April 2, 2011 Swimming in my clothes

The gloom seems to have been a phase.  Since that day, I seem to be well sorted and strangely more attractive.  Perhaps not sexually so, but sentimentally, which is fine.  Even my dance has shifted a bit.  I was using mostly Arab music, but now I’m getting more into goth and soukous.

I’m also more at peace with my defects.  I still don’t buy the “empowered” denial.  It’s just reached a point when I look around at other women my age and am just happy to be alive and to have had women in my family who taught me how to take care of myself.  I am also grateful to Chef Kathleen Daelemans and the late, great Weston A. Price and a whole lot of other folks who helped me recover from industrial phood.  I’m even thankful to Roissy for giving me many good social reasons to never look back or be remotely tempted to re-enter the calorie counting and yo-yo dieting hell that has uglified far too many American women.

So now, I look in the mirror and smile, and look at other people and smile not giving a flying fart about how they’ll react to it…just spreading some joy.  I don’t feel the need to protect them from me anymore.

It has given me the “balls” to talk to male persons I was attracted to, but would previously avoid or pretend to be some sort of foliage in the background around.   I’ve lost a kind of irrational fear of rejection.

Now that was a weird part of my behavior that needed killing because it made absolutely no sense.  I’ve long been okay with the idea that I could be attracted to or have a crush on someone, and they might hate my gutts.  Most reasonable women reach that stage around puberty or so.  I did.  Thing is, for some reason, if I was attracted to someone, it became important for me to be cool about it and save face.  I think that reason was feminist, but it might be a Black thing too.

In the vast majority of cases, I wasn’t really looking to get with these guys.  I wanted to befriend them because I liked them as people, and their attractiveness was a kind of an aside.  The way I behaved around them could probably be summed up in the words, “No homo.”  I don’t quite understand why, but I didn’t want them to even think there was a remote chance of me obsessing or getting ideas.  In some cases, I knew I didn’t have a chance, or at least a chance of being more than a shag, and it was important to me that they knew that I knew that I’m either not in their league or that my interest in them was purely platonic regardless of any attraction.

Any time I said something nice to them, there was an either implied or reworded, “No homo,” after it.  I couldn’t just say, “You look sexy today,” or, “Wow, that was amazing (about something they did that just freakin’ rocked),” without some behavior that made it clear that I was NOT fawning.

Now though, I fawn freely.  Once I broke through and actually started complimenting guys without a, “No homo,” and they didn’t run away screaming or insult me or something, I realized just how irrational that fear was.  I was such a doofus.  Ah well.

There’s just one thing in my changes over the past couple of years that I’m finding just wrong.  I gave up lifting heavy objects, but now I’m getting back into it.  I’m sorry, it just can’t be helped.  Though i’m okay with myself when I look in the mirror, I will admit to getting some kind of bizarre, perhaps narcissistic thrill at the sensation of firm muscles under my skin.  Since there is less fat under my skin, I notice my musculature more not just visually but tactilely.

I….am a warpig.  I am graceful and sweet natured for a warpig, but this is physically who I am.  I like being strong.  I accept and understand that the vast majority of men do not find pleasure in it.  At my age though, what men like is about 10 years past what ought to be my priority in fitness or aesthetics.

By now, sexually, there will probably not be another man in my life since I require more than a sperm depositor.  I understand that my desires are totally unrealistic and unreasonable in this, so I have put them aside like many people’s dream of being a rockstar has to go when they were not gifted with talent and a high powered agent.  It can happen.  It’s just unlikely.

So the rest of my years are about what makes me okay with me.  It was a nice excursion into gameville.  I’ve learned a lot about the mistakes I’ve made in time to help my daughter and other young women navigate the chaos that has become dating in the western world.  As for me though, my time is past, and it’s about making money and enjoying myself, and hopefully steering more young women away from the cock carousel, and more men away from the mangina hive.

The Enforcer quest is back online.  So here I go.

This is all still so new to me though, that I’m afraid I might get myself into trouble.  This is a relatively small town, and news travels fast.  So in juggling my options, I have to take care not to lead anyone on, to get a reputation as a tease, but also not give too much and get a reputation as a hoe.  Exclusive slut, I can handle, but potentially easy, not a good thing to be known as especially if it’s not true.

