Poetic Justice
“What do women want?”
That’s a “Freudian quote” - as opposed to a Freudian slip.
And after 30 years of studying people, Sigmund Freud – maybe the most preeminent psychoanalyst of his (on any other) time - said that that ONE question was the only one which he didn’t have the answer for.
He had an answer for almost everything.
But…
“What do women want?”
He had absolutely no idea.
Join the club, Siggie…
Join the club.
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Women are the most wonderful, most infuriating, most fascinating, most crazy, most special, most baffling, most exiting…and most inexplicable force in the universe.
And I love them.
I (like my old mate Freud) will never understand them.
And I love them.
I’ve had to learn a WHOLE new set of rules in
And I love them.
I actually understand them less and less every day.
And I love them.
But they smell nice.
And I love them.
And the sweetest smelling of them all…to me…the girl who is the most wonderful, infuriating, fascinating, special, baffling, exciting and inexplicable of them all…she’s simply the best.
And I love her…
----
There’s no way I could even BEGIN to tell you about my experiences with women over here.
There’s no way – for reasons of digression and respect – that I would even want to.
But…to make you understand the screwed up, wonderful little package that is me…I gotta try.
So…of course I won’t go into detail.
Or course I won’t mention any names.
Of course I’ll speak in the broadest possible terms.
But...to be brutally honest, a HUGE part of my life in
I’m actually going to leave the bulk of my impressions of single Vietnamese women for the forthcoming chapter of Mr. Saigon.
This little spiel is not so much about my specific experiences with those women. It’s actually more of a post-Freudian psychobabbling analysis of “what women what”, based on my own experiences - and also about how my current situation with one particular lady...is…poetic justice. Irony. Karma.
Karma certainly DOES bite you in the ass.
Certainly does creep up on you when you least expect it – and most deserve it.
And karma is right now taking a hugely sizeable chunk outta my hugely sizable posterior.
I shoulda – in retrospect – known it was coming.
But I didn’t expect it.
And I damn well deserve it.
Karma…
Irony…
Poetic Justice…
Ouch.
Resume for Romance
I’m not a good looking guy. I’m down with that fact. Not UGLY, mind you. But not particularly cute. I’m just…me. A normal looking guy.
Physically, nothing special for a guy my age…but nothing grotesque either.
General type of pear-shape physique.
OK calves, nice hands, long fingernails even when trimmed, weird hips, big butt, freckly skin, modest belly, floppy love handles. Hirsute forearms with pretty spastic hair configurations. Exceptional feet – perfectly proportioned – the only physical thing I’m really proud of. But small – considering my height. And you know what that means…
That’s my weird body. My metabolism has slowed down lately – as they do – but I can still consume vast quantities of almost anything vaguely disguised as food or drink without bloating too much. I’ve generally had a happy, semi-outdoorsy, completely non-smoking, mostly non-drug-taking/non-alcoholic life - so I guess body wise I’m an edge ahead of the average for most Western guys my age - but not much.
Maybe I look less like a pear and more like a diamond. Well, not shiny and gorgeous like a diamond, I just mean my bod has a diamond shape – with the top and bottom being the best bits. In the middle – the butt, the gut, the hips – all bulging out unattractively. But getting better towards each end. At the bottom - the nice calves and the exceptional feet.
And at the top – my hair.
To recap an oft-quoted observation from many-a-friend about my looks: “It’s all about the hair.”
My hair gets a lot of attention – and I still haven’t worked out if that’s good or bad. Many I’m sure think it’s the definition of catastrophe, an expression of chaos sculpted in locks and waves. I personally love my hair, but that’s mainly because I love having something to run my hands through when I’m thinking – it feels cool.
It’s certainly different, especially over here in
My hair might be remarkable but all it really does is top an unremarkable face.
Like the body, nothing special, but alternatively, nothing repulsive, hopefully. Ears a little big. Mouth a little small. Capped front tooth. Normal sorta nose. Eyes sparkling or closed, depending on the company. A smile that’s seldom forced, and rarely off. It’s hopefully NOT (as the saying goes) a face that only a mother could love – but it’s also a face that will quite likely never grace the Vogue centerfold.
