Things I do to Honor and Evade a Crippling Introversion

“People empty me. I have to get away to refill.  I´m what´s best for me, sitting here slouched, smoking a beedie and watching this screen flash the words. Seldom do you meet a rare or interesting person.  It´s more than galling, it´s a fucking constant shock. It´s making a god-damned grouch out of me.  Anybody can be a god-damned grouch and most are.  Help” – Charles Bukowski from The Captain is Out to Lunch and the Sailors Have Taken Over the Ship

I’ve mentioned in the past that I am prone to what essentially comes down to crippling introversion.  If Carl Jung stuck his finger in my butthole, he’d say I’m an INTP.  The “I” stands for Introverted.  We won’t go into the rest today.  When in conversation with my folks, I’ve told them that I’m an introvert and get uncomfortable in overtly social situations.  They then relate a story about Ol’ Rojo being a young whippersnapper at a car show or some shit.  It’s said that I just went up to a group of strangers and introduced myself and played with them all day.  I don’t remember that, and I can tell you that for the majority of my conscious life I’ve never been like that.

However, there are things I want out of life.  One thing I omitted in my previous post, is that I’ve been able to make the majority of my scratch by freelancing around town.  In order to do that I’m forced to interact with a large number of people, and I have to go even further and sell myself.  By selling myself, I mean I have to promote my services constructive manner.  That shit sucks.  It’s why I always had trouble with the music scene, because there’s a business side that is a complete foreign language to me.  I want to show up, rock out, watch the last acts, get my money and leave.  I don’t want to negotiate wages, I don’t want to promote my merchandise.  I just want to play.

Though I had this post rolling through my cranium for a while now, seeing this tweet by Mark Braivo inspired me to kick out my experience.

In an earlier post by my pal, Lucky Lothario, he states that introversion is not the same as shyness.  It wasn’t until I read Party of One: the Loners’ Manifesto by Anelis Rufis that I understood the concept of introversion.  I knew I liked some people, I just didn’t understand why I couldn’t do small talk on any level for an extended period of time. If you’re confused about what it means to be an introvert, I highly recommend that book.  It helped me out a lot.

I learned that I am not shy, I just get worn out in social situations.  That’s why I don’t want to go the river with a bunch of people the day after the monster party and instead I’d rather walk my dog and play some music alone.  I have a necessity to recharge.  What I get to do because I understand that, is decline certain invitations in order to honor the introvert in me. To excuse myself from a social setting when I am overwhelmed with my introversion is a healthy way to honor that part of who I am.

zen bow

Me to Me: I honor you.

On the other hand, it can be a lonely fucking world for an introvert, and as Mr. Braivo said, there’s no reward for those unable to adapt to our extroverted world.  It’s tough to adapt though.  People are constantly staring at their phones with ear buds in.  It’s hard to even buy a smile from someone passing on the street and it seems everyone but me, is packing heat.  But it’s more than possible. If I can do it, you can do it too.  I read yesterday, that introverts react differently to reward neurotransmitters in the brain.  They don’t get energized by dopamine like extroverts and are more prone to use the reward neurotransmitter acetylcholine which makes introverts feel better when turning inwards.

Now that we have brief understanding of what introverts are, let’s look at a few things I’ve done to overcome this.  These are going to be suggestions without the use of substances.  As you know, if you hang out here, I have given up alcohol so the opiate of the masses, that social lubricant, is not available as a tool for me.  This isn’t about losing control, this is about being in the moment.


Don’t talk to me


Mindfulness Meditation

Mindfulness Meditation is a form of meditation which brings ones attention to the present moment.  I probably don’t do it “correctly” but there isn’t exactly a correct way to do it.  What I do is I sit still, firmly grounded, either sitting in a chair with my feet flat on the floor and my back straight, or cross legged on the ground with a straight back.  I then close my eyes, try to relax my body and breath.  I take deep breaths into my stomach and release each one slowly.  I focus on my breath and picture I am bringing golden light into my body and releasing dark energy on my out breath.  This slows down my thought process and brings me into the present moment.  I will probably talk more about this in the future because it’s benefits stretch further than just focusing the mind.

For starters, try sitting still for 10 minutes a day.

