Ladies. That’s right. It’s on my my mind. It’s how I roll.
There is something about the so-called ‘fairer sex’ that seems to occupy a good 17-120% of my brain, depending on the situation, the amount of mind-altering substances I’ve consumed, and my last self-love. It’s amazing how girls can be all-consuming. Even in some of the most stressful times, I’m still aware of how not hot many of my colleagues are; it’s like they’re a background program running on your computer. Omni-freaking-present.
This annoys me greatly. Girls, you are such a pain in my proverbial pain in my a$$, an Achilles heal—so intrinsically a part of me, yet such a weakness. You take an accomplished, intelligent, good looking, cultured guy like me and ruin me. I get built up to think that if I am all these awesome things that give me some sort of clout or respectability. I should have a full dance card. I will get my groove on. Don’t come knockin’ because I’m always gonna be rockin’.
Nay, friends.
I still have to beg, borrow, steal, pay for $#!+, call more than I’d like, and everything else on the planet in spite of the fact that most ladies would be lucky to end up with such quality gentlemen as we. In fact, just the fact that I’m half the things I am makes me think I did it for them in the first place. Now that really pisses me off.
This is a mystery I’m committed to exploring. An obligation to mankind, blind squirrels just trying to get a nut. Or two.
Men, I’ve decided it’s like herding cats. In fact, cats and girls share a lot of remarkable similarities, body hair, sandpaper tongue, and allergenicity aside. My life with cats summarizes my dating experience pretty well.
I’m convinced, infact, that ‘they’ may descend from some common ancestor, perhaps. I mean, cats are so cute. Little fluffy muffin kitties that do the funniest things, are soft, graceful, and sleek. But then again, they have teeth, make people sneeze, and kill baby birds. There’s a love-hate thing going on here.
Cats aren’t exactly the best pets, but it’s so annoying when they don’t want to hang out with you. It makes you want to be near the cat more. Cat, I think to myself, You would fulfill me if I could just pet you and hear you purr in appreciation. The cat is sitting there, looking at me, ready. Or better yet, begging for a pet: the cat walks up to me and rubs my leg, purring it’s little kitty a$$ off. So close to completion, I reach down to pet cat. It backs away. Sudden ire wells up within me. WTF, cat? Are you high on cat nip? Did you NOT just come up to me, all cute and furry-fluffy, jonesing for some scratchies? Now you back away like I just did a gloveless prostate exam on a rhino.
So then I try and coax the cat with all sorts of treats and sticks with a feather on it and little toys just for the “privilege” of scratching its neck—forget about my needs completely. “Here, kitty!” No response. Now I have to embarrass myself. I get down on the cats level, start making cooing noises I’m somehow programmed to think will be effective (where did I learn this?). Cat looks nonchalant, unconvinced, maybe even dismissive.
Now I’m annoyed. You little piece of…fed up, I take one step toward this cat. Cat takes off like a—wait for it—cat-out-of-hell. It hisses at me like I’m the devil, jukes me out of my shoes, and bobs/weaves its way under some couch. I was trying to be nice, KITTY. Now, in your little cat brain, I’m the bad guy, and aren’t going to come near me for a week. Trying to avoid this, I’m down on my knees trying to get you out from under the couch. I’m apologizing to A COUCH; for twenty minutes—that is before you decide to run out the other end of the couch and into another room just to prove your point. You know what? Eff you, cat.
The problem is, at some point a bit later, the cat comes back. She’s really hungry and needs me to feed her. Suddenly, the cat is really nice and things go smoothly. And I, gullible me, I hook it up. Because for those few, precious moments I feel like I’m special. I catch a glimpse of the way I wish it always was, or could be. Everything makes sense. It makes me want to pet you…
See why I’m annoyed? I think I’m running things, but I’m not at all! That’s kind of a summary of my dating life, both the brief episodes (a.k.a hooking up) and the lengthy relationships (a.k.a. disasterville). Why should a bad$$ Dr. Chaz have to deal with this $#!+? It’s time to figure out how to deal with the cats who just don’t “get it.” It’s my mission to expose the way it is in my search for the way it ought to be. Where will this all lead?
Why here, kitty-kitty…
