The
following post is the second half of Cole's post from 6/19/13. Some of
the information may be a little behind the time but the information will
always be relevant. I recommend going back a re-reading Cole's last
post so that you are tuned in before you start to read this one.
(Cole)
Marge goes out on dates
with men hoping to hit it off, looking for a distraction, and ultimately to
replace Turtle, but in her mind she is not ready for someone to replace turtle
because he is her “ideal mate”. I’m
not exactly sure that rapist is my “ideal”, but I do love him, I do want him,
and I’m not sure it’s fair to date this other guy when, in reality, I would
still rather be with rapist. I
guess the grass is always greener on the other side, and I should calm down,
shut the hell up, and take things one day at a time, accept things as they are,
and stop stressing over someone who didn’t really ever want to “be” with me in
the first place. The problem is,
we are still speaking, which sort of leads into why my life has been somewhat
terrible the past week.
Rapist and I may be
speaking now, but we didn’t for close to a week. The reason we weren’t speaking was because, in addition to
saying some really nasty things to him (for example: “you’re a complete, conceited
fucking asshole, but good for you.
You’re so fucking shallow you need ‘no diving’ signs around your placid,
mundane, tragic existence!”), I also told him that I was dating. I described the carpenter to him, and
held nothing back about how attractive I found him, how I had met him the year
previous, and that I would continue to date other people unless he was willing
to submit to my terms. To put
things simply, none of what I had to say had gone over well. But no matter how much I have pissed
rapist off in the past, and believe me, I have plenty of times, he could never
stay mad at me for more than a day, nor could he go without speaking to me,
even if it was in a stern, reprimanding, angry sort of way (which I always
found incredibly sexy!).
Well, Saturday was my
forth date with the carpenter. I
awoke with my stomach in knots, engulfed with anxiety. Those who know me know that I do tend
to struggle with anxiety, from time to time. The thing is, I wasn’t stressing over the carpenter,
necessarily, I was stressing over what rapist would do if he found out I was
going on yet another date with the carpenter, even though rapist wasn’t even
speaking with me. My mind was all
over the place because the thing is, I’m torn (between the two). Now that I’ve gotten to know the
carpenter a little better, I like him.
He’s fun, we have a great time, he’s funny, sweet, attractive, but with
a bit of a naughty streak. I guess
the only thing I don’t like about him is that he’s not rapist. That, and the fact that he doesn’t
read, but I’ll get into that in a bit…
I just couldn’t wrap my
head around the fact that even though rapist and I weren’t speaking, I was
stressing over him big time. Lucky
for me Marge finally returned
from a hair cut and Cost-Co run with Wednesday Adams to save the day, and in
the meantime, I had decided to subdue my anxiety by cracking a pint.
There are many, many
reasons why Marge and I became friends, but I think one of the most important
reasons is the fact that we can bounce ideas, emotions, thoughts, and theories
off of each other without fear of being judged. In fact, she had conjured up a theory on my predicament on
the way up the grade, and I was eager to hear it. It went something like this:
Marge: You like ‘the
carpenter’, right?
Me: Yes.
Marge: He’s nice to look
at?
Me: YES!
Marge: He’s a nice man?
Me: Yes.
Marge: You think he’s afraid of you?
Me: Yes.
Marge: I think you’re afraid he doesn’t have
any throw down, that he’s scared to dish it out the way you want it.
Me: Yes.
Marge: Once you know what
you like, it’s difficult to settle for anything else, isn’t it?
Me: ‘sigh’… Yes…
I guess in a way, Marge
was “hinting” at the fact that someone who is afraid of me wouldn’t have the courage to deliver what I
really need in a relationship
(Martychyst), and that if I didn’t get what I needed, and if I knew someone was
afraid of me, I wouldn’t exactly respect him (martychyst again). I respected rapist. Rapist knew what I wanted, knew exactly
how to handle me, (in the sack and out of it) and he rarely put up with my
shit, wasn’t afraid to put me in my place. He knew I didn’t exactly fear him, in fact, far from it, but it was sort of a
part of “the game”, part of the excitement, part of why we got along so well,
apart from our obvious issues. The
trouble with the carpenter is, if he can’t man up and earn my respect pretty
early on, he’ll never earn it, and that will be detrimental to the health of
our future relationship, should we both decide we want one.