Last night, I overplayed twice.  Since I was with his cousin, Slick actually cracked open his wallet and bought me a drink.  I was surprised, and enjoyed it very much.  The first overplay was in how much I enjoyed it.  It was a frozen passionfruit margerita…  The second overplay was when on the way out, I patted him on the shoulder and rubbed his back a little during the goodbyes and thanking him.

I didn’t think anything of the touch because we’ve done worse…so, so much worse.  I was hoping that it would seem platonic enough that he wouldn’t be able to tell if I had any lingering sexual feelings for him, or just saw him as a bro.  His whore chasing has put him in the doghouse with me, so I didn’t want to lead him on.  The path between him and me now, is paved with broken glass sprinkled with Icy Hot.  He’ll have to do better than a margerita to get back in my good graces.

Still, he thought I was up for it, so the SMS’s began.  To save myself, I had to point out the broken glass.  I informed him that my bed is still broken, and the conversation was basically that he could either buy me a new bed or consider me not convinced of his benevolence.  Since he broke it by sitting on it wrong (it’s a crappy bed, but still) he should get a new one.  If not, then he has no honor, and is not my type.

So that was the end of that, but it was just annoying to have to say.  It’s not the money, but the principle.  At the moment, since it’s a pretty and expensive bed, despite being a piece of crap, it’s being propped up by some books at the busted corner.  For him, even when I get a new bed, that one might as well be broken too.

Mind you, I didn’t say it in such harsh terms.  I focussed on the fact that he broke my heart, and that I’m hurt, etc.  Eventually he gave up.  See, when someone’s trying to play hard, you can get them to go away by talking about your feelings.

Anyway, after that, I got the long-time-no-see call from Cuz.  We decided to meet, and since there was nowhere to go at 0400 except the Brown, which would have been a bad idea, we went for a drive.  We talked, and we parked, and then a barrage of tongue, hands, and dick through pants hit me like a wave.

I haven’t been the only one improving herself.  Cuz went from being a big cuddly teddybear to a solid but not steroidal hunk of Arab velociraptor.  This is mainly due to our occasional conversations containing a few of my insane diatribes about natural dieting.  I felt a tinge of jealousy that men hot-ify faster than women on it, but that was overshadowed by my need to escape from the predator’s clutches before I got shagged up against his car.

So I’m gently fighting him, and ferociously fighting myself.  It was difficult.  It was necessary though.  He promised me the world if only…and I wished I was a whore, but I’m not.  If I became his mistress, I would have to live in the krayot (suburbs) and if we had any kids, they would have to be kept as secret from his family as me, or else his wife will take half.

They’re Christian Arabs.  I know that if I popped one out, his side of the family would cry about their son being a wicked sinner, just as mine would, but everybody loves grandchildren.  So if I was a whore, I’d do it.  I don’t like being the dirty secret though, and I don’t want to give his wife, who’s already done some “foileschtick” about money, any ammunition to screw him with.  So as much as I’d love to hit that, I can’t.

So, with some soothing words and female waffling and uncertainty, I wound things back down, only to have them escalate again a few times, but ultimately talked him out of hiking up my skirt.  Well, at least for now.

I should never have gotten out of the car.  At least in the car, there was the stick between the stick between us…but silly me, I had to pose for him to show off my progress.  I was nearly undone by my own vanity.

Roissy would be proud though.  After all, as the parting gift when our affair ended, I did refer him, and talk about game as a way of keeping his wife under better control.  He has been a good student…too good.

We get to our destination, and he tells me, “Get out of the car.”  We are in the middle of nowhere, and it would be a long walk even to the nearest place to catch a taxi.  I blinked and gasped a little with dread.  I didn’t get out of the car until he said it again.  Then I figured oh well, if I’ve got to walk in the dark then fuck this fucking motherfucker.  So I open the door and move to get out, and then he gets out with me, comes around to my side of the car, and tongue-hands-penis-tent.  I was too flustered to put up much resistance until my inner princess awakened from her dead faint to kick my rationalization hamster.

