Dial Tone

How on Earth did we ever reach this point in life? People deserve better than me, and I need something else in my life. I'm incredibly empty right now. DIAL TONE. DISCONNECT.

There was a life somewhere back there, that I somehow missed the turn for. I look back along the road and I can't figure out where I missed the fork and ended up here. DIAL TONE. DISCONNECT.

I was almost happy once. And then out of the blue, for whatever reason, things changed. I missed the shortcut to the relatively happy door, and ended up outside in the cold, looking in, wondering where I'd wandered off of the path. DIAL TONE. DISCONNECT.

"Whatever you do, don't let them get this letter when they come. Make sure it gets mailed before they find it." The desert, the dust, the heat. Silver flashing, pain slamming deep into my arm, then numb. Looking down, tendons open to the dry night air. Moving. Terminaor flash back. Fuck this. Find a towel. Driving through the desert, blood loss taking its toll, the car sliding sideways, almost rolling. DIAL TONE. DISCONNECT.

Faced death. Been there, done that. Father died a week after moving to Houston. Middle of Lowes. Phone call. Shock hitting. sitting down in the middle of the aisle. No tears. Nothing. Just a picture of my dad, unable to get one more breath. Falling over. The doorbell ringing. Too Late, Too late. He was fucking dying awhile someone came to visit him, only he didn't answer the door. He couldn't, because he was dying. My mom wasnt' there. My Mom and first son enroute to Houston from Albuquerque. They were on the way to see me when he died, alone. I gave the eulogy. No Tears. He fucking died. What is left to say? Is there anything I can say to bring him back? No - just to ease the pain of these simpering idiots that put in an appearance at the funeral. DIAL TONE. DISCONNECT.

In one two minute explosion of emotion, I finally loosed the grief in a storm of agony, six months after he died. That was it. Nothing else. One little explosion of anguish, and then silence. Nothing to say. DIAL TONE,. DISCONNECT.

I hate where I am, who I am, my life. And no one is close enough to me to even begin throwing a lifeline, much less saving me. I built the fucking walls too high, too deep, too strong. I did that after someone got in. Got in and never appreciated what she'd accomplished. Burned me. Left me for dead. So I rebuilt the walls. No one gets in now. NO ONE. But then, there's no one strong enough to find the door to get in and save me. So it goes. It's what I do. Survive. No happiness, no love, just alive. Life support. Not brain dead, emotionally dead. No one left to break down the walls and free me. No one left even to show mercy and pull the fucking plug. This is me. Its what I am.


Michael

A Cry in the Night

I'm rapidly approaching that time of year. On the good side - its Renaissance. My eight weekends to escape from the doldrums of my every day life. On the bad side - October. Anniversary of my death in the desert. The one that should have been. I'm totally without connection to any of my friends here in Otherland. This summer has been oh so busy, and bizarre, that I have basically lost touch with anyone who meant anything to me in this Fantasy other place here online.
As for IRL - no friends there to lose. LOL. Try that little dichotomy on for size. I know there's a few readers still checking in. Most of those from the Barmaid Blog - for some odd reason, as she's grown more popular, and updated her links, she's never dropped me, and to this day I still get a lot of new traffic from there. Go figure. Mebbe she's just one of the loyal ones. Of course, she's 3/4 of a country away. heh heh.

Yeah, yeah. Just another could have been a nice time blown by Michael's mouth. No issue there. It will never happen any other way.

So here's to you all, and here's to hoping your October turns out better than mine - just another anniversary of a failed suicide attempt in the dark of night in the middle of the desert.

Dream Well
Michael

Missing Anniversary

This post made One Year on August 15th, and I was so damn busy that I missed the fireworks. I'm still busy, so as my anniversary gift to my readers, I'd like to repost one of my most open, honest, and dark posts. The story of the night I died. Or should have. You'll want to keep the children away from this one.......

The Straw That Broke the Camel's Back

This particular entry is dark and somewhat – well – you might want to skip this one if you’re squeamish or have a weak stomach.

This time of year is Fantastic, Busy, Packed, Happy, Sad, Haunted, Threatening, and Hopeful, all rolled into one for me. Work always gets busy at this time of year. Construction projects start about now so they can place the concrete in bad weather but won’t have the risk of so much bad weather when they get to the finishes inside the buildings. Playtime gets really busy this time of year, too. For the next 7 weekends (and this past weekend) the Texas Renaissance Faire runs, and that means I get to dress up every weekend, exit my normal life entirely, and become a simple Renaissance Shopkeeper at one of the largest fairs in the United States. So basically, I am working seven days a week for eight weeks straight without a day off. Add four total hours of travel time to and from the fair, and my life gets pretty packed in short order. When I’m not doing that, it’s football season. Those are things that I look forward to in life. Simple things, actually. I’m pretty much easy to please.

Cut to the Month of October, 1985. Sophomore in College. Honors Student that basically tested out of my entire Freshmen Year before I ever sat foot on a college campus. Fall of 1985 – The stress of classes that I truly wasn’t ready for, and skipping classes, and problems with women still handcuffing me emotionally, and I was starting a increasingly steep and uncontrollable slide straight to hell. Do not pass go, do not collect $200.00. Toss some drugs in the mix in October.

Watch from above, like an eagle, as I pop two percodan to prep for the pain. Watch me lean toward my roommate, hand him an envelope, and tell him to make sure that they don’t get that later. Look down in judgment as I climb into my car, drive 10 miles into the eerily moonlit desert. Watch me get out, sit down on the edge of the dirt road. Wait, don’t go yet. Watch the moonlight highlight the razor as I pull it out.

No, don’t go yet. Don’t miss the tip of the razor blade entering the top of the wrist. This is better than Halloween. More Gory than Freddie and his glove. Look close as I rip that razor back towards my elbow. Oh no, no weak ass carving a notch across the top of the wrist here. Fuck no! Watch as the skin tension in the forearm suddenly yanks the open edges of my forearm skin back all the way to the bone on either side. Watch me as I look down in shock, and beginning panic, as I move my hand, and like the old Terminator movies, I see every ligament, tendon, and remaining muscle in my arm sliding back and forth.

I was lucky that night. Had my arm simply bled out, with little pain, I would have been dead that fateful evening. But when I looked down and saw crap moving in my wrist, I totally freaked out. I headed for the hospital, already disoriented from blood loss.
October was never a good month for me for a long, long time after that.

It’s a threatening time because Christmas is on us, and you’re already worried about enough money for the kids present, and the Sigo’s. It’s hopeful, because the New Year is coming, and no matter how jaded, cynical, and sarcastic I may become in life, the New Year will always symbolize at least a hope for a better beginning, for a step up the food chain, for something really fantastic to come along to make up for your suffering.

Michael

Weather Report - Erin and Dean Come-a-visiting

Phrase of the Day – If you can’t do it right the first time, don’t take up Skydiving.

So here’s the weather update – Current Computer Modeling has Houston taking a direct hit on 1 of the five models, and on the “Wet Side” on another one of the models. SWEET!

As an aside, Tropical Storm Erin made landfall and headed straight over San Antonio on her way to parts West. Unfortunately, she was training in moisture from the gulf (you’ll see it as a band of clouds, water vapor, and rain looping into the center of a storm, if you look at a satellite photo). So it was Thunder and Rain Alley all day long yesterday here in Big H. Flooding and highway shutdowns. Its good in a minor way, because after the rain stopped two weeks ago, the heat index has been between 100 and 110 degrees that whole time. So we’re at a balmy 84 for a high. It’s really bad, though, because we expect to get rain through Monday from the remnants of Erin, meaning the ground will be close to saturation in terms of soaking up water just in time for Dean, if he decides to make landfall anywhere near here. Dean also means evacuation, if he heads this way. I spent 29 hours on the road evacuating for Rita (which made a last minute turn and missed our dinner date), and during that 29 hours, I only made it from South Houston to 15 Miles north of Greater Houston – usually a 45 minute trip where I live. I don’t want to wish it on anyone else, but I have to tell you that I don’t want to see it going through here, either. Greater Houston Metroplex is the 4^th largest city in the US – and would be a nightmare to evacuate.

