I am no longer friends with Heather; however, she may still be reading this blog. One of the myriad of horseshit excuses Heather gave me for why I was not good enough to create children with her or anyone was that I could not drive on a highway. “You want to have a child, and you can’t even drive on a highway,” she said.
I would like the opportunity to tell Heather that I can drive on the highway now. I am seeing a cognitive/behavioral shrink in order to get over the phobia. I am still working on it. Getting rid of phobias is a long hard process, but I am succeeding.
It was such an utterly stupid excuse that you gave, Heather. The inability to drive on a highway does not preclude one from being a good parent. Ironically, Heather could not fly. I have always been able to fly. So now I can drive. I can drive anywhere on the the entire continent, and if I want to visit Budepest or China, I can do this, and might be doing this soon. Unlike Heather’s, my fate is not yet sealed. I am still free, still vibrant, and my world, unlike Heather’s is not closing in on me.
Why couldn’t you have had the ovaries – Heather, to just tell me right away that the reason you would not like to be with me is that you are one of the myriad of excruciatingly boring, bourgeois assholes, that money is your God and whore. You have no vision. That it your problem. At least an opportunistic bloodsucker like Nancy had vision. Yes, money was her God, but it was a means to end, which was to create children. She at least was preoccupied with creating something greater than herself. She was on a mission. You might even call it a spiritual mission.
Now, I understand that you have economic concerns. You have your family to take care of, but, really, there are ways of letting people whom you are already friends with know that they are not right for you without fucking forcing them to bare their soul to you over skype, because you are too freaked out by the fact that a poor man might like you. You could have extended me the courtesy of speaking to me in person. It was really not a lot to ask. In addition, you didn’t need to get all wiggy when I arrived at your house, still out of breath, after having a panic attack on the highway. You did not need to disrespect me by so diligently impressing upon me the importance of my leaving your household, because of your need to do work. Certainly this could have waited until I caught my breath. (I mean shit, you were planning to see a movie with me – so you had a few hours to spare.) You would actually have been slightly less of an asshole had you suggested a nice hotel for me to drive to in order to catch my breath in order to recover from my highway terror. You didn’t need to be such an asshole. I knew you had a deadline. But you didn’t need to be so motherfucking rude. I have never shown you that level of disrespect.
Of course, you dismissed my having a panic attack. And, because you said I didn’t have one, it must not have happened. You are superior to me, aren’t you? It is ironic that you always accused me of having Narcissistic Personality Disorder, and one of the hallmarks of this disorder is a lack of empathy. It is you who seems to lack the ability to put yourself into other people’s shoes. It is not I who said, nonchalantly, “you’ll get over me.” You also lack affect. There is something wrong with you. I am not a shrink and, unlike you, I don’t give armchair psychiatric diagnoses of friends’ psychiatric disorders, unless of course they are ex-friends, and I am trying to impress upon them what a fucking loser I think they are, in a final fuck you farewell.
I can honestly say that I say these words to you not because I am angry at you (which I am), but because I truly mean them: You are a loser. I am a loser. I may continue to lose, but at least I think like a winner and play to win. I’m not interested in you. I fell in love with your sweetness. But now I finally realize that you are not really sweet, that you have nothing whatsoever to offer me. You have no vision. Perhaps you have passion in your area of expertise, but I have not seen a lot of passion from you. While you are vastly more intelligent than most, you seem to lack the ability to formulate cohesive arguments. (I lack this as well, but I’m not the one with the Ph.D.) I was impressed by how someone with your knowledge and brainpower could use such a pathetic argument to defend your war-mongering, poor-bashing, Republican wannabe president. But, I guess, your love of Obama is only natural. You are defending your class, of which I was born into but find, as I have mentioned, obscenely and excruciatingly boring. But, hey, as Robert Gibbs said, I wouldn’t be satisfied if Dennis Kucinich were president. (But, unlike Gibbs, I understand the subjunctive and have at least some grasp of the rules of English, unlike Secretary Clinton, Obama himself, and the other fuckwads in Obama’s cabinet.)
Let me get back on point. You always used to nonchalantly say to me, “I’ll get over you.” It was your way of writing off my pain and/or discrediting your own importance. Well, you’re right. I have gotten over you, finally. In fact, I’m forgetting you already. So there’s no need to get all bothered about some heavy-breather like me wanting to move in with you, eat your food, hog your bed, and create embryos that stick to your uterus. I can find better women. Women who want to fuck (me), who have emotion, who feel and who love and laugh and cry. I want a woman who has vision. Passion. Who sees the beauty of children. Who is not deceived by the bourgeois mirage.