Stop Dissecting Body Language All the Time

I’ve read a plethora of books on body language and how to analyze it.  This has been a tool for me in my past, when picking up women, when meeting people for the first time, when figuring out how someone feels about me, when figuring out if someone is lying to me.  But this tool does not serve me when I am trying to be in the moment instead of inside my head.  Often I’ve noticed if someone has closed body language towards me, that they are thinking I don’t want to talk to them or I don’t like them or something similar.  If I open my mouth and say something then I can possibly open up a conversation which gives me opportunity to break out of my shell.  This brings me to my next suggestion:

Say Anything at First

This is just to get out of my shell and practice being more open to small talk.  I say stuff to people, anyone, man or woman. It’s amazing to watch extroverts in action.  They will be looking at peaches in the store and start talking about the fucking peaches.  I saw this the other day, two strangers start talking about peaches.  Then they split, and the guy comes back, and talks some more about peaches located elsewhere in the store.  The other part of this is to have no expectation for the conversation.  If I don’t get a response, or its not a welcoming one, I don’t take it personally.  I don’t even try to justify it.  Let it go, move on, there will be other people to practice on.

Try making a comment to a stranger no matter how stupid it might sound.

Warm Up

Lucky mentions it in his post, but warming deserves mentioning here as well.   In that article, Lucky says that even one on one goofing around and socializing with give him the ease to proceed into more involved situations.  He says to avoid going from zero to social.  This is great advice.  I’d like to add that I’ve used other ways to warm up as well.  A few years ago, as a prelude to going out on the town, I’d go to the gym with a couple guys and put in a brutal workout.  We didn’t work out together.  But we worked out. We got our endorphins flowing and were therefore in a better mood when we went out.

Play this Game

A strange part of extroversion is if you listen and ask prompting questions, the cat who is talking will consider you a good listener.  An extroverted friend of mine recently  told me of a game he likes to play when talking to people.  He likes to see how long he can keep the conversation going and how much he can learn about them.  I try to do this when I talk to people now.  I don’t push it, dragging the conversation on, but sometimes, a lull in conversation can be prodded along with a short comment or question.

Those are five things that have helped me move toward being more social on a daily basis.  I don’t do any of them perfectly, nor everyday, but I work on them constantly.  Being more social goes against my introverted programming so it is way out of my comfort zone.  This is good because it allows me to grow as a person.  The more rounded physically, mentally, and spiritually I am, the more successful I will be in this world.  These are just a few exercises I have used to move me in that direction.




No, I’ve Never Been Much of Dancer

Around the end of Summer in 2013, Chromeo was scheduled to play a local concert in Chavez park.  Chromeo isn’t in my top 10, or even top 20, but I’ve dug their jams, and I know that chicks dig them entirely.  Thus I bought my ticket online, 45$ for one day I believe, and tried to enlist some friends to go.


I ended up going alone.  As pussy is the fuel for the rocket in my pocket, I fretted over what I was going to wear to this event.  Being overweight, drinking daily, and occasionally getting smacked out, I wasn’t the brightest star in the sky.  I buckled up a short sleeve dress shirt, threw on a serious pair of what I consider, bro jeans, and a pair of aviators.  I used my favorite pomade, Cock Grease XXX to slick my hair into the comb over style I was rocking.  Then, against all rational thinking, I ate two of my homemade ganja cookies.


Some of you might be thinking, well what’s wrong with that?  Let me tell you.  I make, and am known to make, extremely powerful ganja food.  The kind where I put my friends Mom into a 36 hour coma like trance on accident.  That’s not really the problem.  The problem is the cerebral nature of the high.  If I eat ONE of my cookies, within 2 hours I will be drooling on my guitar with music dancing between my ears.  I will also be conversationally and socially dead to the world.


I’m already a painful introvert who will stand in the shadows and disassemble everyone’s body language, chime in one or two times, and mostly stick to himself.  All while feeling the buzzing electricity of social anxiety course through my veins.  Don’t ask me, it’s something I’ve always had and I am working on loosening its grip on my trachea.  I can evade its crippling grip by consuming copious amounts of alcohol, but then I’m an entirely different monster and not myself.  Thus, by getting high as giraffe pussy, which I was destined to do at this point, I would be stuck miles inside my head and my sociability would be nonexistent.


