This is nothing compared to the search engine terms that have popped up on the stats page. I don’t know how many times I have to state that there is no tranny/trap/Bailey Jay porn on my page, or any porn for that matter – because it violates the WordPress code and I like people reading my blog – so stop looking!
A few years ago, I made a decision that changed my perspective on this whole charade of life. And while I will not touch on the subject – even though the wound has healed, I fear it’ll be something that I cannot speak of – I often ponder the outcome had my decisions been different.
We’re all looking for that special someone. A few of you are mistakenly calling them soul mates, as if destiny has any role in your falling in love. While I don’t believe in fate, I do believe in the idea of a sole mate. Someone whose flaws are easily ignored. The person who, even after a disagreement in philosophy, you cannot stay angry with. Someone you can imagine waking up next to every morning. The person who completes you, who is your balance in this world.
Sometimes it isn’t romantic, but most of the time it is. In a conversation with Jyg, I poked fun at her for having Keyla(?) spend the night. The ongoing joke is that they secretly had an affair due to their strange closeness – let’s face it, I don’t think I ever had a friend I was that close to, so all types of closeness is strange to me. They had a falling out – meaning, they stopped working together and therefore rarely saw each other, not as in a fight – which I attributed (jokingly, again) to their breaking up. Last night, they spent some time together which sparked the joke again – which she foresaw and decided to keep to herself to save from the ridicule. She let it slip, of course. I, of course, made the joke. And it ended with her saying, “There’s nothing wrong with sleeping (as in actually sleeping, pervs) with a good friend.”
“So, you’re saying I can sleep with my good friend?”
“He’d just make it weird.” After a moment’s thought, I added – as I hugged her, “Well, I guess I already sleep with my good friend.”
Definition(s) of Love
Martin – my assistant, not my brother of the same name – admits to loving his wife. He also admits to loving girls. He does not fear saying hi to a beauty he’s never met before. He honks his horn as the co-eds in short shorts pass by his car. He’d run over a family before giving up a glance at the sexy mamasita jogging by. Often, he adds me in his eye-fucking tirade, which I just smile and tweet his insatiable appetite for the finer sex.
Meanwhile, there’s my anonymous sidekick (see this post, and this one, and this one, possibly this one and I’m sure this one, as well) who’s the exact opposite of Martin. While he ogles girls – also having the habit of involving me in rating them – he doesn’t have the cojones to approach them. He’s made little headway in his “Plan A,” and seeks Plan B, C, and quite possibly D – it’s nice to dream, I suppose.
One night, we discussed the subject of love – brought on by my joke (because sometimes I feel like being one of the guys, even it means failure) that Martin would be getting laid at Skip’s birthday party. While not the most philosophical bunch, I thought their idea of love to be interesting. There’s Martin’s half assed definition that allows him to look but not touch other women – which apparently failed when a player – rumor wise, anyway – asked him to pick up a prostitute. Meanwhile, Sidekick stated an adolescent point of view.
“So what happens if you hate all humans? People just disgust you. What then?” I asked. “Is it possible to love someone?”
Sidekick had no answer.
“And what if you meet one person that you care about. Who, despite everything you don’t feel, makes you feel like you’re human? Is that then love?”
Still he had no answers.
If I were a religious man, I’d say I was blessed to have people in my lives who love me in some way or another. I’d also say that I was blessed to be loved by some who are no longer of this or my world. Blessings, however, have little part in this. It’s not fated, it’s just something that happens. And that makes life a lot more pleasant.
Note: Title of this post is taken from a poem by Terr Di Matteo.
“Better to rule in Hell than serve in Heaven?”* It seems spiffy enough. Too bad I don’t have the necroplasma outfit to go along with my new found sense of wanting to end the world.
As I have mentioned in past posts (see here, here and possibly here), I’ve become some guru of relationships because I have “experience” in the subject. Apparently, three serious relationships and a few trial runs equal guru status in the viewpoint of a socially awkward guy. And while I decided to play this game, it seems my “kind,” “humanistic” charm has backfired and now I’m up against the wall, repeating the same damn advice over and over. Which, by the way, is pushing me on the verge of murder and I can’t say that I’m feeling anything else but glee about it.
Cut to the chase
The guy’s a wreck. A train wreck. A derailment so befuddling that the mayor sent in another train.** I have a hard time sorting out the fact from the fiction. The stories are becoming a little bit outlandish – he told one about a girl who “whacked off a guy in class” – as if attempting to impress me. I knew “slutty” girls back in high school, too, amigo. It’s common, especially in the Valley where, apparently – according to the season opening speech – it’s easy to hook up with one for “living” purposes. (Side note: I’m not sure how much of this story is true, but apparently, my assistant picked up a hooker for one of players. Before taking her to the clubhouse, he got a little something something*** on the side.)
Not only did this socially awkward fellow know several hundred, if not thousands, slutty girls in high school, he also knew some who slept around for cash. A few of which were love interests that went south – so not a euphemism for what you’re thinking, so get your goddamn minds out of the gutter and continue reading.
“Don’t go in for the kill,” I keep telling him the same thing like a record…eh, nevermind, cliché. Yet, for some odd reason, he keeps thinking that’s the way to go. It hasn’t – theoretically – worked out for him thus far, so why take his chances? According to his history, the first girlfriend he had – which lasted only about a week or so, which doesn’t define girlfriend to me, but I’ll let him have it – was also involved with another guy. The second one cheated on him with his cousin after only six months. She later married him and is now a part of the family.
The latter girlfriend, I’m assuming, was the one that did him in. Rumor has it – he told me – that he used to buy her flowers every week, if not every day. I’m talking about expensive roses and etc. This was last year, by the way.