I have to keep my eyes on the prize though.  The prize is a guy who can handle me and didn’t screw his life so that he is under any woman’s control.  I need a free man.  If he’s married then whoever he’s married to needs to be afraid for her life if she tries to screw him.  (Hello Guns   )  It may be too late for Cuz unless I can teach him some crazy.  He needs some Muslim friends.  They could tell him how they do it in Manian.

So the search continues, and I have two new possibilities: Grievous and Boss.

Grievous knew Banana, and we meet occasionally at the Netto to remember him.  He’s an extremely intelligent, but manly guy who is moderately disabled.  He walks, but has some difficulties, and was on crutches for awhile.  We talk about many things, and he considers it a good thing that I’m not a feminist.

I may be too late because in the time that I didn’t see him for awhile, he went to France to visit a woman he met online.  So I have some competition, but it’s okay because I haven’t committed to anything.  At the moment, he may be thinking that I like him, but I haven’t done the deep eyes thing yet.  We’ll see.

Boss is…a scary motherfucker.  He likes big women, I know because I’ve seen him respond somewhat positively to one of his fans.  So there might be a problem of what if my natural weight is 120 instead of 140.  However, that’s still a year or two down the road.

Meanwhile, when he sees me, he wants to feed me alcohol.  I have to take care about that because it’s not good for me, so I always order a summertime, which is a very light vodka and sprite with lemons.

He’s one of those guys with too much money.  We met the night my landlord had the cops come to our place so they could hear the wails and screeching of the Thursday night Karaoke.  Corruption deemed that they were warned, and Boss straight up lied that the volume was always that low.  I cursed him out.  It might have turned him on.

Living near a center, we are going to have noise, and I’m cool with that, but LE is a friend, so I had to back him up.  So I’m not absolutely sure if Boss is just “neutralizing” me as a threat to his business by pretending to like me, or if he’s really interested.

The night he drove me home, there was the awkward moment when he could have gotten my phone number, but didn’t.  Maybe he’s shy, or maybe he doesn’t want my number.  I don’t know, but hey, free drinks I don’t have to shag for…even though he is a cute potato, and I’d like to.  Oh well.

Skin has gotten weird.  He said he loved me almost every time he passed me while I was sipping on the summertimes Boss supplied.  He also touched my hand and my arm a lot.

Touch often says things that words can’t, and I was becoming a bit unnerved because he seemed to be trying to say something other than just, “I love you, Nicole.”  Maybe he was warning me about Boss, but just didn’t want to spell it out.  The touches were territorial, but I couldn’t read whether they were sexual territorial, or bro protective.

I’m going to go with bro protective because sexual would have been more…jovial I think.  For some reason or another, I got the feeling that he did not want me to do something with Boss.

So I’m taking the unspoken counsel, and using the moron defense against any nefarious intentions on Boss’s part.  If he’s just trying to get on my good side so I don’t complain about the screeching melancholy, then cool…free drinks.  If he’s trying to get into my pants and that’s all, then I am not going to register any acceptance of such a possibility unless or until he makes a real move.  If he’s interested in more than that, then he might be crazy, but hey, it’s crazy for my benefit.

So that’s the situation at the moment.  Law of attraction seems to be working well, but I have to learn to better calibrate my responsiveness to stay out of trouble.

Wednesday night is safe because Warren usually only goes on Thursdays and/or Fridays to hang out with his friend.  He has a friend there, a very hot older man who is probably who I should have been flirting with, but it wouldn’t have gotten either of us very far.  At some point, if we started having sex, I’d break him.  Even when I was smaller, I was still a very strong girl, and unless a guy has good, sturdy hips and legs, it’s going to suck for him or for me. 

I’ve already learned the hard way about love not being enough to overcome sexual incompatibility from the side of the one who was grown out of.  Though Shai and I were able to get past it, I wouldn’t want to put someone else through it.  It can make someone feel inadequate even though nothing is wrong with them.  They just don’t fit between my legs.  So it’s better that he understands that my interest in him is platonic.  He doesn’t need to know why.  Now, he can assume that it’s because of Warren.

