Hey you guys, you’re weird. I’m not speaking to a collective “you guys” here, I am quite literally referencing you men. Because you’re freaking weird, and I have no understanding of game playing, and apparently the games are a must. And you’re all bat shit crazy. All of you.
I can picture you shaking your heads, and then you’ll spout off how easy it is to relate to a man. You’re sooooo uncomplicated as a species, yeah? Bring you a beer, have sex with you, don’t block the TV, don’t talk too much, and don’t overthink things. It’s the women who complicate things.
Bullshit. Here’s a list of why that is complete and utter bullshit.
1) A woman can very clearly state her needs and desires, and you’re not going to believe her. I recently put up my ad on the nefarious personals of Craig’s List. I specifically stated each and every pertinent aspect of what I need and want and what I will not tolerate. AND YOU FUCKERS IGNORED IT.
I must REALLY want to be pursued sexually even though I don’t want to be a meathole and told you I don’t want to be a meathole. I must REALLY want to find myself in a monogamous, long term relationship as quickly as possible because, duh, I’m a female. I must REALLY want you to turn into a pouting toddler because I stick to what I said I want no matter how much you pressure me. Which brings me to my next point…
2) Men only want what they cannot have. I’m sure you could spout off something about DNA and how it’s scientifically based on how we as a species perpetuated ourselves to keep from extinction by men being hunters or some other bullshit excuse that might very well be scientifically accurate and capable of being represented in a power point presentation or as the next submission in a medical journal entitled Men: The Superior Species and Why Women Don’t Get us…High Five, Dudes. But screw you. You only want a woman until she wants you back, and then you turn into scared little boys who fear all your freedom is being stolen by some woman who has obviously been scheming to steal your balls and turn them into a pair of earrings.
FYI, I rarely wear earrings.
3) You turn into raving lunatics at worst and pouting little babies at best when the one you are pursuing doesn’t play the way you wanna play. Let me illustrate this in picture form.
I didn’t text him all day until he hit me up at 9ish last night, and then he was upset that I hadn’t invited myself over to his house and chose to see my girl. But then!
He texted me today without a hello, without any mention of his attitude the night before, and without any warning that he would be sending me pictures of restraints while at the hardware store. He bought four. Four.
Men. Are. Weird. Period.
4) You are perfectly fine with your own playa status. It’s admired. It’s expected. You can talk to as many women as you want, and that’s just hunky dorey. But if a woman wants to keep it relaxed and without expectations, you go nuts. If a woman decides to serial date and not commit to your highness, then watch out world! You’re gonna pursue the shiznit out of her whether she likes it or not. You just cannot help yourselves. A woman who does what you do but in a completely honest way, upfront and straightforward and without lies and deceptions? Oh, this shit must be stopped!
5) The less she wants you, the more you want her. That is some fucked up shit. It just is. You’ll do everything in your power to get her. You’ll pull out all the stops and hold no punches. This girl is the object of your desire. You must have her, and you will not stop until you get her. You will make her feel like the single most special person in the world until…
6) You win her, and she’s no longer a prize. Hell, that was just too easy. You convinced her of your genuineness and actual devotion towards her, and now she wants your balls. Now, there’s something sparkly and new catching your attention, and you MUST have it. So, that girl that you worked so hard to capture is released back into her natural habitat: confusion and hurt and a lot of nights trying to figure out what the hell just happened.
Women, we get criticized for wanting to communicate. We take a lot of flak for being in tune with our emotions and speaking from the heart and wanting to know where we are heading with someone and what he wants so we know what is safe for us to want ourselves. And it’s called playing games. But women keep that shit real while men need a fucking decoder ring to understand. I’ve encountered so much game playing, and it’s not even from me. I don’t know how to play, nor would I actually want to, so I say what I really think and act on how I really feel. And that makes sense to me even though I know the man I’m dealing with is probably running game.
Every. Single. Time. You fucking weirdos.
Now, to summarize the past few days in my serial dating world, I need to mention something that threw me the hell off. It wasn’t a date, it was a three hour conversation in the parking lot of a bookstore when he returned the first book in a series I had loaned him. HIM. That one. THE GUY. And he flat out let me know he has read my blog. Only the last entry, but still, I think I was certain he wouldn’t read it because he’s had limited interest in me or my life since The Soft Pitch Text Exit of 2015. I stood there thinking about everything I’ve written in my blog, and I know I was definitely flustered and probably turning a bit pink and rambling like a moron because that’s how I do. That’s how I roll, yo.
He said he’d only had an hour to browse books with me and grab a coffee and chat a bit, and that turned into three hours, which then turned into some drunken fuckery while I texted him under the influence of fireball and a nutty irishman and some apple ale, and it felt really right talking to him for so long, and I missed that, and I know this is a run on sentence, thank you very much.
I reminded myself more than once that he’s just a friend now. I get to remain friends with a fabulous guy who has many similarities to myself and picked out my first graphic novel for me last night, and wore a dragon shirt which I love because I was born in the year of the dragon and very much relate to that magnificent creature and it’s attributes. I AM a fiery one, afterall.
I missed his face and his laugh and the way his dimples catch my eye and his emphatic hand movements and bouncing around and basically just being him while I was busy just being me. And now I know that out of all the guys I’ll be writing about in the future, one of them actually will read it (maybe, it could have been a fluke), and that’s some freakydeaky shit right there. Because these are my heart words, and this experiment of mine that largely entails being in the moment and being honest with each step of life I find myself in cannot be performed if I edit myself. So I really feel like I need to tell him that I won’t molest him and ensure he’s on the five o’clock news, and I’m down with friendship, and even if I have shit to work through, I think I proved last night that I am capable of working through that without shoving it down his throat. And, you know, we can totally function separate of that aspect and maintain a really phenomenal friendship that is rather unique. It really is. Trust me, I specialize in unique.
I must now give him a special name to reference in these blogs, present and future, and I’m thinking I’ll call him Mr. Droid. Because he might not be whom I’m searching for, but I really dig the time spent in between anyway. That might change. Offer suggestions. I’ll consider them.
So, in conclusion, men are freaking weird, I made a list, and the one person I would be flummoxed over discovering my blog is aware of it’s existence. But I have to keep this authentic, so there’s a whole new dynamic here where I find out how well I can keep myself from candy coating anything just because these words are more than just words to me and I know he has access to them. I think shit just got real.