my lovers’ feelings ahead of mine in an attempt to make things better … right up until I can’t take it anymore, and refuse to try one more time.

According to Einstein… stupid is doing the same thing again and again, expecting different results. At some point, you have to admit that the theory is wrong, and you move on to another theory. It took me 12 years with Steve (my ex), and 8 years with Mark.

I’ve looked at them both in hindsight, and all I really see is that I enabled them to become lazy bums… With my husband, I became the breadwinner of the family after he got injured and his L&I claim dismissed (yes, I see the correlation between situations, but I’m fairly certain that has no bearing on anything because I had no control over my father’s injury, and no control over my husband’s injury, though I do admit that my reaction to the problem was just like my mothers… pull up the bootstraps and figure out how to make ends meet). I put his needs ahead of my/our needs, to help him regain his self-esteem, and all I accomplished was to give him a reason to be a bum. I was the breadwinner, and things got tough financially… (another long story I’ll relate eventually), and then things got worse and worse finally ending in divorce because he’d become a bum so lazy he couldn’t even be bothered to greet me with a hug and a kiss when I came home from a long day at work.

Mark and I also started off sharing bills and such, but (I think) it soon became a matter of ego to him that I earned more money, and once again it was me saying things like, “it’s ok… I don’t mind”…. “how can I help you?” and other words to get him out of his funk and back to doing what he does best, even if he didn’t earn more money than I…. only it didn’t work, his funk got more and more funkier, then I got downsized…. couldn’t find work, and the financial situation got worse, which made things even worse still … I worked harder to compensate, while he got more depressed and did nothing.

I tried to find a solution, they both crawled into a shell and wouldn’t come out. They denied a problem existed, despite all evidence to the contrary, because they wouldn’t listen to me when I explained there WAS a problem. I guess they both just figured I’d continue to take it, or find a solution on my own because I’m so damned good at finding the way out. If that’s true, I can understand it where Steve is concerned, but not with Mark because he knew exactly what happened in my marriage. I tried to point out to him that I wasn’t going to walk down this road… taking on the role of a nagging wife, even though it bugged me to have to do so… but I didn’t want to make the same mistake, so down that road I walked… for all the good it did me.

So, forget the white light… forget the positive thinking. Forget all that crap because it has led me nowhere… sure, you can make the arguement that something worse would have happened if I didn’t think positively, but that’s just stupid because for all anyone knows… the same exact things would have happened had I not been thinking positively.

Now, I’m upfront and honest with men (not that I wasn’t before… I was always honest, and nice, and caring, and sweet). Perhaps my honesty scares away the decent men? I could do the “it’s ok” thing again, putting my needs and feelings aside in favour of his, but that’ll only lead me down the same road, to the same destination, finding myself with the same problem. If I can’t be honest with a guy, and be ME, and feel comfortable telling him what I think, and how I feel, and how his actions (or lack thereof) make me feel … he’s NOT a nice guy.

But the nice guys don’t seem attracted to me…. only the creeps, assholes, losers, misfits, liars, bums, users and abusers.

I believe in what I observe. I toss a hammer off the roof 100 times, and 100 times it falls to the ground, I think it’s safe to say that when you throw a hammer off a roof, it’s going to fall. I think that it’s also a smart move to maybe toss the hammer out the window to see if the same thing happens before you start telling people that the hammer will fall to the ground if you throw it out the window.

I’ve tossed a ton of hammers out the window, thinking that if I try hard enough to make the hammer NOT fall to the ground, it won’t.

Guess what?

It always falls to the fucking ground!

So maybe I should throw a screwdriver?

Don’t get me started on religion either. It’s another dead-end, having faith in someone or something other than your own abilities.

Job was an idiot. He should have told God where to stick it and had faith in himself.

That’s where I am.

Telling God to go stick it.

Taking my ball and going home because I don’t want to play anymore.

If some nice guy is going to enter my life, he’s going to have to break into my house, chain me up with a gold chain, place me on a satin cushion, and treat me like a queen until I decide to stop snarling and biting at him because too many people have kicked me when I’m down…. have eaten food in front of a starving woman… have flaunted their good fortune to the homeless guy on the street corner, begging for change.

And I also know that I’m shooting myself in the foot with that attitude, but I am so close to complete and utter mental calamity that I have to pull up the drawbridge and man the battlements.

I’m thinking positively that the assholes won’t be able to swim the moat, and that the arrows of discontent will find their marks.

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Reader’s Digest…

…. Condensed Version of My Life — The Early Years (Mostly)

Let’s be real here. Even a condensed version of the life of a 48 yr old woman is going to be lengthy. I’ll try to keep this shorter than War and Peace though.

