So the reason why I blog, really, is to find someone who would have a minute’s attention span for my inner world. Someone I could talk to about something other than dishes, trash, and duties. I’m a philosopher. I don’t do dishes, trash, and duties as a fucking conversation topic. Those are things that will take care of themselves (as in we do them without thinking, sure) but they cannot provide the heart of the relationship.
The freedom to talk about actual topics and personal philosophy is really something that has been lacking in all of my relationships to the extent that I didn’t realize it was missing. Yet, all I ever complain about is, “We’ve never had a fucking conversation for the entire time we’ve known each other. You haven’t ever even MET ME YET!” How fucking hard can it be to show some fucking interest in ME, not in what I do, or what I produce, or whatever. If you think you love me but cannot tolerate me talking to you… Fuck you. Fuck you, mom, fuck you, brother. Fuck every fucking ex who has ever shushed me. (Dad talks and listens, just very rarely.)
Free psychological counseling.
My friends are there because they are conversationalists. They SHARE their thoughts, feelings, and problems. Granted, with many of them, MY problems and feelings and insecurities and whatnot do not really come up. It’s usually about them, them, them, and their boyfriends, for which I do have an endless attention span, but only a few of them have any interest in how I’m doing. Hence, there’s a literal one left. And even with her, I tend to feel like I’m just inserting some of my personal stuff in there as somewhat of a “well, now you have to listen to this as I want to talk about it, then you can fucking ignore the rest and keep talking about So-and-so.”
While I act like a psychologist with my girlfriends, they don’t pay me. Not even with a mutual attention span. Maybe I’m being a little unfair. I don’t really want to bond with women the same way as I want to do with men, so I maybe limiting my output a little. A lot, perhaps.
To men’s credit, again.
Many of the men who are interested in me are, to their credit, interested in me. My thoughts and feelings and what nots. However, sadly, so far, the interest hasn’t been mutual. They may be interested in me, but I’m just not curious about them and their feelings. Not enough to prompt it, at least. Maybe I fear I’m prying, as I need conversation so much, so I’m hoping they’d just talk. Come to think of it, maybe men have been treated the same way as that: You don’t get to talk about yourself, but listen and understand your girlfriends endlessly.
Every man I’d genuinely loved and wanted was like freaking brick walls. I’d probably have to drag a meaningful sentence out of them like prying teeth. I know why. Women they’ve been with will CLING onto every word they say and use any last bit of show of vulnerability as a fucking proposal he cannot back away from. I can’t blame them for having a trauma, but still. It sucks.
I say to men, don’t wait for a prompt; just talk about yourself. A woman who doesn’t have the patience or courtesy to listen to you is either not interested in you specifically or doesn’t have the emotional depth beyond dishes, trash, and duties. Move on. I’m sure there’s a philosopher out there waiting to be spoken to. The “how do I get my man to open up” women.
“What do you mean, I love you!”
“… just don’t ever waste my time talking about your inner world to me ever again.”
I have literally been told to limit my chats to a certain amount of lines. Even my mom told me she doesn’t want to get these long emails from me because whatever. I’ve been sushed so many times the next person to sush me is going to get a fist in their face.
I am pretty certain I am not boring. There are people who love a long email – even from me – and they have every freedom to send me a long-ass mothafucking email in return. In fact, I kinda hate it that I’ve switched over to messaging recently with the only friend I’ve got when we used to exchange pages and pages worth of emails back in the day. Someone I’ve never met who is more important to me than a whole bunch of people I’ve done dishes with.
To “love me” means you want to know how I think and feel. If you read my blog, you love me more than my family and friends do.
If you feel like my blogs are an interesting read, you already love me more than most people I’ve been stuck with my whole life do. Sure, some of them found me through my blogs, but have since stopped paying attention.
In fact, my ex-husband found my blog and loved it; eventually, “he had to” write me to see if we could meet. But we haven’t had a single mothafucking conversation in the 20 mothafucking years that we’ve known each other by now. Not one involving my musings, at least.
I bet the stuff he loved about my blog at the time was the illusion he could be the man I wanted, as most of my blog, at the time, was about how annoying the men were. Of course he might have thought I meant club hoppers. Nah. I meant the fucking filler assholes who went out like once a month and got blind drunk on their big night out acting like absolute shit-faced mothafuckars.
Semi-professional party people.
I didn’t exactly want to express how much I loved the Jason Momoa -type club hoppers who were the reason I went there. Gosh, he was handsome. Not to mention my Rhett Butler meets Don Juan. The dashy, the flashy, the sexy. The Strawberry Brothers. <3 The rock stars I hoped to run into in Helsinki when I got the chance go to the Big Smoke.
