Suffering For Art

 


Yesterday I posted this article on my Facebook page, indicating there are certain entertainers I won’t support even on Netflix/Hulu/Amazon because they still receive royalties. I won’t even check out their movies from the library.

I was subjected to “Annie Hall” my freshman year in college. Woody Allen is a whiny fuckhead criminal, and I don’t understand why people, especially women, keep clamoring to work with him. Who does he remind me of? The abusive guy who doesn’t live downstairs anymore. I have paid attention to the trailers of Woody’s subsequent films, and quite frankly, they have nothing to offer beyond what we have already seen. Who keeps saying he’s a genius? Other men who want to bang underage girls.

One of my friends agonized over the fact that “great artists” might be shitty people. And by “shitty people,” he means that they probably rape and molest women and/or girls and/or boys. But, by god, look at their art! What would we miss out on if they didn’t do all of those things to other people! So the conclusion that this friend came to is that we should still support and admire the art – works by Salinger, Brando, Led Zeppelin, The Doors, Mailer, Eliot, the list goes on.

My answer is no. I’ve never seen any of The Godfather movies. I’ve never lingered on a Pollack painting. Never read Salinger. When I find out that someone is a douchebag, I drop them like a hot mess. I will never again laugh or relate to a Cosby joke. He drugged women to fuck them, and then, you know, blamed them or tried to gaslight them.

Another friend who jumped in on the conversation jokingly said that he would support the art if he could pirate the material rather than outright buy it. But he would still miss the art too much if he had to give it up because he loved it too much; he was a huge John Lennon fan, and that outweighed any bad behavior.

What is especially disturbing is that the second friend wrote up a little speech during the first wave of #MeToo posts, saying he became aware of how unsafe women feel after a female friend asked, “But is it safe for me to go there by myself?” He expected and received a lot of accolades. But he and the other guy were pissed at me for this post about not supporting assholes and criminals. I mean, they both apologized for offending me, but only after speeches about why I shouldn’t be mad. Don’t be mad, brah. We’re just flawed and we don’t want to stop bad behavior if it results in good art.

We all attended the arts high school together. I’m always surprised and then disappointed when I think that we’ve all evolved at the same rate, because we had this really great experience, and I’m proven wrong. I’m a harpy now. Why can’t I be all cool about loving the art and understand that men will be men and suffer and need salvation – but know until then, they are going to beat and rape women and children?

I’m just wondering when I stopped deserving to be safe. Is it because I’m an artist and I should expect violence from other artists for the sake of art? Is it because I’m disabled and I should be thankful for whatever comes my way? Where is the motherfucking disconnect?

I’d much rather throw my money and my spirit at artists who aren’t shitty people. For instance, I like Sara Bareillas. I’m pretty sure we’re not going to be reading any shockers about her. I also like X Ambassadors. Have you heard about their partnership with No Barriers for the Renegade Scholarship Fund? “The organization helps people embark on a quest to contribute their absolute best to the world. From middle and high school students, to adults with disabilities including wounded veterans, the organization serves people of all backgrounds and abilities united by a common desire to live purposefully despite the barriers in our way.” And since I live across the street from the art gallery my sister manages, there is an endless stream of local visual artists I get to talk to and take pictures of their goods to post online for social media.

There are so many opportunities to support positive artists, both living and dead, that I don’t feel the need to give my attention or money to those who destroy others. I don’t accept the status quo. I don’t go along with the idea that I should like them or their art just because they are “classic” or “geniuses.” Now that we have the internet, we have access to so much more material. Besides, last time I checked, The Doors aren’t putting out any new songs.

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Fake It ‘Til You Make It Out Of There Alive

A few minutes ago I was standing in the middle of my kitchen, trying to figure out if the married couple downstairs was fighting again, and whether I should reach for my phone. Last Saturday the husband, whom I have nicknamed The Leprechaun because he’s shorter than my 5’6″ height and sports a red beard, had a 3-hour meltdown. One of many, I’d like to point out. He rages. He hits the wall. He hits furniture. He may even hit his wife. I hear her crying all the time.

I notified the apartment managers the week they moved in, and they told me to call the cops. On Saturday, I did. I got tired of the screaming and my walls shaking. The cops came and went, and The Leprechaun took it upon himself to immediately knock on my door afterwards and demand that I talk to him about why it’s acceptable for him to be abusive. You see, he has a traumatic brain injury. You see, he can’t drive. You see, it’s none of my business if he makes his wife cry. I didn’t open my door. I simply put my headphones back in and eventually he went away.

