I started out to write about something that was irritating me and I found out that I was a lot more irritated than I thought. So, what started out to be a single blog got so long and unwieldy (around 13 pages) that I decided to make it a  seven-part series–like I said, I was irritated. This is the first installment, sure to be read by at least myself and, maybe if I make it worth her while, my sister. So, here it is.

Back in the Saddle Again:  A Dating Refresher Course

Every so often people get refresher courses. Professionally, we acknowledge that seldom-used skills can get rusty or that newer, better practices arise. Medical people pass boards and take continuing education classes, as do a variety of professionals like firefighters, bartenders, accountants, and teachers. Even if it is your heart’s desire to handle hazardous waste you need to maintain hazmat certification. But no one ever gets basic training, let alone refresher courses, for dating.

And yet, as a vital public service, there really should be. The percentages are catching up with all those who were oh so convinced that they had found the loves of their lives just in the nick of time for college graduation (yeah, how ‘bout that) and they are reentering the single scene and fucking things up. Out of the game and all messed up they are wading back into the mire, trying to date again only to find that they have no idea what they are doing anymore, if they ever did. Apparently, what works when everyone is under the gun to partner up before the music at the end of college stops, isn’t necessarily what works for the 20-10 crowd.

So, for the safety and peace of mind of the dating populace suffering this alien invasion, it seems only right that there be some basic guidelines for the whole messy process and those who find themselves back in the dating pool brush up on said techniques. Here are a few things I think should be on the list.

Refresh Yourself–Part 1:  People Don’t Change

Much as we might like to think it is possible, and, in theory, it is possible, it just isn’t likely that people will change. Why? Because we do the things we do for a reason. Smart things, dumb things, innocuous things, we do them all for a reason. For example, people don’t generally wake up one day and say, “The weather is unusually warm for October and I am going to cheat on my spouse.” More than likely a cheater has established a pattern of disrespect and cheating so they can feel powerful or validated or the thrill of danger or get even with a parent or some such crap. No, we don’t tend to jump headlong into things, we tend to tip-toe into things, practicing our behaviors from our earliest years, good and bad, in small things, preparing ourselves for bigger things.

No matter what we think or say, there is no reason to believe we will change our behaviors while they meet our needs. Regardless of how valid, invalid, brilliant, bone-headed, rational, irrational, awesome, dumb-ass, high-minded, or base the reasoning behind our behavior is we are doing it for a reason. We do it, whatever it is, to meet our driving emotional needs.

This is why it’s dumb to think you’re going to change someone and turn that unfortunate individual into the person you want them to be. Nope, pay attention to the signs and go into things with your eyes open or get the hell out of there. Women, a guy who is rude or off-hand or violent with you when you start dating, when he’s supposed to be wooing you, is not going to improve when he gets comfortable and lets himself go. Men, if you are interested in a woman who needs to have a harem of guys constantly traipsing after her and vying for her or lies to you or is cruel to you, then I hope you like being a submissive because she is always going to be the dominant—might want to get a pair of ass-less chaps and a ball-gag to go with that life choice.

But the same goes for the good stuff. People who have character development, integrity, and generosity, treat those around them well, value family, and tell the truth even when they don’t have to, that doesn’t change either. This is why it’s a good idea to watch how a person you are interested in treats those whose opinion they don’t care about. As humorist Dave Barry says, “A person who is nice to you and mean to the waiter is not a nice person.”

Thanks for reading this installment, stay tuned for Part 2, a tribute to the fact that human beings are liars.

What is the most powerful word in the world? My daughter asked me that today. Naturally, having been raised in the Christian persuasion, I said, “Ah hell, honey, love. Duh.”

And then I thought about living in California for two years, and I couldn’t help but remember the fruity-tutti’s (newagers – don’t worry I love them all) saying that the word “hate” was so powerful and destructive that they don’t even say it. Ever. Bad vibration. That’s pretty powerful.

And then I really got into it. D*mn, hell, shit, f**k, bastard, bitch, the “c” word (that I don’t quite like but have started using on occasion while driving, but only in reference to certain bastards who deserved that extra little itty bit more…) Those words are so powerful that they’ve been banned from most mainstream media outlets…

But no; it couldn’t be swear words. Those are ultimately an expression of a persons weakness in a way…(but you gotta love them. And I do.)

So what is the most powerful word in the world? Well, my daughter proceeded to tell me that two of her friends – one guy, one girl - totally unrelated, had randomly come up with the same word.

Maybe.

The guy said he thought it was the most powerful word in the word because it left one hoping. As in, “Maybe there’ll be a good reason for getting out of bed today…if I do.”

The girl said that by using the word “maybe” one could continue holding the reins for as long as one wanted (my own paraphrasing). Which kept her in the drivers seat. Certainly a most powerful position to be in.

Such a simple conversation. But after it was over I suddenly remembered one of the things I hated most about my ex-husband: his favorite word (words): “It depends.” Which is another version of “maybe”.

He kept me dangling for ten years with those words.

Example: “Do you think you, (I, we) should (could, can, will) do this (that, the other thing) honey?”

“It depends.”

Or: “What do you think about this, dear?”

“It depends.”

I kept waiting for an answer, thinking I’d get one. But I never did. Talk about treading water. Until I left the pond for happier shores (horizons).