I grew up in Detroit during the race riots and white flight. We would have fled, but we were too poor, so we stayed. I watched my neighbourhood go from all white (with one mixed couple.. white wife, hispanic husband, five kids), to 90% black in a relatively short period of time, but I’m skipping over early childhood. I remember loving animals.. the zoo was one of my favourite places as a child.. I loved the lions and tigers best of all, while my brother was fond of the hippos and penguins. I remember begging my parents for a dog or cat, but they always refused, until I was about 10, when a neighbours cat had kittens and I brought one home… I named him Napoleon before I knew he was really a Josephine. Napoleon was the beginning though… my mother was always fond of cats and had one as a child. It was my father who didn’t want pets, but he rapidly saw the charm in the silly creatures and Napoleon was soon followed by Caesar, Cyclops (he had one eye), and Sparky (named after the football coach Sparky Anderson).

I’ve never been without a cat for longer than a few months ever since. I currently own three of the little monsters… Yuri (Gagarin) who explores everything and used to climb as high as he could with his brother when they were just kittens, alas, I had to put his brother Neil (Armstrong) to sleep when they were just two… he was a non-responsive to treatment epileptic who had grand mal seisures twice a day minimum. Yuri was broken-hearted for four months.. wouldn’t eat, walked around howling, so I had to get him a new playmate.. enter Jack (a half Siamese with one eye who LOVES jumping up walls and crawling in boxes… Because of Cyclops long ago, I’m a sucker for a one-eyed cat… and his was blue!)… they get along great… it was love at first sight for both of them. Then I came across a kitten… white, with not one, but 2 beautiful blue eyes and 7 toes on each foot. I brought him home and both Yuri and Jack mothered him. Because of his extra toes, I named him Darwin, and the three of them are the best of pals and are usually found in a big furry heap somewhere or other… they hog the bed at night. But enough about them…

I have no idea how far most people memories go back, but I only have snippets from before I was about 5 or 6. Like skits in an old-time vaudeville show really, and I’m not even sure about them to be honest. Are they memories, or only memories of stories I was told while looking at old photos, or had gleaned on my own at a later time? I remember tanks in the streets, and soldiers, but I don’t know if I actually remember seeing them, or were they on the news, or maybe just what I’ve learned from historical research.

I can’t remember not being horny, but I can remember not knowing what it was I was feeling. I remember asking questions.. probably not really intelligent questions since I had no way of knowing what to ask, much less how to ask to get the right answers. I also remember getting no answers and getting a ton of weirdness for asking such things, so I learned not to ask, but being the have-to-know-the-answer type of person… I snooped and eavesdropped and everything else I could think of to find the answers I sought.

Before I talk about my parents, I want everyone to understand that I understand them — now, but I didn’t then, and I think that’s normal. I mean, does a teenager really understand gas bills and mortgage payments when a parent says they can’t afford to buy them a $150 pair of shoes? Like I said, now I know where they were coming from, but then I had no idea. I also like to think that while my parents did a lot of wrong things in raising us, they also did a lot of right things, and I accept that they were human… just doing the best they could. I also forgive them for what they did wrong, at least, I like to think I do.

One of the snippets I remember is constantly being scolded for masturbating, and I did that a lot. I remember her scolding me once for doing it in a department store, but I have no idea how old I was… 3? 8? No clue really. She was shopping, I was bored, so I climbed into the center of a round rack of clothing and sat down and started to go for it… she found me there and swatted me and dragged me out of the store complaining about how I’d embarrassed her.

I had an older brother, whom I hated and still don’t get along with. We weren’t exactly Irish twins (Irish twins are usually defined as being born less than a year apart), but we were born exactly 25 months apart. I also had an older half-brother (9 years older) who went to live with my grandmother when I was young, again, how young I have no idea. I also have an older half-sister (13 years older), that I didn’t really realise was a half-sister until I was a teenager, but she lived with “Aunt Dottie” whom I didn’t realise wasn’t really my aunt, but my father’s ex-wife until I was a teenager.

Mostly it was my brother and I. My mother never wanted kids, and probably shouldn’t have had them… not by today’s standards of parenting anyway. She didn’t do anything cruel, don’t get me wrong, but she didn’t acknowledge us kids except as burdens to deal with, though my brother could do no wrong in her eyes… I could do no wrong in my father’s so it was a wash. She and I get along real well now that I’m an adult, and she’s no longer financially responsible for me. Something both my brothers seem to have NOT learned. Mark (my brother) expects her to pay for his visits to see her, and while he’s there, he expects her to outfit his kids with whatever they currently need. Alan (my half-brother) is in his mid-50s and drives 300 miles to visit…. bringing his laundry with him for her to wash, because he can’t do it (he weighs in at over 300 pounds and has some serious health issues because of it)… Mark is a fitness junkie btw.

I think that relates to how I am now though, because to this day I can’t stand the thought of being considered a burden to someone. It’s probably why I’m so good at being self-reliant about most things. I mean, I’ll support a man before I’d let a man support me. However, I digress…

My mother never showed us love in the form of being held, or touched and kissed, which is probably part of why I’ve always craved it, but she taught us some really great skills, and was real big on expanding our intelligence. We both knew how to read before we went to Kindergarten, but she later told me that she did that so we could entertain ourselves… had no idea back then, so she taught us something good, but for a selfish reason. I can’t fault her for that. I was always the “why is the sky blue” type of kid… curious about the world and wanting to understand things. I probably drove her insane with questions she couldn’t answer. She introduced me to the library, and that solved one problem… my father found a set of Encyclopedia Britannica (missing the K/L and Sa-Sh volumes), and brought them home… they got a lot of use due to my curiousity.