But it’s my face and I love it.
Hey, it’s me!
I wouldn’t trade a single thing above my visage if I could, and as for my physique…well - except maybe losing a few pounds around the midsection – I’ve gotten used to that too.
What all this saying is that…
I’M personally pretty happy and content with this shell I get around in (or at least resigned to it).
But…contrary to the usual lines of bullshit spoken about everyone by flirts and well-meaning friends or lovers– I ain’t nothing special to look at.
But Goddamn am I special inside!!!
That’s a joke ok…
Well, sorta.
No Specials Today
EVERYONE is – by definition – special inside.
And – sure I’ve got a helluva lot of faults, sure I’ll always be a screwed-up work-in-progress, but…overall, I think I’m pretty special.
“Special” though is not always a good thing. The word usually carries positive connotations, but it can be more general – special people are unique, different…and not always in a good way.
Mostly, I hope I’m special in a good way.
But that’s just to me.
I love who I am, where I’ve been, what I’ve done – but none of that is perfect. I love where I’m going too – and despite aiming for perfection there too…well hopes and expectations seldom meet.
There’s a lot about me that’s different from everyone else – some good, some bad. It just makes me “me”. It just makes me special.
And – for better or worse – I wouldn’t trade “me” – the outside, but specifically, ESPECIALLY the inside – for anything. Even my faults. Because my faults are opportunities. Challenges. And they make life more interesting.
So basically - what the above blurb says is that – I’m happy with who I am, but far from perfect.
And – I’m special – but only, really, to me.
I’ve been special – REALLY special – to only a few other people in my life.
In other words – only a few other people have really, truly taken the chance and the time to understand me – and found something special inside. Just as I have done the same thing for me.
I love – pretty much – everybody. Even the freaks, weirdoes and screwballs – I can find something of benefit – something to learn in their characters. And loving the oddballs and the cruel folk is often a better way to understand them (and maybe help them) than by hating them.
Everyone is a special person.
But really, truly – in my life, there have only been a handful of truly special people to me.
I hope – and believe that I have been truly special to them to.
But…things change.
They – each member of this “handful” – will always be special to me. But things change.
Of these people…
Three of the most special – whether they were best friends or best lovers doesn’t really matter…things really changed. And – while I believe we will always be special to each other…things changed. Priorities and circumstances and locations and situations changed. Life changed. Shit happened. We moved on.
The other one – the only other person in my life who was truly special to me – and (perhaps more importantly) MADE me feel really important to her…this person…this special person…died.
She’s gone.
A lot of types of relationships can make you feel special.
Certainly the most important and sustaining is your relationship with yourself. But the other relationships are incredibly important to – whether they are with friends, lovers, parents.
Not a lot of things separate homo-sapiens from the rest of the animals.
Living over here in Vietnam – and also perhaps growing up and becoming more realistic - I’ve realized that we are LOT more like the animals that we care to admit – especially in the way our primordial need to sustain the species is represented in our gender inequality – specifically the male’s primal urge to spread his seed across as many partners as possible, and the female’s basic instinct to nest and nurture emergent life.
But there’s one big thing – perhaps the biggest thing - that separates us from the animals - and no, it’s not “American Idol”.
It’s the need to feel special.
More specifically - our need to feel that OTHERS feel we are special.
Our need to feel that we matter. That we make a difference.
Matter to someone. Make a difference to anyone. Are special to somebody.
Unlike with animals, it’s not just about survival.
We need to matter.
We do this in so many different, personal ways. Some of us structure our lives so that we matter in our careers, our jobs. Some of us try to leave legacies of art or inventions. Many, many people – especially women – make their lives “matter” by simply having children who need them. Many of us form strong friendships, and relationships. Perhaps the most satisfying way of “mattering”, of feeling we are special, is having another person understand us completely – and knowing that we make a positive difference in their lives.