After much thought, it turns out that I do believe that “maybe” is the most powerful word in the world. Only I tend to subscribe to the “masculine” persuasion: the idea that “maybe” holds a promise of something good to come if I do something to make it happen (as in get out of bed, leavea bad marriage, etc.)…

…as opposed to the “feminine” persuasion: the idea that one can hold onto control indefinitely by refusing to take a stand.

What do you think is the most powerful word in the world? I’m curious.

Firstly, I feel it important to point out that sex doesn’t make the relationship, but it sure does fill in those awkward silences quite nicely.

Women; please don’t refer to it as a Tally whacker. If you are talking about our penis; call it by its God given name; Kilauea. OK, You can call it a penis, pecker, cock, dick, Willy the One eyed Wonder Worm or the Heat Seeking Moisture Missile.

Now, let me point out that there is no such thing as a bisexual man. Women can be bisexual, and that is one of the most beautiful things on earth. At least in the videos it is. Realistically, the women that like women only are more like guys than guys. They dress, talk, act and chew tobacco, like fucking storm troopers and parade outside abortion clinics looking to score with poor unsuspecting and emotionally downtrodden girls that just had society and an asshole of a guy dump on them. You know: easy prey. I have to applaud the idea no matter how Jay and Silent Bob-esque it is.

Fags and Dikes are not bisexual. They ONLY like their own kind. Women can be bisexual. Men cannot be bisexual because you either suck dick or you don’t. I know there are those people out there that say that if they could suck their own dick they would never leave the house. I say go right the fuck ahead and stay home because now you’re just another fag with a dick in your face, even if it is your own dick! After establishing this we can move on.

Women use sex to get what they want. With men; sex IS what they want. I call this a symbiotic relationship. We want what you can give us but we have to give you what you want to get it. Make this easier for both of us. Ask for your spoils WHILE you give us oral sex.

Acting like you don’t like sex doesn’t work either. I’ve heard you screaming out God’s name, my name, your ex-boyfriends name, and even your own damn name while you gouge your fingernails through the sheets, the back of my head, and my butt cheeks. So STOP it! If you didn’t like sex you wouldn’t own that pink plastic torpedo named BUZZ!

Women act like they aren’t ready to bump uglies when you meet them because they want to seem virtuous. You aren’t really virgins, all dressed in white cotton panties and experiencing booze and these naughty feelings for the first time. You just want respected and you think that we won’t respect you if we think you’ll give it up easy. If the truth be told; we probably wouldn’t be hanging around if we didn’t think you were going to give it up in the first place.

We really do respect girls who know what they want and don’t put up airs that they aren’t looking to get laid. Ok, I’m lying. We really don’t respect anyone, so don’t think that it matters if you were easy to hop in the sack with or not.

Refer back to the alcohol statement about men and fat chicks and you will understand better WHY you woke up with Buford B. Blue inside your apartment frying up a mess O’ grits an m’lasses last weekend. Booze is a two way street. The difference is that a woman knows BEFORE she goes out whether she’s getting laid that night. Guys pretty much have to wing it.

The drunker you get, the more likely we are getting lucky. The drunker we get, the more likely we are going to get a D.U.I., because once we are fucked up enough we lose all perception of volume, couth and time. We get loud, obnoxiously forward, and then suddenly realize that the bar closed a half an hour ago. One more shot for the ditch and the next thing we can focus on are the shiny tops of the police officer’s jack boots that we just puked fourteen shots of Jack Daniels on during the roadside sobriety test.

You get giggly, somber, and /or downright unruly when you get drunk. If we play our cards right, we get you ladies just loaded enough to convince you to take us home while not so drunk that we have to wash the vomit off before we use you as a human trampoline. In other words we end up with Miss Right Now.

Alcohol is a treacherous thing though. Many times while stalking for the right trophy babe to ply with alcohol a pretender pops into the scene and we end up with a coyote girl sleeping on our arm in the morning. Yes, we would rather gnaw an arm off than take the chance of waking Bubbles the Dancing Bear up by pulling it out from under her head.

I’d begun hearing catch phrases like, “I got poked” - “Look who’s on my wall.” and “Tag this photo.”  It was a strange, new language; a language I didn’t understand nor cared to.  More often, these strange - almost coded - little messages would rear their ugly heads in normal conversation accompanied by smiles and giggles.  Whatever they were talking about brought them joy.  I still didn’t care. 

“How many friends do you have?’

“I don’t know, but ’so and so’ just asked me to be her friend, too!”

Each conversation was part adolescent bliss and part emotional fulfillment.  What is this “thing” that has everyone so giddy?  Why is everybody talking about it…doing it and ridiculing me because I’m not?  Peer presure at it’s worst…or best, if you’re one of the addicts.  I avoided it like the plague for the same reason that I too am now addicted to it.  It can’t be done in moderation.  It’s all or nothing!  Sure, you think you’re “just checking it for a quick sec” and 12 hours later you’re dialoguing with three online friends, tagging a fourth friend’s photo, while adding seven new friends that you haven’t seen since you had acne and braces.  No question - FACEBOOK IS THE NEW CRACK!  Granted, I’ve never indulged in the magical white pebbles of death, but I do know people who have and this has the makings of something just as consuming…but in a good way.

What is the appeal (of FB not Crack)?   Let me try and explain it as best I can without sounding as if this is the only reason why it’s appealing and yet it pretty much hits the nail on the head…for me at least. (Whew.)