I drafted a letter to the apartment managers. In it, I recapped what happened in the past, including The Leprechaun knocking on my door right before New Year’s because I had dropped a bottle of lotion on the floor, because it had “caused a huge ruckus” (like that’s the same as 15 hours of his screaming rage) – and by the way, I hadn’t opened my door to him that time either. I also indicated that he had knocked on my door and demanded we talk after the cops had left on Saturday. I was told that the managers were going to have a meeting with him as well as talk to their attorneys to find out how to handle him because he had a disability (traumatic brain injury from serving in the Navy) and they have to “accommodate” him – though I’m not sure why his TBI overrides my disabilities. Also, let’s face it: no one has ever called the cops on me for being violent and threatening, because I’m not.

I got a text from one of the managers Wednesday night that they were setting up a meeting with him Thursday morning. Fifteen minutes later, The Leprechaun knocked on my door again and demanded that I open the door and talk to him. I told him through the door that I wasn’t dressed to open the door (which was the truth – I was resting in bed), and he said very forcefully, “I’LL WAIT.” Then I said that I was also on the phone (which was true – I was talking to someone out of state, and that friend could hear the entire exchange). Eventually The Leprechaun went away again, but I had to text the manager and tell him what happened, and he told me to call the cops if The Leprechaun came back.

I know the meeting happened on Thursday morning. I heard The Leprechaun return back to the apartment because he slammed the door as hard as he could. I didn’t hear him start packing boxes though, so I have no idea what the verdict was. Looks like I’ll have to pursue that answer Monday.

But it seems silly that I had to point out to the apartment managers in my letter to them that I don’t condone spousal abuse, I am not okay with him retaliating against me, I’m not his wife, he doesn’t pay my rent, and it doesn’t say anywhere in my lease that I’m required to accept abuse from the tenant who lives in the basement apartment. So now I’m on alert and ready to call the cops. C’mon, Leprechaun, your box of Lucky Charms is gonna run out sooner or later.

This ties into another subject that I was discussing with a friend about why women fake orgasms. Specifically, why do women who are having a one-night stand fake orgasms. Mainly because there’s so many douchebags like The Leprechaun running around. The worst are the ones who like to proclaim that they’re nice. No really, they’re nice! But then get any of your bits naked around them and they’ll make your nipples bleed or tell you that you like anal sex, you just don’t know it, and they’re going to show you how right they are.

I actually had the privilege of talking this process of faking it through with a man who was willing to listen rather than becoming defensive or angry. Think about it; when you talk about having one night stands as a single woman, you get the pious lecture about how you don’t deserve anything nice because you gave a man your body for only one night, you dirty whore. No lecture for the other party, though. He did nothing worse than stick his dick in another hole. But I digress.

We talked about the various reasons why women fake orgasms. But there’s a specific reason that isn’t talked about much that comes up from time to time on first dates/first-time or only-time sexual encounters, and that is personal safety. Sometimes you don’t know that things are going to go badly until you are both naked and the fucker has stopped listening, and it dawns on you that he simply wants a porno show. His script is running and you had better perform. The light bulb goes on over your head.

Of course, some men love the whole resistance and crying thing. That’s not what I’m talking about. The guys who can’t tell if a woman is faking are the ones who rely solely on porn for the cues of orgasm: “Oh” sounds, clenched hands, clamped jaw (or maybe even gaping open, whatever your preference). They want to dig a hole to China through your clit. If you complain that the pressure hurts, they push your hands away, tell you that you should stop being shy or that you really like it, and wrench your legs back open after they have closed to protect your most tender flesh. Same for anything that they want to do to you rather than do with you.

The light goes on. You give him his show, make all the right noises, tell him he is king, and get the fuck out of there before he rips your skin any more or gives you additional bruises and you have excruciating pain every time you pee because the urine is passing over open wounds.

I’m just saying, it’s okay to fake it sometimes. There’s a lot of Leprechauns out there.

No. Oh, Wait…Oh, That’s a Definite No.

Of course it’s been a while since I’ve logged on to OKCupid, but there are some guys who don’t pay attention to that and just like my pictures or check out my profile without looking at the last time I’ve logged in. I will admit that even I’ve been excited about a profile and then noticed too late that it’s been a month or three since the guy has logged in, signaling either 1) He found someone, or 2) He gave up, or 3) He’s in jail. I got a little notification in my email with a note from the guy saying, “I do have a German shepherd and a Siamese – otherwise I’m clean- list-wise”

I’ve heard this before. I logged in. We were a whopping 43% of a match. I looked over his profile, and the very first thing I saw is that he’s Christian, and it’s somewhat important. What did I specify in my profile? I won’t date someone who participates in organized religion. Why not? Because I’m not waiting to be saved or led or subjugated. I can lead a morally upright life without religion. I can lead a spiritually aware life without religion.

