December 7, 2012 § 1 Comment
The man I am, somewhere in me, is the man I was taught by feminism to be ashamed of, yet the same man the same people tell me I have to be to attract them. How can I be anything at all and expect to get what I need? How can what I am measure up to an ideal? Cinderella will starve for want of cake. The man who is expected to do all the pursuing is the person upon whom all of the rejection is heaped and whose emotional skin is thickened to deadness. That’s what control gets you: a dispirited simulacrum of your ideal; a stale, tasteless cake. Is that still to be coveted over fresh bread?
July 31, 2012 § Leave a comment
Thinking about Herself makes me miserable, but I’m choosing to be miserable because I’m choosing to think about her. How can I help it when I just saw her after nearly ten months and she was gorgeous? and I hadn’t yet convinced myself that I wasn’t looking for her everywhere I went? when the welts on my back are so dense they can no longer feel the self-administered cat-o-nine-tails raining down upon them? I’m still asking her forgiveness. I want to believe that I deserve it and that it’s necesary, but I can only believe that she couldn’t feel the same way. To which of us am I giving the lesser credit? She was as impossible to look at as to tear my gaze away from. We had opportunity to talk. Who was the bigger failure to not approach the other? The person who most wanted to. It had been more than a year since she’d seen me. I’ve just been trying to be a good boy: No contact, no correspondence, no gifts or apologies–leaving her alone, letting her know I’m not a stalker, much less the “psycho” someone said she’d called me. To what end? To whose satisfaction? If she already has satisfaction, then what need could she have to help me get mine? She has nothing to apologize for, yet I want her to regret not loving me. Then what?
February 14, 2012 § Leave a comment
Vanity without confidence–How could I have liked myself? I have the confidence (some of it) back, and am not quite so ashamed of my vanity as I used to be. I feel good when I feel I look good. I’m not afraid of a mirror jumping out at me. Somewhere, someplace real or otherwise, my body is reserved for gods. Right now, that place is only in my mind. (I have to start somewhere.) Attraction starts with oneself. It’s only narcissism if one doesn’t share it. Confidence is what I want, what I want to show. Confidence always shows. So does arrogance, but I hope I have essentially grown out of that. I don’t exactly think I’m hot, but I wouldn’t question an attraction to me. What, me choosy? Sometimes I laugh in the middle of my toilette thinking of the care I take to reach my higher standard of pulchritude. All I ask is that someone appreciates the results. At least, that’s me.