But we have about a week. If it does hit here next week, you’ll be hearing it on the evening news. God knows if it does, there’ll be no innernets, as the ‘chick would say, for no telling how long. Until then,

Dream Well, Michael

Dealin wit' it

Oh good Lord be with me, the Beast is stalkin' tonight. There's a huge gaping hole in my gut tonight. Dark. Empty. Reeking of the grave. The putrid essence of decay, of death, prolonged and dyin'. Like an empty grave, waitin' on a soul, it carves me to the marrow, that emptiness, that rotting stench of death warmed over. It cleaves my soul, this loneliness, this empty basket, knowing nothing this side of death can fill the blank void of my soul. It's almost a year since this journey began, and as I come full circle, I find that nothing, indeed, has changed, or been solved. There is a piece missing in me. My greatest fear is that I'm Harold Lauder, the Prince of Darkness, temporarily absolved but never forgiven, an example for the Walkin'Dude. I knew in my heart that tonight, the epiphany, the answer to all questions, but when all of the questions have been asked, I'm still alone in my nightmare of empty discontent.There is a hole in me, a flaw, that will never be riven, never be forgiven never be healed. I walk upon this earth, an empty caricature of the foolishness of man. I could never die by my own hand, not ever, ever, again, but in my mind, I wish I could die tonight, to release the endless pain, the sorrow, the emptiness, the loss of any friend that I could ever spill my guts to. You, my loyal readers, will never know whatit is like, not haveng a single person in your entire life that you can spill everything to without fear of reprisal, or shame, or judgment. But that is the fate I find myself bound to. An endless search for someone who will find me attractive for how I am, not who they want me to be. Do you have any clue at all what I have given up, knowing that the things that did the most for me were outside the boundaries, unattainable, and a dangerous pipe dream
of a simple, naive, retard? For that is what I am, when it all comes down to it. A retard. A genetic defect. A smudge upon the cleanliness of a New world. Verily have ye found the stain within ye, and purged it out.God forgiveth sin, but he does not forgive naivite, because, when it comes down to it, God doesn't give a flying shit about a rolling donut for those who don't meet his standards. The meek shall inherit the Earth, but that doesn't apply to those weaklings amoung us who don't deal his word like an ace high flush in a poker game. God could give a shit about those that don't fulfill his holier than thou proverbs.
That leaves the rest of us sucking hind tit on the holy goat. Always the bridesmaid, but never the bride. He is real good in his infinite wisdom. He'll suck the life out of you in your "holy matrimony" but at the same time he'll skew the fukkin deck when it comes to reaching fulfillment elsewhere.
Yeah, The Holy Beast is stalking tonight, selectng his kill, and ripping the life and hope out of those who have nowwhere else to turn.
Sweet dreams, to those of you who don't make the fekken cut. Your sacrifice, your sorrow, is but the foundation for the rest of the world's new hope.

Mike

To Whom It May Concern

I'm alive. Work is a bitch. The Beast is prowling. Once work gets cooled down, I'll be back to regular posting. Until then......... Dream Well.

Michael

Solitary Confinement

Still in solitary. But it seems one of the warden's little bitches got taken by the Three Amigos awhile back, so instead of the evening meal tonight, I got a laptop slid through the little slot in the door. No internet access, but it has a word processor, so I have a few seconds to send a little message, along with the instructions on how to send this post.
I have no way of knowing, at this point, whether Booger managed an email or not, but I'm seriously doubting it. So the summary of what happened.... we left our hero with an open cell door, and many minutes for kindly visitors to stop by and take a piece of rookie ass for free. Didn't happen. I sort of had a blackout in the middle of it, and don't remember much, but, call me what you will, I like to retain control of the one way traffic out my ass. Call me a damn traffic cop, but this is a one way street as far as you are concerned, fellas, and I feel somewhat strongly about that, even more so when I haven't had alcoholic drink one. I suppose a shot of X would grease the particular skids in question, or so I've heard, but that's probably the one non injectable drug that I didn't get the opportunity to try.
So I freaked. I'm a little guy, and don't fight, but damn it all, you better kill me, cause when I get out of the hospital I'm well and truly going to ruin you permanently.
I came to my senses with Booger standing over me, three pummeled bad asses surrounding me, and all kinds of guards looking through the damn bars in amazement, wondering how I'd managed to smuggle a couple of bats and a wood axe into my cell to create the damage on these poor souls.
I couldn't tell you. Neither could anyone else, cause Booger ain't a real good story teller, if you know what I mean.
So they tossed me in solitary. With the "attempt to maim" charge suddenly making so much more sense to most of the prison employees. But it made an impression on some folks, I guess. more corruption in the system. But I'm getting out soon. And there have been notes stuffed in the mashed potatoes of who to contact when I get out.
I'm pretty much employed for life, once I'm outta this hole.

If I could only remember what I did to those punks..........

Michael

In Dem Kuuler day 2

Yes, my loyel posse, I surfived the nite with my rektm, my ass intact. Unforchenitly, the aktuns I tuk, got me in soliterry fuk it. Mike wint syko and wupped da chit out of all dem stoopid biches. Now him in da kuuler, and I, him cell buddy, gotta try un type dis stoopid chit for em, cuz now I oh him one, and he caynt git out of dem kuuler to do dis stoopid chit. He say, Booger, yu gotta tellem my posse dat I made it. Goddam it hard enough tiiping in dis web address hoo hoo, now I gotta try and pass dat meesseg to him posse. Dis aynt workin so good, gotcha? I spell pretty gud, was smartest fello in Hokachie, Texes, but him tok too much hi falootin bull pukky for me. Ifn I dident oh him 1, i tellem get yur stoopid ass out of Kuuler and tiip this chit yerself, collej boy. But dem boys was gonna tayk turns on Booger after they rip newby Mike a new assho, and he dun sav my po Booger ass, so nows i goottah do dis chit for him. I's supposed to siine dis chit, 2, but him gonnah hav 2 deel wit it. Booger.