Some other tidbits from his profile: He admits he drinks regularly (at least 4-5 nights a week), he really, really wants to fuck anything that moves, and he’s a Dom. A little more from his questions: He doesn’t want women to have “too high self-esteem; he wants to date a slut; he would prefer to date only in his race; jealousy is healthy; he could be in an open relationship; he’s just looking for sex for the next few months.”

I started with the easiest one, and replied that we wouldn’t be a match because he has listed himself as a Christian and that it’s important to him.

His response: Really? I’m a barely attending Lutheran with doubts. And what is with intolerant people on all sides of the spectrum- Good luck with your godless utopia
Me: Since your profile says that you’re Christian and you’re getting pissy that I pointed it out, I’d say it’s pretty important to you. And since you’re offended that I don’t believe in organized religion, I’d say we’re not a match.

I didn’t even have to take it any further than that because he blocked me and so I blocked him (sometimes these jackwads come back later when they are drunk and looking for spank bank material). But really, he’s “questioning” his faith because he really, really wants to fuck around and he doesn’t want to feel guilty about it. It was such a weak insult to throw at me – “godless utopia”??? That’s only a horror to someone who believes it’s the worst kind of hell a soul can suffer. If he wasn’t strong in his faith, he wouldn’t have written it. I guarantee you he’s still trying to work out how to give himself blow jobs.

The Ballad of the Broken Neighbors

“FUCK. FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK! SHUT UP! JUST SHUT UP! FUCK YOU!”

It first came on Sunday night, a man’s voice, from the direction of my windows to my right. I had my ear buds in and had been laying in bed, watching movies, as usual. My first thought was that a guy was watching a sporting event and was just generally being a dick and being really passionate about a goal that was scored.

But then I heard a much softer female tone answer. I could tell she was in tears but I couldn’t make out what she said. Then he again exploded: “FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU! SHUT UP! SHUT THE FUCK UP!” Then he punched something, hard, multiple times. It may have been the wall, or it may have been a piece of furniture, but I don’t think it was her. I couldn’t tell where it was coming from. I got out of bed. This building is old, built somewhere around 1910, and the floors are the original wood. They creak with every step I take no matter how quiet I try to be.

I went to the kitchen, and it seemed to be slightly louder. I could hear them both. I have a very tiny apartment, only 360 square feet, and much of the wall space is covered with art, so it was really difficult for me to find any blank wall to put my ear to. By the time I did, they had stopped. I hovered for a while but everything stayed quiet. I slowly walked back to bed, wondering if they were truly done.

At around 12:30 a.m., there was another outburst. “FUCK! FUCK YOU! STOP IT! JUST STOP IT! JUST SHUT UP! SHUT THE FUCK UP! FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK!” More crying from her, and words, but I still couldn’t hear what she was saying. I got up and they stopped. I got into bed again and wondered when they moved in, because I hadn’t heard anything like it before from that space below me.

At around 9:00 the next morning, the yelling started again. I got out of bed and laid down on my floor so I could put my ear to the floor boards. I could hear them walking around, I could hear the air moving between their bodies and their ceiling/my floor, I could even hear them making holes somewhere close to me – maybe to hang electronics, or pictures? I felt like I was in a movie, where the cinematographer shows how close one character is to the other, and all that is separating them is one flimsy piece of board. I wondered if they could hear me breathing. I tried to hold my breath.

I heard him say, “Why do you always fucking do this?!” and I know that she answered because I heard her voice, but it was still too quiet and tearful to make out the words. Then it was silent except for their bodies moving, and the periodic pounding into the plaster. After about 15 minutes I got up from my place on the floor because it was becoming far too painful to maintain, and I started getting ready for my caseworker to visit. As soon as I did, the yelling started again.

When my caseworker arrived at around 1:30 p.m., I warned her that the couple in the apartment below mine had been fighting, and she would likely hear it. About three minutes later, we heard the guy again, just as loudly as all of his other rants. He never seemed to tire. I imagined that the woman was exhausted.

His rage continued for a total of 15 hours on Monday. He hit something again too. I still don’t think it was her, but it set me on edge. The last screaming rant was around 12:30 a.m. again; I had my ear buds in watching my final movie of the night trying to get tired enough to sleep and his screaming penetrated the ear buds.

For the next two days, Tuesday and Wednesday, he had screaming fits again, but not for the 15 hours that he did on Monday. On Wednesday I typed up a text to forward to the property manager but at the last second deleted it. Then an hour later, a notice was slipped under my door saying that we were getting completely new apartment managers (our 7th and 8th in a year and a half), and to be patient during the transition. That’s why my instincts wouldn’t allow me to text the now-fired old manager!