Mom was always busy trying to make ends meet. My father was absent much of the time during early childhood because he was a long-haul truck driver. I do remember him being hurt somehow and being unable to drive after that though. That put the financial burden on my mother, who worked one full-time job at a pharmacy, and did all sorts of other odd jobs… she was great with math (so am I), so did taxes and books for the neighbours. They also delivered phone books and anything else they could to earn some money.

My father, after whatever it was happened to hurt his back, tried many jobs. He was a groundskeeper at a golf course, a superintendant of a condominium complex, and basically a Jack of all Trades. He was good at fixing things… so am I. He was in the Army during WWII, and was promoted up to sergeant twice, because he was busted down to private for punching a leutenant… twice. I don’t know this for certain, but I think it’s a safe bet that he couldn’t keep a regular job because idiots upset him as much as they upset me… only instead of punching them out as he got older and wiser, he just quit or mouthed off and got fired.

My father was Irish as I said, and my mother stems from Danish/English folks, who are mostly unflappable, and I got a touch of both. I have an Irish temper, but you have to really rile me to get it to show (and these days I ride that edge and can’t seem to back off of it enough for the temper to NOT blow at the least opportunity). I’ve seen it happen to me too often to not admit it. I take it and take it and take it (whatever “it” is) until the boiling point in reached. One second I appear fine….. the next?

BLAMMO… off I go, tearing someone a new asshole. I’ve tried and tried to curtail this, but somehow I always end up trying to communicate a problem to someone unwilling to listen or compromise.

My father’s mother was dead long before I came on the scene. His father was your typical Irish drunk, but I was his favourite grandchild, and the favourite of all the neices and nephews…. Dad had four brothers and two sisters, and was the only one of them who had less than six kids, so I have a huge family on that side.

My mother’s parents were divorced long before I came along, and my mother was their only child… so long in fact that her youngest half-brother is three months younger than I am. Her father remarried and started a new family right about the time my mother got married her first time (dad was her second husband… she’s had two more since then… so she’s a three-time widow… her first husband walked out on her when she got pregnant). Her mother was a complete and total, drunken, miserable bitch. Grampa once told me that he divorced her because she “chased anything on three legs,” so I guess I got my sex drive from her, though you also have to factor in the fact that my mother couldn’t go without either, and my great-grandmother worked in a whorehouse. I guess it runs rampant in my family, though my mother denies it vehemently. Grandma HATED my father… to the degree that she paid no attention to my brother and I because of our last name. My half-brother got all of her attention (why she loved the guy who left her pregnant daughter, and hated the man who stuck by her and tried his best to care for her child by that asshole is a complete mystery to me). Grandma died when I was in my teens and left all her riches to Alan so that my father couldn’t get his hands on it. I don’t know her reasoning. Dad wasn’t a compulsive gambler, or anywhere near the drunk she was, so what did she think he’d do with her money? Mom’s father was too busy with his new family to pay much attention to his grandkids.

That side of the family is very proper. The boys are cherished… girls were just there, so it’s really a good thing for him that his new wife had the good fortune to present him with three sons. Side note: Grampa died about 5 years ago at the age of 97… and had quite a bit of money… each of his three sons got a quarter of a million dollars, while he left his first child (my mother) 80K. My mother inherited some of that thinking due to her upbringing, and it showed in the early years, not so much now. She helped both of my brothers earn their college education, while the child who had the brains for it didn’t need to go to college because she was only a girl…she apologized for that long ago, and I understand her actions because of her upbringing, and I really don’t resent it because I probably would have ended up in the corporate world….a world I left by choice 10 years ago for many reasons. Mom’s even told me that I’m the only child she had that she can honestly say she’s proud of. My brother is an asshole, my half-brother is a bigger asshole… Alan wants his mother to get out of that bad neighbourhood, and could EASILY afford to buy her a home in a nice suburb (in Detroit that means about 50K, but he won’t do it. If I had the money, I’d do it in a heartbeat. Hell, if I thought it would work, I’d burn the house down around her, forcing her to come live with me, which would drive me bonkers, but I wouldn’t have to worry about her getting mugged in her own driveway (something that’s happened twice), but I digress…..

My mother was mostly in charge of us kids, and she did what she could to give us a well-rounded upbringing. She took us to the zoo on free day, and the museums, and ballgames and such when she got coupons or free tickets. She took time off of work to do so, and, by design or not, she ended up with two kids who are voracious for information of all types as a result. Information is a good thing. From her I learned responsibility and thriftiness.

