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I got 99 problems but a bitch ain’t one.
Twice this week, I’ve been hated on for simply having a penis. It’d probably be easier to just ignore it, but life ain’t that damn east, so I am going to unleash my frustration about it here. Don’t take it personally, because if you do, you’re likely part of the problem.
First off, you don’t fucking know me. What gives you the right to judge what kind of a man I am just because you have poor fucking taste and made a few bad decisions? You don’t know me from any other swinging dick out there. So that means you don’t know what a great guy I might be. Your loss, not mine.
Second, you can’t have it both ways. You say you want a nice guy, but yet there you go chasing the dumbasses that treat you like Grandma’s doormat. Then you come whine to people like me, or worse yet, assume that ALL men are pigs because of your bad judgment. Fuck you. I’m not your daddy. I’m not your shrink, and if you’re too fucking stupid to know something good when you see it, that sounds an awful lot like NOT MY PROBLEM.
I don’t blame others for my misfortune. I take responsibility for what happens to me. That’s what good people do. Instead of blaming the good ones blindly for the douchery of a few, why not look in the mirror and figure out that it’s on you. Get your head out of your ass already and have some self-respect.
There. How’s it feel to be judged?
It’s the fall that kills you.
I’m going to try very hard to not let this turn into a self-loathing post. That emotion is pointless, and counter-productive, and should have no business being a part of my psyche.
A friend of mine told me on Twitter: “Love is a nice concept, it’s the reality we need to abandon — the one that crushes such concepts.” I had to take a couple of seconds to think about that, but in retrospect it makes sense to me. It blends in especially well with where my head, and heart, are right now.
The reality. What does that mean, exactly? Me being the socially awkward guy that I am, I’ve been trying to figure this out for most of my life. Maybe it’s because I don’t really understand the concept of what love is, or at least what society has morphed it into meaning, and I’m just having a hard time catching up.
See, in my tiny little mind, love is supposed to mean something. It’s more than a word. It’s supposed to have the utmost of meanings. It’s supposed to move you. Literally, it should shift the very foundation upon which you stand.
Am I being a little melodramatic about this? Maybe. Do I believe it to be true? Absolutely. I pine for the days when love meant something more than telling someone “I love you” in a drunken stupor. Where did those days go?
It wouldn’t be a day that ends in Y if my dad wasn’t tearing something apart. (Taken with picplz in Lockwoods Folly, NC.)
