16 December 2013
1425 hrs
Hello Again, Patient Reader
I have
managed once again to navigate my way through another term of college. Very interesting classes, these were . .
. I enjoyed the subjects and did quite
well, if I do say so myself. Not a 4-oh
like last term, but I am pleased with what I think I may have, GPA-wise. It should be above a 3.8, which is
respectable, I suppose.
I’m more
calm now than I was the other day when I told some of you to go fuck yourselves
. . . I was only telling those of you
ignorant recti to do such, and I know the majority of my readers, Dear and
Patient that you are, are not among the lower-colon (ists? Ites?) variety of mankind. Still, to those of you who are, you can all
go fuck yourselves.
The weather
here is smoggy and cold, and I feel a sort of seasonal gloom coming on. Playing my guitar, and the joy I feel when I
do, elevates me above the life I currently live, full of self-doubt and apprehension
and a general sense of is-it-worth-it-ness.
Of course it is, worth it that is, and I do not feel the desire to harm
myself nor any other, not that some of you really even give a Ratzass about all
of that.
The depth
of desire to pick up my guitar from the corner on her stand and play is
actually the yardstick by which I measure my pain. When I am very down; when I feel immersed
with the totality of a Southern baptism; when I am awash with painful pain; I desire the
comfort of Candy less and less. (Candy,
by the way, is my guitar . . .)
I have not
picked her up in weeks.
A lot of
that time was taken by school; finals week was fraught with anxiety and the
rest of the emotions wrought by such important events. There too, was that snowstorm that delayed everything for nearly a week. But now that I can start gearing down for
break I still lack the want or need of playing.
I hope that changes soon. I have
a doc visit at the end of the week; perhaps she can help.
Did I
mention I have a lady physician? I’m not
certain that I did, and I beg forgiveness if I become redundant, or if I repeat
myself, or if I say things over and over and over . . .
I choose
physicians and therapists and all other medical specialists primarily for their
skills and the rapport I have with them.
I try to find a woman in the group, and they are, most of the time, the
most skilled, anyway.
I don’t
mean to come off as sexist, and there is a method to my, er, madness. You see, I learned early on that if I wanted
just one point of view when it came to advice, I could simply rely on my own. Maybe I could look at a problem and find three
or four ways of seeing it; of ascertaining the best of all possible solutions,
and then just taking a leap of faith into the abyss, hoping with all my might
that I am doing the right thing.
Or if I
want someone to just agree with me, to just say you bet, Cunning Fennec Fox,
you sure do know what the fuck, then I’ll just ask another male friend. I’m pretty persuasive when I feel I am right
about something, and I can even convince, most of the time, said male friend to
come around to my point of view, even when we began the exchange with him
standing on the other side of the table.
But
whenever I wanted insight; whenever I needed more than my limited view and the
well-intended yet still sycophantic views of those who would blindly agree with
me, I always sought out the intuition of a woman.
Oh sure,
there are many exceptions to such a generalization, as with all blanket
statements such as that, yet science backs my play.
I have seen
many studies that show the female brain functions on a much grander, more broad field of
play than that of the average man. Men
tend to analyze and grade by known quantifiables and, while this is fine in
some matters of problem-solving, it is the woman to whom I turn in most matters that require alternative thought.
I can
already analyze data with the best of them; I was a diagnostician, after
all. Solving problems via treating the
DDX (differential diagnosis) as some sort of puzzle was my milieu. It was my schtick, man.
A case file was simply a Human Algebra Problem; I had to solve for X and I did so. Anyone, I suppose, could do that.
Ah, but the
female mind. She and her spatial
awareness; the ability to see the waves as well as the sea; to see the nuance
of the foam within the whitecap. I could
tell her within eight feet the distance between point A and point B on the
faceless deep; she could tell me of the beautiful creatures I missed as I pored
over the chart.
So I seek
the special awareness-es of her mind, because She can see through her (heart?)
gut as well. This is a filter through
which I do not photograph my world. Not
so much, anyway. I probably could, but I
would never trust such a . . . feeling.
Not from my own bitter heart. And when it comes to health, don't you want to image the anomaly from every possible angle?
So like it
or not, ladies: I sometimes tend to
group you together by sex alone. Sex . .
. c’mon; you know what I mean. Know what I mean?
All right, enough
about all of that.
I have
lined up the classes for next term, as I touched on so many words ago, and I am
looking forward to the coming term. Of
course I’ll keep you all posted on the progress of my classes.
Please keep
all of the comments coming; I am especially interested in y’all’s views (good
or bad) regarding not only what I said today regarding the Female Mind, but
also my un-scientific survey underway regarding the Grieving of Relationships a
few posts back. In case you are not
aware of this survey, you can go back to the Post dated 11 December 2013, entitled, “What
the Hell is Going On Around Here?” and read all about it.
So shall I let you busy bees be on your way?
Splendid! Until I see
you again, I remain,
Cunning Fennec Fox
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