Whatever way we do it however, we simply need to matter.
We need to feel special.
That’s our quest, our basic driving force (beyond Maslow’s other hierarchical levels).
And ME….
Well, I haven’t feel special for a long time.
Not truly, really special.
My friends and family have liked me, loved me, tolerated me sure. But…since 2002…no one has made me feel like they truly understood me. Like they truly wanted to. Since 2004…I haven’t felt truly loved. Truly special.
It doesn’t bear on my happiness.
Many of my friends are constantly telling me that I’m the most consistently happy person they now. Sometimes that’s an act – but more often the act is symbolic of an attitude – and the act of convincing ME (as much as anyone else) that I am happy – basically smiling from the outside in – instead of the more traditional way. But usually – 99% of the time – I never need to act. I’m damn happy.
But.
Something is missing.
Something is empty.
I feel special to myself.
But that’s not enough.
Like all of us –
I need to feel special to someone else.
I need to matter.
And I don’t…
I don’t matter.
I’m not special to anyone.
And I need to be.
That’s me.
That’s life.
Most of you reading this will be very special to at least one other person – a parent, a lover, a best friend.
You are very lucky.
The rest of you…well, you may feel like me. And if you think you don’t feel like me…you’re probably lying to yourself.
But that’s ok. I do that a lot too.
A human being’s quest to feel “mattered”, to feel special by others – well – sometimes this quest is a garden path. Sometimes it’s a rollercoaster.
But trust me – this quest is inbuilt into every one of us.
And right now – with my current feelings for another person – I’ve become my much more cognizant of this quest that ever before.
I’m special – DAMN special!!! – to me.
But to anyone – ANYONE else…
Nup.
I’m simply not that special to anyone.
For me to BECOME special to anyone
Four things must happen:
(1) I must WANT to become special to them.
(2) I must give them the opportunity to know me and understand me.
(3) They must take that opportunity.
(4) And they have to like what they see.
Numbers (3) and (4) sorta depends on the first two things happening first. And for the past five years – numbers (1) and (2) – BIG problem. For reasons hinted at in “Love, Actually” (my little prequel to this piece) I haven’t wanted to become close to anyone, and I haven’t let anyone come close.
Big problem.
Thus…as far as the “not feeling special today” thing goes – I’ve only got myself to blame for not letting a single soul close. And I guess that’s not one my finer selling points.
Speaking of which - back to my personal resume – my CV for a QT. Just a recap. But because I’m ridiculously honest and open in everything I do…it’s got the bad stuff along with the good:
Physical Appearance: average – nothing special, nothing grotesque. Gorgeous feet. Squiggly love handles. Crazy hair
Personality: Again – nothing special (except to me). Far from average. Very happy – mostly. But very laidback, carefree, almost careless. Very independent, maybe TOO independent. Often obnoxious, in a charming way. Pretty generous with loved ones. Pretty friendly with most. Love people, love to laugh. Love new things. Often a great, supportive friend. Occasionally an adequate boyfriend. Fiercely loyal to closest friends. Interesting yet currently average career. Significant wealth and ambition, but that’s rarely advertised. Really not that special – until someone looks a little deeper. Even then – when looked at a deeper – maybe not always special in a positive way.
Sure I’m happy 99% of the time - and hopefully that reflects into a positive, happy mood that people who cross my path can enjoy a little too. But…1% of the time...sometimes I’m too tired to be happy. Sometimes life gets too much for me. And…at these times…I’m surely NOT a joy to be around.
So yeah…mostly I can be happy…
….but sometimes I can be sad.
Sometimes I can be energetic and enthusiastic…
…but sometimes I can be flat and dull.
Sometimes I can be as smooth and suave as James Bond…
…but sometimes I can be as gross and graceless as a Neanderthal.
Sometimes I can be as strong and determined as Superman…
…but sometimes I can be as weak and vacillating as a Grandma buying groceries.
Sometimes I’m cool…
…sometimes I’m not.
In other words, most of the time I fall somewhere in between.
In other words, I’m not perfect.