1. Non-threatening Self-expression: It let’s the world know who you are, who you’re with, what you’ve done and what you’re into now - without you having to actually TELL anyone.
2. Convenience: I can chat or not.  I can tag or not. I can answer or not (right now) and nobody gets hurt, because they’re interacting with 50 other people, simultaneously, who are making the same easy, snap decisions.
3. Connecting without obligatory investment/commitment: There’s nothing like getting “befriended” on FB by someone from your past and being pleasantly surprised…for a second; only to remember that you were never that close to begin with.  No harm, no foul…add another friend to the tally.
4. Reconnecting: Probably one of the greatest reasons for this site to exist. Friends who were friends THEN and after one million years of being apart, are still friends NOW as if you were never apart. (”Okay, it’s been 20 years…so where were we…oh yeah…so Debbie never liked her and I was all, no way…and she was like, yeah way!“)  Well, you get the idea.
5. Family: Can you say - ”Quick updates!”  No more of the annoying - “Let me speak to Jimmy and then put Ray on, then grandma and let me talk to the twins after that.”  Suddenly, your unlimited minutes become very limited with a side of cauliflower ear.  With FB…TAG ME, BABY! 
6. Networking/hooking up: Probably the lamest reason to FB.  You should do an about FACE and BOOK on over to linkedin or eharmony if you want a job or a date.  You’re killing the lighthearted buzz with all your desperate neediness.   And last but not least…
7. Bragging rights:  “How many friends you got?”  One gazillion and 3…TOP THAT!

I’ve said it before, but I HATE IT SO GOOD because it calls to me in the morning and at night.  Now I know why the caged bird…takes crack and sings.  FACEBOOK!

In closing, as incredibly genius as this magical white pebble of networking is, it will NEVER replace the comforting release of a long conversation, the thrilling rush of a warm embrace, the goose bumps from a long slow kiss, the touch of a familiar hand in yours or the satisfaction of sharing a good, hearty laugh together.  NOT EVEN CLOSE.

Stay connected…for real.

Benman out!

(The Movie Review is in the last paragraph, for those of you with limited time. I seriously need to learn to edit. In the meantime…)

Demons are funny little creatures. They like to scare you. They get you when you’re weak and vulnerable. Weak, vulnerable people are ridden with holes…battle scars, gaping wide open. This world is war; there are plenty of gaping wounds through which a mischievous little prick of a demon might enter.

Nine or so years ago I was in a vulnerable condition. I had just taken my children and left my ex. I was an open battle wound. A human gateway, through which any demon might easily enter. I didn’t realize it at the time; in fact, I was quite naïve about my own weakness, as well as the imminent forces of evil that presided all around me, invisible, lurking…waiting for the hurt to open just a nitch more…waiting for the walls of my defense system to break down just enough so that it could stealthily enter, and wreak havoc.

An old friend had helped me move. I had not seen this friend in a number of years. He contacted me out of the blue, right in the middle of my hell, for no reason at all. We quickly became attached to each other. He swept in, picked me up, and helped me move away. As we drove, he talked. During the seven hour drive, he began saying some unusual things. One of the things he said, which managed to lodge itself firmly in my head was, “Everywhere I go, children die…” He seemed to be genuinely confused by this. I was taken aback, but assumed it had to do with the fact that he had gone into the military. Children die in wars, unfortunately. I shrugged it off and kept driving.

We arrived at my destination and he continued on his way. He and I were close. We had dated many years before and were entertaining the idea of getting back together. But before that happened, we both had a number of affairs to settle. He seemed to be an angel, rescuing me from a bad situation…who knows if he was angel or demon. I still wonder.

My children and I settled temporarily in my parents home, so that I could get my feet back on the ground. My friend and I got together often, and began seriously planning our future together. Both of us had children and they all seemed to be perfectly content with the idea of becoming one big happy family. It was a dream come true. Finally, a responsible, good, “normal” man. Things were bright and sunny.

Enter the Demon.

I was lying in bed one night, just falling into that thresh-hold of sleep where you’re floating halfway between this world and the other…and I heard a distinct, clear voice say, “You’re going to die.”

It was loud enough to wake me up fully, instantly.

Now, I talk to myself all the time in my head. I’m one of those people who could be perfectly happy as the last living human on earth. I walk along, intensely engaged in the most specific, detailed and thoroughly absorbing conversations in my mind…with myself, and any number of people who I may or may not have met in my lifetime. There are two common threads that run through all of these conversations:

1. they occur silently, in my head, as thought, and

2. I am the one doing all the speaking, if there is more than one person talking. I am fully aware that it is me talking to me.

But this voice…this “you’re going to die” voice was different. It was actually audible. The room was empty except for myself and my sleeping children. I listened…waiting for more. Silence. I wondered…had I imagined it? Was it a dream? I lay there in bed, wondering if I was going insane. Finally, I began dropping off to sleep once again.

“You’re going to die!” I heard the voice a second time. Loud and very real.

It was harsh and determined. Really audible. Nothing nice about it at all. I was instantly shaking with fear, to say the least. Had I really heard the voice? Yes; I had heard it. It had a distinct vibration that was still resonating in my ears. I pulled the covers up, my arms and legs feeling like lead – an icky horror-feeling in my stomach, my heart pounding loud and barrel-deep in my chest.

