Femme Stacks

I used to put too much on women. Hopes and dreams, my redemption (oh the weak spirit doth whine for revival), the upbraiding of my life into a mature whole sprouted from weak-willed, sinful lethargy. I pined for someone special that could miraculously deliver me from evil and Hyde behaviour, bring me to that state of potential all those shitty teachers talked about. Filthy muckrakers smoking Kings and lecturing half-strung prisoner youth, dwindling their life away in Staple’s bought desks reminiscent of Dilbert cubicles. I was asking too much of all the women that may have entered into my life, prospects glowing like goldmine jackpots. I wasn’t even thinking about sex, well, impossible not to in North American society, sex is the Starbucks of human activity, everywhere you wanna be. But what I was yearning for was upheaval. I wanted to be ‘good,’ better than I believed myself to be, poor self-esteem rebooted and strengthened by a lovely lady. More dutiful than personable; I was wishing for a cane to help me balance, without religion I clung to other systems to keep me afloat, above the hell pit, hellmouth, Buffy save me.

I idolized their gender, almost wanting to be them, and there is some of that lingering within me. I thought they better of the sexes, less corruptible and averse to the faults and frailty of men. Beauties for our beasts. I admit the burden I placed was unfair and not at all realistic. I should not look for someone to flip my house, a gentleman’s gentleman, to cast aside good people as they do not live up to my standards I’ve been exalting over the years. Why do we men often look for companions closer to slave workers than amorous life partners? Why was I so gungho about a Molly Maid mate? Because I didn’t believe in myself enough, the ego was certainly there, I felt so important with my wit and people skills; a reticent leader with a comedian’s control of the audience. Though I was being shunted down and humbled by humiliation from the little hellions (oh those lower mortals spitting bile and vile attacks!) on the playground. I felt inadequate, from what I’ve read something like Tesla who thought he wasn’t good enough for any woman, but I felt I deserved a gear starter, the woman who takes the reins and makes a man better than he was, Super Rob of the concrete jungle.

And what did I get? many women just perfectly fine that I dashed away like Jack Torrance’s papers upon his bureau. I had that image in my head, this nagging perfectionist leaning I fell into. Always wanting, craving, begging for sweet chili relief in a five alarm world. I slept through it all though, passed by girls for lack of that spark. You know it when it comes, it did for Melanie, the yard stick I measure all women by, it is wrong I know but I can’t help missing that uncommon joy that latched onto me, never have I been so happy and alive. You know when you’re so alive and awake that your eyes blaze into a fully immersed stare at everything, the world seems fresher, existence means something, a tangible lollipop I would suckle on (mommy???) I do not begrudge my experiences, they make you who you are, tailor you into a being wholly different from all else that has something to share with the world. Maybe I’m doing that now. Maybe I feed people in a figurative way by my manners and good nature. May be I’m destined to not be an asshole and I didn’t need a perfect woman to set me right, or maybe all those hodgepodge of women did the trick. I assume the latter. I’m not an island, I’m the Philippines needing company.

I don’t need to be super, I need to accept whatever I am and someone else will too. It took many years to heed the advice to love yourself, still hard but getting better. I guess I did it my way and I’m… OK with what is. Growth doesn’t die you just see it from different angles.

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