This wouldn’t be a bad thing, and really isn’t.  Getting bombed and drifting off into the imagination while listening to some live music is excellent.  But if you didn’t notice earlier, no one wanted to go with me, or they were too broke to do so.  Also, this all day show was BOUND to be packed to the brim with young, nubile, college aged girls.  Davis is right down the road from Sacto, and like I said, chicks dig Chromeo.  I was hoping to meet some new people, gals in particular.  


I went to Chavez park a little later in the day missing a few of the opening acts.  This is a total dick move on my part because I am almost ALWAYS one of the opening acts if I’m playing a show.  But I was too busy waiting to get catapulted in the stratosphere by these fucking cookies and worrying if these pants made me look too hipster.  I think they were these smooth like denim kenneth cole things I picked up at the 2nd hand store.  


Whenever I get as high as I was that day, it’s always like a minor psychedelic trip.  I feel in sync with the world, yet I am pulled back as an observer.  So even though I have the first person view of the day through my own eyes, I have almost a 3rd person view of the events as well.  Yes, I have an active imagination, and no I don’t have eyes in the back of my head, yet.  I had my mirrored aviators on because my eyes were cherry tomatoes amongst a red bearded sea of whiteness.  I did remember to put on sunscreen.  I would’ve been boned hard if I neglected that.


At any rate, I don’t remember a whole lot about some of the first acts I saw, but there is one particular act and one particular moment that stand out to me from the experience.  One of which gives me an icky, wish I did different feeling inside the pit of my stomach.  This band Grouplove was playing and with the day getting on in age, the crowd was bigger than before. They’re a hodgepodge group of cats who met at some sort of camping abroad thing.  I don’t know but they play this happy innocent like music with harmonies that sound like the chipmunks (check out an example of GroupLove here).  They’re not bad.  


Their live show, however, is pretty darn good.  I had never heard these cats before and made a mental note to check them out because they got down.  As their set started picking up steam, I started moving a little bit to the music.  As you might assume, being stricken with cosmic anxiety makes my movement a little rigid and I’ve never been much of dancer.  But I do move when moved to do so.  I’m drifting side to side, to and fro, and maybe a head nod here and there.  There’s a little room in front of me and people are packed in all around.  


At one point I feel two small hands grip my shoulders and move me side to side with the beat.  I turn slowly turn around and it’s this cute little blonde gal.  I don’t even smile.  It’s too fucking much for me at this point with all the fucking people, the loud ass music, the level of highness at which I was experiencing.  I turned back around.  I still get douche tingles to this day over that shit.  Listening to some jams today  this song starts playing and I relive that moment.  Regret for what you didn’t do.  I should’ve grabbed that sweet young thing by her hands, swung her around and started dancing with her.  That would have been smooth.  But at the time, as I am often am, I was a bumbling lurch on a grassy dancefloor.  


Why did that come up for me?  Because I feel shame around that level of social ineptitude.  Are you a better person than me for being without social anxiety?  Fuck no.  You just have an easier time dealing with people.  I’m not the only cat on the block who deals with this issue.  But I don’t remember all my war stories, even some of the good ones.  Some stick out though. Those are the ones to hold onto and learn something.  


So I’d be a bit different if that situation ever happened again.  At least I hope I would.  See there are few cats who write truly about their strike outs. This wasn’t even a strikeout.  I didn’t get out of the batter’s box.  One thing my offensive coordinator has asked me to stop doing is analyzing people’s body language.  It’s a tool I developed and can use still at a gut level.  But when I consciously go around and get all FBI sleuth on motherfuckers, I take myself out of the moment.  For a cat like me, being in the moment is the best place to be because there I am whole, there I am myself, there I am without reservation.

Kiran Gandhi the Mighty Period Blood Marathon Runner.