I felt a presence. I suddenly remembered what my friend had said in the car, about children dying. Was it him, paying me some weird ghostly visit? Or was it a demon that was in him taking a little time off from him to f**k with me?

I’d never met a demon before but you don’t need to know evil, to recognize it when you see or hear it for the first time. I knew that whatever it was, wanted to get me – maybe my kids. I didn’t know why I knew, I just did. I knew that whatever it was, it was bad. And I was terrified beyond anything I’ve ever known before. I laid there, shaking violently for some time, waiting to see if the voice would speak up again. I began to think how unhappy my kids would be if they were raised by their dad. They needed me.

And then I got mad. Suddenly my senses came to me in a rush. All I could think was, “F**Kyou, you son-of-a-bitch. Who or what ever you are, you can get the f**kout of this room, my head, or wherever you are. There’s no way in hell I’m going to die. If you even think I’m going to let my daughters get raised by their dad well…you are going the f**kdown!”

I bitched that f**ker demon out. I felt crazy doing it, but if this is what my life had come down to, I was going to play, and play hard. Finally, I was too tired to care about the demon any more, and fell asleep.

I woke up in the morning early, feeling amazingly refreshed. I got in my parents car (didn’t have my own) and drove to work. It was rainy. The tires were bald. Hitting that last corner …well, maybe I was going a little too fast. I skidded. Woa.

I put my foot on the brakes. Fish-tailed. Double woa.

I floored the brakes. Everything from that point on went in slow motion. It was amazing. I was sitting in the drivers seat watching the slow-motion world all around me get demolished by my parents car. I felt the thump of the curb as my car roared up onto the sidewalk. I felt sorry for the newly planted baby trees that were torn right out of their home in the ground and went flying away from me, looking like dandelions being tossed on a compost heap.

When all was said and done, I had hit a concrete lamp post sideways, at over 60 mph, busting the light post and turning my parents Volvo into a mess of jutting angles. It was totaled. If anyone had been in the passenger seat, they’d have been pudding. But the damn car kept running. It refused to stop. It growled and jerked back onto the road. It had a mind of its own. The goddamn thing wouldn’t die. It was possessed. The slow motion was over. I was back in real time. In shock I said to the car, “you’re possessed,” and suddenly, out of the blue, it occurred to me that I should turn off the ignition.

I did so, and instinctively hit the clutch and brake at the same time. And that’s when I realized that I had hit the gas instead of the brake when I started skidding. Damn. That’s f**ked up. Especially since that damn Volvo had 350,000 miles on it and was still running good. F*8ked demon. You bitch! You f**king Volvo-killing f**ker !

Can you believe, it was Friday the 13^th? I found that out as I was signing papers in the ambulance. No joke. A short while later they were stitching me up in the emergency room. After all that, all I needed was one stitch in the back of my right hand. One itty bitty little stitch. If I look closely, I can still see the ½ inch slit, two-pin-prick scar. It looks exactly like a mathematical division symbol. The division between good and evil.

“You should have died.”

“Huh?” I’m noticing that I don’t feel anything as they are sewing up my hand. Weird… The sensation of not feeling the needle is so weird that it’s almost profound. Almost as fascinating as the slow motion helter skelter ride into the lamp post.

“You should have died on impact.”

I learned right then and there that I should have died that morning. Something about the way I hit the pole and the velocity or centrifugal force or something scientific like that, and the way my neck should have instantly snapped. So that fdemon was trying to get me. The little bastard.

Strangely, I never saw my friend again – the one who’d helped me move. We were planning to become a family and he had suddenly disappeared back into the blue from which he’d come. Not a sound from him. Nothing. “Everywhere I go, children die…” Had he failed to kill me or my children and left in frustration, to find some other poor, weak soul to mess with? I still wonder if he was an angel, rescuing me from hell, or a demon, trying to take me there with him. I’ll never know. Of course, that whole demon episode could have had nothing whatsoever to do with him, but it’s much more entertaining to look at it from that angle.

I’ll bet you’re wondering how this is a movie review. Well, here’s the review: Demons are real. Watch the documentary, Dear Zachary, and you’ll see another example of how a demon worms its way in and f**kin people up. It is the true story of a demon who kills a really good man, and then has his child. The movie proceeds to show what happens when the grandparents of that child try to save their grandson from the demon. It is some f**ked up tragic shit, it is a true life horror story, and it’s told with gut-wrenching beauty. By the end of it, you will believe in demons. I know I do.

I am so f**king  tired. You – you know exactly who you are – betrayed me. You betrayed my trust. What is wrong with you? Do you have some mechanism built into your genetic code that compels you to destroy anyone who tries to be nice or good to you? To be your friend? You must hate yourself so deeply that you can’t help it. I can’t think of any other thing that would explain it.

Do you think about anyone other than yourself? What were you thinking when you sent that letter? You know it had no business being sent. But you took it and sent it. It’s my fault for writing it. I should have never written it. People shouldn’t have such vile anger in them, but I do, and I put it away, safe in a letter, and I buried it where I thought it would be left alone to dissipate in it’s own good time. But you sniffed it out, and you dug it up and you sent it. You wanted to hurt someone and you used my words to do it, because you have no self-esteem.