Incarcerated - Day 1

Things didn't really work out as well as I expected. Apparently, the wheels of justice only grind long and slow if you are a hardened criminal. If you are a first offender with nothing more on your record than your last ticket for not coming to a full stop at a stop sign back in 1994, you are apparently qualified for the Jet Stream Processing at the City Lock Up. No sooner than the word came down from the Powers that be at the University of Houston that they took offense at the beating of one of their anger management psychologists, than the Houston Police Department showed up at my office with some handy little paperwork in triplicate, and a single pair of hinged handcuffs. THEY had no anxiety and experienced no traumatic disorder at the thought of me beating the shit out of one of them. In fact, it was immediately apparent that this isn't the first time that the anger management professor/guru/victim waiting to happen had been beaten by an enraged student. Apparently, this happens frequently enough that the skids through processing are already greased.
The HPD has reached a new level of technology. They no longer have to use the ink for finger prints. Just place your hands and palms flat against the little window on the machine there, if you please sir. No sir, try and sort of place them inside the outlines of the hands on the glass there. Much better. No sir, please don't tuck your thumb underneath. You what? My apologies, sir. I wasn't aware that you were missing a left thumb. >>Clearly the stupid MF wasn't aware of the magnetic plate holding the top of my skull together, as he leaned forward with his cell phone in one pocket and his little flash disk hanging from his flash disk necklace - you know the ones. Its the in style now to have your flash drive swinging back and forth over your shirt. He'll think twice about wearing it that way again once he tries to pull all of the fingerprint data that he's collected today off that magnetically garbled disk, or tries to pull his 250 person contact list off his damn cell phone.<<
I suppose I should thank all of the bleeding heart liberals for the position I'm in right now. As an incarcerated convict, I'm not only guaranteed the right to an hour of exercise a day (Paris Hilton notwithstanding), I'm also entitled to three square meals a day at the taxpayers expense and one hour of free internet access - which the general public pays monthly for. I'm here for a guaranteed six weeks. As the perpetrator of an assault with intent to maim >>Someone tell me how my public defender let THAT one sneak through without a fight<< I'm not entitled to stay in the White Collar Crime block. No, I get to spend my six weeks in D Block with the other similarly violent offenders. Actually, I'm fucking terrified, but I can't afford to let any of these brainless brutes know it. But my time is up. They're coming to escort me back to my cell, where I'll be allowed a minimum of 30 minutes "limited visitation" with cell doors open to better get to know my fellow convicts. Just long enough for the three pricks that I looked wrong at when I sat down to eat today, to enter my cell and do whatever the hell it is they're going to do to me before they lock us down. My cellmate here doesn't exactly get any positive votes from me, either. I rather expect that he'll be joining in the festivities rather than prevent them. Or he'll look the other way, biding his time until the moment I drop off to sleep before making a move of his own. I'm not very big, physically, and I didn't have weeks to build up for this coming crisis at the gym, due to Speedy and efficient justice. It's going to be a long night, and one that I may not make it through.

Other Issues

I have major issues with friends at this point in time. Or folks that I believed were friends. Friends that look for excuses to bail and do exactly the opposite of what they say they are going to. I have to believe that, at this point in time, that I am just about the most naive MF in the world, because for some reason I keep believing that the standards I hold my self to for friendship and otherwise are something that others should be able to reach. Turns out that is a load of childish fantasy, as evidently I am the only one that can live up to my own friendship standards.
People say they're buddies. Yet they will turn the other way as you drop off the face of the earth without a trace, and never once look to see that you've fallen over the edge.
People say they're with you through thick and thin, and yet the first time you challenge something in their world view, they'll brush you out of their sorry little lives without a second thought, on the slim excuse that you just don't fit in anymore.
People say that they're tolerant of their friends shortcomings, yet a single email is enough to send them fleeing for the nearest doorway, without even the common courtesy of explaining why you are no longer worthy of their neurotic little world view.
Yeah, I'm the naive dumbass here, because loyalty and brotherhood have always been tops on my list. Evidently, the military had too much of an influence on me in these matters, because in the Enclosed little world of the average civilian - Civvy's for short, loyalty means less than the fake friendship that they wipe their sorry little asses with.

Anger Management

Today isn't a real good day. For a long time, I've had anger issues. My fuse has made short look like the longest yard. After a long time, I decided that maybe a little help was in order. So I signed up for the Anger Management Class at the Houston University Department of Psychology.
I showed up for the first class, brand new books in hand, hoping to find a solution to my dilemma. The first class in the curriculum, it seems, is group therapy. I sat and listened to 15 of the same stupid mF's that drive me nuts every day whine about how the world angers them, and how they feel they need to be empowered to resolve that dilemma without resorting to a temper tantrum.
Jesus God, by the time I got up for my turn, I was ready to kill every one of the whining little bitches.
Each face became a mask as I explained my morning commute, and why each and every road rage incident on my way to work made me want to get out and beat the shit out of the loser drivers in front of me.
They started to move away when I explained that walking in the door to a house full of defiant 6 and 4 year olds, whining like babies and throwing tantrums like a spoiled little three year old made me really wish that I could beat the little attitude out of their smart ass little butts.
The class basically cleared out as I explained to them that someday, my boss and I were going to get into it, and only one of us was going to walk away, whether he was born and raised in South Philly or not.
The Instructor decided to pull an intervention at this point. He asked me to turn to Chapter 3 of Required Course Curriculum Book Number Two, and read out loud the first three paragraphs of the chapter. I counted to three and pulled out the book, taking my time finding the reference as I used the interlude to calm down. Then I started reading aloud,
"Anger is the outlet that subjects with poor self image use to empower......"
That stupid cocksucker was empowered enough to withstand three full roundhouse punches before he hit the ground, looking for a straw to insert into his shattered nose, so he could breathe. I guess he wanted to empower his shnoz to live and breath through the beating, to better improve its worthless self image.
Unfortunately for me, the rest of the empowered little cocksuckers called security. So today isn't a really good day, as I wait to determine whether or not the University will side with him, empowering him to press charges with the Houston Police Department.

Holding my breath, Michael

Define This.........

Michael -- [noun]: A poltergeist sent back in time to change the course of history forever 'How will you be defined in the dictionary?' at QuizGalaxy.com

Now That's Funny, I don't care WHO you are........

Michael


Thanks for the freebie post, chick!

Faces of Death

Despite everyone's best intentions, my regulars really read this blog because they feel the connection with my fight with the Beast. Folks don't come to this blog for humor. They have MIST, and Q, for that. Folks don't come to this blog for a twist on daily reality. They have Mac and Fringes for that. Folks don't even come to this blog for tech updates. Gyuss covers all of those with a professionalism far beyond a tech reporter. They don't come here for the Restaurant/bar update. BD, The Barmaid, and Waiter Rant have totally got that covered. (And yes, BD, I'm one of your three regulars and I do put you on the same high level as Debra and the Waiter.)
People come here for the same reason they watch Nascar and read Susan and Kristina's blog. Folks visit here because they have homo sapiens deep ingrained need to watch a train wreck as it happens. The real thrill of watching racing is the off chance that someone eats it against a wall, or explodes in a spectacular fashion. They go because, there's a chance, if they are near, that they'll be an eyewitness to the train wreck, or be one of those fans that catch the free flying tire that bursts through the chain link fence will take them out, severing their head from their body.
Homo Sapiens has always had a singularly eccentric problem. If there is trouble,rather than running the other way, we'll be crowding the police line, hoping to catch a glimpse of the gore and death.
Nothing makes us feel more alive than straddling that thin line, adrenaline pumping through our veins, knowing that a single mistake will make us the object of the next crowd's entertainment.
Homo Sapiens has at least one inherent flaw. Our thirst for an adrenaline high supercedes our built in survivor instinct. The regular readers of this post are no different. They get a contact high from viewing the depths of hell. They don't want humor here. They don't want quaint little pictures. They want to see just how close I'll come to being overwhelmed and pulling the trigger. They would have their finger along side mine on the trigger, if they possibly could. Because my true readers deal with the same shit I deal with on a daily basis. They want to succeed with me, or, if that isn't in the cards, they want to watch the burning explosion of self destruction, and maybe, just maybe, avoid their own Ground Zero by a cunt hair, catching one small life line or another that I missed in the process.
So view to your heart's content, my regulars. Know that the daily fight goes on, and each day that I wake up alive, and breathing, is a salute to the hardiness of mankind. The will to live, despite the fact that everything in your life is telling you to eat a bullet. In the end, love conquers all. Even the will to live. Sometimes it is easier to die than to live without hope.

Michael

Ah, Summer

Once again, the Aussies have shown themselves superior in dealing with tough situations. Australia is currently in the middle of one of their worse droughts in history. Water restrictions have cut residential water use for car washing, landscaping, etc. to practically nil. Car Wash businesses that are geared for recycled water use abound. In the midst of this stiff competition, we find that another enterprising Aussie entrepreneur has beaten his competitors to the punch - With an X-Rated Car Wash. Yahoo News gets credit for the details on this lovely innovation. I'm planning ahead for the drought in Houston!

