Cole,
6/7/14:
Hola
a todos!
(Yes this post is late and was written quite a while ago. All I can say is I'm sorry! I'm uploading my own posts now and am having some Apple vs. PC related issues. I think I've finally figured it out though, so yay me!)
Tonight
was a particularly rough night. I
know what made it rough, and though I don’t care to share, and it really wasn’t
a big deal, it was both unfair and discouraging, but then again, when is life ever
“fair”? It was nothing really, yet
I was pissed and affected, and my emotions were probably unwarranted and
slightly over-exaggerated, but that doesn’t change the fact that I felt the way
I felt and that I truly believed that I didn’t need to feel that way, if
certain aspects of the evening were altered. This was almost me at work tonight. Almost:
I
wanted to walk out, tell (almost) everyone, (aside from the “you cool” people)
to fuck off and have a good night, as I bounced and left them screwed, but
that’s not the way I was raised, and it’s not the person that I am. I stuck the night out, and things
certainly got better, but for a solid three or so hours, it was everything I
could do to keep from peacing out and forcing those that were pissing me off to
experience exactly how fucked they would really be if I had decided to leave.
“Douces,
motherfuckers! I’m the fuck out!”
On
my drive home, once I had cheered up a bit and reconciled my emotions, I was
for some reason reminded of what I would consider, one of the most amazing,
encouraging, and just random chance coincidences of awesomeness that I have
experienced to this day…
It
happened about two years ago. It
was summer, and I was living in SLO.
I drove to Von’s to pick up some groceries. The day was warm and breezy. I drove the short distance from my adorable little “cottage”
to the market with the windows rolled down and the music blasting, the way I
usually cruise, when I am alone in my vehicle and the weather is pleasant. I was wearing shredded, loose-fitting
blue jeans, black shit kickers (AKA cowboy boots), and a tank top without a bra
that, in the prudish U.S. might be considered a little risqué, but in France or
Italy wouldn’t be given a second thought, and a black leather belt with my big
ass silver skull belt buckle, and, as I had just recently left my incredible
job at the nuke plant, I was still in the habit of wearing my red and purple
dyed hair in tight little buns down the center of my scalp in what I called a
“faux-hawk”, but what most would probably call a semi mo-hawk, tats blazing in
full-on display. In short, no
shame for who I am. People can
judge all they want. I like
myself!
I
exited my car and started walking toward the market. As I always do my grocery shopping with aviator type
headphones on, listening to Rob Zombie or Social Distortion, I was rocking out,
aviator sun glasses on to match the headphones, and as I was about to approach
the area to grab a cart, I noticed that a somewhat elderly lady and I were
going to cross paths.
I
smiled from ear to ear, pulled my headphones off my head and wrapped them
around my neck, swept my right arm in front of me and out to the right, in an
almost outrageously gracious manner, and said to the lady, “after you” while
simultaneously doing a sort of half courtesy.
She
beamed at me, and replied “No.
After you.” We both just
positively glowed at one another, as I said “no, no. I insist! After
you!” She sort of bowed right back
at me, and then she tilted her head a little to the side and as she thanked me
she couldn’t help but add “you know, you’re the only person I’ve come across
all day with any personality!” I
was fucking floored! What a kick ass
“old” lady!
Needless
to say, on that particular day, that woman, who I will probably never cross
paths with again, made my fucking day!
Hell, she made my fucking month!
But after remembering that insanely awesome moment, on my drive home
from work, I suddenly got sad. I
started wondering if that rad lady had any kids, or grandkids, and if she does,
do they appreciate her and realize how truly awesome she is, or do they take
her for granted, or think she is just average, or in any way unexceptional?
I
just remember thinking about how awesome that random, chance encounter was, and
how it was special because it wasn’t perverse, or outrageous, or ridiculous in
any way, it was just two strangers, being chivalrous to each other, something
that seems to be dead these days.
