Wednesday, August 17, 2016

Resurrection

This is awkward.

No, I am not addressing that to blog readers as the forerunner to an oft-repeated apology about neglecting the blog and swearing to write more regularly. I think them too intelligent to be repeatedly taken for fools on such recurring and unvarying round trips.

I am neglecting the blog officially, the way I usually do, when unexpected events in my personal life have not violently beaten the living ennui out of me, at least momentarily.

Nowadays listlessness like cling film inures me from the joy of existence, nor does the fire inside register more heat than ashes in a fireplace with the odd surviving ember complacently giving up the ghost.

But here's the awkward part. Just when I'm ready to march absentmindedly through the rest of my life, resigned to pursuing everybody else's dream seeing as my own lie buried all around me in the cemetery that my memory has become, the corner of my eye  detects an unexpected movement, amidst the headstones.

And a hand emerges from the ground, followed closely by its counterpart, after which the grave beneath half-heartedly surrenders its unwilling occupant, for she, apparently prematurely buried, refuses to remain therein.

Her headstone remained blank, nor did I ever dare to frivolously breathe her name while she lived, but she afflicts me enough cardiac damage upon her reincarnation to make me locate the blog again, I'll tell you that much...

Sunday, June 12, 2016

Us or Nothing

We are cursed as blessed;
As enthralled as exasperated;
Tears and laughter erupt together;
For thus it goes with us:

the moment that drew us
The spark that lit us
The past that trails us
The faith that moves us
The lust that heats us
The love that binds us
The barriers that forestall us
The dysfunction that repels us
The pride that parts us

And all our hate, and all our love:
It dooms us or saves us

Thursday, June 9, 2016

Eternal Ingenue

Of timeless appeal from youth
For the little girl inside emerged
And the big serious girl submerged
to be glimpsed only as needed.
You value pain and sweat correctly,
But your face never betrays them.
A great many supplicate your favor.
A strong few withstand your beauty,
Only to be disarmed by your essence,
Rendered utterly helpless by
Your effervescent innocence.
Your frown would trigger wars,
Enchanted massed suitors
Would hazard Herculean voyages
At your slightest tease.
You are the crack in our armor,
We are each only a day in your life.

Thursday, May 19, 2016

Travails in Online Dating



Talk about late adopters. The dictionary entry should include my mugshot as an illustration. After getting bored of the twenty-first century princesses I am surrounded by every day, I decided to go online. After all, a growing demographic has a better online persona than the real them, right? What’s the worst that could happen? I read some reviews and heard all the horror stories and I felt ready for some stalkers for a change. Off I went to Google Play to download a dating app. 

Less than five minutes later I’m swiping photos in all compass directions.

what I expected



They say, about online dating, that if you are searching for love online there must be something wrong with you for failing to find love in your everyday real life circles. Once I overcame the implied slur in that reasoning and got down to swiping, the full impact of this stereotype came to light. Everyone logs on to the site thinking, “Me? I’m perfectly okay, I’m on here because I’m hip, fun, adventurous and open-minded, but the rest of y’all out here are some basic no-life losers who can’t get laid.” An attention-whore’s winning mentality. So they upload their best photos and wait for us to like them and match them and message them, but the mere fact that I am ONLINE DATING on a HOOKUP APP translates: I am a desperate no-life pervert. Therefore in her head she’s already too good for me anyway, match notwithstanding.

the sad reality


With time I have taken up a side hobby between swipes: massive trolling on the site.
 Or perhaps I should just go with the flow and upload pretentious photos?
If you chance upon my handsome mug, swipe right, you ugly hermit.
Till then I’ll keep y’all updated.

Friday, May 13, 2016

Professional Constraints

She walks past
I catch myself staring
Creepy puppy dog stare
I'll be damned if I can help myself
She pretends not to notice
Her waist sways her hips
Looks away
Flees
Later
A corridor, a staircase, a desk -
Fortune likes to play games
Tension like dusk descends
Desire is concealed in niceties

But the inferno that rages within
Is an urge to seize her shoulders
Shake her to the brink of reality
And from her lofty cliffs of pride,
Sprayed by her stormy depths of confusion,
Expose her to my icy blast of Hatred,
Which she, rightly identifying as Desire,
wrongly characterizes as
Affection.

Monday, April 4, 2016

Simply Ugly

"Oh what a tangled web we weave,
When first we practice to deceive!"

A girl I am close to was telling me all her relationship troubles: the typical platonic friend.

The story began innocently enough: he asked her to move in with her. She turned down the offer with a barrage of excuses. Of course to her they sounded like valid reasons but I'm sitting there thinking: if she's not moving in on his initiative then something is wrong somewhere.

Cohabiting is always a bad idea for unmarried couples. I will spare you the reasons why. But if a guy is taking that risk and being rejected for frivolous reasons (which do not involve the preservation of maidenhood , for conjugation is ongoing), then he'd better sit down and mentally locate the exit. Because the next rejection on a more significant invitation will crush his soul.

Soon enough my platonic friend confirms my suspicions that her partner is more invested in the relationship than she is. The agony of her soul is the fear of breaking his heart. She spit-roasts the dilemma over the fire in her heart with relish: "I don't know what to dooooo!" She is pulled apart by indecision and the pain gives her pleasure because it is the last vestige of excitement in her long term relationship. It is the great big drama in her life in which she plays the lead role: fate is in her hands, the spotlight on her.