I can point at a few things she did wrong. She didn’t encourage us creatively. I remember how I used to love to colour and draw and instead of praising every piece of artwork, and hanging it on the fridge, she’d say things like, “cows aren’t purple,” or “cats don’t have five legs.” Since I couldn’t please her, I stopped drawing. I was (and am) more of an abstract type of artist than an impressionist… Monet is her favourite artist, while I prefer Dali, or Kandinsky.

My father on the other hand, was always bringing home miscellaneous stuff that he’d found or been given. I remember him bringing me a bag full of yarn that also included crochet hooks and knitting needles and other odd things, and I remember it seemed like days before I got it all untangled, but I taught myself to crochet, and to knit eventually. Once he brought home an antique sewing machine (with a treadle rather than an electric plug), on which I taught myself to sew, after I’d figured out how to make it work right. From him I learned to expand my knowledge of how things work. I’m great at McGyvering things, and looking at the inside of a broken toaster and seeing why it’s broken (maybe not being able to fix it… but at least knowing why it no longer functions).

So while I didn’t get verbal encouragement from my mother, I got tacit encouragement from my father by way of him bringing me beads or yarn, embroidery needles and stuff. Once I got good at it, my mother appreciated all the things I could make for her. She still has the first pillow I ever embroidered, as well as my first afghan, and wall hanging decorative hooked rug.

Meanwhile, the neighbourhood was changing and becoming a very unsafe place to live (and it’s only gotten worse over the years…. avoid Detroit, it’s not a healthy place), and heard my parents complaining about not being able to afford to move to a better location, “the spics next door can afford to move,” “the fucking Italians (white, but immigrants) can afford to move,” “do we really want to live with a bunch of fucking niggers?” but I also saw that the people they were complaining about… afraid of.. were really just like us… only darker. So while bigotry ran amok, I like to believe that it didin’t take hold in either me or my brother (he married a black woman, and the fact that he treated her like dirt stemmed from his view of women, not the fact that she’s black — nowadays, he’s a mail inspector in Dallas… divorced with custody of his two sons)… nephews I’ve never met.

My father was the enforcer of the family, and both my brother and I got the occasional spanking at his hand, while my mother would send us to our rooms to separate us… only resorting to spankings every now and then when we were truly evil (I pushed my brother out of a tree…. he disabled the brakes on my bike.. we did shit like that ALL the time… I’m surprised we both survived to adulthood)… like I said, for whatever reason, we hated each other…. probably commonplace sibling rivalry taken to an extreme because neither of us got enough love and affection.

I grew more and more frustrated as a child, because I had this ache inside me that I’d learned not to ask about, but was more and more difficult to cope with. I was actively chasing men by the time I was 12. It wasn’t until I was 14 that I found someone willing to fuck me, and then it was only some random boy interested in getting his rocks off…. more sexual frustration, but as I saw it, progress was being made — I was closer to a solution for that damned itch.

I was always a chubby kid being told, or hearing my mother be told that I had to lose weight. Eating disorders that I’ve since learned to identify… you want ____, but you can’t have that, so here, eat these potato chips instead. Since I was a fat kid, I didn’t fit in for many reasons… I was white, while all my playmates weren’t, and my parents never approved of my friends until much, much later in life (late teens). I was fat, wore glasses, and had curly red hair and freckles during a time when long and stringy was the popular style, and my mother was always after me to wear lipstick, and try to fit in and be popular. I didn’t fit in at school because I was an excellent student, and since I sunburned easily, I couldn’t play with the other kids during recess… they’d jump rope or something and I’d be standing watching in the shade of the only tree in the playground.

I screwed anyone who asked, because, while I still didn’t get it… why people were so obsessed with sex, it felt better than not having sex because it scratched some deep place inside me that needed scratching. It wasn’t until I was 18 that I found someone who knew what he was doing, and damn was that man good at it! For the first time in my life, I was truly content.

I had few friends because I was always different. Wrong colour skin, wrong ideas, didn’t want to play with Barbies, or talk about boys in a sweet, innocent, teenybopper kind of way. I didn’t go for sports (that was my brother’s schtick). I was fat and didn’t like make-up. I didn’t care who was dating whom, or if Shaun Cassidy was hunky or not.

I excelled in schoolwork, doing my math homework while the teacher was teaching English, doing English homework while she moved on to History, etc. So that put me apart from other kids too. They wanted to jump me a few grades in school, but my mother wouldn’t let them because she didn’t want my brother and I in the same class. She thought it would cause more problems between he and I, so as a consequence, I was bored to tears in school, as often as not reading through this lesson or that lesson because I only had to be informed once… not over and over again… most times, it was something I’d already learned on my own out of curiosity.

When I graduated High School I was a size 16… I’m skinnier now than I ever have been as an adult. My best friend as a small child was the half-hispanic girl next door named Lisa, who moved away, leaving me friendless for the most part until I went to High School. My best friend as a teenager was a gay boy named Thomas. Tommy and I remained friends right up until his death of liver failure about five years ago (he’d had a liver transplant back in ’90 and the anti-rejection drugs finally stopped working).