That
woman didn’t take one look at me and decide to judge me. That woman didn’t take stock of what my
outward appearance was and decide to base her opinion of my character on how I
dressed or how I looked. That
woman took no more than a moment to size me up and decide who I was on the
inside, in nothing more than a manner of seconds. And I can’t deny, that I look the way that I look or dress
the way I dress in order to challenge people, but it’s because I think people
NEED to be challenged! When you go
out of your way to NOT conform to the norm, you find people who deserve your
time and attention, your affections and your admiration. Wake up, people! It’s 2014! Stop judging people on how they look and start judging
people by the way they behave!
I
thought about this woman, and I thought about how wonderful she had made me
feel that day, and how she had made my day, and how I hoped I had also, in some
way, brightened her day. For
whatever reason, we met that day, and we interacted, and then we went our
separate ways, but not without appreciating the other. I will never forget that day. That woman touched my life.
That
woman. That day. Who the fuck knows?! Maybe she was Jesus! All I know is that on that day, she
restored my faith in humanity, and I hope that I will never forget her. And maybe we should start thinking of
Jesus in that way. As some sort of
kick ass, non-judgmental elderly lady with grace, charm, manners, and the
ability to see past a person’s appearance, and instead into what lies within.
I
don’t see that possibility happening anytime soon, however. Perhaps I am too avant-garde for that
sort of positive, free-thinking phenomenon to succeed and advance. It was enough to know that there are
people like her out there. There
are incredibly awesome, non-judgmental, bad ass motherfuckers in the world,
despite their age, race, sexual orientation, or nationality, who have this
incredibly open view as to what is actually “cool” as apposed to what is
society’s standard of acceptable.
I might even say that lady was a rebel for accepting me, but I think it
was something more than that.
Whenever
I am reminded of this lady, and I think of her more often than you might
imagine, I am reminded of a lot of things. She makes me think a lot. Maybe because I envy her. I envy her because I hope that I can be as bad ass and
open-minded as she was that day when I am her age. I certainly would like to think so. In some ways, she makes me think about
the Rapist. Sometimes I wish the
Rapist could be as open and as accepting as that woman was, and hopefully
continues to be.
I
can’t help but think sometimes that the Rapist is still somewhat embarrassed by
me. Not that I think he isn’t
stoked to be seen in public with me, because we do go out, and I know dudes
give him props. But there is
something about him that I can tell is hesitant to introduce me to his friends,
and maybe even his family as well.
He has told me that he’s told one of his sisters about me, and one of
his friends, but that was before our break in April. Maybe since then he’s told them we broke up and I no longer
“exist”.
I
just recently gleaned a little tidbit of information from him. I typically don’t like to ask how
things are going with him at work, now that some people know who he is, because
it’s a delicate situation, but the other night, after a little liquid courage,
I couldn’t help but inquire if most of the people in his department know that
he and I are together. He said
yes. Like the idiot,
testosterone-filled freak that I am, instead of asking him how he felt about
it, I instead asked, out of those people, how many of them gave him props for
banging me and how many made him feel like an asshole. He admitted that he mostly got props,
and I let the discussion go at that.
However, later realizing that not asking him how it might affect his
level of comfort at work was kind of a dick move, I made sure to ask him the
next time I was over. He said that
it sort of sucked at work, and quickly added that I obviously didn’t care, so
why even ask?
That
hurt my feelings a little. I do
care! I love him, so I would never
want to be the cause of any turmoil or discomfort in his life, and I told him
so. I have never wanted to cause
him any kind of pain. I know that
people at work don’t need to
know that he and I are seeing each other, but I also don’t think it should
matter. I think he cares a little
too much about what other people think of him, though perhaps I don’t care
enough about what people think of me?
Nah,
just kidding! That’s stupid. Fuck what other people think of
me! Why in the hell should I care?!!!
I wasn’t put on this world to impress others or to conform to their
narrow-minded, judgmental bullshit.
I was put on this world to be the best possible version of myself. Sometimes I wonder what year it really
is.
