Let’s get controversial. I finally write more than one curse word.
The girl in the cafe… yes, this sounds like a nice romantic beginning to a blog post… was [insert your favorite adjective here].
You can decide on this.
It was uncertain whether or not she was on a date, which could be true. Dates can happen at any time of day, even before work. However, this engagement was taking place around 9:45 this morning. She talked nonstop–a stenographer would have a hard time keeping up–but allowing the guy get a grunt or agreeing yes injection without not much of coherent substance seemed too generous. In a seven-minute period the topics of guys, women’s sexuality, breasts, Victoria’s Secret models, breastfeeding, milk, drinking, drinking underage, stealing alcohol, smoking pot, making out with guys her father’s age (when she was a teenager), golf cart riding, smoking more pot, making out with more random guys, waking up naked in a tub of cold water because her friend was trying to wake her up, the love of milk drinking, “humans are the only mammal to drink milk at adult age,” milk as not a hangover cure, Downtown Syracuse, eating, Pastabilities, how she’s never been there, hot tomato oil, Diners Drive-Ins and Dives, Kitty Hoynes, Irish Cannon Balls, and obtaining the recipe for those balled-up Reubens. Due to my having an appointment, leaving was necessary at that point.
Taking a quick look at the blended conversation topics, they were touched upon smoothly. There were bridges from one topic to the next, which allowed her to drive her tongue speedily and avoiding any traffic stops. The occasional grunt from the guy were stop signs that she slid through.
However, the first topic–the kickoff to the conversation–caught my attention. It bothered me, and that’s why I’m posting about it. It made me question if normal is fading.
“It must be in [guys] genetic make up that they have to stick their dicks in anything.”
(A rant followed this statement, criticizing all guys, but it had nothing to do with their shagging anything that moves. This made no sense, because the statement stood alone. It was very general, but by her tone it was exaggerated to a Notch 11.)
So, the girl boasting about making constant destructive decisions is validated when guy-bashing with one ignorant statement.
Enough. Is. Enough.
Really? Is that so? I don’t stick my dick in just anything. In the world of women: I’m not going to get into my sex life–it’s not of your business–but I assure you it’s faaaar from existent. Yes, we all can poke fun at ourselves. Let truth be known that I’ve slept with less than a handful of women in my lifetime. However, I doubt I’ll be frolicking between the sheets with a great piece of ass tonight, because I’m not that type of desperate. So it can be said that upon my turning 31, I can applaud my strength with abstaining the majority of my life.
As for anything? Toasters? Um, no–regardless if they are plugged in or not. Knots in a tree? Never had the urge–I’m a tree hugger, not a tree fucker. Animals? Definitely not. Wet cement? No.
There is no need to venture into more items with a definitive no answer; there are an infinite number of them.
Listen, I could post “Fun Things to Fuck (If You’re a Winner)” by NOFX, at this point in the post especially, but this writer is not the type to wear the T-shirt of the band to be seen or the topic to be written about for that matter.
For this girl to bash on guys (to a guy) does not make any sense. Call me shallow, but she was nothing great to look at. Women don’t like to be treated as objects. I don’t tolerate the talk or other guys boasting about it for that matter.
Upon my wrist, a white Vera House bracelet sits. Women are to be respected, not chastised as objects.
Then again, guys aren’t to be mistreated either.
A very brief discussion about standards took place between myself and a college friend, a female whose name will be left out. She posted something, and it’s unclear whether these were her words or not, about how Syracuse guys didn’t like a girl in question because of a lack of tattoos. I replied to reassure her, to support, and to also show the pettiness of some Syracuse women, how they want the model-esque type of guy with money; I’ve experienced this myself and I’ve heard/read about other guys experiencing the same thing.
I’m attracted to tattoos. Tattoos are art, and it doesn’t matter whether a girl has one or several for me to find it attractive. Just because a woman doesn’t have any does not put her out of the running, but a (an appropriate) tattoo signifies a sense of individuality. As stated at the beginning of the paragraph, quantity does not make a difference. For many guys, tattoos are a definite turn-on, making or breaking the pursuit of said woman donning ink. The more tattoos she has, the more attractive she potentially is.