You have no “center” to write an evil f**ked up letter like that from. So you take other peoples’ evil f**ked up shit, and you orchestrate it into your own little symphony of hell and you throw it at people. You aim to kill. You’ve betrayed everyone who has ever tried to help you. Your relentless need for bigger and worse and more grandiose trauma, and the hell you’ve created with that need, has destroyed any feelings of kindness or compassion anyone might have for you, any desire someone might have to be in your presence, so you try to “trick” kindness or attention out of them, by f**king with them.

Years and years of this game has destroyed your credibility. You know that, don’t you? You might not admit it, but you know it. You’ve lost your credibility, so you used mine, and my stupid, personal, private letter - my little rage-filled rant - to make one more big f**kng mess that you can star in. Congratulations. You’re back where you belong: Center Stage. You’ve out-done yourself once again.

You are so addicted to trauma and hell, you make a mockery of the words “trauma queen”. You just ended any compassion or desire for compassion I have left. I’m sorry. You f**king don’t know when to stop, do you? You see life and you take your little knife and rip a big f**king hole in it, so that all your hell can pour through it into other peoples’ lives. And when you’re done, after having learned nothing, gained nothing, changed nothing, you just go find another life to rip a hole in. The irony here is that I wrote that letter on your behalf, because I felt that you were being mistreated, but I was wrong. You asked for what you got. I just failed to see the truth. I let my sentiment and compassion blind me to the reality of the whole f**ked up mess. And now I feel nothing. Disgust maybe. Betrayal. O.k. so I feel something. Big f**king wow.

What pleasure can you possibly get from that? Did you think about the consequences of sending that letter? At all? Did it occur to you that there would be repercussions? For a lot of people? I genuinely want to know. Well, I guess I would if I wasn’t too tired of your hellshit and my anger to care anymore. God, I’m a fool. A f**king blind fool. I don’t know. Maybe I’m arrogant for thinking that caring or giving a shit, or anything I thought or felt or hoped for in this whole pile of shit, mattered.

I just walked out of a lot of doors. I don’t know what else to do. I closed them and locked them and I’m not going back into them – the ones that haven’t already been locked on me. I could go knock on doors and beg forgiveness or mercy and try to make things right but I don’t want to work this shit out anymore. I’m tired. It never ends. It’s pointless. Maybe some things you just have to walk away from.

I’m not sending this letter to you. I’m done with you. You can sniff this letter out, if you give enough of a f**k, but I know you don’t. I suspect that the only way this letter might mean something to you, is if you see an opportunity to use it to manipulate or f**kwith someone. As far as that other letter goes: you can take it, and you can frame it, and put it on your wall; it’s your little victory, isn’t it? Bravo for you.

Why am I putting this letter here? Maybe because I want to be center stage. I don’t know. I think the reason why though, is that I have a feeling that I’m not the only person in the world to feel betrayed. Maybe out there, there’s a soul who’ll read this, and it’s just what they need, to walk away from a bad situation. Maybe. Maybe somewhere, a million miles away, a speck of good can come out of my hell – and yours.

Maybe I just don’t have anywhere else to put it. F**king pathetic.

It always gets down to taking responsibility for your actions. As far as my own personal responsibility goes: maybe I shouldn’t have ever written that letter. Anger can be so destructive. So I f**ked up letting it out. Maybe instead, I should have written a nice little polite, politically correct “heads up” letter to all the people I mentioned in that letter, expressing some general feelings that have been “bugging” me - some ongoing “issues”, and asked if they’d be willing to talk about the whole situation. That would have been the mature thing to do. But that’s all we ever do. Talk talk talk talk talk. f**king empty shallow meaningless futile words accentuated with all the right facial expressions, all the right hand gestures. And when all is said and done, it all goes right back to what it was.

I get so tired of the “nice” face that people put on. The f**king Facebook face. The face that posts links to books about forgiveness and then blocks the person with whom forgiveness needs to happen. What the f**k is that? I’m just taking a wack at it but if I had to put a name on that, I’d call it hypocrisy. If you do talk, you talk about stuff all polite and proper and politically correct and it ends up amounting to nothing more than another ass kissing session. You agree to the unanimous conclusion that the shit has been aired, talked about and mutually resolved; you say your pleasant goodbyes, and walk away from the problem only to find that the pile of shit is there, still there. Nothing has changed, nothing has been resolved, it’s all right there exactly as it was. Life goes on, the bomb goes off again and all f**king hellfire breaks loose. Again. And everyone is just so astounded at how shocking and horrible and nuts it all is. How could it happen again?

I don’t know. Maybe I’m just stupid. Maybe I think about stuff too much. Maybe I should just let it go and get on with my life, avoiding anyone or anything that might bring me nearer to that pile of shit. That’s what everyone else seems to be doing. Maybe I should just take my cue from them and go on my merry little way with a big smile plastered on my face.

F**k me. I’m just crying because I thought I could be a superhero for a moment. I thought I could do good and have it make a difference. I’m just another arrogant, self-righteous prick. I just wanted to be special.

It must be about something else. Maybe I’ll look at things in a different way and see if I can find the clue that I’m missing. The tiny piece of the puzzle that makes shit “make sense”.

Especially during these difficult economic times, some guys complain about spending $80 dollars for roses plus $100 for dinner plus the cost of an expensive Valentines Day gift. Some guys even feel like they are being played like a slot machine. Other guys enjoy the opportunity to express their love and appreciation and have no problem spending a lot of money even if it means running up their credit cards.

What say you?