Today at lunch I took a chance and stopped by the office, which is located directly across from the new tenants’ apartment. I pulled the door shut, introduced myself, and told the new managers that I heard abusive behavior from the male tenant of the two. The new managers said that maybe the guy was just watching a game or playing XBox. I said that was bullshit, and that the woman had been crying. Then one of the managers said that yes, she had seen the woman crying. Then they said they didn’t see any marks on the woman’s face. I told them that didn’t mean anything, and by the way, women don’t cry over scores that men get while playing XBox. They said that I could always call the cops if I needed to. I am fine with that – and I will, do not doubt that – but here’s my problem: I have to actually do things to get ready to get to the front door to let the cops in that people who are able-bodied don’t think twice about. We have a secured front door without an intercom. Plus I am the only apartment within close proximity of the asshole, they don’t touch walls with anyone else (even though my next door neighbor heard him shout once), so when I report him, he’s going to come after me.

The new managers assured me they would talk to the new tenants. I went back to my apartment and laid down, and then someone started banging on my door and buzzing the ancient doorbell. I had to say “Just a minute!” more than a few times to get them to stop. After putting my wig back on, I opened the door to discover one of the managers there; she apologized and said she should have called instead of knocked, but then said that the woman said the man was playing with his XBox. I told the manager that that was absolute bullshit. The manager said that if I felt like the new neighbor was disturbing the peace, I was certainly welcome to call the cops, but she had to accept what the woman told her. I asked her if the woman came up with the XBox explanation on her own, or if the manager gave her that option as a possible “out,” and she couldn’t tell me.

So at this point, it’s me against the neighbors. Why do women stay? They just want the abuse to stop. They want their men to value them and to see how much they love them. They want their love to be enough to fix them. They don’t want to get their men in trouble. They need their men for financial support. I run the risk of both of them turning against me when I pick up the phone.

You had better believe I’m going to call it in.

Sleeping Single In A Single Bed

On Monday I finally had my bed delivered. It is an honest-to-goodness hospital bed complete with handrails and a hand control to raise and lower the head and foot areas. I actually got it because I’m in bed so much that I am wearing through my traditional mattresses in a matter of months and I’ve gotten a few bedsores. I was afraid that it was going to be super noisy – both the motor and the mattress itself – but the motor is completely silent and the mattress doesn’t crinkle at all (and maybe it helps that I folded up my foam topper from my queen mattress to add to the cushion of this one).

So of course my friends already suggested that things could get kinky with the handrails and the adjustable bed. Like I didn’t already think that. This shit was made for tying.

I had a few _______ exchanges on OKCupid (you can fill in your own adjectives). The first was from the guy from this post where we didn’t get very far before it got weird.

Him: Long time no hear.
Me: When we were trading messages, you said, “I just need to what hours are better for you.” (I presume you meant to say “I just need to know what hours are better for you.”) I told you that I don’t have a set schedule and that I wouldn’t be logging on the next day. You replied and said, “I’ll have some free time tomorrow, Chelsea.” I repeated myself and said that I wouldn’t be signing in and indicated why so that you would understand I was not simply ignoring you. Then you admonished me for telling you that I wouldn’t be logging in, saying, “You don’t have to alert me when you’re signing on.”

From this short exchange, my takeaway is that you are looking for someone to correct so that you feel intellectually superior. It doesn’t sound appealing to me, but maybe it’s your kink. Be happy, or be right, but you can’t be both.

Him: It was really so people know that I’m not a small-minded misogynist who is afraid of an intelligent woman. Sorry if you felt admonished. I should have been paying closer attention while messaging you.

Me: I wish you luck in finding someone who can capture your attention.

(At this point I blocked him.)

Then I got a message from a screen name that didn’t ring a bell. I saw the email first, and the message said, “Will you ever forgive me?” I logged on to see if I could figure it out. There were two messages. “Will you ever forgive me?” and “I hope I hear back from you…”

I looked at the profile picture. I recognized it as a picture a guy used for a profile and I met him a year ago, but the picture was nothing at all what he looked like. I actually did a reverse image lookup of him before we met but I couldn’t find the picture anywhere else so I still don’t know where he got it from, but it absolutely, positively is not him. He also has a home in France and before we were able to meet up for our date I asked him to take a few pictures from his rooftop, which he did. I did a reverse lookup and didn’t get any “hits,” so again, I had to take him for his word. But after our first date and his very enthusiastic insistence that he wanted to see me again the next day, he completely disappeared. You know, for the next YEAR. And then he comes back with this. No explanation, no apology. So this is how I replied:

Oh, do you mean about using a picture that is not a true representation of you, and then disappearing completely? Nope. You are free, petit cochon. (Note: “petit cochon” is French for “little pig.”)