We weren’t seeing each other before my
ex and I split, it was just supposed to be a casual sex thing in the beginning
anyway, and it only came out that he and I have been seeing each other
recently, over two years since my ex (who, if you remember, is happily
re-married with a child) and I filed for divorce. Was it “wrong” of me to approach him and hit him up for no
strings attached sex?
Probably. But there was
just something about him that really, really appealed to me. It was supposed to be a “hit it and
quit it” situation, a “fuck N chuck” that no one would ever need to know about,
but, well, we grew on each other.
And he just has the most amazing, gorgeous, perfectly sized and shaped… personality.
What? You were expecting me
to say something else?
Your
brain can’t tell your heart who to love.
We have fun together, we laugh, I love his epic body, his sense of
humor, his smell, the way he “handles” me, and I respect him. Respect, out of all of the things I’ve
mentioned about him, is pretty major in my book. If I don’t respect a man, my body will slowly start to shut
down, and my level of attraction and desire to please will wilt and
crumble. He knows how to behave
with me. Any man smart enough to
figure the “attitude” aspect of being with me gets my respect 100%! Props! I’m a carnivore, baby, and I prey on and eat the weak for
breakfast!
But
I get it. After our last
conversation, I asked the Rapist if he would be comfortable with me finishing
my last (AKA this) post with him in it, and then I would try to refrain from
writing about him. Although I do
want to be a writer, I don’t want to make his work life a living hell, and
besides, I want to write novels. I love writing posts for this blog, and
hope to continue to do so, but I also hope that, although posts for this blog
are primarily about relationships, I can continue to bang out interesting and
cleverly enough written posts to keep any follower gainfully intrigued. Since I care so much about him, I am
willing to compromise, but he has to be willing to compromise with me as
well! Whether that concerns my
writing or our relationship doesn’t really matter, so long as we are equally
willing to budge an equal amount of inches, toward a greater good.
So
while I do feel terrible that I am the cause of a slightly uncomfortable and
hostile work environment, the thing is, if he sees something in me, if he loves
me because he sees not only what I have on the inside in addition to the
outside, what is he so concerned about?
I get the work aspect of it.
I do. My ex and he work in
the same department. My ex has
villianised me. But so what? I’ve spoken about my ex at length. I’m done pointing fingers. I have admitted that he and I both made
huge mistakes in our marriage. We
are both at fault. Who can really
be to blame when one wants to budge one thousand inches and the other not a
single inch? And who is to blame
if we were even to surrender and both budge five hundred inches in each
direction? Neither one of us would
have been happy with such a ridiculous compromise in the battle of the budging
of the inches. It almost comes
without saying, we are each happier without the other. So work is under control, but what
about his friends outside of work and members of his family?
http://youtu.be/5RAQXg0IdfI
There
are a few things that continue to bother me about our relationship, and it
isn’t that I think I’m “hotter” than the Rapist is, it’s just that I think,
publicly, we come off as a bit incongruous as a couple. He is nine years older than I, and is
what I teasingly refer to as a “crabby-ass, middle-aged, conservative white guy
(with no tats, no piercings, etc)”, whereas I am a thirty-year-old,
semi-tatted, liberal, free spirited, somewhat bohemian, semi-offensive looking
vagabond with red and purple dyed hair and a Monroe piercing in my face (among
other piercings). I think at
heart, we are quite similar, but outwardly, we appear to have nothing in
common. I think that for whatever reason,
he likes to conform, whereas I like to rebel.
http://youtu.be/OHTsFqbXJ0E
“Why
stand on a silent platform? Fight
the war. Fuck the norm!”
He
likes to keep the peace, and I want to be a revolutionary. And I’m fine with all that. Hell, opposites attract! But while I have no problem whatsoever
dealing with our differences, I think our differences might just rub him the
wrong the way, a way that keeps him from wanting to introduce me to his close
friends and family. The thing that
bugs me though, is that if he sees something special in me, the way that lady
did outside of Von’s that one day, why doesn’t he think others in his social
network will as well? Why is he so
scared of judgment?