 

SUBTITLE:  

The Analysis

or (more likely)

ANAL-ization of THE COMPLAINT

 

Complaining (in and of itself) is an Act.

 

However, the Discography of THE COMPLAINT itself is an Art.  Absolutely so.  It’s shrouded in Layers of pensive Thoughts, Behaviors and Attitudes that are as individualistic as The Person who airs them.  Even each ‘Airing’ (Rant or Rave) has a Degree of Severity (not Civility) in it.  Letting lose and letting go ‘of a COMPLAINT’ is a Method of De-Stressing much like an Alcoholic finds (temporary) Comfort (Northern or Southern in Locale) in a Keg of Beer, Glass of Wine, Shot of Bourbon or  Bottle of Champagne.

 

However, Whine-ing can be short-lived and THE COMPLAINER (for the most Part) is a Constant.  Said COMPLAINT remains unleashed. The Degree of Sentimentality may be lessened.  The Emotion may be temporarily gone, but as for its Physicality, a COMPLAINT is easily discernible and is like a Pimple:  It pops out and explodes when it wants to.  Bottling up a COMPLAINT can lead to dogmatic  Internal Problems that can be costly in the long run.

 

TRACING THE COMPLAINT:

The Core Group revolves around:

 

YOU:  Your COMPLAINTS, Grudges and Maddening Experiences can range from breaking a Nail to losing Millions in an ailing Financial Downturn.

 

FAMILY:  How Family Members annoy you can be summed up in a COMPLAINT (if not more). SO much for the ‘Extended Family’ that sociologists are touting.  If you are rated as a prolifically compulsive Writer, at times like these, the Merriam-Webster Synonym Dictionary (found at www.m-w.com) comes in handy and automatically eases THE COMPLAINT.  That is:  By finding an Outlet to spill your COMPLAINT may be therapeutic.  The Act of Reading itself (as in Reading others COMPLAINTS on this Website) acts cathartically.

 

FRIENDS:  You can choose your Friends and not your Family. INSERT:  And Experts wonder why so many People (including Adults) run away from Home. To continue:   Many Friendships break up (as Marriages do) because too many COMPLAINTS are lodged against that Person, Place, Things or Circumstances that becomes too unbearable.  After a certain Point, Intolerance sets in and it just does not pay (on and for any Grounds of Sanity whatsoever) to keep The Friendship alive.

 

AT WORK:  Bosses ignite an entirely new Level for THE COMPLAINER.  With a Degree of Power in place, no one really complains about what The Boss is doing.  Jeopardizing One’s Job (especially in this precarious Job Market) is definitely Taboo and not a wise thing-to-do.  This may be the leading Reason why World Economics is as degraded as it has become the last 3-4 years.  The Leader (in any Organization) is The Boss.  The Followers (in any Organization) are the Employees. A Class System again is put into place.  The above Subjects warrant Grounds for ‘COMPLAINTS.’  After a Month passes, an Assortment of COMPLAINTS begin to build.  Blowing The Whistle on The Boss is now an Industry of its own Accord that’s seen on every TV & Radio Channel, Website & Blog across The Planet. It’s a Travesty of Justice and Goodwill when COMPLAINING does not get to do what it does best, but is breached for the Advancement of a Cunning Few.  One Party always remains that is left in Despair with solidifying COMPLAINTS. 

 

Locating an Outlet that finally filters the Air (that acts as a Purification System) is a sure-fire Way to lay a COMPLAINT to rest, even just for The Present, as many COMPLAINTS have the Tendency to occur and resurface.

 

In a post-industrialized, techno-World that began at The Turn of The 1900s, Individuals began thinking (which is Step #1 to the complete Compilation and Registering of a COMPLAINT) along these 4-Lines:

 

Am I pretty or handsome enough?

Am I slim enough?

Am I smart enough?

Am I rich enough?

 

JUMPING INTO THAT TIME MACHINE:  Back in the Days of ‘Little House on the Prairies’ of Kansas in 1850, there weren’t too many Teen Magazines to thumb through; Colleges to attend or Diet Books to peruse.  The Amount of Time “getting down, dirty, nasty and spiteful about yourself was severely limited, as Survival (defined on Page 1187, Column One of the Merriam-Webster Collegiate Dictionary ©1999)  in a new Territory was topping the TO DO List. Nothing else was of that utmost importance. Looks, Body Image, Brains or Money were not in their Top Ten List.   No petty and insignificant Acts/Actions that many (if not most) COMPLAINTS are structured around Today were posted on the TO DO List of 1850.  Their Value and Material System was plainly based on a different Set of Criteria than ours is. 

 

The Degree or Richness of a COMPLAINT is also interesting. After all, how good can a COMPLAINT be if there isn’t anything to judge it (up) against?  Would a COMPLAINT even be an Actuality if there was nothing to compare it to?  Time and Personalities are the Two (2) Factors that color a COMPLAINT and give it its Pizzazz - all the more, adding to its Dimensionality.

 

Is there not a slight Difference between COMPLAINING that the last Chocolate cream-filled Cupcake was eaten compared to a Ponzi Scheme that left a Family barren, broke, homeless and forlorn?  What’s considered serious to One Person may not be to another.  A serious COMPLAINT to one Person could be the Brunt of a Joke to another.  Besides Belief Systems, add in different Cultures, Borders and Political Parties and then, the Gamut of what is COMPLAINARY paints an entire different Picture. 