I got my first job at 15, working at a pizza joint, but that didn’t last long because the manager was a lazy idiot who pissed me off. I segued to a job as a file clerk in a doctor’s office… they were changing their files from alphabetical to colour coding. That fit my compulsive tendancies to organize things and put them in order, and I did well there until the job was completed. After that I got work as a waitress after school.

When I was a teenager, I thought I wanted to get married, settle down, and have a ballteam full of kids. I’ve always looked at it like some young boy wanting to be a fireman when he grows up, but ended up becoming a lawyer instead…. just a dream of childhood that falls by the wayside because you grow up and discover new ideas, new interests. I learned that I don’t have any more patience for questioning children than my mother did. I consider myself lucky to have discovered that BEFORE I found myself with children to raise.

I got increasingly frustrated as a teenager and turned to drugs, and I spent most of the time from 15 to 17 stoned off my ass on one drug or another (that’s why I needed a job… to support my habit… even then, I was responsible for my needs and saw to them on my own)… I also maintained an A average in school… no one had a clue how drugged out I was all the time. I OD’d my senior year, and came to my senses after a near-death experience and gave up all the drugs but for marijuana (because it helps/ed me sleep)… that was when my grades started slipping and everyone at that point started worrying that I was on drugs.

I’d learned somewhere along the line that getting caught was a bad thing, so I’d gotten good at hiding every emotion and every action that would get me in trouble… I’m still excellent at it, but no longer bother too much…. you don’t like me or what I do? Your problem, not mine.

So I graduated, but couldn’t afford college. Just about then, a neighbour of ours got divorced and he got custody of his two kids and needed someone to watch them, so I became a nanny by accident. It was supposed to be a short-term thing until he found a proper nanny, but I worked for him for a little more than a year until he got reassigned to a new district and moved too far to commute. The kids were heartbroken… Little Darryl actually thought I was his mother (he was 15 months old when I started and just a bit more than three when they moved).

It seemed to me that I enjoyed being a nanny… but really what I enjoyed was playing house with Bob… he was the first guy who got me off, and we fell into a regular thing. I was wife in all but the legalities. He’d turn over his paycheck to me, trusting me to pay his bills, buy food, clothes and whatever the kids needed, pay myself my salary, and put the rest in the bank. I did all those things, and did them well.

That brings us up to just past High School…

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Stupidity and Other Things

Hey I found my way back!

I even managed to find a window to type in that is bigger (not by a lot) so I can see more of what I’ve typed… progress?  I’ll hold judgement on that one because I hate to be optimistic…. why?  Every time I am… I get shot down, so I tend to keep my head down these days… the old axiom I guess… if you expect the best of people, when they let you down… you’re disappointed, but if you expect the worst and get it… you’re not surprised, and if you get better than the worst? … you’re delightfully surprised.

I’ll stick with that for now… it’s not nearly as depressing as reality has proven to be.

I’ve been dealing with cheap-ass stupid people for two days.  I’ve got to find me another job.

Don’t get me wrong.  I like this job… except for the stupid people.

The only depressing thing used to be watching all the happy people walking by two by two because they only served to remind me that I don’t have anyone.  I didn’t (and still don’t) see a difference between them and me.  I see some ugly, fat, obnoxious woman with kids and husband in tow and wonder what the Hell was the attraction, and why can’t I find some guy who thinks I’m worth knowing?

It’s not like I have a neon sign over my head that says “Enter at your own risk.”

I know you find that hard to believe after some of what I’ve written, but here I’m being ME, not sugar-coating my thoughts… not being “politically correct,” or painting on a smile to make others at ease… I’m just being me and if you don’t like it…. don’t fucking read what I type!

I see gorgeous people walking by too, and that doesn’t upset me nearly as much because I can see that they’re two shallow people only interested in how good they look together…. that I get… and I fear for the world when I think about it too much.

I see a gorgeous guy with a plain woman and wonder the same thing. I see a gorgeous woman with a plain guy and think he must be great in bed or rich or something.

I mean, these are the types of people who others try to emulate… like young girls becoming anorexic or bulemic because if you’re not a size 2 you’re fat and unpopular… like indoctrinating young girls subconsciously into believing Cinderella stories and knights in shining armour and shit like that… only it’s far more pervasive than that… it’s become the standard, and it’s detrimental in the long run — to the young girls, and to our culture.

Sometimes I feel as though I’m the only real person on the planet.  I’m surrounded by shallow people who ask, “How’re you today?”  They don’t want the truth…. they want to hear, “Great, and you?”  Even when things aren’t great…. and if you try to say how rotten you are?  They make excuses and walk away because they don’t want to deal with anything emotionally uncomfortable.

I don’t know about you, but I have ONE friend, and many, many acquaintances…. my definitions are probably way different than yours though.  To me a friend is someone you can be yourself with… someone with whom you don’t have to paint on the smile if you don’t feel a smile… someone you can go to and vent if you need to vent. Someone you don’t have to be on guard around all the time… for fear you’ll say or do something that will be taken the wrong way.