In other words…I’m just human.
In other words…I’m a MAN.
In other words – for a girl sizing up a potential match, a potential catch…I’m not really that impressive.
Just a normal guy with a few abnormal cool things and a few abnormal poor things.
On paper, nothing special.
On paper, not much of a catch.
And yet…
Lately…
I seem to be.
I’m the Catch of the Day.
Pathetic Perfume
There have been times in my life when I’ve been desperate.
I use that word NOT to mean “frantic”, “depressed”, “anxious”, “worried”, “fraught” or any of Bill Gates’ other synonyms.
I mean desperate…for love. For sex. For intimacy. For women. For a woman. Or for any woman.
Lots of guys – I’m sure - can relate to this feeling.
You are so desperate, so needy for feminine intimacy or companionship, your radar is constantly set on scan. Your tongue is constantly lolling outta your mouth leaving a trail of drool. And the desperation reeks from every pore of your body like a new perfume called “Pathetic”.
I’ve been there. Like I said, there have been a lot of times in my life when I’ve been desperate.
In fact, the decade between 15 and 25 was probably the most prominent of those.
But there were a couple of other (thankfully shorter) times.
And you know what?
ALL of those times – each era that I reeked constantly of desperation – I never found a girlfriend. I never got laid. I – for better or worse (and often I thought it worse!) – remained single.
Why?
Well…because…girls are like dogs…
(Now I know some of you are saying that I’ve written that sentence wrong and it shouldn’t read “because girls are like dogs” but instead, “because girls ARE dogs”. But that’s not my point).
Girls are like dogs in a very important way.
Dogs can smell fear.
Girls can smell desperation.
And they HATE it.
Girls hate desperation coming from a guy.
It puts an incredible amount of pressure and expectation on them which they just don’t want.
We all want to be needed.
But - especially early on – before a couple even really know each other – even really connect – for a guy to be sending out signals of desperation…
Not good.
The scent of desperation comes from lots of girls, yes – and it makes some guys run – sure. But many guys will often shag, date or marry a desperate girl – simply because he’s a guy and because she’s THERE. But in gender reverse…this pattern isn’t as obvious. Arrogant males like to think that they choose their female partners. Not really. Like in most of the animal kingdom – it’s the females who ultimately make the big decisions about who they’ll end up with. Simply because guys will choose a plethora of women. Guys find it very difficult to (in the famous words of Red Leader) “stay on target”. So – by choosing (or being desperate for) so many – they simply don’t choose ONE at all. They throw out a net and hope for the best. And a woman – maybe in that net – but maybe not – will one day make the decision about which guy to accept. And they are rarely desperate about doing it. As opposed to us guys. Reeking of desperation.
Girls NEED to feel that a man – a potential partner – is strong – and thus that he DOESN’T need her. If he shows that he DOES need her – wow – her first impression is: “Isn’t that “Pathetic” cologne you’re wearing?” She instantly thinks of you as less of a man…and runs away!!!
How does this jell with our need to be needed – to feel someone else feels we are special? Well, we humans are complex beings, especially those on Oprah and in DreamWorks cartoons.
We want to be needed. We want to be loved. We want to be wanted. We want to be special to someone. We want to matter.
But – for ALL of these – we know – often subconsciously - that for such a thing to be of value – real value…then the person who loves, wants, needs us and feels we are special – for that person to feel all those things – IT MUST TAKE TIME.
If a girl I hardly know declares I’m special – well that’s sweet, but means little.
If a girl who has been my best friend for a few years and seen me at my best AND my worst - at my most fantastic AND at my most fallible - declares that I’m special – that means a helluva lot more.
We need people to think we are special, need people to need us. But only if they know us. Only if they understand us.
And – we KNOW this – unless we (like many movie stars and models) are in denial.
When a guy tells a girl she’s special without really knowing her – he doesn’t want her. He wants her body.
When a girl tells a guy he’s special without really knowing him – she doesn’t want him. She wants his body (or if you live in
The target could be something else – for either gender. Money. A job. Security. Free English lessons.