I’m an average guy. I’m 6’1″ (which my ex criticized me for being just tall enough) with an average weight, and I’m progressively getting into better/desired shape. I’m not a male model. I don’t have a six-figure job (since I’m unemployed) or boat-load of money… or a boat for that matter. However, there are many goals to be accomplished. I feel more comfortable wearing a tie and pants than not wearing a tie and jeans. I go on dates with attractive women, and I screw up with communication. I also scare easily. Yeah, the confidence thing is not up to par, there is great shyness with my personality, and I con’t consider myself all that attractive… somewhat attractive, but not all that. You can compliment me, which will be responded to with agreement, but the majority of the time to a point. It’s an issue that I have to work on.
Because women love confidence!
The women of Syracuse have big city–it’s obvious–appeal and desire. They want what they see on television, in the movies, and sometimes in books. Hollywood and mainstream know how to boost the sex appeal up to affect people more quickly and severely. I’ve gotten chastised for riding a camel in China. It could be considered unique and a conversation driver, but it was viewed as disgusting, and she metaphorically sprayed me with a flea repellent.
Of course–before it gets me into trouble–it does not apply to all women. (All those women are taken, engaged, or married.)
I don’t know why I feel the need to explain my joking around at times… oh, because people aren’t used to my facetiousness.
Let’s take a look at this past Saturday. I was found at two Tipp Hill establishments, Nibsy’s and Blarney Stone, and this was after the popular and continually growing Shamrock Run. About 3,900 people ran it this year, which showed an increase from last year. Next year will probably break over 4,000 runners, and this is something to be extremely excited about. Improv class took place that morning, and–partially because of anxiety–I didn’t run. (There is always next year.)
In the sea of runners enjoying their post-run, three people stood out, and I called them The Gucci Pride.
The Gucci Pride consisted of one guy and two women. One lion. Two lionesses.
The guy wore a white track jacket, which had blue stripes on the arm; he had his fashionable glasses sitting atop his wet, dirty blonde hair. The jacket was zipped all the way up to the top; no V or the zipper could be seen. He carried a pitcher in one hand and a pint glass in the other. He scolded those walking around him, the patrons and employees of a crowded pub, if they bumped into him. He confidently drank from the pitcher.
He looked like a douche, but there is a chance he is a not a bad dude.
The girls were separate from the guy. They had on their Saturday Night Best outfits for a two-o’clock outing–conservative for a club but liberal enough to want to get noticed and hopefully rope in a sugar daddy, but it was clear they weren’t looking to get laid–and they sneered at people as they made their way though the crowd of sweaty runners. Why did we even come here?–I heard one say. Enough said.
They looked like bitches, and there is a significant chance that they were bitches.
This could very well be wrong. Anything is possible, and this is the point of this post:
Don’t assume. Give people a chance. Don’t write people off.
Syracuse dating is frustrating. A publication is probably going to benefit from this.
Needless to say, my yesterday was frustrating to a valuable degree. I felt extremely ill with regard to: employment, family, lack of love life, and an overall self pitying about feeling worthless. The combination could not be measured, and there probably were irrational thoughts; however, midst my confusion and headache, the added negative thoughts were passed up on and never considered.
Today, my mood has been emphasized by the sun shining. The meeting went well. I have a new sense of self-worth. It’s best to vent the negativity out.
The shit storm came in quickly and left just as quickly. It was a last minute attempt for negativity to get the best of me, and it failed.
The best thing about yesterday. After the crescendo of negativity, after a waste of of another episode of the final season of How I Met Your Mother (a third of the episode was good), a phone call was made. It was the best 45 minutes spent in a long while.
The day is progressing smoothly. Nothing, unless it’s something drastic, will derail it. Start tomorrow’s new year off fresh, positive.
I play with words and invisible objects.
A mind, a pen and a piece paper have the best relationship ever.
"Remember this--if you shut your mouth, you have your choice."
- F. Scott Fitzgerald