 

This Verbiage also brings up a few Questions and Facts:

 

How long does or will a COMPLAINT last?

 

How stressful can a COMPLAINT be before it garners Anxiety, a Heart Attack or Stroke?

 

And, of course, the Universal Differential that’s portrayed as COMPLAINT Severity, i.e.: 

 

Does Money buy a COMPLAINT-Free World?

 

As an Example:  Do those Individuals in Darfur (who are starving that managed to get through the Carnal Slaughter, Rape and Genocide), have time to complain.  If so, do their COMPLAINTS ever end? Whom do they complain to?   How long can they exist with this Clamor in their Lives?  Tracing a similar Plight, in the 1960s, Children in Biafra were starving.  Did their Pleas go up against Deaf Ears?  If not, then why is there such overt never-ending Poverty, Despair & Pain  in The World (now some 50 years later) if there’s Plenty of People (dealing in Goods & Services) and Organizations to complain to, whose Goal is to react in Kindness and Generosity?  How are COMPLAINTS registered at Customer Service Departments and what Percentage of COMPLAINTS are alleviated yearly? 

 

Can a COMPLAINT be heard and eased by a Greater Power than Mortal Man?  In other words, for those whose lives are based upon (a) Religion:

WWGCA:  What Would God Complain About? 

 

In other words, insulated in our own Home Units (whether it’s a Villa in the South of France, a Farm in Georgia, a Trailer Court in Kentucky; a Time-Share in Cancun or a Co-op Penthouse in New York City, COMPLAINTS permeate ‘The Scene’ and lodge themselves in The Psyche of Man so that Discussions (as these) can be aired on Websites as Richard’s.

 

A BEFITTING RITE: 

Many Global Religions and 12-Step Programs hold a Ritual each December 31 to cleanse themselves of THE COMPLAINTS they previously experienced as Arrogances and Troubles that followed them through the ‘Last Year.’  The Process is to list those Grievances on a Page of Paper and then toss them into a Vat burn or burn them up in a Fire(place).  Therefore, they are symbolically removed forever and  no one is haunted by them any longer.

 

AND THEY ARE CALLED ‘BIRD-BRAINS!’

No Research (to the best of my Knowledge) was ever done to see if a(ny of these) COMPLAINTS ever return, like the Swallows to Capistrano that arrive like clockwork on March 19 (after leaving Goya, Argentina (beyond the Andes) on the 18^TH of February, flying some 7500 Miles in 30 Days, at an Altitude of above 2,000 feet). Do those Swallows complain as they are ardently keep flying away from vicious Predators, Airbuses, Jet Aircraft and Miles of Smoggy Pollution on their Way to their Destination?   That, at most, is an ingrained Tendency.  COMPLAINTS are learned or acquired although some surface due to personal Traits or unforeseen Dramas.   Removing them appears to be more of a Psychological Cleansing.  And, if it alleviates The Problem – THE COMPLAINT or The Issue (at hand) then rest assured before long, another COMPLAINT will arise.   However, the Person is then free till the next COMPLAINT arises and can get something important done instead of ‘stewing’ in his or her COMPLAINT.  Seen another Way:  The Dynamics of the COMPLAINT has done its Job and served an important Purpose in The Daily Life of 21^ST Century Man. 

 

One Thing is for certain.  The COMPLAINTS a Person has at age 10 are totally different than those of a 30, 50 or 70 year old.  The Structure of a COMPLAINT grows more complicated as an Adult straddles through his/her Decades and with what(ever) he/she embodies, faces and knows.

 

Simultaneously, Location & Financial Standing (or Means) also play significant Roles in ‘The Everyday COMPLAINT.”  Historically and prehistorically, it was (only) Cave Man who had just one COMPLAINT. Their COMPLAINT was surviving The Day and making it through The Night without being eaten by large, man-eating Carnivores.  What was a COMPLAINT to Neanderthal definitely was not a COMPLAINT to Contemporary Man.  For the most Part, no large woolly Mammoths frightfully stampede  or lurk through the Cities or Forests of our Planet today.  Occasionally, We will see a Grizzly Bear or Deer check-out a backyard garbage can for a morsel or two if their Food Allowance has been jeopardized.  The Viewing of one’s Conditions is directly linked to THE COMPLAINTS We have, hold and pass along to Others.   

 

TOO MUCH TALK – NOT ENOUGH ACTION: 

How the COMPLAINT evolved:

Early Man did not complain about who won or lost the SuperBowl; if Bus Fares are escalating or if his mother-in-law is interfering (again).  It may not have been ‘that much of a COMPLAINT, as a perceived important life-or-death Goal to reach.  In other Words:  On the ‘Reichter Scale of COMPLAINTS,’ there are complaints and then, there are COMPLAINTS.  COMPLAINTS may appear ‘in disguise’ for you to CHANGE - a Change may do you good.