I didn’t realize it but there has been a message in my inbox for four days now, but OKCupid didn’t send me a notification. It says:

I’m JOHN LOPES im here to date a woman that will make me happy till the end of life you can kindly reach me on my facebook i’d JOHN FILLIP LOPEZ……..or you can add me on my email adress johnfilliplopez23@gmail.com ……….you can also text me on my number …. 3155064755

And then immediately below it is a warning from OKCupid:
Never transfer funds to someone you met on the Internet and keep your conversations safely on OkCupid.

So kids, when you see this message, just know whomever is running this profile is from a foreign country and is running a scam. They like to post photos as military personnel (like this one did) and then quickly shift to a story about how their “work laptop” stopped working and they are in tears because they can’t work and they need money and can’t you send money? They are crying their eyes out, honey baby sweetie. Oh, and I like how this dude can’t decide how to spell his last name – Lopes or Lopez.

There’s a lot of weirdness rolling around right now. I don’t feel like I’m missing out on anything at the moment, so I’m perfectly fine flying solo with my new little ugly bed.

 

The One That Got Away & Other Lies

There is a guy on Twitter that I started following who is a life coach and motivational speaker, but is definitely not a Joel Osteen/Tony Robbins type, though closer to Tony than Joel – he reminds me of the fast-talking Italian types that I think all of us have seen a time or two whenever guys in suits are interviewed about whatever happens on Wall Street. And they’re Italian. And they’re loud. And they say “fuck” a lot. And they have a lot of big, white teeth and they talk fast and they say “fuck” again, just for emphasis.

What Brenden says in 140 characters on a regular basis at least once a day is what I have said at least once myself, or maybe have taken a few more words to have said it, but the sentiment was there. One downside to Brenden is that he is a staunch supporter of Trump, so I have to sometimes decide if I have to walk away from what he’s saying for an entire day because he’s humping Trump. I wish he would leave the elections out of his life coaching, but it’s his choice, so I have to deal with it.

To be clear, I’m not following Brenden because I feel I need life coaching. I think I have a pretty good handle on who I am, and I think Brenden has a pretty good handle on who he is. For a good portion of my life people have come to me for my help and advice. I feel like Brenden should be my backup bitch. I haven’t got the energy for it. Actually, I need to reword that: I don’t have the fucking energy for it. I’m at doctor appointments nearly every day and worrying about where I’m going to live when my money runs out.

Anyway, one of his posts today was this: “You can’t move forward in life until you’ve got a proper context for the past and are completely at peace with it.”

I think proper context is something that a lot of people miss out on, especially if they are finding themselves stuck in the same patterns.

Because I’ve been on OKCupid a few times in that past couple of weeks, I’ve seen old messages that were not previously deleted – even from a few years ago! Some exchanges cracked me up, some made me roll my eyes, some guys made me think of course you’re still on here, you’re just looking for someone to bang, not a relationship like you claim in your profile.

Of course, the messages between the most recent ex and I were in there too. He told me in the course of our exchange that he had taken expensive dance lessons to impress a woman who had no romantic interest in him and never would. I found out this happened sometime between age 38 and 44 for him, and he turned 45 when we dated. He was supposedly madly in love with this woman for five years while she said she only wanted friendship from him (and maybe once in a while emergency assistance like errands or bail-outs).

He told me, “She’s the closest thing to the one that got away, I guess.” This is not proper context. If one is going to use this Nicholas-Sparks-antiquated term, it refers to both parties loving each other and feeling as if they could, indeed, be in a long term or forever relationship, but distance or circumstances (like one of them is taking care of an ailing parent for 20 years and it’s the 1940’s and unmarried people don’t live under the same roof) keeps the couple from getting together. This woman could not imagine dating him. He was really, really trying hard to make her change her mind. For five years.

She does not owe the Ex-Saint because he really, really wanted her to change her mind. She is not, nor will she ever be, the one who got away.

Same goes for me. I am not one that “got away” – but I did call bullshit.

It’s weird and creepy how much of a departure from reality his imagination took him, but here’s a glimpse: He would tell everyone he managed a “call center.” Now, I’ve worked in call centers for 15 years. Hell, the campus I worked at in Arizona had 4500 people. His area has 3 people including him. He’s never worked in a call center in his life because this has been his only job in his entire adulthood besides the pizza place in college (which also wasn’t a call center, incidentally). My apartment has a cell phone and a VoIP phone. Do I live in a call center? No. But if he were describing it and it was his apartment, then yes, it would be a call center.

The Ex-Saint would get many calls that he wouldn’t answer while we were spending time together. I suspected that they were bill collectors, but he never admitted it.

The Ex-Saint had a gambling problem and would drop large bills on pull tabs. I only knew about it because the few times that we were at bars, he couldn’t pass by the pull tabs without spending a minimum of $50-100 in 5 minutes.