An aquaintance is someone who’s name you know. Someone with whom you might spend a few minutes making meaningless chit chat with because it’s in your best interest… co-workers, clients, that sort of person.

I have one friend, and a couple of people who claim to be my friend, but who really don’t know me, and don’t get me, even though I’ve tried to be honest with…

For instance, my landlady, who is always willing to listen, only she really doesn’t. She used to ask me about things, and at one point I was honest with her… telling her about dating problems I had (and other things), and she seemed to listen…. note the “seemed” in that sentence. She tried to be helpful, suggesting that maybe I should change… lose weight… change my hair colour/style, wear cosmetics, etc…. the problem with that is the person the advice was coming from. She’s even bigger than I used to be…. weighs in at nearly 300 pounds, wears filthy, torn, smelly clothes. She’s always late, NEVER has her act together in any way.. forgetting her phone, her car keys, her wallet.

She does have one thing I don’t have, and that’s M cup size tits.


She also has not one, not two, but three boyfriends.

Has to be the tits.

Now, I keep reminding myself that I’ve met them all… even had sex with one of them, and flirted regularly with another — unsuccessfully.

The one I had sex with I wouldn’t repeat the act with. He’s nice enough in a strange way, but there are things I just can’t wrap my brain around. For instance, he’s a tree-hugging, vegan, bike-riding, luddite who’s always going off on the state of the planet… reducing your carbon footprint…. connecting with people in person…. that sort of thing. There’s nothing wrong with that really, except for the fact that he’s a hypocrite because he is a computer IT specialist. He makes databases and websites and such for people he mocks and judges…. In my book, that makes him a hypocrite… Also, in my humble opinion, most vegas are hypocrites anyway… I mean, you don’t eat meat, but you eat food that resembles meat… sort of tastes like meat… Do you want meat or not? Make a choice already put your money where your mouth is…. and he wasn’t all that great in bed either. He said he liked sex in all sorts of positions. I didn’t realise that he meant virtually simultaneously. I mean, he’d get going, and 10 strokes into the act, he’d flip me over, turn me around, lay me down or some other thing…. no sooner would I start to respond, then we’d be back to square one. I like sex in all sorts of positions, but pick one and stick with it.. we’ll do another one next time. Next time might be 10 minutes later, or 10 days later… but finish what you start ok?

The second guy… is even bigger than her, and she’s told me that because of the size of the two of them, they cannot physically connect in any traditional manner. They make due with oral sex or mutal masterbation… not my cup of tea either.

The third guy? The one I used to flirt with? Well, it turns out he’s really fucked up (if you ask me … and I know you didn’t). His idea of fulfilling sex is making the woman crawl on the floor, licking his boots and begging for attention.


So, like I said, she has three guys…. and while I’m better-looking, better-dressing, better smelling, consistant and won’t make you crazy waiting for me to get my shit together … I have nobody.

I had another acquaintance who was rapidly moving towards the “Friend” category, but that led nowhere… admittedly because of me.

She didn’t have a guy. Didn’t want a guy. Wasn’t looking for a guy, and understood why I did and honestly sympathized. So what went wrong?

A guy walked into her life and now she doesn’t have time to talk to me because she’s very, very happy.

Thanks God. I appreciate that one. There’s justice for you. She didn’t want one, but she got one. She was happy without one, but she got one. She wasn’t looking for one, but she got one. Way to go.

I’m not stupid. I know that this is MY problem, not hers. I don’t begrudge her happiness… I’m envious of it, and pissed off because of the injustice it illustrates. Hard work pays off? Couldn’t prove it by me. Go ask whats-her-face… she won the lottery without even buying a ticket.

My friend, whom we’ll call Dick (for reasons that amuse me), tried to support me and sympathize by telling me that it’s all random. It doesn’t matter if I wear the pretty green dress, or gungy blue jeans….. when the right guy walks by it’ll happen ………

Too late really.

As I told another aquaintance (1/2 of a married couple acquaintance to be exact), who was trying to be supportive (keep your spirits up…. keep trying and it’ll happen) that a gorgeous hunk of male could see me walking down the street, jump out of his Ferarri wearing an Armani suit and a Rolex, drop to his knees before me begging me to allow him the privelege of taking such a divine creature as myself out to dinner, and I’d walk away without a word.


Because he’s an asshole. That’s all I attract, so that’s what he must be. I just haven’t discovered HOW he’s an asshole yet, and no longer have a desire to discover his paricular assholeness. The head space I’m in right now tells me that. The males I’ve encountered lately have convinced me that they’re all assholes.

Women don’t appeal to me, so don’t suggest I try them either (and it HAS been suggested).

I’m 100% heterosexual.

Shooting myself in the foot with that attitude?

No doubt I am, but I’m also saving myself a ton of grief. Dick says that I’m in survival mode… protecting myself from being hurt again, and I need to stop thinking that way.