And now onto the next and
final phase of this post (I swear!
Sorry it’s so damn long.
Making up for last week, I suppose…). I do the facebook thing. Those of you who do facebook know that you can have both a
profile picture and a “cover photo”, should you so choose. For a really long time my cover photo
was a picture of an older gentleman with shelves upon shelves of books behind
him and there was a quote on the photo that read “We need to make books cool
again. If you go home with someone
and they don’t have books, don’t fuck them.”
I am a reader. I always have been, and I hope to fuck
that I always will be. Reading
excites me, stimulates me, sometimes arouses me, but mostly I just really enjoy
it and prefer if my friends and lovers enjoy reading as well. I find intelligence an incredibly
attractive and sexy trait, so long as you’re not so intelligent it stunts your
common sense and makes you an idiot savant (Martychyst yet again, sigh…). I only just recently changed my cover
photo, (to Steve Buscemi, in Reservoir Dogs, playing the world’s smallest
violin) but a conversation with Marge and Wednesday Addams about annoying,
grammatically incorrectly text messages that say things like “b4” instead of
“before” and the like, it brought to my attention something about the carpenter
and I, and our more than obvious differences.
Aside from the fact that
he doesn’t read, he really only appeals to the “white trash” side of me, while
I have this complete other “cultured” side of me that he will never relate
to. I mean, while I don’t doubt
that he would be incredibly respectful and gentlemanly in a restaurant
situation, can I take him to a four star restaurant, order several courses, do
the champagne, wine and espresso thing, and then go to an opera with him? I don’t really know. Probably, but I doubt he would enjoy
it, and the last thing I would want is to force someone to endure something
they had no desire to endure. I
hate when people do that to me! Is
it too much to ask for someone to be into the same things I am into? Should I stop seeking everything I want
in one man and just expect him to fill a handful of the “requirements” I would
like him to, and hope that my friends will fill the rest? Am I asking too much?
Probably, but I am a
woman, after all. Isn’t that what
women do? And at the same time, I
know that rapist is just as capable to dress up in a suit or tux and do the
fine dining thing, could clean up just as well as he could appeal to my “good
ol’ boy” side, the side that wants to ride dirt bikes, shoot pool, shoot guns,
shoot whiskey, and drink ghetto beer at the lake. I suppose I’ve gotten off track though. Back to reading, blatantly terrible grammar, and horrifying text messages…
As Marge, Wednesday, and I
were chatting about how much we HATE when people send us “lazy texts” or texts
that are just wrong, confusing, grammatically incorrect and should never be
sent, I happened to mention some of the things the carpenter has said to me
throughout our text exchanges...
DISCLAIMER!
WHAT I AM ABOUT TO SAY IS
NOT MEANT TO BE RUDE. I AM JUST BEING HONEST!
So, the three of us ladies
started talking, and, well, I basically couldn’t hold back something that had
bothered me about the carpenter.
Don’t get me wrong, I think he is great, but, sometimes people text
things that you wish they wouldn’t.
What he texted me made me want to throw my phone out the window and
scour my eyes with bleach.
It happened shortly before
he went to bed, and it read “I’m getting ready to hit the sackaroo.” In case you didn’t catch that, a
thirty-year-old man texted me the non-existent word ‘sackaroo’!
Oh my god! Ick! In my humble opinion, it only acceptable time to speak like
this is to a child under the age of about six or seven! In his defense, he does
not speak like this at all, but
some of his texts can be somewhat childlike. I blame his nervousness, but it doesn’t change the fact that
he texted it, and what has been texted cannot be un-texted, once a certain
“message” has been sent…
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