The Ex-Saint is a binge drinker. Every weekend, and even a few days a week, he gets stupid drunk. I estimate that he drinks somewhere around 50-70 12 oz. beers a month (but that might even be conservative). He’s also obsessed with putting jalapenos on all of his food, which has been identified as being an indicator that someone is an alcoholic – they seek out the spiciest food because they have fucked up their entire taste system.

The Ex-Saint is a binge eater. He slurps all of his food from his fork in a frenzied fashion as if it’s the first and last time he will ever eat, chews frantically with his mouth open and his eyes glaze over. He also eats 2-3 full plates at a time. This one is particularly hard for me because I have certain triggers myself, having struggled all my life with food addictions and seeking comfort emotionally through food. (Side thought: Where’s the damn gene that makes us addicted to vegetables??? WTF?)

The Ex-Saint is a hoarder. I was never allowed to see his apartment because apparently it was packed with junk and boxes.

The Ex-Saint is a compulsive liar. From the job description to the denial about drinking and gambling and just about anything else you can think of (too much to list here), lying is so much a part of his life because addiction is. I remember one time he tried to accuse me of lying about playing the violin, clarinet and piano; I told him that he had walked past my violin a few hundred times in my closet without realizing it, but it was there on the top shelf right in the open if he looked. No lie there. I’m musically inclined.

Proper context would happen if he actually got professional help to work through his issues. Unfortunately, he’s back on OKCupid (so now I can properly block him) – but that means he’s going to be telling his lies to a whole new audience. I’m sure his family feels sorry for him and has told him to get out there and try again. But if he’s lying to them, or worse, they are enabling him to continue to hoard and binge drink and gamble and wrack up debt, they’re not doing him a lick of good.

If he’s ready for some honesty, I’ve got Brenden’s info. Brenden will help him kick some fucking ass with truth and live an authentic life.

(Just don’t vote Trump or we will all die by February 2017.)

Here’s Some Words And Some More Words

Well, even though I have tried to stay off of OKCupid, the fresh meat flag is still flying and the messages keep rolling in.

There are a few issues that I see repeating. One is that if I don’t reply within a few hours, the guys will block me. It’s either because they think I’m a robot (which always makes me laugh because robots always post pics that look like porn stars, not me) or that they want an answer NOW and if I don’t answer NOW then they aren’t going to WASTE THEIR TIME ON A BITCH LIKE ME. Another problem is that there’s always the guys who go into copy and paste mode and send the same message to everyone. I honestly don’t know if women respond; I mean, they must at some point, because men keep doing it, but I got this gem today that really didn’t make a whole lot of sense.

First, some background: This guy is a 72% match to me and 31% enemy, and at the end he said under the phrase on his profile “You should message me if”: “You are open minded and want to have fun.. You should also be 100% Active.. Keep it Spontaneous..”

So before I give you his correspondence, just know that the line “you want to have fun” rubs me the wrong way. Duh, dude – we all like to have fun. But that’s incredibly subjective. I happen to think going to an animal shelter and petting all of the cats and dogs that I’m allergic to is fun because it could kill me but I miss being around them, but that might not be everyone’s cup of tea. And the random capitalization of words and incorrect usage of ellipses is making my eyes burn. Now, on with the show.

“The truth will set us free so here goes.. Many people are uptight about race and gender the truth of the matter is they wouldn’t know a real man if he were standing right in front of them, many people are just foolish especially about something they have no knowledge about so before you jump to conclusions I want you to meet a man who has experience and knowledge➡Many relationships fall apart not only because of lack of communication but lack of understanding what true love really is.➡Love is feeling truly happy with another person, blissfully happy, as if time has stopped and you two are the only ones still moving, when you feel truly comfortable with them, when you know that you can spend the rest of your life with that one person, because there is no one you would rather be with… You cannot necessarily define love, but you will know it when you feel it because it will feel so amazing😉 that’s love.. ”

Let’s break this down.
1) Why is he talking about race and gender in relation to what a “real man” is?
2) What is this so-called elusive “experience and knowledge”?
3) If this guy is so certain he has experienced the holy grail of love and knows what it feels like, why is he on a dating website still looking for it?
4) He said there was no way to define love, but that was after he defined love.
5) He’s just talking at me (or anyone he sends this to). Since he’s not actually asking anything and there’s no indication that he’s read my profile, I’m pretty sure that lets me off the hook for replying to him.
6) What’s his fucking point?

Okay, OKAY, Cupid – Sheesh.

I received a message from one of my stalkers whose messages go directly to my spam folder on my phone. I somehow managed to open it in my sleep and it startled me wide awake when I saw it: “I left Minnesota.” Did I believe it? No. Because when I scrolled back further in the spam folder, I saw various messages from him desperately trying numerous tactics to get my attention. “Oh, hey, the sky is blue, so I thought of you.” Yeah, buddy, nice try.