Does
he think so highly of himself that being seen with the likes of me will in some
way tarnish his uptight, “conservative” image? And if so, why even continue to play this stupid game at
all? Why not just cut ties and be
done with me? Oh, because he
doesn’t want to be done with me.
Because he loves me, even if he doesn’t want to scream it from the
rooftops. This outwardly offensive
cunt of a girlfriend is less uptight and more resilient, more capable of taking
a blow to the ego and bouncing back up and dusting herself off. He looks so pristine and nothing is
ever out of place when it comes to him, and I look so inept and “trashy”, but
which of us knows more about the world?
Who has spent more time abroad (military service aside)? Which of us is more experienced, more
educated? Who knows more about the
English language, or else languages in general? Who knows more about food, wine, world events, local events,
or even his own dog’s fucking bowel movements? That’s right.
Me. So I must ask myself,
in all reality; should he be the one embarrassed to be with me, or should it be
the other way around? This snobby,
middle-aged, white guy has a pretty edgy, punk rock, cute and younger
girlfriend who has had some awesome experiences in her life, isn’t a bimbo, and
actually knows quite a bit about a lot of various things. Hell, I can even re-tile his kitchen
floor if he’d like! Shouldn’t he
be stoked on me? Why do I
sometimes feel otherwise?
“When
I open my mouth I’m so brutally honest, and I can’t expect that kind of love
from you. When you open your mouth
your teeth are beautifully polished…”
Love that song!
If
he doesn’t want to be with a girl who wants to be somewhat of a rebel, a
revolutionary in some aspects, he should have never fucked (with) me in the
first place, and he certainly shouldn’t keep me in his life. If I’m so freaking toxic, why am I
still around? My pussy,
perhaps? But we aren’t just “fuck
buddies” anymore, and we have been far more than just that for a long
time. He actually loves me, or we wouldn’t be spending nearly as much time
together as we do, and believe me, I’m the one “pestering” him for sex, not the
other way around! He “gets it” as
often as he can get it up, and when “it” isn’t already up, I make sure he gets
it up! But whatever. If he wants someone more acceptable and
appropriate to introduce to his family, he can find another mediocre looking,
docile, “middle-aged” lady with an average personality, who doesn’t make him
laugh, can’t cook for shit, doesn’t intrigue him, doesn’t challenge him, and
just wants to dote on him and be his needy, subservient bitch, who spends all
his money. I just hope he isn’t
surprised when she isn’t in the “mood” several times a week. Meanwhile, he’ll be missing me, and the
fact that half the time he doesn’t even bother anymore to make sure I’m awake
yet in the morning before he climbs on top of me and is half way in me before I’m blinking the sleep out of my eyes
and uttering an already orgasmic “buenos días, guapo” with my head thrown back
and a huge spread smile across my lips.
At
least at the end of the day I can say that I love, and can even somewhat admire
myself, for some of the things I’ve accomplished in my life as of yet. (I think
jumping out of a plane is the scariest thing a person could do, and I will
never do it. On the other hand,
people have told me that going to live in two separate foreign countries, alone, just to learn a foreign language, alone, is far scarier. It’s funny, when I think about it. “Hey Cole, you wanna jump out of a plane?” “Naw, I’m going to peace out and live
in France for a year”. It’s all a
matter of perspective and personality, I guess…). I obviously still have a lot of work to do, and am still
struggling to overcome some setbacks, but I never said I was done working on
myself! I hope I’m never
done! I’m a work in progress, and
I always will be. Is he capable of
the same sentiments, or does he punish me, in order to come across as
superior?
He
has verbalized to me more often than not, that if he doesn’t treat me somewhat
like shit, I won’t respect him.
But is that his only weapon against me? Is he fighting with low blows and back-stabbing voodoo
because he knows he can’t face me, look me in the eyes, and go blow to
blow? I think he fights me with
low browed, under-minded bullshit because he knows, in reality, if it came down
to a battle of the wits, or of worthy exchanges, physical or verbal, he knows
he would lose. So all he can
really bring to the table, if he wants to keep it as nothing more than a battle,
as apposed to an actual, functioning relationship, is his cock to fight for
him. For two years or so, that was
all it would have took. But things
have changed. I can strike a
rooster down with a single blow.