So I’m sitting in our usual spot, in the back corner of the bar, near the kitchen doorway, and having a nice time.  The barmen informed me that Warren hasn’t retrieved his gift, but it’s cool because as I said, if he doesn’t take it, Skin will.  The other night, he made a kind of a joke that since Warren has dropped the ball, I’m his girlfriend now.  I was like, “What number am I in the harem?”

Last night, it seemed like less of a joke.  He’s introducing me to people as his girlfriend.  I realized that I was being gamed when these people included a parade of a variety of women, some of whom seemed like relatives, but not all of them.  He also made sure to tell every guy at the bar that I’m his girlfriend.

It could be a protective gesture, so I’m not taking it to mean anything more than platonic yet.  It seems like “cavalier game” where an unavailable guy behaves flirtatious as a positive ego booster, even if he’s not interested in anything deeper.  Barmen like me for some reason.  Maybe it’s because I’m a happy drinker, even when I’m telling them I just got dumped.

He is probably trying to cheer me up by letting me know I’m cool.  I do appreciate it.  I’m pretty sure I’m not his type, at least not yet, but it’s nice to be encouraged not to become bitter.  So I’m making him a belated birthday present: a love talisman that is supposed to attract the ladies.  It’s a dark purple star sapphire pendant on a necklace with silver, red, and black beads.  I think he’ll like it.

I find The Obsidian Files to be more proactive and more realistic, so if I was going to tell a guy where to go for support, I’d recommend Obsidian.  He’s blunt, but not as rigid, and can relate to a guy who’s struggling.  He has a lot of life experience, and has seen things a guy with testicles should probably have seen by a certain age, and tends to pursue a less feminist, more nurturing class of women.  Roissy is still working out whatever issues he has with flaming harpies.  In my opinion, pursuit of “lawyerbitches” and the like is self inflicted misery which leads one to severe selection bias.  Hopefully, his current girlfriend is helping to smooth out those rough edges.  Girl must be a saint.

At Citizen Renegade though, I get a perspective that I wouldn’t normally get to see from the inside.  People who like you and have an interest in seeing you happy aren’t usually going to tell you the darker bits of the truth.  For that, you’ve got to steel yourself, and talk to people who hate you.

Haters may be just as irrational as people who love you, but somewhere in the middle is the balance; the truth.  In the past couple of years, I’ve been called every name in the book, but I’ve learned A LOT about men.  I already had a reasonable hold of reality, thanks to my Dad, but my Dad loves me.  Everything he says to me is designed to help me, and barring a few issues, he doesn’t sugarcoat, but he doesn’t want to undermine my confidence.  So it’s tempered somewhat.  It’s not dishonest because he really does think I’m beautiful and special.  Problem is, random guys I encounter may not think I’m beautiful or special, but may still want to get under my skirt.  It’s those guys whose motivation I needed to figure out in order to protect myself.

So, what I needed was an honest assessment of my “worth” in the general sexual market.  Roissy’s Dating Market Value Test for Women is a very good one.  I scored -4, by the way.  To let you know how much of a hit one takes for being fat and older, I retook the test with my features at 20, and scored 32.  So I’m positive that there’s no bias against smart or decent women who are even barely reasonably feminine.  I wouldn’t know how to rate the test for men.

Once I understood how others generally perceive me, I had to figure out under what contexts someone would find me woodworthy, and why someone who did might mishandle me.  The reasons for woodworthiness I gathered ranged from utter desperation for anything with a vagina, to being really drunk and enjoying my personality well enough to commit humanitarian fornication, to being patently rural and having a thing for giant boobs FTW, to fat fetishism.  For the rare sort of guy I tend to go for, it’s lack of concern for basic looks and more concern for grooming and hygiene, or I look like them/their mom/their favorite aunt/their first love, or someone very important whose face is burned in their memory; social relevance.

What confounded me until yesterday though, is why someone would mishandle me.  I’d assigned that to the wolf chewing off his arm to escape a trap because they think I’m ugly or worthless due to my low general market value.