Friday Attitude Check

This is for all you wonderful folks that like to run around like the silver ball in the Pinball machine, spreading bits of hope and joy everywhere, and always reminding us that it takes more muscles to Frown than it does to Smile. Other than this choice bit below, I can only respond that I prefer to work out as many muscles as possible during a session, and I'm trying to incorporate a 43rd into my daily routine.





And now, for a good and timely example of Truth in Advertising

Wanna be a Hit Man?

KB has found yet another great little name thingy. Feel free to play.

Bloody Thumbs People Iced: Thirty Car Bombs Planted: Nineteen Favorite Weapon Shards of Glass Arms Broken: Twelve Eyes Gouged: Nineteen Tongues Cut Off: Two Biggest Enemy: The Arm Breaker Get Your HITMAN Name AWSOME-GAME

Peaceful in Purgatory

They lied. Purgatory is supposed to be a neutral type of place, a place where you spend time while Saint Peter’s reading the fine print on your contract, since you didn’t clear customs on the first go round. It is supposed to be a place where you can feel the heat of the hellfire, look down the red slide to the burning bottom, and possibly work that last bit of evil out of your body so you can pass inspection on the cheap bus to Heaven. But they all lied.

Purgatory, as it turns out, is a taste of the pain and suffering you’ll endure if they send you down that slide. It is the Cliff Notes Version of Hell, and Heaven and Pearly Gates have nothing to do with it. Purgatory might as well be the foyer to hell. Lying on a bed with every muscle in your body clenched in pain as they feed the IV line with the fourth antibiotic (which won’t work, either) as they try to bring your fever down from that 105 point it keeps hovering back and forth around. It’s not eating for four days because the very thought of food is like a strange and far away world. Rolling back and forth on the bed, shaking arms and leg muscles to let them loosen long enough for the pain to go away for a few minutes. Sleep Dep from four full days without two hours in a row of uninterrupted peaceful sleep. Sitting up in bed every five minutes in a panic, because you’re choking and you’ve coughed so hard and so long that you’ve completely ripped an abdominal muscle, and you have to sit up and lean over the bed so you can at least hold your gut in with one arm while the other desperately tries to keep you on the bed. It’s taking treatments every four hours with a nebulizer, in order to help you breathe, but knowing that the drug in the neb is also going to make you cough uncontrollably. Anticipation in that case is such a wonderful thing. Purgatory is having the little breathing tubes in your nose for 72 hours straight, pumping rich oxygen into your bloodstream, but also leeching the life out of your sinuses to the point that your nose and the back of your throat are nothing but layers of dried blood, their passages slowly constricting as another layer after another layer gets added. I read a book a week. It should have been a time to catch up. The only thing I read in five days was the daily menu, looking for something remotely appetizing to sustain me.

They lied. They said I was going to Purgatory for a few days.

Instead I spent five days in hell, wishing I was dead.

Michael

Performance Anxiety

Jesu' Christo. You'd think I was performing for the New York Philharmonic Orchestra. But I feel that I owe you all some kind of post after a month. I'd like nothing better than to post some lighthearted little bit with a lovely picture and all that, just like fringes advised. She forgot that that Shit don't make it out of the editing department here at the ER. So this is what you get. I cannot begin to explain everything and nothing that has gone on in my life the past month. Suffice to say She's probably leaving and there is nothing that I even want to do to stop it. I got home from a roadtrip Friday evening, and my stress level went through the roof the second that i pulled into the driveway. If that doesn't tell you that something is wrong, there is nothing that will.

For those of you that used to read this blog, I appreciate all of you, but there is just nothing to post that isn't negative right now so you are really better off finding a happy happy blog to go support your view on life. It isn't happening here. There just isn't a light way to look at my life, despite all of fringes good advice. Even jokes seem lame right now. So go find a meaningful blog that makes you happy. This blog will only bring you down. I love you all, but there just isn't anything to be cheery happy about around these parts right now. Sorry. Wrong Blog. See Ya. Been fun. Time to get your kicks somewhere else people.

Pirate Ways

My pirate name is:

Bloody William Vane

Every pirate lives for something different. For some, it's the open sea. For others (the masochists), it's the food. For you, it's definitely the fighting. You tend to blend into the background occaisionally, but that's okay, because it's much easier to sneak up on people and disembowel them that way. Arr!

Get your own pirate name from piratequiz.com.
part of the fidius.org network

Fear

Confused feelings.
I'm Drifting.
Not sure what I'm feeling.
I only know that it terrifies me,
When the Beast goes quiet,
and runs and hides from something worse.

Bad Day at the Office

There are bad days. Then there are BAD days. Friday was a BAD ass day.

We had important meetings in the morning. I dressed my best. Threw on my best dress shoes that I hadn’t worn since the Christmas Party. They felt almost magically springy and soft. I was loving it. I put them on in the semi dark. When I reached the Dentist, and laid back in the chair for the numbing narcotics to take effect, I took a close look at my shoes. Much to my chagrin, my shoes had evidently dryrotted. I basically danced my shoes off at the Christmas party. The heels and soles were crushed through. Pieces of shattered exterior were falling from my shoes like confetti at a parade. I buried them that afternoon. Do ya suppose MIST has a line on guys shoes?

I was in heavy morning traffic after our meeting. The lane to the right was merging into my lane. Everyone else was dutifully letting every other car in that hadn’t gotten the merge message 400 yards back. A large SUV decided to go to the front of the line and insert himself without waiting. I don’t like this. I don’t tolerate this. I showed him in one motion that he was number one with me, and to back off and fall in line behind me. After three feints trying to scare me into slowing down and letting him in front of me, the pilons of the right lane finally closed in. He misjudged his fourth attempt at highway chicken and did the old bump and rub. At this point he finally decided that maybe he WAS FUCKING STUPID after all, and backed off. The $250 deductible for repair on my right side wasn’t worth stopping and getting into an altercation with a clearly deranged piece of humanity. Nor was the wrath of the thousand plus drivers behind us that would have been blocked completely.

After having the filling for a cavity at the dentist, they stuck the little piece of carbon in to check my bite. Tap tap tap, then grind. The results pleased the dentist, no apparent problem. I told her that something was very wrong. It didn’t feel right. Something wasn’t working here. She stuck the carbon back in. Tap Tap GRINDDDDDD. With my jaw still closed, she pulled my lips back to identify the problem. Apparently, the entire time I was grinding, I was simply chewing away on my own numbed tongue. Yeah, it left a mark.

My boss informed me upon my return from the dentist that I was to serve as the sole scapegoat for losing a four million dollar contract. Because the firm that we’re paying to provide a specific service hadn’t done that service, even having been notified that there was a specific problem.

To close out the perfect day, I pulled into the driveway at the house, turned the car off, and reached to pull my satellite radio out of the car. The mount broke and my satellite radio lost its seat on my dash. They don’t sell them separate. You have to buy the whole $40 kit.

That was my Friday. What was your worst day?

Michael

I Should Be RICH

My blog is worth $10,726.26.
How much is your blog worth?

The check must be in the mail. Yeah, That's the ticket.

Feeding the Beast II

We surely appreciate all of the people that called and checked in on us. Truly, we do.

The Beast has been hunting for weeks. On a good note, I don't have to have back surgery, or take the risk of never feeling the family crown jewels again. That's a good thing. It really makes you appreciate how you've taken them for granted in the past. You just want to give them a quick squeeze to make sure that they are still there.