Probably true, but let’s just explore a few of the assholes shall we?

Top of the list… (all names have been changed to protect me from accusation of libel stemming from calling a spade a spade)…. We start with Ken. Ken had some idiosyncracies I was willing to overlook because we think a lot alike in many ways… come from the same part of the country originally.. nearly the same age… lived through much the same difficulties… all good starts in a relationship. Ken had some quirks as I said. He likes to shave off all of his body hair, and wear women’s clothes (but he swore he was heterosexual… not a “closet fag”). But Ken has a sexual fetish I can’t live with. He also likes to wear diapers. We discussed it, and he swore up and down that it wasn’t a fetish… it was just a fondness.

A sexual fetish by definition is something that HAS to be present in order to achieve sexual fulfillment.

A fondness is something you like, but can live without if needs be.

Well, turns out that he likes to have a woman sit on his lap while he sucks her tits and cums in his diaper. Actually using his penis for the purpose to which nature intended it to be used is impossible for him. Impossible? Yes, impossible. He gets all erect and everything without his diaper, but goes limp as a wet noodle when it gets near a vagina, and he isn’t even willing to do anything to help the woman. The one time we were in bed (after he’d made me all worked up and crazy) and he found he couldn’t finish, he suggested that I get out my sex toys (after all a single woman has to have sex toys right)… so I did, and I handed them to him thinking that he might like to finish what he started. He refused…. said he wanted to watch me do myself. This is a problem for me.

IF I’M GOING TO MASTURBATE, then what the Hell do I need you there for?

Am I the only one who understands this statement, or am I being unreasonable or unrealistic?

We move on to Louis. Louis negelected to tell me he’d had back surgery and was incapbable of sitting on a sofa to snuggle for more than 10 minutes… or sleeping in a bed (he slept in a chair for an hour or two.. then on the floor, then back to the chair)… or having sex unless he could do it in under 5 minutes.


We have James. James bitched at me for being where I was supposed to be, when I was supposed to be there. Nope, that’s not a typo. Worse yet, he bitched for two days. We’d agreed to meet at the entrance of a local park… a park that has a fountain at the entrance. I was there at 10 am as agreed, and stood there for half an hour waiting for him. He doesn’t have a cell phone, so I couldn’t call to find out if he was ok, or if the plan had changed or anything. I waited and waited in the rain, getting soaking wet and finally went home after leaving a message on his home voicemail (when he didn’t answer I figured he was hung up in traffic or something). He called me hours later to ask why I didn’t meet him. I explained that I was there, where was he? He said that because it was raining, he was waiting in a coffeshop around the corner.

And I’m supposed to psychically know this?

I mean, this was our second date. While I might have known my ex-husband well enough to know that he’d be in the comic book shop across the street and gone to meet him there instead… I don’t know this James guy well enough to know that he couldn’t stand in the rain for a few minutes waiting for me to arrive (assuming he got there first). Then he bitched at me for two days because I was where I was supposed to be… when I was supposed to be there? Imagine what I’d have to deal with if I wasn’t somewhere I was supposed to be.

So sorry, good luck finding a chick who’ll put up with that shit.

Now we have Bob. Bob was great in a whole lotta ways, but not in one that really matters to me…. honesty. We went out five or six times, and had gotten to the point where sex was on the table… Like Ken, he had assured me that it wasn’t a problem, and he was willing to wait until the time was right. Only thing is, when it finally got to that point he admitted that he suffered from ED (erectile dysfunction), and because of a quadruple bypass Viagra was not an option, and I’d have to learn to go without…


I’ve been a sex-based lifeform all my life. I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t horny.

Hell, when I was 9 I tried to kill myself because I couldn’t get laid…. NINE.

The only thing that saved me (and laugh if you will.. looking back it IS kinda funny) was the fact that you can’t die from eating a whole bottle of St. Joseph’s aspirin for children. The part that isn’t funny is that a nine-year old was in such pain that she wanted to die.

So there went Bob.

Then there’s another Bob, and we exchanged emails back and forth for some time, discussing all sorts of things (including sex) and he kept hounding me for my phone number. I wouldn’t give it to him because I hadn’t met him… I’d learned that one by then…

SIDE NOTE: If a guy hounds you for your phone number… odds are he only wants it so you’ll have phone sex with him, or so I’ve learned the hard way.

Anyway, he seemed ok, friendly, convivial and such, and we agreed to meet for a “walk on the beach to chat in person.” He got there, but I didn’t recognize him because he’d neglected to tell me he was deaf and confined to a wheelchair…. so much for a walk on the beach with pleasant conversation. I mean, how can you have a conversation whilst walking when you have to be facing the person so he can read your lips? The reason he wanted my phone number was so that he could text me at all hours instead of waiting until he could get to his computer to answer an email.

So much for him…. and when I explained to a client of mine (who happened to cross my path at a moment when I was NOT in a mood to be social) why I was so out-of-sorts, her response was to say to me, “poor man, think how horrible it is for him.”