But – whatever we want – whatever our crazy libidos or instincts are telling us we want in someone without us truly knowing them…
Well…whatever it is…we don’t really want them. Because we don’t really know them.
We want to loved and needed etc etc etc
- but another component to this equation is VITAL.
We want this from people that KNOW us well. Understand us. Accept us.
And relationships with short term desperation don’t work like that.
Desperation also implies something else:
“I’m not happy!” “I can only be happy with you!” “Save me!!!”
That puts a helluva lot of pressure on people. To accept an offer like that is to take on a responsibility few people want.
So…I’ve been there – both sides of the coin.
I’ve felt desperation coming from girls.
And I’ve directed it straight out from myself.
And – alas in retrospect – I know that it’s a huge bummer.
It never works – expect in the odd movie – and then – if it’s a good movie – it’s when the leads know and sympathize with each other to a significant extent.
Desperation in casual relationships, in friendships, in first meetings…
NEVER EVER WORKS
Because when I’ve been desperate –
Literally no one has been interested in me
But…Catch 22.
When you are desperate, you get nothing.
And when I’m the antithesis of desperate – when I don’t need or want anyone at all…and it’s obvious to all…
It’s raining women.
Almost literally.
You wouldn’t believe it.
But it’s true.
And you know WHY?
Because I just don’t care…
Catch of the Day…or Catch 22?
Many of my friends would argue that I’ve always been so blind to feminine interest in me that I should have a seeing-eye dog with me at all times – a seeing-eye dog trained to sniff out pheromones. And it’s true – for most of my life I’ve been totally clueless in picking up whether a girl might be interested in me. But…I’m getting better…I hope…
And even I am perceptive enough to notice the increase in interest towards me the last few years.
Dozens of women. All available – in some capacity to me. All attractive – in some way – to me.
It’s like I’m in Willy Wonka’s factory - and the girls are candy.
Take your pick.
Trust me…since 2003, it’s been almost as simple as that.
I’m treated like I’m the Catch of the Day.
But the situation is total Catch 22.
I’m not desperate.
I don’t want them. I don’t need them. I don’t care about them. (Well, I care about THEM, a lot, just not about HAVING them.)
And thus because I don’t want need or care about having them…I’ve got them.
Catch 22.
Irony.
Poetic Justice.
Karma.
But...hey…stay with me kiddies, the whole poetic justice theme gets better. It gets a
But before I GET a little more specific….
Let’s just recap my situation over the past few years, desperation-wise. And attractiveness-to-girls wise. (Because these two things are inextriciably linked, trust me).
15 – 24ish. The Decade of PCD. “Pretty Constant Desperation”. One or two specific (and unfortunate) targets for my desperation. Overall though, just generally directed desperation. And – despite my kindly friends’ frequent assertions to the contrary, not a lot of feminine interest coming back at me.
25 – 34 – within this decade, maybe 4 years of blissful couplehood. No need to be desperate then, just happy. The other five or six years – a few isolated cases of STD (“specifically targeted desperation”) but generally, not a huge amount of desperation felt or showed. Result – feminine interest in me rising.
35 – 38 – Really crappy circumstances for the first few of those years - and a really CAUTIOUS heart for the last few (refer to my “Love, Actually” entry) meant that there was pretty much ZERO desperation at all, felt or shown. And thus…a downpour of available women. The doors to the Wonka factory opened.
Some might argue that the increase in feminine interest over time has less to do with the decrease in desperation I’ve showed, and more to do with my experience - the fact that I’ve become more attuned to (reading – and playing) women over time. Well…I WISH. As each year passes, as Sigmund Freud himself found, I become more and MORE clueless about women’s behaviour and motivations and emotions.
But it’s certainly been impossible to miss the rise in interest. Usually I don’t realize until they kiss me, jump on me, or directly proposition me, but sometimes I can pick up on a few subtle cues before that. And I’ve been noticing a lot of these cues lately, both subtle and obvious…
Some might also argue that the rise in interest has less to do with my desperation decrease and more to do with situation – or specifically LOCATION. In Vietnam, where attractive women are patently more available to foreigners – why would I ever NEED to feel desperation – thus the plethora of women has made me feel and act less desperate, NOT the other way around.
