Warning: Not for use by those that: 1) Don’t like the F word 2) Those offended by super-mild sexual content or anything that might imply, or make you think of sex 3) Those that don’t like Nine Inch Nails 4) Are offended by hands and 4.5) Those that couldn’t handle a sweaty, young William Shatner
And for the record? I hate everything.
Okay, pardon that dramatic, not true statement. I love this amazing wine I picked up at Frys that I’m currently killing off by myself (yes, I’m that awesome).
Oh, and steak. I love cow meat.
I love my baby girls.
I love my cat, Megatron, AKA, furry cuddle-slut.
I love my snake.
I love my friends.
I love running. I love weigh lifting.
I love babies.
I love roses. I love the image of love in my head (hence why I’m becoming okay with being single and emotionally detached, as to not soil it).
I love sex.
I love hiking.
I love people that don’t suck.
I love dark chocolate.
I love music. I love peace and quiet.
Everything else can pretty much eat a horses dick. With ketchup.
When you spend twelve plus hours cooped up in a building with the same people day after day you tend to get bored. Hence, many “getting to know you” question and answers occur amongst coworkers. I love this. My craving to know what makes peoples’ perceptions on life different from one another can be fulfilled during these times.
One coworker reminds me of a new born trapped in a forty year old man’s body. He is a wonderful human being, but very, very unexperienced in life. What makes him so wonderful is his genuine niceness by ways of his naiveness, but also his inquisitiveness parallels mine. He asks questions that I’m not even close to bold enough to ask.
He is thinking about proposing to his girlfriend, so the topic of marriage has been prevalent lately. Through his many questions, he has forced me to take a good hard look at my views and feelings on the subject. Had we been talking about this six months ago, my feedback would have been very different than what I’ve given him. I would have said that it’s a wonderful concept, something worth pursuing if you feel that connection with someone, something in my own personal life I felt was important that I experienced. Nothing would have pleased me more than to have a man that I loved look at me and feel that, despite his biology, he loved me enough to gift me with his monogamy and to share a life together. The good. The bad. The beautiful. Everything.
In horror, I realize that I don’t feel that way anymore.
Is it still something wonderful? Yes! In theory. In stories. In movies. In Disney. In some wishful thinking part of my being, I still want that. It does a disservice to hang on to a dead concept.
Marriage is impossible, because humans are insatiable. Simple as that. We take everything for granted and disregard the good and wonderful in our lives for the sake of greener pastures. Time shared and love given can be gone in a heart beat once one has a mere taste of something better. And the sad thing? There is always something better.
My boss told me once that I will never land a good husband because I’m not high maintenance enough. I’m too concerned about making a man happy and not making him work for it. I’m having a hard time with this concept. Not that it should be all give and no take, but that I should have to make high, and often ridiculous, expectations that a man should have to run around in circles to make happen for me. She promises that this is what men want to do, and it makes them happy. I reminded her that she’s been married four times and while I respect her greatly and admire how smart she is, I really don’t want to be married over and over. Seems to defeat the purpose.
With tears in his eyes and a smile on his face, he unloaded a modest amount of his personals into the van. The place that was once home to his hopes and dreams for his family was reduced to a somber tomb. It felt like death following a pointless struggle to keep someone alive on life support when the prognosis had been grim for far too long. The life line was severed. There was nothing. Just the empty shell of a memory. Dust. Mold. Some of her scattered remains lazily strewn about, but all was void of any meaning or life, as it had been for some time. A house survived by one man who tried too hard in all the wrong ways to make it a home.
He meant well in the only way he knew how, and he is still trying, God bless his heart, to resuscitate the dead. The heart beat is gone, dear one, and it’s not coming back. She’s been gone for some time now. He mourns in my living room for the death of what future he has left in his advancing years. She is gone, having started herself anew without him, and he is lost.
I hate the sound of someone ending a phone conversation with “Loveyoubye”.
That doesn’t sound very loving at all. That sounds about as personal as a pap and pelvic exam with an ice-cold speculum at the hands of a retired, overweight gynecologist who smells like ranch Doritos.
I have a fairly practical perception of love (romantic, family, and otherwise), despite the fact that I’m female, but I still think this is a shitty way to convey the message of love. An emotion-infused, “I love you” heard once in a blue moon has more merit and value than a thousand loveyoubyes in a single week.
My family ends every conversation with loveyoubye. Then they wonder why I just hang up.