Yawn. I’m looking for a
little more now, and a pompous chicken with balls is not respectable.
I want a man, not a creature.
Nut up or shut up. I’m too
old for petty games, and at 39, I would think the Rapist would be as well. Games exhaust me.
I’d rather read in bed with my puppy than wonder what is going on in my
current relationship. At least
novels follow a pattern. I’ve
decided I’m too old for ambiguity.
Get to the plot already!
I’m bored.
Some
days, not all days, but some days, he makes me feel like he doesn’t care about
me at all, but I know it’s just a part of his scheme. He knows he can’t let me know how much he truly cares about
me, or I’d lose respect for him.
The thing is, after over two years, the fact that I’m still crazy about
him should count for something.
I’m totally, ridiculously infatuated with him, and the fact that he
knows that and uses and abuses that fact to his advantage isn’t fair at
all! When he is being a dick on
purpose, I try to remember that even though I may not be the highlight of his
day, I’m the highlight of someone’s day, even if I don’t even know that person
exists. I think this is something
any reader of this blog should realize.
Even if you think the highlight of your day doesn’t know you exist, keep
your head up, because no matter what you might think, without your even knowing
it, you are the highlight to someone’s day, and that is meaningful, and
powerful, even if the circumstances aren’t the best. Just know that somewhere, in your daily commute or even at
work, someone you cross paths with thinks that seeing you or conversing with
you is the BEST part of their day!
http://youtu.be/Rhpb0dEiUWI
Luckily
for me, I’ve come to a pretty bad-ass new attitude or conclusion about it
all. At least for now. In another week, my mind could change
again entirely, but that’s just the way I am. My mind spins as rapidly as the wheels on my car, and I am
an unapologetic speeder! Let me
pass you or get the fuck out of my way!
Sunday cruising is not for me.
I want the adrenaline.
I’ve
decided that while yes, I will ask for what I want, and I still won’t abuse the
privilege, and won’t be deterred when I don’t receive the exact answer I’m
looking for, I’m not going to stress over what is going on in our relationship
anymore. I’m just going to take it
one day at a time. Why take
everything so seriously? Sometimes
I seem to forget that Henry Miller is my favorite author of all time. He said “life is a joke, not a
tragedy.” And he’s absolutely
right! Why am I allowing this love
situation to drive me crazy? That
isn’t even who I am as a person, for fuck sake! The Rapist loves me.
I love him. So what the
fuck?!
Who
cares if he doesn’t want me to meet his family? I’m scared as fuck to meet them anyway! It isn’t because I don’t think I could
“impress” them. I know I
could. I know who I am. But why even stress over it? Why have I all of the sudden wanted to
define our relationship, when a year or two ago, the need or desire to define
any thing in any way, shape, or form, both exhausted and nauseated me?! Whatever happened to just having
fun? A year ago, all I wanted with
the Rapist was to just be able to grab a beer at a bar together, in public,
without fear of being discovered and chased with sticks. So now that we can actually be
together, and we can, and do, drink beers together, in public, and aren’t being
chased with sticks, do I think I need to force this relationship into being
more serious than it actually needs to be? Am I really that insatiable? Will I always be demanding more once the next step is
achieved? Fuck! That’s insanity! No need to buy the cart before the
horse.
If
I am truly happy with the Rapist and the way things are going between us, why
must I always ask for more? When,
if ever, will it be enough? And
then once it is “enough”, will I be over it? Am I nothing more than an animal? Some sort of nocturnal beast whose only desire is to feed
until it’s had its fill and then goes looking for its next victim? I think that is who I was before, but
with the Rapist, things are different.
I honestly don’t think I could ever have my “fill” of him, and that is
mind blowing, terrifying, and exciting! Could it be that I’ve actually found
someone who could make me happy?
I
think I have. I only hope he feels
the same way about me…
