8
November 2013
0943
hrs
So,
Patient Reader. Here we are again, back
at school . . . Man, what a crazy last
few days. Of course it’s all in my
personal life. Again I must
iterate: People suck and suck HARD. I feel like I am always having to apologize
for being me. If I am so horrible to be
around, then why do others always seek me out?
I didn’t need to make friends, but people befriend me, and then they
think it’s okay to start telling me that my behavior toward them isn’t always
friendly. Well, no fucking shit.
I’m
just be-bopping through life and then all of a sudden people start telling me
they love me and wonder why I can’t say it back. Everyone thinks they’re different from
everyone else in everyone else’s past, but they really aren’t. They keep making the same mistakes until they
don’t, but until then it’s my fault.
What the fuck is that? People who read my blog and its inherent and
obvious misanthropy don’t seem to realize the extent at which I really hate
humanity. Now some PERSONS are quite
likable, and I endeavor to do some of the things they need another human being
to do. But c’mon . . . know how dangerous
the job of liking me is before you take it.
Sometimes it will be Mission: Impossible, and again, it’s my fault.
“Why
do you,” I often get, “think I am like everyone else when I am so goddamn
different?” Jesus, do you know how any
times I’ve heard a woman say that? Have
her tell me she is so different from other women that she could Love Me
Dizzy? “I’m not like all those other
women . . .” Then why the fuck do you say and do everything that they always
did? I mean c’mon. I know I am a lot like every other man, and
these things don’t necessarily make me proud!
In fact, I’m downright ashamed that I am so much like the grunting sons
of bitches out there dragging their knuckles like the Australopithecines that they are.
I do
not relish the fact that I have a strong sexual drive. I too look at every woman and wonder what
fucking them would be like. But I admit
I do these things. But that’s not all I
am. I rise above the base hypothalamic
instincts (or at least I try to-doesn’t
always work) and I get to know the woman inside the woman. I seek her mind and her . . . heart?
I try to be different than all those other guys in her past, and I
know the successful/unsuccessful ratio is pretty low. But I know where I lack in these things.
Have
you men out there ever been in a relationship where you get in a fight every
day? Do you ever feel like you’re
constantly apologizing? People who have
complete access to this blog still seem
to be confused about how much I hurt inside; I feel like I am dying from pain,
sometimes. And yet I put on a reasonably
happy face because these people don’t want to be around someone like that. So I have to change the Fundamental Me. I have to reach into the rudiment and pull
out this person that stews and worries and tries to be all for everyone. And I did that for too many years. It was one of the things that broke me in the
first place.
I’ve
come to the realization that I cannot be fixed.
I cannot change what I have become.
I can use what dull tools I have to ameliorate the Horrible Me, and I
do, I think. But I have to remain true
to myself and do what I can to not be harmful to me.
Some
of you are probably thinking I am taking the easy way out, and maybe I am. What’s wrong with Easy every now and
then? The world is hard and ugly and
beautiful enough as it is. Why would I
want to add to its difficulty? Why do
people tell me they get it, get how I am I mean, and then turn around and
wonder why who I am is so much other than they expected? Why do they say they accept me and then
wonder why I cannot change?
Sometimes
I even get the whole package of someone thinking that they can change me. My first wife
(notice I have had more than one . . . wonder what that means) flat out told me three years into the marriage that she
thought she could Christianize me, knowing full well I was an atheist. I mean c’mon!
I disclosed my religious (dis) beliefs on our first date. Shortly after our divorce we met for an
amicable coffee where she confided in me that she started dating someone. Good
for her, I thought. Then she said
with a distasteful moue, “He says he’s an agnostic
. . .”
Bad for him was my next thought. Look Patient Reader, you know from reading
these rants how I am, right? I am anti-social,
wary, and paranoid at times; treated (inefficaciously?) bipolar, Heartsore,
wounded, and fairly intelligent. I
hope. But I also see an occasional
kindness at times. I see it so rarely
that it stands starkly out, and I believe in rewarding kindness with more
kindness. We all know the world could
use more of that. But then I run into a
problem: My act of kindness is
misinterpreted as a “breakthrough.” Jesus, he can love again,” seems to be
the recurring theme. “I can fix him, and maybe in doing so I too
can be fixed . . .” Like I am some
kind of fucking project. Well, I am not
a project, Patient Reader. I am an
asshole who keeps everyone at arms-length, not just to protect my own poor,
wounded little Grinch heart. I also do
it to keep others from being hurt by me.
Egotistical? Maybe. But I have hurt so many others in the past,
and I don’t want to do it anymore. But
even my inactions hurt others, it
would seem. Can’t win, folks.
People
in my life need me to do and say what they themselves do, and when I refer them
to A, they tell me that’s just a cop-out.
Jesus Harold Smitty on a Rubber Fucking Crutch. How is that being different from everyone
else? I have no answers to the questions
of the Nature of Man. I am my own
wounded animal, seeking solace and succor and learning others at my own
too-slow pace. Even when I explain I am
in the Downward Arc of my mental illness, and they say they get it, they still
wonder, what the hell? Why can’t I be different, even if it’s
just for them? Hellooooo . . . I’m fucking crazy!
Ach .
. . I’ve got a shitload more to gripe
about on this topic, y’all. But for now
I have to pack up my stuff and get to class and find out how I did on my Calc Midterm. Will you please come back later and get
depressed all over again? You know
misery loves company. So will you? Please please please please please? Splendid!
Yours
Truly, the Cunning Fennec Fox
10 November 1121 hrs
P.S. Once again, Faithful, Patient Reader . . . I am proven right. People who promise to never leave do just
that. I hear this empty promise time
after time, and the Promissor refuses to understand why I refuse to believe it .
. .
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