Confident in my having found the Holy Grail for Fat Chicks, I added Roissyisms to my arsenal of ego destroying missiles to fire back in psychic warfare with former “bitches” daring to attempt to con me back into a largely one sided relationship.  Among them were, “You’re only calling me because you’re desperate, and you think I’m stupid,” and my favorite, “I’ve never been desperate/hated myself enough to shag someone I thought was hideous.  What’s that like?”

From the responses, it appeared that I was winning their respect and admiration.

Then, as of last night, my Holy Grail shattered when a young lady known as Anoukange said something that slammed the fact into my fat, arrogant face, that I already had it.  When you read this, have a look at Anoukange’s site and photos.  She’s not a teenager, but most guys think she’s fairly hot.  So they’d have no particular reason to go flying out the door immediately, right?

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Cuddling after you’ve just started to sleep together is weird, and I don’t have a cold bone in my body. I just give the guy my bed and take the couch. You can always balance the cuddle instinct by “giving it to her” caveman style and then trying to cuddle after. ….talk about sending the hamster wheel into a tailspin.

Wha???

It did not compute.

As a woman of 40, who has only had a total of 12 years on the “dating market” since 16, half of those as a spiritually but platonically married lady, I have not had vast sexual experience.  I had fun in high school…a few freaky incidents under my belt, but that’s a feministically raised youth thing.  Once I came into my own at about 17, I understood that casual sex felt like necrophilia for me, so after that it was fiances and the friend zone.  My “casual” sex was more like promoting guys who were in what would be most girls’ friend zone, and even then I’d be frustrated if it didn’t develop further.

Though I wouldn’t recommend this policy as a general practice, for a few women, benevolent sluttery is a nice way to avoid the general market “cock carousel” and let the good guys know that there are a few women in the world who really do love decent men more than platonically.  Just understand that it’s a thankless “job”.  Most guys watch too much television, and think sex with young, hot chicks is normally available to normal guys, and that they were just having a “dry spell”.  Hell, some of them even think it’s normal for a hot girl to be low maintenance, and don’t understand that a low maintenance hot girl is a natural beauty with stunning genes, which is rare.  It takes them awhile of being out there trying to find another you, before they realize that you’re one in a million.

Story of my life until Shai.

Anyway, due to my apparently rather limited experience, I was convinced that it was highly abnormal and pathological for a guy to just get up and leave after sex.  “Casual sex” meant sex with someone you’re not in an explicit relationship with, but in execution, the incident would go something like make out, do the thing, make out and maybe cuddle a bit, bathroom if needed, do it again, into the night, fall asleep exhausted, and the awkward coffee or breakfast.  No rushing happened unless sometime during the sex or the sleeping, someone’s mom called thinking their son had disappeared, there was a bad car pileup or something blew up, and he had to go pick up or sew up bodies, or time had really run out.

The coyote chewing off arm thing happened after months or years, and figuratively, not right after.  That’s just…crazy.  Why would a woman stand for that?

I even had escape strategies for myself to avoid sleeping next to guys I wasn’t in an explicitly defined relationship with.  When I would fall asleep, which happened maybe only twice, it was brief and not restful at all.  If I didn’t get out of bed in time, I’d be stuck under an arm or a leg, or downright in the clutches, lying there awake.  One time I even pretended that there was a Voodoo ritual I had to do after sex.

No really.  I’d get up and light a red candle and dance a little.

So after the ensuing conversation, when my illusion of relatively clean karma was crashing around my brain, and I was starting to feel like a complete moron, I grabbed for any reassurance I could get.  I asked Shai if it was normal for guys to leave after the sex.  He’s like, “Why would a guy stay after the sex?”

So I’m sitting there, mouth agape, freaking out.

Humble pie in my face.

Some vodka, pickles, a series of drunk SMS’s asking for forgiveness, and a deathlike sleep later, I’m okay…humbled, but okay.

I have realized though, that I was indeed a ball cutting, witch of a bitch.

So, I will no longer have the pompous pleasure of referring to any of the sweet men of my past to whom I have grossly misattributed malice, when fear and exasperation were most likely the running sentiment, as “bitches”.  They are ex boyfriends.  They’re ex boyfriends I probably should have demanded more of as far as manning up and planting their flag or getting lost, but boyfriends is what they behaved like, so that’s what they were.