 

“If COMPLAINTS are perceived or interpreted as a Disguise that seeks for you to change or implants the Notion that ‘Change is in the Air,’ then that Message may hold positive good for The Recipient.   Unfortunately, for Contemporary Man, there are too many Choices than can lead him/her astray and into the cobblestoned Dilemmas of Living a Life filled with COMPLAINTS.  Knowing others are suffering with them, too, secures the Fact that DNA & COMPLAINTS are forever binding and are woven as a colorful Part of our Lives that we’ve grown to (for no other word) than to COMPLAIN about…” 

 

QUOTE OF:  ASK: ADRIENNE SIOUX KOOPERSMITH

Sunday, January 11, 2009 – 6:37 AM CST through

Friday, January 16, 2009 – 11:08 AM CST

askoopersmith(at)hotmail(dot)com

From the horror stories we hear, or in reality have to face, cancer is a four letter word. It is emotionally damaging to the diagnosed, and to their loved ones.  It is a killer and everything about the disease is only an understatement.  The most terrifying aspect of the epidemic is that it can not be prevented.  Smoking may speed up processes like brain tumors, or melenoma, but if you are prone to not being able to fight off the ailment, odds are you will get it. (With the exception of smokers and throat cancer)

Unless you are fleeing to Canada for free MRI’s and CAT scans, the average American can not afford a full body cavity search.  If you could stop your mother from contracting breast cancer, you would.  If you could forsee your younger brothers lymphoma, you would prohibit it. Likewise with grandpas prostate cancer. (see http://www.cancer.gov/cancertopics/alphalist for an A-Z list of cancers)  Life is a crapshoot when it comes to thinking about what way and when are we gonna go out. (Please be like Elvis on the can)

What is more disturbing, is that there is another epidemic that is completely contradictory to the means of contraction regarding cancer, and it’s AIDS.  HIV left behind 15 million orphans last year.  Many of the victims are born into the disease.  AIDS is predominantly spread by unprotected sex, and desperate drug users.  Ok, that is well known information.  They preach safe sex all the time, or if you turn on Disney, the Jonas brothers say abstinence is the way to go.  I can’t wait to see whose gay, or the first to father a child under 20 years old in that band. But I digress.

AIDS is a disease we continue to bring upon ourselves.  Lusting, and shamelessly being foolish with our sexual endeavors.  Whether it is the man whore, the slut, or the unsuspecting one night stand, we are all at risk. Particularly in densely populated cities, where it is impossible to fathom your partners sexual history.  The death casts nothing but a painful, dreadful shadow on those inflicted.  Torturous, and relentless in its conquest of crumbling the bodies immune system until the body caves in on itself.  In Africa that’s considered a Tuesday.

Wake up America, come on, seriously, and insert another whiny sounding colloquialism here. Put on your cock balloons, plug in your diaphragms, or go to rehab if you’ve ever thought about sticking a needle in your arm.  I hope those lovely images make you think twice before trying to bang some one off craigslist.

(glance at the all the categories that this topic can relate to)

Older Men - Pros

 

If the older man had lead a life that has gained him experience and wisdom, he can relax and still keep the fires burning.

 

He knows what sexy is even when it’s not within the commercial guidelines.

 

If He is wise enough, he knows what battles to pick, and how to do things for a woman that will make her appreciate him, even if it is a small gesture. He does this not just because of her needs, but because of his needs. He knows if he messes up, his previous good nature may save him from full onslaught of his misdoings.

 

He is intelligent enough to know that what he has isn’t as important in materials, as in his relationship. He enjoys pleasuring his woman. He knows how to keep his woman interested not only in him, but in their relationship.

 

He may be more established, and be able to allow his woman things that is needed and sometimes remembers things she wants, because he understands that is needed too.

 

An older man most likely will not need to have continuous noise or talking and understands that being together means just being in the same room to be close.

 

Older Men - Cons

 

Some older men do not gain enough experience or wisdom to understand how to keep a woman - younger or older.

 

He may want to rain his kingdom, but loose the rains through direct orders, or petty guidelines that only provokes a fight, or a power struggle.

 

Not changing or understanding the change that is necessary means that he may be too settled in, and won’t want to do what he could to help keep the relationship

 

He may not understand the underlying importance of helping his mate feel important to him as a woman, and again fail his part in the relationship.

 

He may not understand the importance of giving to a woman sexually, and at times over do or misunderstand because he has not taking the time to find out how to.

 

Younger Men – Pros

 

If the younger man enjoys women, he will be well liked and often have the most success.

Not just sexually, but in friendship.

 

Although younger men may or may not be less wrinkled, or they may have more muscles, their energy to life is refreshing. Even if a woman is much older, she can enjoy and allow the fever for life and relish it. Especially after being with a man who does not relish much.

 

Creation of a relationship with a woman will be important to him. It is not always sexual, but his energy to sustain that will be plenty.

 

A younger man will often want to please a woman and find it erotic for himself to do so for a woman. Women like this, and it does not have to be a lot of drama to accomplish this. Woman also like cunninlingus, some older men do not do this.

 

Younger men like to explore, while older men may have a tendency to follow “old directions” even if the highway has changed some.

 

Younger Men – Cons

 

Younger men seemed to have less patience in things, and may not understand how to retain his emotions, or how to express them properly when something devastating happens.

 

Younger men may not want to stay in and just enjoy the evening as it is, but rather feel the need to always moving or doing and not understand the quiet closeness.

 

It may be harder for the younger man to feel comfortable with your older friends, however; for some they may feel more comfortable.

 

Younger men tend to be in need for the next adventure, while some may not be adventuring enough and feel lost.

 

Men: In conclusion, all men are stubborn and will not stop and ask for directions.

 

I want to see YOUR input on Cons and Pros of Younger and Older Men