I haven’t logged onto OKCupid since March, so it took me a few tries to get the right username/password combo. I finally got in and found this jackass’s profile, made sure he was still blocked, then tried to figure out if he truly left the state, but everything looked the same. So I really can’t tell. That means I’m going to be looking over my shoulder for a while still. His “I won’t take no for an answer” attitude has gone on for almost a full year now.

While I was on, I decided to block the profile of the most recent ex, since he also has stalking tendencies – he admitted that he was still trying to “get” a friend to love him after five years of friendship and one failed date and that she was “the woman of his dreams.” The birthday gift to me was what he had told me he was going to give to her, which was a box he had picked out from a thrift store and write out qualities he liked about her on index cards he placed inside the box like a treasure chest. On one hand it was touching, but on the other hand it hurt – it made me realize there wasn’t anything special about me as far as he was concerned, but rather I was just fulfilling some romanticized role he had created in a fantasy. It also explained why he referred to me in the third person when we talked to each other. I was an object. I could barely get him to stop using a fake accent he had concocted when we were being intimate and not silly. I can only imagine the lies he is telling everyone about why I chose to end the relationship, but now I have to worry about him showing up at my sister’s workplace across the street, or hovering around my apartment’s entrance door and slipping in and then trying to SHOW ME how even though he tried to conceal a big part of his life from me and lie about the rest of it, he was going to swoop in on his white horse and save me.

I was logged on for all of seven minutes at about 3:32 a.m., and I guess that was enough to ring the fresh meat dinner bell. Immediately I got a few messages, including the usual with no punctuation: “Hi”, “Hi how are you” “Hi” “hi” “hi how you” and then one saying, “Wow! You are gorgeous! Do you want my phone number?”

I can’t handle the bullshit yet. The littlest nope:
LittlestNope

Pay The Toll To The Troll. The Price? Your Soul.

I don’t have any idea how often this happens, or who determines it, but supposedly, Mercury was in retrograde as of Thursday this week. Why don’t frogs just rain down from the skies and we can all just be done with it? No, the psychic attack is much more stealthy, I think. The back of my neck aches. My gums and mouth burns and everything tastes metallic. I fervently wish that Facebook incorporated a disgusted eye roll emoji in their current six options, up from the original singular thumbs-up option. My inner dialog changes: Get out of my way. Stop kicking my goddamn cane. Your perfume smells like cat piss. I’m not waiting 45 minutes this time before calling in to see if they forgot me again, I’m only waiting 30. I am going to scrub my fucking toilet until it fucking sparkles.

Even before Thursday hit I could feel the earth boiling, and my mood was cooking right along with it. I encountered my first troll on Tuesday night. A friend created a private Facebook group so that (mostly) she and the rest of us could say things that couldn’t be said unfiltered in front of a wider Facebook audience. The creator also uses the page to talk about her new grandchild, so obviously it’s not as restrictive as she originally intended. Anyway, a mutual friend was going through a rough patch with her boyfriend and had already talked about it at a coffee shop reunion the week prior, so when she posted in the group, she was just looking for further confirmation that she wasn’t being too harsh in her judgment; after all, when you are the one in the situation, it’s difficult to be objective. This jackass dude pipes in and starts criticizing her and tells her that she’s probably not communicating correctly or enough with the guy she’s in the relationship with – not at all helpful.

Knowing what I know of my friend, and knowing what I know of the guy she’s dating, I don’t hold back on the troll. First I tell him that she DOES and HAS communicated clearly what her boundaries are and that they have been violated repeatedly. Every point the poster or I bring up, the troll says we’re wrong. Then the troll starts talking about how this always happens to him, that he’s always attacked for having a “different viewpoint from most everyone else.” I told him then that it’s because he’s condescending and he has contradicted everything that the original poster and I have said. He said “No, I haven’t. Tell me where I have. I genuinely want to know.” So instead of turning the post into everything about him, I tell him to go back and read. His reaction is to laugh. Obviously there isn’t anything “genuine” about this jackass. The final straw is when the troll claims that we shouldn’t be “defensive, that he is only being inquisitive.” My response was, “You’re not inquisitive, you’re correcting both ___ and I, so that does not constitute a “different” perspective as if it somehow elevates you, it just makes you repulsive.

But then the owner of the group starts posting paragraphs about how we’re supposed to play nice. Then there’s more posts about how disappointed she is about our behavior and how she wants to shut the group down…but she doesn’t, because other people chime in that despite the fact that I’m a bad apple, the group is a “good idea” and some people claim it’s so great that she should “go global” with it – as if talking behind backs is a new concept. If that’s the case, I’ve got some oceanfront property in Arizona to sell to them. Lots of sand.