This sounds like it might me a valid theory – but it ain’t – for a few reasons.
One – it started raining women on me long BEFORE I even set foot in
Two – lots of women that were/are available to me here…well…they are really nice, really classy, really genuine people, really
And three – there are more than a few guys in this country – guys who on paper are just as attractive/unattractive as me – who have a lot less luck with women. Primarily because – they want women so much. And I don’t.
Well, didn’t.
Because…
Bring on NOW…
The age of 39.
Reversal of Fortune.
Off the scale.
An intensely ridiculous case of STD. Specifically Targeted Desperation. Wow.
Who woulda thunk it?
Well, anyone with an ounce of common sense. Anyone who knows anything about karma. About irony. About poetic justice.
And…in the immortal words of Justin Timberlake: “What goes around comes around.”
Ouch…
Isn’t It Ironic?
In 2003, after my heartbreak really took hold, and the responsibility of caring for Mum really set in…I – shut down, emotionally. I needed to – just to stay alive, just to survive. And the only reason I cared about keeping myself alive was that someone I cared about a helluva lot more than myself needed me to help keep HER alive. I’ve no doubt that I saved her life – or at least extended it. And ironically – she saved mine. My sole focus for two years was keeping my Mum as comfortable and as happy as possible. Everything else – work, friends, girls – had to fit in around that. Even WITHOUT the romantic heartbreak I suffered just before that – even without the cautious heart – girls didn’t stand a chance with me. Sure my libido and my mind tried to convince me otherwise a few times, but it was patently obvious to ANYONE who knew me or saw me or heard me in 2003 -2004 that I was the LEAST desperate guy out there.
And thus – even with my feeble, misguided attempts (specifically internet dating) to TRY to connect, to TRY a relationship…nothing worked. But…a funny thing happened. The less interested I was, the more interested they were.
I literally had women dripping off me. I can’t think of a single one that I actually dated (in my casual, non-committed way) that DIDN’T want more. And the only thing that was really different about me from before? I wasn’t emotionally available.
Bring on
I was also emotionally unavailable HERE for the first year or two, but I wasn’t consciously aware of it until 2007. But – what I WAS consciously aware of was my caution. I was incredibly cautious on arrival here. I avoided any relationships beyond friendship like the plague - for several reasons – (1) I didn’t want to play with people who didn’t understand the games people play back home. (2) I didn’t understand the DIFFERENT games they play over here. And especially: (3) My respect for the differences in culture and relationship expectations, and my wariness about hurting both parties in a relationship because of subsequent misunderstandings. In Vung Tau I had lots of friends, a few random snogs, but you’d never really say that I “dated”.
And thus – Catch 22.
Nothing really was felt – needed by me. I didn’t care.
I wasn’t desperate.
I was anti-pathetic.
And thus…
I became instantly a lot more attractive.
I needed no one.
They needed me.
I ran away – or at least stepped back (I never run away from nice friends).
And the cycle continued.
In the most famous words of Ms Morrisette:
“Isn’t it ironic? Don’t ya think?”
Like I said up above in this article – in the “resume for romance” bit – I’m nothing special to look at. Average personality – until you look closer. Average earning potential (to all appearances). Above average wit, charm and charisma – but I save that for the special people.
Thus, on paper, at first glance – exceedingly average.
And even MORE amazing – consider this: my age.
I’m 39. I don’t feel a second older than I did when I 25, but I damn sure must look it.
General prevailing shallowness is that people become less and less physically attractive once the rate of cell reproduction is overtaken by the rate of cell breakdown – around the age of 20, right? This happens to be a pretty shallow theory which I personally don’t agree with, but…
If that theory holds value then technically, on paper – I should be HALF as good-looking as I was at the age of 20. Because I’m almost twice that.