He’d have better fucking luck if he was HONEST with a person. I mean, if he had told me about his physical condition, I would have considered it carefully and proceeded knowing that he was handicapped, or not, but he took the choice out of my hands by lying to me.



Darryl. Darryl and I got along great for a couple of months. We didn’t see each other much because he lives about 70 miles away, so that was a bummer, but something I was willing to put up with. Then my mother took ill and I had to make an emergency trip to be with her last year and I was so flustered that I forgot to tell Darryl. He sent me an email, asking if I was ok because he hadn’t heard from me… I’d been gone about 2 weeks at this point… and I sent him a sincere apology, explaining what had happened, and his response was, “I’m glad to hear you’re ok, I thought you’d found out about my wife and kids and was upset about it.”


What is with these guys?

I was told I was “too fat to fuck.”

I was told, “I saw your profile on a dating site, and thought you sounded interesting, but you were way too big. I see you’ve lost a bunch of weight. Call me when you’ve lost 50 more pounds.”

I’ve been stood up more times than I can count.

This one guy said he wanted to take me on a trip to Vegas, then got mad when I didn’t jump into his bed as a way of saying thank you before we got there.

There was the guy who seemed nice enough, and he claimed that he was a good cook and wanted me to come to his place so he could make me a nice dinner. I figured that proved he wasn’t married anyway, so why not at least check him out? I got there and he gave me the grand tour. I saw nothing to indicate that there was a woman in residence (but out of town visiting her mother or something), but I also saw that there was nothing cooking (or even evidence of cooking preparations) in the kitchen, and mentioned it to him. He said that he thought we’d order in after. After what I asked innocently. His response was to push me down over the dinner table and lift up the back of my dress. I left him craddeling a broken knee.


Married guys are easy to spot mostly because they want you to host.

Bums are easy to spot because they have a million excuses why you can’t come to their place.

I wasn’t going to put up with this continued bullshit, but didn’t want to give up either, so we move on to Joseph — who stood me up ONCE, and I was in such a mood that I wrote him a long, vile email calling him an asshole and calling him on his bullshit. He swore he wasn’t what I called him and begged me to give him another chance by letting him take me out to lunch at the finest restaurant in town …. I did.


But I made him jump through some serious hoops.

1. You will meet me where I say, when I say (and the place I picked was not a 5-star restaurant, but a 4-star restaurant five minutes from my home).
2. You will, when you get there, take a photo of yourself standing in front of the place and email it to me, so I KNOW that you’re there… when I get the email, I will leave my home and meet you there.
3. DO NOT expect sex on the first date…. I want to make that clear right now.

Well, he jumped through those hoops, and in all honesty, I was thinking positively about this, I was sitting at my computer, dressed all nicely, waiting for the email… hoping that he wouldn’t let me down… he didn’t as I said, so I left and he’d only been waiting 10 minutes. We had a nice lunch, after which, he pushed and pushed and pushed, suggesting that since I’d gotten there so fast I must live close by and why don’t we go back to my place for some afternoon nookie? I repeated the fact that I wasn’t going to jump into bed with him on the first date, and he wanted to know if I was hungry and could he take me out to dinner… would that be a second date?


Intellectually, I know they’re just assholes… it’s not me, but there’s way too many of them, so there has to be something about me that attracts them, and I haven’t the first clue.

So going back to what I told the acquaintance…. the guy in the Ferrari? If he wants to go out with me….. he has to be an asshole.

I also understand that this means I’ll never have another date.

I also understand that this means I’m saving myself from assholes!

I can’t take the rejection and disapointment anymore.

Each one got worse and worse, and I honestly fear for my continued sanity if I run into one more.

I see happy people and I want to kill them just to show them that life sucks.

I don’t listen to music anymore because some lyric or other will trigger some fucked up thing in my head and make me so depressed I can’t work, and I start to drink, or toke myself into brain damage to get the internal dialogue to SHUT THE FUCK UP.

I vent frequently by calling my own voicemail and ranting at it. I guess it makes me feel more sane to be talking to voicemail than just ranting out loud to nobody on the street like your stereotypical crazy person.

I carry a journal for when I can’t do that and have to get it out of my system before I implode.

I stand in front of a mirror and wonder what guys see that I’m not seeing.

I have horrible nightmares unless I drink/drug myself into a stupor.

I hate stupid, and although I’m technically a fucking genius (depending on which meter you use), I feel incredibly stupid because I can’t get a handle on these problems. Nowadays, I try to keep under the radar. I don’t go out unless I have to. I don’t listen to music, or watch a movie I haven’t already seen for fear that there’ll be something in it that triggers me negatively. There’s a lot I don’t do anymore because I’m near the end of my rope.

So Dick tells me to think positively and keep trying and be myself and trust that everything will turn out alright in the end.

He’s an asshole too…. for lots and lots of reasons that I’m sure I’ll vent about at some time or another, but for now, you’ll just have to take my word for it.

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