"He is a good guy!" she says with a sympathetic sneer, "But at some point the love just... ended."

So now all that remains to be seen is whether she has the balls to pull the plug. Oh that the gods would engineer it so that he left her instead, and then she could be the victim and cry! Much preferable.

She tells me the guy has even suggested marriage to his dear beloved. I don't know how she weaved out of that hot seat in that awkward moment when it came up, but somehow, she's still there, still in that relationship, allowing him to believe somehow something will work out.

Yet I wonder, doesn't her own internal inconsistency, that cognitive dissonance arising from acting in love while being out of love, appear manifestly sometimes when they are together? I think I have a nose for these type of things. An incomplete smile, a perfunctory kiss, an obligatory compliment, a stiff lay with fake orgasms. Perhaps I am paranoid, but I believe every man should be able to detect these cracks in the façade. Those periods when nothing specific is "wrong," but everything's riding precariously on a knife edge, when one inch out of step is the difference between an uneasy peace and contrived apologies.

This could go either of two ways: they maintain the facade of a loving relationship and marry into a life of continual deception, or she ends the circus and breaks them up.

Except she doesn't know what to dooooo.

Monday, March 21, 2016

Attachments

At work I sit next to an IT guru. A nerd. He is a committed hard worker with the assiduous type of work ethic that real men everywhere aspire to.

We have formed a sort of rapport.

One slow afternoon an attractive young workmate complimented him in a roundabout way. The compliment is disguised as a complaint about his soon coming transfer. She gushes at length about how unfair it is that he is soon to leave just when everybody is getting to know and rely on him. He laughs her off nonchalantly.

Days later I tease him about it. Like "hey how about that girl she was literally crying that you are going away *wink wink*."

He snorts. "Argh! leave her alone she was just consoling. You can't get attached. Things get messed up."

Yeah. Just like that. It's brutal, but it's true... So true I had nothing more to add.

Monday, March 14, 2016

The Necessary Humility of my Opinion

My opinion, which you did not ask for, is humble, if I say so myself. However it is not so humble that it could have expired within the confines of my consciousness without being said in the hearing of others. Still, it is only my opinion, and I, being one individual amidst several billions, am statistically insignificant, hence it is a humble opinion. Nevertheless I have chosen that particular perspective out of countless competing interpretations, thus, as far as I know, it is a chief conquering opinion. However you are entitled to your own opinion; therefore mine, especially if contrary, must needs be humble in name at least for the sake of harmonious social relations (feelz).

Let each profess their humble opinions with decorum, expressing dissent reservedly, and taking all care beforehand to beg to differ (if they absolutely must), lest barbaric opinions butt their raggedy heads vigorously in civilized company.

Sunday, February 28, 2016

Book Review: The Manipulated Man

Esther Vilar, the author of The Manipulated Man, once called herself a feminine feminist. This put her in opposition to the bulk of the mainstream feminist movement, which she calls masculine feminism. Reading her book The Manipulated Man will make one question why she even calls herself feminist at all, unless one's mind has broken free of the ideological restraints imposed by modern political correctness.

It's core message is that, contrary to feminism's assertions that men oppress women, the opposite is true, except that men are happy to be slaves to women - to work for them sacrificially as husbands who spend their money, labor and time on their wives, despite being themselves more intelligent, stronger, etc. Women sustain their power through a variety of manipulation tools including judicious issuance of praise, controlled supply of sex, and other society level mind games including upbringing and socialization that most men lack the self awareness to spot. She says the living standards of a wife are always better than her husband's within the same marriage.

This book will annoy almost all women who read any of it. It shines an unwelcome spotlight on the inner workings of a woman's mind pertaining to man, stripping away any veneer of justification or benefit of doubt in the process. So merciless is Esther Vilar in depicting the woman as shallow, deceptive, frivolous, bland, unintelligent, and yet cold and calculating, that one wonders how she, a woman, could have written so vitriolic a work.  Indeed she does not exempt herself from the things she says.

A few faults come to light when one considers the book was written in 1970 and therefore social dynamics have shifted: more women work today than then therefore the housewife character is rarer. Also the logical stream towards the end of the book throws one off severally, or perhaps I was getting sleepy.

However vast swathes of the text ring true and read uncomfortably for victims and perpetrators alike. Read this book for a nonconformist's inner view of what really happens in most relationships.

Rumor has it a bunch of women beat Esther Vilar up for writing it, and she receives death threats to this day. It didn't stop her from writing a sequel, The Polygamous Sex (she's unflappable!), which I plan to review someday. Watch this space.

Thursday, February 18, 2016

Inflation

Someone explain why the bidding for low value women starts at a premium.

There is a manifest oversupply of gold-digging whores. They should be dirt cheap, at least before they find the gold. However the trend within that demographic is to fake it till you make it, perpetuating an incurable epidemic of inauthenticity.

They all look, act and talk the same after a while: shallow, vacuous, fake.

High value women are rare, precious, yet they appear more circumspect in their self-valuation; they appreciate other measures of value besides cash and prizes, they will strive to earn their rewards. Last to proclaim their percieved value openly, they recognize the utility of "feminine mystique" - silence is golden. Let him do what he must to figure her out for himself. Give him space to act the gentleman.

But entitlement is a paradox; the more of it there is in a woman, the less it's worth, and then you will never hear the end of it though pigs should fly.