As you all know by now, I can't write well unless the Beast is stalking and serving as my Muse. Oh, yes, such a dilemma. Oh, I can write some self serving crap, or amuse everyone by dogging myself out, but when it comes down to it my most inspired writing comes within the deepest depths of depression, when the very voices of hell rise like a choir to provide the back up for my solo. My liturgy of death. I suppose that I should be reading some message between the lines, when the most jovial and light hearted bloggers are all checking in on me. I don't suppose, however, that I can ever explain the fact that, at least for me, when you've been to that deepest depth, and did what you did to yourself, that every last little tiny shred of self respect is going to rise to the occasion and keep you from a half assed suicide attempt that is nothing more than someone crying out for attention and help. I'll never make that attempt to off myself again because it would be the ultimate in humiliation if I failed again, and I have enough failure in my life to bring the stomach acid rising in anger to my very lips.


He walked to the door, pressed his ear against it. A sudden shiver as the outside chill seeped through and into his skin. It was an uncomfortable match, though, the same temperature as his soul. He heard knocks. Yells. Someone outside trying desperately to get his attention. To get him to open that door.
It was not going to happen on his shift. The last tenant had given in to the wailing, the screams, the shouts. Had opened that black door and exposed himself. The memory of his body, chest ripped asunder, jagged broken ribs rising from his open chest like the rotting ribs of a sunken galleon. The racket outside dimmed, softened, reorganized itself. Quietly calling out. "Join us. Be Free. Be Happy, live the life you have dreamed for so long." So persuasive. His forehead touched the door, the lovely voices calling for him to leave responsibility aside, and come out and play. Let your fears, go. Let your duty go. Let yourself go. Come outside. Join us. Belong.........."
He shook his head violently back and forth. Clearing the offers, the voices, the false invitations. His eyes widened as he looked down on his own betraying hand, grasping the handle of the door, slowly turning..............
It's all he can do to pull his body back. His hand won't leave the knob, won't stop turning.........
Looking around wildly, he reaches to the shelf. Grasps the hilt of the family sword, pulling it free with his off hand. Bringing it down in a huge, inevitable, painful slash as he severs the betraying hand from his body.
He slides to the floor, gaze blurring as he focuses on . . . he smiles. Watching his life blood spill onto the white carpet covering the entire floor, he looks up at the offending hand. And laughs. and cries. Smiling as his heart pumps slower, the river of blood slowing to a stream, a trickle, and finally, the last drop oozing out.
But he smiles, as his life energy drains out with the last drop of blood. The door is still shut. He grins, a rictus of pain as his body slowly shuts down in a wild counterpoint to the last drops of blood streaming to the floor.
The fucking door was still shut. Triumph. Victory. His head slumps to the side. Still smiling to the end. Sure, he was dead as a fucking door nail, but he died on his own terms, and nothing was going to come in and find him lying with his chest ripped open, his very soul shredded as it was ripped from his dying body. He smiled. Laid his head down upon the floor. There was a tear left to shed as his eyes focused, the family blade lying within inches of his eyes. Shifting focus. The blood tear drops to the floor, as his remaining hand finally chrystallizes in his view. The last betraying hand, opening the door.......

Open Note to My Best Friend in the world

You are the most lovable, capable friend, that anyone could ever have.

You would put anyone in Otherland to shame. You've always given it to me straight when no one else had the fucking balls to do it. For that I thank you. But I have to disabuse one of your notions on life. Because when it comes down to it, there are some that aren't worth saving and there are some that no one in the world can save. That would be me. I love you to death for all of your efforts. But not even the most optimistsic folks could save me now. You just have to understand, my true friend, that some people just can't be saved, no matter what you do. It is not a reflection on you at all. Some people just can't be saved.

Tear Down the Walls

Given my incredible list of failures with the opposite sex, I was basically left with two options. In order to survive the emotional crisis inside, I could either withdraw completely from society, or I could Protect the weakness inside. When you are needy, and insecure, and completely dependent upon others for your self image, it's incredibly hard to withdraw from that necessary input, no matter how negative the input is. So I chose the other option. I built a wall. I built it so that no one could get into that quagmire, and sometimes its for their own good. I figured, I'm married, she doesn't need to be exposed to the worst of that. Who fuckin' knew that someone else was going grab a shovel and dig right under, undermining the whole thing. Collapsing it in a vast explosion of dust and mortar. I think I've pretty much explained how well all that turned out. So you think after that, I'd build it up right this time. Make the foundations deeper. Keep that shit from happening again. No, I'm not smart enough for that. I rebuilt the walls, Better, Stronger, Higher, and put a gate in it. Which I threw open to the first person that gave a shit. Sweet. I'd never wanted to be the one to keep repeating the same mistakes again and again. I hate people that do that. I detest those people. I feel so SUPERIOR over those that can't avoid repeating their same old mistakes, again and again. Looking at it with totally detachment, I should really be hating myself. Who builds a wall and leaves the f-ing door wide open?!

Michael

Vacation Autoresponse

Leaving for B.F.E. West Texas, and won't have access to technology for several days. Everyone have a happy, safe weekend and we'll see ya soon!

Resurrection

He scrabbled upward, fingernails clawing at the hardened layer of dirt above. Breaking through, his fingers felt the chill of cold, clean air. Faster, faster, digging himself through, pulling himself from the cold hard grave.
At last he was through. Crumbs of cursed soil fell around him, shaking free of his emaciated body. He peers around. The surround him in their puritanical white robes. They won't let the dead rest. Oh no, they're too connected to let one of their own die.
They gather in their sacred circle, chanting, giving him life, giving him the reason to live again. He stares deeply at each one in turn, regret churning in his very soul. Looking down at his hands, he adjusts the silver rings on his left. Puffs of dust waft into the air, as the bones of his fingers crumble. He reaches wildly as the silver rings drop to the ground. He takes a step forward.
His leg collapses beneath him, the bones crumbling under the sudden onslaught. He has one leg, one thigh left. He curses aloud.
They couldn't just let him rot in peace. Oh, no, they had to bring him back. They missed him. They needed him to fulfill their own destinies. Their life without this failing body was akin to the grave. He falls forward. Forearms shattering in their attempt to stop his fall.
Bones with skin on them, walkin' around. That was him, only he was crawling on four stumps.
So thankful that they brought him back.
NOT. They only raised a shadow. They only raised The Beast.

Friends and Lovers

I've been thinking about many pieces of this entry for a long time - and I'm going to try to piece them together in a readable whole.

I had already started this stuff, but Yahoo crashed my comp. Hua. So let me repeat.

Bloggers are a special group. Mebbe it's the fact that they have a little more time on their hands. Maybe its the fact that they are able to connect with just words. But for the most part, they just seem to care more. You won't find that kind of compassion or caring in Otherland.

Here's the short and sweet of it all. One email that I wrote would illicit a major reaction from my friends in the Blogosphere. They're tuned in. They give a shit. One email will illicit a mass reaction of concern and caring. The folks in Otherland will never match up. I won't get a single reaction from many clues from the Sigo for an entire week compared to the reaction I'll get tomorrow.

My best friend and cellmate tomorrow will be the first one to sound the four alarm fire when she wakes up and sees the sudden 4 entries in my Blog. She's keyed in to the signs. How does that happen in six months when the love of my life, my soulmate of 8 years, can't figure it out. That's your Blogosphere Buddies for you.

You explain it, Lucy. How does that connection click? Because the Blogoshpere friends are more connected. How else do you explain it?

Here's the rub.......... If it came down to it and I was in real trouble, friends like Fringes who actually live close, would show up on my doorstep despite the Sigo's reaction. Imagine that for a moment. Fringes showing up at mi casa, because she knows she's needed, while the Sigo looks on in bewilderment and suspicion, having no clue as to what's going on because we've been together long enough that the alarm signs aren't registering any more.