I understand now that the bitch was me.

What’s funny about that is that I’m not particularly rich or famous.  I’m just me, and don’t apologize for that.  Yet for some reason, the self designated sheepdogs of the herd sniff me out for saying the simplest things like it not being a good idea to abuse people for not being close enough to whatever the herd deems perfect.  That’s like blasphemy against their Santa god, and they attack with religious fervor.

Like severed hands on the belt of Kali, I tend to wear their sorry excuses for insults like jewelry.  They are the sacrifices of dignity voluntarily amputated and lain at my feet.  Their songs over the years are as stylized as hymns.

There’s one of my old favorites: You Are So Ugly

You are so ugly
Why can’t you see?
You are so much more
Ugly than me.

This makes you worthless
Worth less than me.
You are so ugly
Ugly to me.

You must be sorry
Apologize
For being unpleasant
To my tender eyes.

If you do not
Well then you’re a bitch.
You should be hanged
Or burned like a witch.

I demand you agree
With my view of your worth.
Most people do
All over the earth.

We all think you’re ugly.
Why don’t you submit?
Why don’t you enjoy
The taste of our shit?

We do so love shitting
One hole just won’t do.
We open our mouths
And can’t help but poo

That you are so ugly
And worthless to us.
We sorely resent
Your making a fuss.

Not only must you
Account for your actions
But you’re required
To bear our contractions.

We can be human
But if we are honest
What we require is
That you be a goddess.

You Angel of Ugly
Must suffer our sins.
While we reject you
You must want us in.

While we abuse you
You should smile and dance.
While we just use you
You should want romance.

When you do not give us
All that we pray
And show the same boatman
You one night will pay

We’ll punish you for
Defending your life.
Oh shit! It’s a gun.
We’ve just got a knife.

I really don’t see how people figure they should be able to spew all manner of crap at people, and those people aren’t supposed to hand it back to them.  Well, yes I do.  That’s what most people do: suck it up while the more aggressive, just as mortal as they are, verbally defecate on them.

It’s funny how that works.  I learn a lot about humans from watching cats.  I have a female calico who is not the biggest, but is the loudest.  Whenever I’m distributing snacks, she always feels she has to be first.  What’s even weirder is that when I put a little in one bowl, and move to the next, rather than finishing what was in the previous bowl, she jumps to the next bowl.  Every bowl I fill she has to beat all the others to.

Her little plan always gets foiled when a bigger female swats her in the face.  Then she moves away but is still complaining and trying to make all the others miserable because she didn’t get what she wanted for being merely aggressive and not actually better.

Something to think about.

I’m just a cat who wants to get to her bowl without some little wannabe standing in my way, growling at me because they think they’re entitled to what they didn’t earn: my respect and good will.  Too many people think that the way to earn people’s respect is by being a dick because there are too many pussies.

I understand that’s not going to change, but it would be nice.

From what I’ve learned from Obsidian, Roissy, and others, there’s not even really any point in talking it over.  He knows me well enough that his failure and the consequences are understood.  The last time, I made the mistake of trying to save something that didn’t need to be saved, and got accused of obsession.  I don’t want to have that argument again.  I want to be able to have a beer with the guy, and talk like friends, and perhaps he’ll introduce me to someone more suitable.

The rest of my current prospects are younger than me, and have been, since my awakening, scooted into the, “No way,” pile.  I’m friendly to them, and flattered that they’d like to get into my pants, but it’s not going to happen.  I’m not built for the cougar thing.

I kind of wish I was.  I wish I could just suspend disbelief long enough for something like that to be fun and not a headache.  I wish I enjoyed teaching grown men how to piss standing up, but I don’t.  I can’t convince myself that someone who isn’t old enough to understand that a gorgeous, young woman could leave them and take half someday, or become more addicted to whatever drug she’s taking to stay an unnatural size 4 and lock their kids in a basement for months, can value someone like me.  A guy has to know something about real life to appreciate a real woman who doesn’t look like she stepped out of a magazine.