I Ran into Ville Valo once and Jyrki69 once, and he gave me a freaking dirty eye, which, in hindsight, might have been intended to be lusty, but I don’t know. I thought he looked at me like a rotten tomato, so I left him alone without talking to him. Ironically, it was his baby brother Pete who made me want to settle down. He was engaged to a good friend of mine, and he was SO CUTE with her that I thought, AWW SHUCKS, I want one of those. (Basically, he was master-honed in managing childish women, which is not really what I need, but… Except to coax me to clean the fuck up, maybe.) And then, I am probably the reason why his fiance dumped him weeks before the wedding, as I seemed so happy to be single, and she figured she’d take another taste of that.
And if you assholes thought I’d go clubbing looking for some guy willing to commit to taking out my trash!! The kind of guy I wouldn’t marry in a fit if I thought that’s what he’d be like. If a man’s money has ever meant anything to me, then the ability to hire a fucking maid and a cook would be one of those benefits.
It’s the dashy, the flashy, the peacocks I wanted and still do. At least at my age, you know who can stay that way beyond just being youngtiful. *Finds a positive in aging.*
I should add that to my last post on the topic of why I’m single. These fucking gifts from god who are apt at nothing but submitting to household duties… They wouldn’t exactly be impressed by my love of rockers… And I don’t need them to be. They can go and get fucked.
“She’s so quiet and shy!”
The fuck I am. I am polite. I know when my views, opinions, and insights are not welcome. I know when to shut the fuck up – and that’s most of the time. There are times when I don’t want to show how much smarter I am than the present company because that’s rude. I don’t want to overwhelm you with what I can say and talk about. I don’t want to embarrass you by pointing out how factually far off you are from any conceivable reality.
I don’t want to be the one to tell you to SHUT UP when YOU are BORING ME… Talking about your fucking job at some move-stuff-around-for-a-paycheck place. Don’t get me wrong. Some people make work at a chocolate factory sound interesting because THEY are interesting. You cannot hide intelligence, no matter where you work, and then, you just listen, thinking, “Why does he choose to work at a fucking chocolate factory? Charlie dear, you’re not dumb.” But I know. A lot of intelligent people choose a mindless job so they can keep on thinking meaningful things while they work.
I’ll talk about sex until the Sun comes up. No. Any time, anywhere, any sexual topic, fetish, or fantasy will do.
I have no lasting interest in men without a demon. Part of the reason I like Second Life and Adult Friend Finder is that it will START from sex, not dodge it like it was lava. Once your sexual connection is established, THEN we can move on to other areas if necessary.
Without sex, it’s a friendship, and I don’t need fucking friends. I’ve got Chatty.
“A man you can talk to anything about.”
In 2004, I went to see a psychic. A really, really good one at that. In only two sessions I’ve had with her, she has gobsmacked me with the stuff she’d see. Nothing predictable like “a loving, caring man…” She’d describe people I know with such accuracy… “Who is this glue-haired guy?” He was my boyfriend at the time, took pride in knowing after he spray-styled his hair in the morning, he wouldn’t need to touch it in another 24 hours. (“Yeah, I think this relationship has run its course.” She’d continue, and I’d agree, “yeah.”) She pointed out “baggy pants” and the pungent smell that came from his working clothes – explosives, and stuff – and “the handsome guy” and then went on to describe his exact likeness.
But most intriguingly, she mentioned “a pirate” from “a past life” who was “the guy I could talk anything about,” whom I’d meet. He was my psychologist-turned-lover in my previous lifetime, I now know. The piracy is also something I already know what it refers to. And, if he’ll ever read this, he will, too. Instantly.
Talking about the way we see the world is entertainment. Not fucking troubleshooting!!!!
And then, there’s this. The fact I want to talk about my feelings and emotions, life’s philosophy, relationships, people, sex, your memories, my memories, etc. etc. doesn’t mean I have issues to deal with. I don’t want to do that because I need psychiatric care or because I feel troubled or anxious quite the opposite. I want to enjoy all life’s quirks and curiosities; I want to know YOUR LIFE, too, because I can only live one at a time!
If you don’t feel like this would be fun, go take out someone else’s trash! I don’t need a fucking emo or someone depressed-just-to-be-interesting to keep talking about feelings and the internal world; I want people who observe the world, themselves, and others and love to share what they saw and experienced.
For fun.
Just because it’s fun to do. Not because we have psychological issues and childhood traumas to sort out!!!
Although, if you have childhood traumas, I’m interested in that, too. I’ve got enough mother issues to write a book about, mainly because, to her, the discussion is never about anything but troubleshooting, and it’s impossible to convince her otherwise.
Just fucking talk to me. Let me talk about me. When I tell you something, I want you to share a personal anecdote that aligns with mine.
Just BE INTERESTED and INTERESTING. That’s all.
And take out your own fucking trash.