The Beast is hunting tonight. Make no mistake. its been quisent for too long, and it damn well knows it. It's got a blood debt to extract. It's been quiet for long time. Taken for granted. The Beast won't stand for that. It's going to draw blood tonight, and it doesn't matter what the consequences are.

WELCOME BACK TO MY WORLD, fearless readers. I know a lot of you have been missing this part of your vicarious living existence through me.

I'll lay a $100 to your $1 that my hit stats climb the f-ing mountain tomorrow.

It's a bet. See you Thursday.

Michael

The Wicker Pedia Tag

February 18th, 1966 - Yeah, that's me

Histrionic Events

1685 - Fort St. Louis is established by a Frenchman at Matagorda Bay thus forming the basis for France's claim to Texas. That would be the last time some cowardly frog claimed any part of Texas. You'll note, that this isn't in the history books. The French rolled over and played dead for the first explorer from another country that set foot there.

1878 - The Lincoln County War begins in Lincoln County, New Mexico. I have roots in New Mexico. Tracing all the way back to Prentice White - born on the Mayflower. So this is meaningful to me, if to no one else.

2001 - Dale Earnhardt is killed in a crash during the final lap of the Daytona 500, which was won by Michael Waltrip, driving in a car that Earnhardt owned. His son, Dale Earnhardt, Jr. finished second. Not to be morbid, but this was a special birthday event. Dale Earnhardt was a prick of a dirty driver, and ultimately got what was coming to him. Karma Boomerangs can be wicked. Go Jeff Gordon!

People -

1936 - Jean Auel, American writer
She manages to insert great sex scenes for Cro Magnon Man. But seriously, I read all of her books.

1954 - John Travolta, American actor
Give credit where it's due. Who else could play a Dancer in Staying Alive and turn and play the ultra intelligent villain in an action thriller. Honestly, he pulled it off much better than that manly man Patrick Swayze?

1964 - Matt Dillon, American actor
As the 'chick would say, ya'll won't believe this for a minute but I actually did a reading with the director of Outsiders for the movie of the same name that this boy was in.

Deaths:

1294 - Kublai Khan, Mongol Emperor (b. 1215)
It just doesn't get any more powerful than this dude.

1967 - J. Robert Oppenheimer, American physicist (b. 1904)
No one else in History helped kick the shit out of another country better than this old coon dog.

Holidays/Observances:

Gambian Independence Day -

Let's face it, you've never heard of Gambia, either. Let me put it this way. Google Maps couldn't zoom in far enough to see the borders of this "country", and I use that term in it's loosest possible definition. The overall outline on the West coast of Africa looks like a limp dick with a banana bend. As far as I can tell, they claimed the banks of a river. Or a stream. Or perhaps just a flood tributary.



Overall, despite the fact that only Gambia has a significant Holiday, I think the personnel list MORE than makes up for it. To be honest, I was hoping for a serial killer, or a Greek God of Sex and stiffies. Such is my luck. Such is my life. But you JUST CAN'T BEAT the combination of Genghis Kahn and Earhardt Pancakes for breakfast.


Beef, it's what's for dinner.


GAMBIAN FLAG

Michael

Imagini

Read my VisualDNA™ Get your own VisualDNA™

Lines

When you’ve gone that far, where do you go from there? I have the feeling that I made this very grave error back when I started this blog. I was fresh. I was energized. I was full of ideas about where it was going to go and all the things I was going to find out about myself and finally tell about myself with the aid of anonymity. The Beast was hunting full time back then, and acting, as always, as my muse and inspiration. I thought back then that if I told all about myself, that it would help someone, somewhere, deal with their own similar issues. I thought I could make the world a little brighter, one person at a time. I spilled practically my entire life history in the course of a two or three weeks. Every major thing that had impacted my life was laid out in intimate detail. I’d never even done that in a journal. I’ve never told the Sigo even half of it. Oh, I’ve still got a couple of dark secrets, but I pretty much laid it out down to the night I tried to bleed myself out in the middle of the desert. Renaissance came and went, and gave me a lot more material to work with. And jerked a few more secrets from my gut. The ER veered off course then. First it was the guest blogging. Then the Venus-Mars deal. And finally, it just up and f-ing died. There’s practically zero content in my blog anymore, when I do post. I think it crossed the line from meaningful to self-justifying excrement a long time ago. Deep down, I’m scared in my gut that if I don’t keep posting, even some frivolous spur of the moment garbage, that the small reader base I do have will bleed off like a puddle of water in a desert wind, leaving only cracked, barren earth behind. I’ve developed a few close blog “relationships”. I hesitate to label them friendships outright, because they are both more and less than that, in their varied ways. These, too, seem perched on an invisible, fragile, and very thin line, where the slightest touch will send them over the edge to shatter on the black rocks below. My list of fears grows by the minute. Add those relationships to the list. It’s been an incredibly bad year healthwise for me, and I turned 41, and I’ve reached that invisible point already when you start wondering if you’ve already passed the halfway point in your life, and wasted that first half. I fear that I’ve crossed that line, too. My worst fear of all, though, is that I’m becoming the bitter, angry, early aging leech that I promised myself that I would never become. I see nothing but the same four blank walls in my future, the same cage. I’m scared to death that my life as it is right now will never get any better, that there is nothing more to look forward to than paying bills, working, and watching TV every night. I’m terrified that my body is already writing my obituary, and that my brain will accept the final manuscript, and I will cease to be. I haven’t crossed that line yet, but I can see it glowing on the near horizon, approaching ever faster as it becomes a blur of light rushing towards me, to cut me down like a scythe at harvest. I feel like a robot already, with no heart, no feelings, nothing but lines of code, input, output, the sole reason for existence is to continue to process, without tasting or feeling or touching the world that the computer code describes. When you’ve gone this far, where do you go from here?

Michael

Blognote: I seriously considered closing comments on this. This isn’t a cry for attention. (Here I am, screening, explaining, and justifying again). This isn’t a plea for interest or more comments. This just. .. . . . is.

Good Drugs

So here we are again. I’m writing this from a drug induced haze – and not a necessarily fun one. I’ve had a minor back problem over the last few months that has escalated recently into something possibly more along the lines of major problems. When the pain got so bad that I had to buy a cane at Walmart in order to get around, it ballooned from a minor aching irritant to something a little more. . . attention grabbing. Sixteen visits to the chiropractor had only made it worse up to this point. I happened to have to go in for a quick check up in order to get my meds renewed. My previous doctor had flown the coop just after seeing me back in October. So this new doctor goes through my records, and renews EVERYTHING, whether it was a one time thing or not. We’re talking the good stuff. Sleep aids, tranqs, the whole kit and caboodle. Sweet. I told him about the back problems. He set me up with some muscle relaxants on top of all that.

Opening Day was Saturday for T-Ball. Newsflash folks. If your kid is thinking of playing, you’d better clear your entire schedule and rearrange your work hours. It isn’t like soccer, where you bring juice to every other game and just make sure that they’re there for practice. No, Little League, and T-Ball are a religion here in Texas. We produce National Champion Little League Teams all the time around here. To join, you need to pay double just to get them in. Then you have to shell out an extra $45 or sell $90 worth of candy. If you choose to sell the candy, they start you off with $90.00 worth, and at the end of the fundraising deal, you pay them $90. Even if you sold #5 in candy. Oh, yes. The shirt, hat, belt, and one pair of pants is included. You get to buy the glove, the helmet, the batting gloves, the extra pair of pants, the T-shirts for the adults. Then you get to work the concessions stand on opening day. By the end of the day, I was hobbling on the cane. I took almost double the dosage on the relaxants – nothing. So I called on Monday. They prescribed a better one that actually works. It also interacts well with my other meds, increasing their potency. It enhances the effects from any alcohol I consume. So in effect, my Anti-D’s are acting like triple the dosage, one beer affects me like three, and I’ve been walking around in a daze. Enough of a daze that people are asking if I’m okay.