“Buying her flowers a week after you two got together?” I shook my head, “No, man. It’s sweet and all, but c’mon. Only a week?”
He’s a believer of love at first sight. Which, of course, is a bunch of bullshit. No one – and I mean no one – ever falls in love in an instant. Anything you feel in that first few moments is either fleeting or lust – which are the same thing.
He has an adolescent idea of love. Which is cute when you’re sixteen, not so much when you’re knocking on thirty.
Creepy issues that I swore I wouldn’t talk about but am now going to talk about
This guy has no sense of age. I don’t know if his demon – and I’m only assuming he has a demon – is reaching out to mine, but my demon isn’t into jailbait. End of discussion. I mean, mine isn’t really into anyone. It would rather be left alone. He’s admitted to having younger girls hit on him – which is weird, because I haven’t even seen women our age hit on him, but whatever, I’ll let him have it. No. Wait. I won’t.
“Man, I wish I were younger.”
“Then I could pick up the younger girls.”
“Man, that is by far the creepiest shit anyone’s ever told me. I’m gonna go ahead and pretend that I never heard it.”
And not only did he suggest we kidnap his would-be paramour, he also obtained her phone number and started texting her anonymously. Which I haven’t even heard anyone doing like ever – I was a teenager before texting was even invented.
He also thinks that the stadium is his bowl of candy, weighing his options. The guy has a Plan C and hasn’t even made any ground with Plan A – being S*****. And I’ve warned him on several occasions to stay away from a mutual friend’s 18-or-19-year-old niece because she’s a waste of his time and I admire her “I’m not into guys right now, I want to focus on my education” determination.
On the Sly
I don’t know what this guy thinks I can offer. I just know that I’ve exhausted my tips and advice. And quite frankly, I’m amazed I lasted this long.
There’s a ghost in me who wants to say I’m sorry, doesn’t mean I’m sorry
“If I die at this stadium,” I say, “I want the ball that did me in buried alongside me.”
There is a pain digging through me. It’s only a matter of time before whatever it is surfaces and I face the consequences of its existence. I was angry to tears. Of all the ways to express emotions, the only one that comes to me naturally is tears. Tears of happiness. Tears of crushing depression. Most of all, tears of anger.
Pin me up against the wall and take away my sense of control, you will push me to this zone of helplessness. I could feel the tears welling up. I tried to hold them back, but things don’t work out the way you want them to. Fight or flight. I fear what I’m capable of if I ever choose fight. Flight. My instinct is bolt.
“Let’s just say,” I said, “It takes a lot of self-control not to punch people. And there are a lot of people I’d like to punch.”
It’s a ticking clock. Several of them. Each synced to their own devices. When people step in my way. When people decide to talk down to me. I’m good at what I do and do what I’m good at. Try to cross me and I’ll leave you in my tracks, broken and bloodied. This isn’t a threat, it’s a promise.
The Killer in Me
“I couldn’t care one way or the other,” I tell my mother. We’re talking about charity. Most people do it for rewards in a make-believe afterlife. Others do it for a sense of duty to their fellow man. Neither make sense. Why help others when they don’t help themselves? The people in other countries dying upon the streets while their leaders roll around in money. The weak are massacred. I know that it’s wrong. I know that I should feel some amount of pity. But nothing comes to me. Human is an animal on the verge of extinction at our hand. The world would do better without us.
“There aren’t enough beautiful things in this world,” he says. “I’ll create some more.”
The death artist is like any. He is good at his craft. He explores his limits and those of others.
I’m standing, talking. The ball slams into the fence a foot from where I stand. I forget the dangers of working here.
Feeling scared today
Write down “i am ok”
A hundred times the doctors say
I am ok
I am ok
I’m not ok
He hobbles up to the main gate; his eyes scanning the area. He tugs on the hip of his jeans; his other hand fidgets around the waist. “Is there a game tonight?” he asks. His voice, razor blades brushed gently upon the chalk board.
“Yeah, man,” Joe says. “But it’s already ending.”
“Can I use the bathroom?”
The following is ripped from the headlines
I imagine her as slender. Her face the epitome of innocence. Hair like April showers upon her shoulders. Skin fair. No one who works at the stadium resembles this, but the fictional version of her is what appears in my head.
She leaves the stadium, heading for her car. The stranger in the shadow – as cliché as he is – leaps at her and forces himself into her car. He asks her to drive to his drug dealer’s house. When they get there, he attempts to kiss her but she refuses.
“Stay away from S*****,” I tell Martin. “He’s got dibs on her.”
I don’t care one way or the other. But if I’m going through with this guru schtick, I need to keep all barriers out of my fucking way. And while he has his eye on S*****, he’s also looking toward the “Two-Timing Whore” (henceforth, TTW).
He’s foolish. He thinks love is a thing is a one shot. You don’t love someone off the bat. There’s a process.
“Yeah,” I tell him. “You stay away from TTW.”
“I told you.”
“Because she’s a player?”
“Something like that.”
“People change, man. If I win her heart.”
Poor Naive Sidekick
What’s your definition for love? There isn’t a single connotative definition for it. There are several. Love for me is feeling human. And when I’m with Jyg the more I feel connected to this reality. I don’t hide away within myself when I’m with her. It wasn’t always that way. I didn’t just see Jyg and feel complete. It wasn’t until she wasn’t around when I felt empty. And that emptiness hurt. And while a lot of things I’ve done in this relationship wouldn’t make sense to poor, logical me, I stuck with it because that feeling only comes with her.
The rest of the world can die. As long as I’m with her, it’s okay.
Kill her off
Sometimes the pain is greater than the remorse that follows shortly after.