I understand that to a guy under 40, I’m just the person on the sidelines holding out a cup of water on their marathon journey towards the illusive unicorn…the hot chick with a heart of gold.  I don’t have the heart to tell them that for at least half of them, that journey will end in divorce, and that for most of them, it’ll happen because she (perhaps rightfully) thinks she can do “better” than him.  For most of the other half, the journey ends with a woman who looks like me or worse, but with none of the coping skills, and a much higher sense of unjustified entitlement.  Whatever was shitty about their personality oozes to the surface when they’re 30 or so.

I was thinking about how perfect nature is.  I feel very fortunate to have had one child.  Western culture is imploding on its own masturbatory fantasy.  In such a time, I could easily not have had any children at all.  Women like me are dinosaurs, and the birth rates for cultured, intelligent people in Europe and the U.S. tell the sad tale.  We’re not replacing ourselves because through the media and legal breakdown of the meaning of family, we’ve made the serious and the strong unfashionable.  The herd is being led off a cliff, and we’re going to either be destroyed or absorbed by cultures that aren’t really better, just more realistic and interested in breeding before they’re too old.

I think if I had been more fully aware of this when I was younger, I’d have started a cult a la Dune.  Actually, there’s still time.  We could call ourselves the Zenietzsche Mormoslims or something, and make it a rule that everyone has to eat a natural diet and bring as many spirit babies to earth as possible.

Nah, I’m not a cult builder type, and besides, someone has probably already done it.  It’s fun to think about, but in the end, the cold facts at ground level add up to this generation deserving what it gets for its stupidity.  My time is just about over, and whatever “suffering” I’m doing for being underappreciated when I was young and even more fertile, the people who missed out will do more.  I have one who, if she survives long enough, will do good things for humanity and her world.  What others I didn’t have won’t get to do whatever good they could have done…and they won’t be in the number of people who believe in raising their own children or eating like humans instead of drones, or growing up on time instead of by some artificially imposed schedule.

The few others I know who have some sense, and have managed to make children who have some sense, should count themselves fortunate as well.  Fate could easily have twisted a different direction.  Whatever problems you’ve had along the way, there will be some folks with some sense in the next generation.  While you’re here, remind them not to let the crush of stupidity around them break them.  Remind them that you love them, and that love is part of what makes us human, and that they should follow their own hearts and their own instincts, not the trends and not the television.

Hopefully things will work out, but the truth is that cultures and nations rise and fall all the time.  Perhaps western culture is doomed because it abides too much ideal and not enough practice.  So we adopt principles that seem like a good idea, but ultimately destroy us because they are unicorns and rainbows and not horses and refraction.  So we will adapt and survive, or we will fall.  Not much ever changes for the independent thinkers.  We’re different no matter what or where…but for certain, it’s easier to be independent in a western culture than it is in others.  So if it’s falling, I’ll be sad to see it go.

Slick has earned it.  Some things have happened that have made him stronger, and he’s handling things like he should have years ago.  Even back then, he earned his stripes by not treating me like a dirty secret.  He accused me of being obsessed for wanting to hear from him more than once a week though, and that was the last he heard from me for four years.

See, that was before I looked into the dark side and realized where I went wrong.  This time around, he’s older and wiser, but I’m not taking any chances.  I was too soft back then, and too open about my feelings.  I must have given him the impression that I was desperate and couldn’t walk away.

I can be like that with someone I really care about.  I am so enthralled with them when we’re together that they could think they were the only man in the world to me.  I’m not trying to be deceptive, and that’s really not a thing to be deceptive about.  I think it’s just a matter of experience.  If every woman they were ever with, wanted something from them other than love and respect, a woman being truly interested in them could be strange.  So they’re thinking, “Yeah, I got this,” and feel free to mess up.  Then the find out that I have limits after they’ve lost me.

I don’t really know if he views me as less than he deserves, but he’s at least polite enough not to say so or seem so.  So we’ll see.  He’s navigating the pit of broken glass one has to walk over with bare feet to get back into my good graces deftly enough.

He is only three years older than me though.  He’s one of those older guys who laughs in the face of gravity, and lifts heavy objects, perhaps out of spite.  So as soon as I’ve boosted his -heh- confidence enough, he may well feel that he’s too good for me, and fly away or screw up again.  I don’t know.  Once someone has failed me once, it is difficult for me to believe they won’t do it again.