Troll #2 happens the next day, when I talk about this conversation. He listens for a few minutes, then bursts in with, “I HATE MEN!” As if I, Chelsea, hate men. I don’t. I do, however, hate men who: Lie, cheat, steal, are alcoholics/addicts, are abusive, are lazy, are filthy, are racist, are bigots, pollute, smoke, chew, are narcissists, and hate animals. I’m sure there’s more to the list, but that covers it for now. By the way, Troll #2 fits into quite a few of these categories. Hey, does someone smell butt hurt?

Troll #3 is on Thursday, the big retrograde day. I am pulled into a discussion about racism and white privilege. The person who tagged me is Native American, and the other person is white (and just happens to be an editor for Bloomberg and fancies himself to be an expert on the world and all experiences, like all white guys). The Native American wanted the privileged white dude to know that every other white person didn’t share his smugness. What it boils down to is that the white guy claims that no matter what, all people suffer, so racism, sexism and bigotry don’t actually exist, and we should just get over it. The examples I gave him – white men kick my cane when I’m in public, but women and just generally people of color don’t kick my cane; or white men shoulder check me – probably doesn’t happen, or if they do, they happen because people are just being shitty to me and it doesn’t have anything to do with privilege. He told me I needed to be friendlier (as in, “You are a woman, so you owe it to me, a privileged white male, to smile at me”), so I told him he needed to stop being a dick.

I’m not sure what the cure is. I don’t know how long this shit storm Mercury started lasts. Mercury is an asshole.

Of Saints and Sinners

I don’t drink, I don’t smoke, I don’t use drugs (not even the widely accepted green stuff); however, if I could snort chocolate, I probably would. In fact, I’ve heard that the latest craze is snorting unsweetened cocoa. Yes, it’s a thing. But what I’m referring to is more like my love of M&M’s – relatively harmless in the grand scheme of things.

Last year when 23 & Me was still mired in legalities regarding providing medical results in their gene testing, I had my genes tested because I knew eventually they would either 1) be able to find a way to package the results about the health stuff in a way where it would be understood that it was not actual advice, or 2) we would have raw data forever but it would be a starting point for me to take back to my doctors. So I got in on the action while the price was reduced. Just two months after that, they were able to legally follow the fore-mentioned #1 and also increase their price, but my info was grandfathered in, so it was a great situation for me personally.

This testing confirmed I had the addiction gene. Specifically, the results indicated that I would gain no benefit from developing a drinking habit. (Really, who does?) But certain people are definitely more vulnerable to addiction than others. I know I have that bug. Every once in a while I feel it tugging at my corners; in my 20s I had built up a tolerance to alcohol and it would take a dozen hard liquor drinks for me to perceive a feeling a drunkenness. What else could I become addicted to? Being pursued by men. Lipstick. Perfumes from Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab. I’ve managed to curb all of these, either cutting them out completely or limiting them severely. I know their price, either in dollars or with the price of my soul.

I’m bringing up addiction because it has claimed my relationship with The Saint Paul. Addiction brings with it deception, half-truths and deliberate omissions. I’m not inclined to list what his addictions are, but I discovered one of the five on our first date. I warned him early on that if I felt it interfere with our relationship in any way, it would not matter if we were 10 weeks or 10 years in, I would not hesitate to say goodbye.

As our relationship progressed, he tried to push the boundaries of my limits with what I would accept. One weekend I chose to ignore it because I was struggling so much with pain and unhelpful doctors that I needed comfort more than I needed to enforce respect. Later, other addictions became apparent. I started actively watching for evasiveness, because I realized that this was his go-to tactic when he felt cornered. I also completely lost trust in his ability to be my partner; his actions did not match his proclamations to support me, because in reality he always waited for me to take the lead and take care of everything.

This past week we did not spend time together. I rested a lot because the week before we were together every day because of non-stop activities, and then I wrapped up the week by spending time with some long-term friends. I had traded texts with him and asked him what he had done with his time and received no answer. I took this to be a deliberate, cowardly omission, a way to avoid telling me what he had been up to because he knew I wouldn’t like it.

I did not pry or send repeated messages. Instead, I went to the stash of brown bags with handles under my sink and began assembling his belongings from my apartment.

Tonight he confirmed my suspicions – he didn’t answer my question because he was doing something this weekend that he knew I wouldn’t like and broke his vow to me. It was just a formality that I asked him if that was the case. I had already mourned the loss of our relationship Saturday when I was met with radio silence. It was actually the sound of the other shoe dropping.

I encouraged him to seek counseling. I told him that I did not want to be “friends.” It would be far too painful for me to be the asshole handing out the advice that won’t be listened to, even if my advice is sought out and makes sense. I can only hope that his fear doesn’t paralyze him and that he pursues a better life by letting go of his demons.