It must have looked really bad last night. We went to bowling and half the league were asking T if I was pissed off. How do you tell someone that you aren’t pissed off, that it’s only you being somewhere else in your head, and not even hearing them talk to you? “Oh, by the way, I’m not ignoring you, I’m just in slow motion and by the time it registers 5 minutes later that you said something, it’s far too late to do anything about it. Have a nice night. Go Away now.” Clearly, it’s also affecting my chain of thought, because I looked up right now and saw just how long this post had gotten, and just how rambling it is. So forgive me. I posted. That should count for something, right? So here we are again. Have a nice day. I’m going away now.

Michael

Humor Break 05MAR2007

An elderly man in North Carolina had owned a large farm for several years. He had a large pond in the back, fixed up really nice, along with some picnic tables, horseshoe courts, and some apple and peach trees.
The pond was properly shaped and fixed up for swimming when it was built. One evening the old farmer decided to go down to the pond, as he hadn't been there for a while, and look it over. He grabbed a five gallon bucket to bring back some fruit. As he neared the pond, he heard voices shouting and laughing with glee.

When he came closer, he realized it was a bunch of young women skinny-dipping in his pond. He made the women aware of his presence and they all went to the deep end to shield themselves. One of the women shouted to him, "We're not coming out until you leave!" The old man frowned and replied, "I didn't come down here to watch you ladies swim naked or make you get out of the pond naked." Holding the bucket up he said, "I'm here to feed the alligator."


Moral of the story: Old men may move slow but can still think fast. .

When Things Pile Up

Things are going marginally crazy at work. So, sorry to say, all you loyal readers that visit every day, but I'm going to have to slow up on the postings (like I've had diarrhea of the Blog Posting lately anyway, right?) somewhat. I'll still be visiting all of your blogs on a semi-regular basis, but I've just got to take care of some crap. So, until I get some time - I'll be lurking. I know, ease off on the collective sigh of disappointment, all fourteen of you. Feel free to contact me by email. Take Care, and Dream True.

Michael

Messages From Mars

As of Post Time, we’re missing a panelist. So we’re going to run with it. I was conflicted as to how to put everything together. One post per question, one post per panelist, but I finally decided on One Question with Everyone’s answers. To make this easier on the reader, I’ve color coded the answers as follows:

Michael

Q

Bice

Briliant Donkey

That way, if you have a favorite, you can skim their answers first. This will also help if you want to print it out for posterity, toilet paper, etc. So, without further adieu, and for your reading pleasure, I bring you the 8 Commandments from Mars:

Q - *Special Thanks to Dagromm, he and I conferred on several of these questions to come up with answers.

BD - About a week ago I was recruited to the male panel to answer women's questions that they wanted to pose to us guys and get real answers to. I don't know how much 'help' my answers will provide since I don't tend to think like a 'typical guy' but for what it is worth here is my opinion on them. Feel free to agree. Feel free to whole heartedly DISagree. I just hope if worse comes to worse you(like me) are willing agree to disagree.

X O X O X O X O

1) Why do men say they want a confident, assertive, independent woman, then tuck tail and run when they discover I AM a confident, assertive, and independent woman?

Sorry, but I'll have to just say that that is just your impressions of what we want. To actually say that would be saying we want an in house Dominatrix. Guys want a Dom; a Sex Slave that cooks, cleans, and fulfills all of their fantasies; or a woman that isn't an airhead, that can stand up for herself, and that isn't completely high maintenance. No guy wants someone too assertive – it challenges our ego, authority, and sense of superiority.

We want one that is confident and independent but not one that is assertive unless we are in the bedroom, and trying to get kinky. Plus there is such a thing as overly confident, assertive and independent and that is not what we are looking for when we say that.

I would say this is a simple case of 'grass is always greener' type of thing. I don't think it is all that different(if at all) from women saying they want a 'sensitive,caring, loving man with a sense of humor' only to find one and dump him for the first 'bad boy' that comes around the corner because he is 'just a bit tooooo wimpy or clingy' or the other miriad of excuses. Why do we all do that? If it isn't 'the grass is always greener' thing I can only guess it is because God has a sense of humor, we are his personal sitcom and he made us all this way.

Because men will say anything hoping to get laid. Some times it works. Some times it doesn't.

X O X O X O X O

2) What's the deal with guys saying they want a relationship when what they're actually looking for is only a steady, no-strings-attached lay?

I'll step out on a limb and say that the majority of men aren't good at what you view as a relationship. Guys interact on a whole different level. So we'd rather you be one of the guys, with fringe benefits. (We'll accept Fringes Benefits) We'd much rather you come down off that high intimate relationship level and interact on our guy-guy simple level. We like it because it's simple. To us, you make coexistence far too complicated. And a no-strings-attached lay is our fantasy girlfriend. It isn't your fantasy boyfriend because only a very small percentage of you are capable of having friendly sex without attaching emotional attachments, stigma, and other complicated strings. Fems have way too much automatic baggage attached to sex. We prefer ours baggage free, and don't enjoy overthinking it so much.

Guys do want a relationship. It's just not the relationship that women want. Guys want the relationship where you take care of all the menial chores and give us sex on demand. On top of that if you could not interrupt the ball game and like action movies and video games then you're a great find.

I am personally of the opinion, that women are just as bad(if not worse) about this than men are. I am not sure if this has always been the case or if it is something recent that I am noticing more the older I get. Perhaps it is only noticable to me because I am a 'nice guy' and wind up with the short end of the stick too often I do not know. Maybe women are finally giving in to the 'if you can't beat em join em' mentality and giving guys back thier own medicine. Again I don't know for sure. I DO know that in my field, I work with 90% women and a bigger group of 'players' I have never met. The only difference is when a man does it women consider him a 'player' which is said with the same disdain as 'slut' would be for women . When THEY do it it is called 'keeping my options open.' Conversely from a typical male point of view when a man does it he is considered a stud for some reason while women are considered sluts. I suppose it all comes down to your own personal point of view.

Because 'relationship' is male code for 'sex'

X O X O X O X O

3) Why is there ~still~ a double standard regarding past sexual partners. If guys sleep with 6 girls a year they are considered studs. If a girl sleeps with 6 guys a year, they are considered sluts.

I read Q's answer first. It has to be the most fascinating and accurate analogy ever. If you had a choice, would you be France or the US? But still, you all are just as responsible for creating and maintaining the double standard as we are. Here's another analogy. A hunter gets credit every time he bags a deer. He bags 6 deer a year, he's an f-ing stud hunter. None of those deer get credit for taking a bullet, rolling over, and dying. And no one considers it a good hunt if the deer walks up to the truck, hauls itself up the tree with a rope, and drops dead. You want to break the double standard, BECOME THE HUNTERS instead of the hunted. No one will EVER get respect for being easy game.

Because women have standards, or should. I don't think it should be very challenging for any half decent looking woman to get laid six times a year. Men have to do a much better sell job or have a good ability to seperate the weak ones from the herd.

On top of that, it's a matter of penetrating versus being penetrated. It is much more glorious to have invaded six countries and expanded your empire then it is to have been overrun six times.

