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  • Another Night, Another Dream

    Of late, I've been on the wrong side of the timeless battle betwen me and this loss of sleep over you. And I didn't think it right for the Book of Face or the Twitter. Only time will tell if I can turn it into something.

    I'm guessing no. Whatever and ever, Amen.

     

    Buy her poppies, women love flowers. It was the worst advice an attractive woman in a twisted dream sequence had ever given me. Even though I own stock in the parent company of FTD, only chodes and orbiters buy flowers. Shall we say, borrowing or liberating them from a hospital room or gravesite is another matter entirely.

    Then it dawned on me...opium.

     

    That's all I've got, but the Gossip Girl wasn't built in a day. You know you love me, XOXOXO. Off to Sleepytime to be subjected to more whims of my accursed (shakes fist) subconscious. And when did I forget how to spell subconscious? Could it be that the Alzheimer's is finally coming to ensure that my memory will no longer serve me far too well?

    Fingers and eyes crossed.

  • Vindicated

    I am selfish. I am wrong. I am right. I swear I'm right. I swear I knew it all along. Also the Song of the Day (Dashboard Confessional), by the by.

     

    I haven't been this...no, excited's not the right word...um, this is awkward...let's go with interested, even if it doesn't feel right, since I first discovered that everything I thought I knew about the womenfolks was wrong.

    Involved, maybe?

     

    Wait for it.

     

    Turns out everything I thought I knew about ME may also be incorrect. That there is what we (points at self) in the horrible misuse of sports metaphors business like to refer to as a gamechanger. Internal rather than external.

     

    Now, don't get me wrong (he sang, apologies to Chrissie Hynde and the other Pretenders), it's still all my own damn fault. But for a different reason. The good kind. Why, yes, I do speak almost entirely in song titles and lyrics, thanks for noticing. When I'm not employing Valley speak, that is.

     

    So, I was reading a book on charisma (what? I'm all about improving myself and adding new neurons, fucking sue me) yesterday and it turns out that while the womenfolks I meet always seem to leave way too soon and it is, in fact, all on me, it isn't because they stop liking me. At least not entirely. I mean, everybody likes me. Except me, I'm still on the fence.

     

    But I digress. Again. Still. Expect more of it. I don't have a support group and I don't plan these things out. I simply go wherever my pretty little head decides to take me.

     

    Anyhoo, of the last several women I've spent time with (I don't think you can call what I do dating), I've slept with most of them on the first or second meeting. Yeah, I know. I'm easy like Sunday morning. Some have stuck around for a while, some I've never heard from again. And, until now, wondered why.

     

    It's the sex, you say. I thought so, too, didn't care (I always gets mine), but still. Don't you worry, though. There is, in fact, an app for that. And you'd be surprised what you can learn from the book learning. Not to mention your shock at the fact I can, you know, read. You wouldn't think so from this mess.

     

    But I didn't sleep with the last one. Promised her I wouldn't penetrate her on the first meeting, dunderhead what y'all know I can be. And I never heard from her again. Yet. I should've known that things with her would end badly when I had to explain the wonder and whimsy that is the IHOP to her. I've always done better with the smart girls than the not-so for some reason.

     

    So there was a passage in this tome about how one needs to be careful with regard to getting someone to open themselves up to one on the too much too soon too fast tip. Kinda like, say, for instance, banging them the first time you meet them. He said, possibly going for that medal in conclusion jumping. Or not. Whatever.

     

    And I realized that at least part of why things always go off the rails is that I somehow magically (there's probably a joke involving my wand in here somewhere, but I'm better than that) get these poor susceptible womenfolks to do things with me that they wouldn't and don't ordinarily do. And then, in the cold fluorescent light of Afterwards, they experience Buyer's Remorse and, let's go with shame (what can I say? I play dirty and rough), at the things they've done with someone who (while awesome) they barely know. Even if they believe that they do. I know. Like good ol' Mr. Cramer would say, a high quality problem. Poor poor pitiful me.

     

    Which means 2 things. A) I'm doing something right and 2) I now have something different, sticking point-wise, to work on. And work on it I shall. It's been too long since I had me a viable friend with benefits. Apparently my vibe is entirely one night stand. And while that's a good and productive thing, I'm lazy and would prefer a harem of FWB's. Again, first world problems.

     

    Apparently I'm neither harmless nor the boy next door, no matter how much I cop to both. And, unbeknownst to me, even when I'm not consciously running a love con, my accursed (shakes fist) subconscious kinda is. Yay, me!

     

    Or I could be reading between lines that simply aren't there. Again, whatever and ever, Amen. My story and I'm sticking to it as it gives me something I haven't had in a spell.