…but for now, he does seem to care…and has a cute ass, a phenomenal brain, and strong legs.  He’ll do.

I’m now at the phase where just about everything, including my boobs and butt, are smaller.  So I still look rolly polly, just a few kilos less blobby…not that blobby is morally wrong or anything.  It’s just not me.

Also, please excuse my facial expressions, as the sun was in my eyes.

Well, enjoy it, laugh, be disgusted, whatever.  At this point, I feel better than I have in 20 years.  This will probably be my last Truly fat year though.  My knee is almost better, and the gap between my ability and my energy level is closing.

Here’s is today’s 3/4 view compared to the two years past.  It’s hard to gauge the size, but the changes in shape are pretty obvious.

More photos of me will be posted next year as usual.  Well, maybe sooner.

My knee still bothers me a bit, so I’m careful of it.  Other than that though I’m cool.  When I can get him to, I’m going to have Shai take the yearly progress photos.  This may well be my last year of being technically fat, so enjoy it while it lasts.

Thankfully, Vegeta hasn’t reared up his over gelled head to remind me anymore how worthless I am to him.  During the conversation, I got really darkside Nietzchean.  “Now I see what our real problem is.  There are two kinds of people in this world…”  I called him a sheep and said he needs to go back and play in the pasture.

Normally, I wouldn’t actually use that as a direct insult to someone.  There’s nothing wrong with being normal.  That’s a special honor I bestow to the ones who come up in my territory bleating, and expect not to get bitten.  Common folk need to stick to common folk, and go through the normal channels to get their freak on.  The city of Haifa has many fine prostitutes.  It’s legal here.

…and before you think something like, “but prostitutes are fake,” well, so are guys who care too much about a woman’s social status.  Fake sex is fake sex.  Weak drones milling around mindlessly with no individuality need to stay in their place.  When they go out looking for someone special and unique, both their time gets wasted.

I have no mercy left.  He used it all up.  It’s okay, because that was actually the last thing that needed to go.  After him, I had the clarity of mind to get on a natural diet and the courage to go explore the dark side of the male psyche.

After him, I looked for the real answer, and had an open enough mind to accept what I learned.

I learned that people like him instinctively hate people like me, and yet they need us.  We are their anthropos…the free people.

Gender and gender role is important as far as how that mixed hatred and lust will be expressed, but in the end, they want us dead.  By “they” I mean sheeple who know or sense that we exist, and want to be us, but don’t have the balls.  They are the cursed ones with the appetites of wolves but the teeth of sheep.

When I was wounded, I let him get close enough to me to hurt me.  I let him lick my wounds with his grass stained tongue, thinking that if he could swallow some of me, he could be like me.  The prey and predator were reversed, and this is against nature…but I was bleeding, and didn’t care enough about myself to fight this abomination.

Kahuna told me after reading the conversation, “Wow, you really hated yourself back then.”  I nodded.

     “I did.  I must have.”   We sat silently for a moment, and then got back to our usual talk about life and stuff.  I’m glad he was there.  Up until then, he’d only heard my side of events, and probably thought I was being overly dramatic and mean just because I got rejected.  Now, he got to see just how stupid the guy really is, and how dumb I was to go there more than once.

I tell you, women need men.  Women need dads, brothers, friends, someone all up in their business.  We need to not give anyone a chance until they have passed the gauntlet of men by whom our standards are set.  My dad’s overly religious, but I have male friends who, were they aware that I desperately needed their assistance, would never have allowed this to happen.  They would at least have shielded me emotionally to minimize the impact.

That’s what happened to Fender.  Kahuna told me from day one that he is at least respectful but probably wouldn’t stick around.  He has too many issues.  Shai told me the same.  So with him it was catch and release, no hard feelings.  When he stopped calling, I just shrugged and moved on.

Now Shai, Kahuna, Longstroke, Gadget, and I are having a good laugh, and they’re glad I’m feeling better.  They’re also all very glad that they’re free to do what men do, and look out for their “sister”.