See above question. Other than that I would tend to agree that this is indeed the general perception and indeed a double standard. I personally don't agree with it, but I have often wondered if that makes me 'broken' somehow. Anyways, through time I think the playing field has evened out quite a bit more than most people would realize. Unfortunately, instead of women rubbing off on men to 'do the right thing' and be less slutty, it seems men rubbed off on women making them more willing to take a 'well men can be dogs why can't I' mentality. Whether you hike your leg on the fire hydrant, or squat next to the nearest tree, a dog is a dog in my book.

Because men don't like being beat by women at anything, especially at sex.

X O X O X O X O

4) Why is it that putting the seat and lid down on the toilet is so friggin impossible? All I'm asking is that you leave it as you found it. I gave up on asking you to actually aim for the bowl, but please, put the seat and lid down!

Here we go. You want fair? You only have to put the seat down to go. So I should only have to pick the seat up to go. Problem solved.

Oh, yeah, and forget the seat cover. It was needed back when water was harder to get, and to save it, you had to leave the #1 in there for a few times before flushing. That situation doesn't exist anymore. You flush each time and have clean water and no smell. You want a pretty little toilet seat cover to match all of your other quaint little bathroom decorations? Put it on backwards and leave the seat up. It will be more comfortable to lean against that way anyway.

I don't have a problem with this so I tend to agree. If you want me to make an argument then I would argue that it shouldn't be that hard to look before you sit. I look before I sit on any seat, toilet or not.

I did a post on this very subject a long time ago. Rather than answer the whole thing again I will just point you here to read it. My opinion on the matter has not changed one bit since then. In fact, in your question you kind of make one of my points for me. As you said
"All I'm asking is that you leave it as you found it."

Good for the goose, good for the gander. By that logic shouldn't YOU be doing the same thing? Shouldn't YOU be leaving it in an upright position?

If anything I feel even more strongly about it. For the record, I still DO put the seat down but only for reasons of 'if it is THAT big a hassle to you, and no skin off my nose to do so' I might as well do so. That said, I still won't pretend to understand it. If you have ever sat your ass in a toilet once it was a mistake. If however, you have done so more than once, I won't say you are an idiot but I WILL say you DEFINITELY had a moment of stupidity. End of story.

Because it a phallic symbol of our virility. We leave it up as a visual reminder that we are always ready for sex.

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5) Why are fart jokes so predominant in male humor? Is it partly wanting to remain 12 years old? Do you ~have~ to pass it on to your kids?

I could answer this flippantly, but I won't. I was raised in a more uptight atmosphere where it wasn't real funny, etc. It lightened up a little as we were older, but still. I married (my second time) into a family that's laid back about everything, and it's no big deal. Farts are funny. People have too much shit to deal with today to be worried about something minor like that. And not dogging you, but you were probably raised in a situation where "girls don't fart". My ex wife was raised like that. The first time she farted with me around, she busted out with tears when I threatened to go call my brother to congratulate her for being human. Bodily functions are just that, bodily functions. We can choose to ignore them, make light of them, or vainly attempt to suppress them completely as if they didn't exist. Making too big an issue out of things that are natural and happen tends to screw up kids heads more than anything, and cause permanent neurosis'.

Once again, I'm not real big on this either. Except that farts make funny sounds, but they tend to have a bad smell and I am not into that.

Have you ever fallen for a joke? No matter how bad, inappropriate, or even dangerous the joke may have been what is the VERY first thing you do? You go and pull that joke on someone else of course so you won't be the only victim. As for the 'passing it on to your kids' part,,,,,pun intended? If not it very well should have been.

Because a steady diet of boob and penis jokes gets old, even for us. As to 'must we pass it on to our kids.' Yes.

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6) He rarely asks me to come down to his house. If I don't come down, though, he complains and gets all put out. If he wants me around, why doesn't he just ask?

You must be looking for that written invitation. You're his girlfriend, not a boss, coworker, or male friend. The girlfriend gets the open door policy. Some male friends might, too. But definitely you. He has to invite a boss or coworker and probably some of his friends. If you have an open door policy, why should he repetitively invite you? You have a permanent invite. I'd worry more about it if he started making you call before you came over or only invited you when he wanted you there. Right now, other than being efficient and not wasting time on a lot of bullshit, he's also subconsciously saying that you can come over any time without notice, and he's not worried about it because he has nothing to hide. That's his hidden message, and he probably gets annoyed because your aren't reading the message.

Guys get tired of doing all the pursuing. If you've been invited to the house more than once, then there is probably a standing invitation until indicated otherwise.

Good question. The cynic and smart ass in me wants to answer "call it getting in touch with his feminine side'. Another part of me wonders, If he asks you to come down to his house are you going to hear "lets get together and have sex" and then bash him about the head repeatedly with 'all you ever want is sex' comments? In all seriousness, he is probably just second guessing himself at times. Wondering if asking you to come down will be taken the wrong way or perhaps worrying that you will get a 'he never wants to go out and do anything' idea in your head. Sounds like communication would be a good idea here.

Because he's a dick. (see how I manage to get a sexual reference into every answer)

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7) Why does he consider rinsing dishes and leaving them on the counter "cleaning the kitchen"?

Is his normal chore doing the dishes? If not, then he probably a) needs a place to put more dirty dishes, and the sink was full, or b) you've probably griped at one time or another when he put a dish or pan away in the wrong place. You KNOW how you all can be about YOUR kitchens. He's probably trying to help out without risking the Wrath of Misplacement. Catch him on a good day, show him where everything goes in general, and then make sure not to rag when he misplaces something. He probably won't leave them on the counter again.

Because it is. If it is evident that there are chores that need to get done we just go ahead and do them, and if he has to remind you that there are dishes in the sink then he feels like a total jerk. Plus, that's how we wash our hands.

a number of possible answers to this one:

1)It's not?
2)If you are asking him to do so in the middle of a football game that counts as cleaning the kitchen.
3)If he DOES clean the kitchen do you go behind him every single time and 'do it right' in your mind? Be honest. If so and he knows you are never going to be happy with the way he does it anyways, he probably gave up doing it to your standards a long time ago. His fault, or your fault? Who knows, but likely a combination of the two.

4)The same reason you think changing the oil in the car is only necessary AFTER the oil pressure light comes on.

Because, as in sex, we don't know how to properly finish the job we started.

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8) Why is it men get so offended if I insist I can do something myself? Is it that they don't get the idea of a woman that won't break or something?

There are some things that "guys" should do. You may feel free and advanced enough to do them yourself. Doesn't mean we've broken our own stereotypical chains. To paraphrase Heinlein , why be equal when you get all sorts of privileges in NOT being equal? Come on! We're willing to open a door, take out the trash, do the heavy lifting, etc. Why not let us do it? It makes us feel useful. It makes us feel needed. It makes us feel manly. It gives us, in our own minds, a reason for you now to pamper us in different ways. >>Evil Grin<<

If you are trying to prove something, then you're only proving it to yourself, because typically, we're not even listening and we've definitely not caught the subtle hints.

Because you tell us that a hundred times and then we have to come in and clean up the mess, it is much easier just to do it from the beginning. Also, because we get told so often that we don't do anything for you, so when we offer and you turn us down, we feel like we can't win.

I am guilty of this a lot myself. Or at least accused of it at times. Do I think you CAN do it? Of course. However, often I don't think you should HAVE to do it. Can you carry the 40 pound bag of groceries to your car? Of course! Should you HAVE to? The gentleman in my head screams NO so I offer to do so for you and damned the feminist evil glare you give me for doing so. Can you open your own car door? Of course, but again the gentleman in my head insists I do so for you. Call me old fashioned if you like, I take it as a compliment. People say chivalry is dead. I don't agree but it DOES seem to be dying.

Because we fear that once you do something yourself you will discover you can do something else yourself (i.e., sex)

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