I’m constantly told nice things about myself in
But anyway – whether I look younger than I should or not is irrelevant. Because it seems reasonable to assume that my appearance is declining in direct proportion to the rise in feminine interest towards me.
I look average and I’m not looking any better with each year.
On paper at least – till you get to know me well – I’m nothing too impressive at all.
And yet.
Downpour. Wonka Store.
Get a raincoat. And let’s go shopping.
Why?
Why?
Why?
Why are all these crazy women throwing themselves at me?
Because simply - I just don’t care. I‘m not desperate in the slightest.
Gotta digress, cause saying I just don’t care – is really wrong. Because I DO care about all these girls.
I love everyone, and if I get close enough to be friends, then…I love them a little bit more.
I do care about them.
But…I simply don’t care about getting closer to them.
But caring ABOUT them is big factor.
It’s not just the lack of desperation that has helped me, I believe, with women.
It’s the fact that I really, really like them.
And I don’t mean I like them in a sexual sense.
Sure, I like them that way - but unless they are already a partner, or unless I’m smashed-off-my-face drunk (rare these days) I don’t focus on them in that way, initially.
I simply look at them as interesting, beautiful people.
I really, really like them. Girls I think can feel that.
They feel that I’m not desperate for them – factor in my favor.
But they can also feel that I respect them – enormously. And that’s rare.
Sure, there’re some girls I don’t respect (if they are liers, misusers, abusers) – I will still treat them with respect, but avoid them.
The girls I connect with - and become friends – sometimes more with – I not only like – a lot, but I have enormous respect for.
I can’t be friends with someone I don’t respect.
I certainly can’t be more.
So – I feel respect for these girls. They aren’t stupid. They can feel that.
Just like they can sense my lack of desperation, they can (I hope) sense my enormous respect.
Over here, my respect for women is generally even higher than back home – as it includes a respect for the way my closest friends have conquered gender inequality and general cultural pressure to become strong, independent individuals.
My respect is very, very high.
And my desperation is very, very low.
In fact I would not even define it as low desperation.
It’s “ANTI-DESPERATION”.
And that’s a MUCH more attractive cologne to wear than “Pathetic Perfume”, any day…
Doctor Dave in the House
So…
I’m not desperate at all.
I’m very respectful of women.
Any other secrets of my success?
Well…you guys REALLY wanna hear some tips?
Well…get ready because you are gonna get them…
Lately I have found myself giving advice on how to attract women.
And thus…while this blog post is surrounded by the shell of my own karmic and current romantic situation…it’s also gonna contain – from right here – a significant amount of analysis about why and how I’ve recently got so lucky with chickybabes, tied to lots of unsolicited advice following the same ridiculous – yet effective patterns.
You will find this incredibly ironic – not only if you knew me in my adolescence – but also if you make it to the end of this epic article and to my current paradox.
But dismissing my recent upheaval in emotional state…
It seems crazy that a big geeky-goofy dufus like me has anything of value to say about relationships. Friendships – sure. Family stuff – maybe. But attracting women? No way.
I’m not saying I UNDERSTAND women. In fact the older I get, the more convinced I am that I know less and less about them.
I have no idea WHY they think and act the way they do.
They are bizarre. They are crazy.
I’ll never get them.
I know one thing about them though – in general – that they love to create drama in relationships more than guys do – drama and conflict. But why would anyone WANT drama and conflict? Well, we ALL want drama and conflict in our lives – it keeps us living, it keeps us growing, it keeps us alive. Drama and conflict are addictive – literally – they inspire intense emotions, which really are simply highly addictive chemicals, running around the body. Drama and conflict keep life interesting and challenging, and they give people an illusion of superiority, of control. And drama and conflict are FUN. Drama and conflict are living. They are life.
But men and women – generally again – are different here. Men create often drama and conflict and the release of adrenaline by more basic, understandable, logical, literal ways: direct competition, power plays, the desire to conquer, to be number one. But women…well, they are a lot less direct and obvious about their creation of drama. And they often focus their drama creation on relationships. I