I have a nice penis. I have never mentioned this before. The few woman whom I’ve been with have complimented my penis and asked to either suck it or get it inside them. I don’t blame them. It is, after all, a pretty nice penis. I have never asked a woman to suck my penis. I don’t really enjoy it because felatio is way too toothy for my comfort. What I’m into is licking vulva. I am good lover, not just because I enjoy giving a good lick, but because I am sensuous and truly enjoy making love, not just shooting my load into a vagina, which I have a freakish capacity to do many times without even losing my erection. You are and were deserving of none of the good love that I can give -- sexual or otherwise, nor my DNA. My sister had a niece. My niece is cute as fucking hell. My sister’s baby kicks any baby’s ass that you’ll ever see in movies. My sister and I share virtually identical DNA. I know that I have the ability to create a baby as cute as my sister did. I am however looking for a winner to have a baby with. There will be no lick and no penis for you! If you are still reading, you are probably thinking how you have no desire to be licked and fucked and impregnated by someone who is as immature and Narcissist-Personality-Disordered as I am, and that is exactly why I don’t want you. My penis is yum and I am a fun and lovable and loyal as fucking hell. My penis, my lovemaking, my DNA, and my soul will be saved for a more deserving woman.
I’m sorry, but I am not quite done with you. I must attack you some more, because you were such a fucking insensitive asshole to me. Your days of soft and tight skin are numbered, Heather. Your DNA is breaking down as you read this. Evolution no longer sees you as a breeder, but as a caregiver of someone who has already bred. Your hold-out for your fantasy bourgeois breeding partner and mate has and will continue to fail. You offer nothing at this point. Yes, you are smart, but, newsfash – most men don’t give a flying fuck about intelligence. You certainly aren’t sweet. Ironically, one of the excuses you gave me why you weren’t good enough for me, which I believe you actually believed, was that your breasts were too small for me. Like all of your hair-brained excuses for why we wouldn’t work out, this one was quite wrong. Your breasts were perky and felt quite heavenly when I hugged you. You have – or at least you had nice breasts. Your breasts made me hard. If they haven’t already, your tight breasts are going to lose their shape sooner or later, as you begin your inexorable menopausal decline. You are stuck in your little asshole town with your not-able-to-take-care-of-themselves family. I, on the other hand am free. I can move out of state. Unlike you, I can fly out out the country. I plan to do one of these things soon. The world is still mine for the taking. Your world is closing in on you. You live in a world of shrinking possibilities. I am still aging gracefully. Unlike you, I still have time.
Have I gone too far? Have I been really mean? Absolutely. But you had it coming, Heather. You really had it fucking coming. You disgust me. I regret having not told you to fuck yourself that day when I visited you when I had the panic attack on the highway and you got all wiggy. When you asked me where I was going to change my clothing, did you expect me to just get naked right in the middle of your living room? What did you expect me to say? Had I ever acted inappropriately with you before? Was there anything that I did or had said to deserve that insulting fucking question? So don’t be insulted by anything that I’ve said today. You’re an insensitive fucking asshole, and I’m just putting your ass in its place, though knowing you with your affective disorder, it probably won’t even phase you. It is one thing being a bourgeois asshole – I’ve dated hundreds of them -- it’s wholly another thing to FREAK out when someone who is not a bourgeois asshole says he desires you. You didn’t have to wig. You didn’t have to make inane excuses. There was no need to embarrass me like that. All you had to do was just say no, and I would have understand and not wigged myself. Had you just been honest we me, you would not have told me anything that I hadn’t heard a hundred times before. It would not have been a big deal. It was all the fucking bullshit that was the insult. So don’t be hurt by anything I say now. Take it like an adult. And don’t fucking call me, don’t skype me, don’t e-mail me. Piss the fuck off. I am writing this to get you out of my system. I never want to think about you again. I have found another person to help me with my English. I can do my own hack proofreading for now on, so I won’t be needing any of your services or need to contact you again for any reason.
Do you know why I saw you after our first date? – I felt guilty. After our first date – the Christmas date, when I got home and you sent me a photo of your little spider-like dog, I cried. You seemed so lonely, so needy. I know what this loneliness is like. Against my better judgment, because of guilt, I went on a second date with you. After that I knew I just couldn’t do it anymore and weaseled out of calling you as I said I would when I got back from Florida. A year later you complained about my lack of wanting to walk through all the dog shit on the ground during that second date. You reasoned that because of my lack of wanting to walk through your town (Beverly, MA), which is literally full of shit, I was somehow unqualified to father children. Prima donna maybe. Unfit to father children because I dislike shit on my sneaker? Just another of your myriad of offensive excuses for why I was unfit to father children. And then there was more talk of Narcissist Personality Disorder. Jam the fucking Narcissist Personality Disorder up your ass, Heather. I mean, jam it. Jam it good. What the fuck would you know about empathy. You have about as much empathy as one would expect an extra terrestrial to display, who has no concept of empathy.
Yes, this all is payback; I am saying all this in anger, yet in truth. Take it like an adult, Heather. Don’t cry. Don’t become indignant. I’m just paying you back for all the shit treatment you gave me. You have it coming. Just take it.
I’m not hopeless, Heather. You may have given up on me, but I never did. I am not inferior to you, Heather. Even if I weren’t able to drive on the highway, you would still not be better than I. So please fuck yourself, Heather. Your little bourgeois prying eyes are not wanted on my blog. Please piss the fuck off.
By the way, I hope your little dog is alive and well. I don’t dislike your dog; I dislike you.
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