Sounds like a bad science fiction movie right?  Period Blood Runner, starring Rose McGowan and Mark Ruffalo.  Down and out, a young independent woman forgoes her feminine hygeine products because her menstrual blood fuels her activity as it is reabsorbed through the pores on her thighs.  She’s basically a superhero.  She can’t even get out of bed for most days of the month.  But once her moon arrives, she doesn’t go calmly into that red fucking tent.  No, she practically flies out of bed, down her 7 flights of stairs, as she runs and runs, until her cycle has cycled.  Proctologist Mark Ruffalo discovers her amazing super power while checking her rectum for polyps and to top it off? Could love be any more predictable?  The two might just be heading toward the alter to tie the knot, but only if Gretchen Bramblesnatch, played by Rose McGowan, can outrun her impending crisis.  Will she have enough blood to run down her leg to win the race?  Find out in theaters next Friday.  Available in Imax and Imax 3d.  “Get outta the bloody way Uta Pippig, here comes Gretchen!”™

Well, I was never able to sell that screenplay, but it hasn’t stopped me from trying.  The story I’m actually referencing in the title of this post, is the act of this delusional halfwit, who decided to forgo feminine hygiene while running a marathon. She, and I quote, “ran with blood dripping down my legs for sisters who don’t have access to tampons and sisters who, despite cramping and pain, hide it away and pretend like it doesn’t exist. I ran to say, it does exist, and we overcome it every day.”


I know I’m a bit late to the donor center, but I wanted to give a heart felt congratu-fucking-lations on dealing with your own biological functions in a completely irresponsible way.  In some parts of the world, the way shit works is, if you defecate in public, you get arrested.  Public urination is illegal in all US states, and in addition to that misdemeanor charge, it is possible to be charged with indecent exposure, or public lewdness.  With those two charges, congrats, you are now a sex offender, and Megan’s law requires you to….

Legality aside, this act of ‘protest’ actually bugged me.  As it happened in April, you can forgive me for my late rant, I was incarcerated when it occurred.  Ms. Diboo Daboo leaked her vaginal discharge all down her legs and pants through the streets of London to bring awareness.  However, she states, that she raised $6000 for breast cancer.  Sounds to me like she was just being a lazy broad.  There are thousands of types of bacteria in the female reproductive system.  Some of these bacteria server a biological purpose, but they are also responsible for odor and excretions, especially during a gals cycle.

It’s pretty fucking obvious right?  Blood born pathogens?  Not likely, but possible.  Bacteria?  Sure, if they survive exposure.  But the bottom line here is that this was absolutely disgusting.  Gross.  Hold my hair while I vomit on your running shoes.  You must realize how hard a store clerk or a cop would freak out if I was walking around with blood oozing out of some crack in my body.  Full on, stay where you are, do not move, you are a hazard to public health.  It’s just not something you do unless you are out of touch with basic human cleanliness.  It’s not something you do unless you are one sandwich short of a picnic.  I mean, it’s not something you do unless you are sandwich short of a sixpack.  Well, it’s just not something you fucking do.  It’s very, very, gross.

In doing some light reading on this subject for the purposes of writing this here rant, I found out that “free bleeding” is a thing.  (Warning, that link it to a feminist site, though the article does condemn free bleeding.)

At any rate, let’s step back a second.  I know a man, who is in his elderly years and dealing with a sort of cognitive decline.  He sometimes cannot control his bowels and such, has on occasion, shit his pants while taking a walk.  He doesn’t walk proudly around sporting his shit stained shorts.  He feels a sort of shame because he cannot control something that he should be able to control.  He then proceeds to clean up his mess and move on because even with a tougher time making rational decisions, he still wants and strives to be a civilized human being.   Where’s the activists running races with feces dripping down their leg to raise awareness for the masses of elderly who cannot control their bowels?

If this dumb cunt wanted to do something for gals who don’t have access to tampons and pads, she could have used some of her hard earned money to bulk purchase supplies and send them to the needy people.  That would have been a net positive solution.  Her act was just another testament to the absurdity that is leftist rationale.

So, Kiran Gandhi, clean up your act, you fucking savage.

He’s Leaving

The phone rang, it was early on a Sunday to have his mother calling, he picked it up anyway.

“Nick, I’ve had it, I want your father out of here, I’m sending him to you.  You can take care of him.  He’s a liar, and I’m done.  I’m getting a divorce.”

“Woah, wait Mom, what is going on?”

It was already apparent to Nick what was going on.  The battles between his Mom and his sister in law had gone on for years.  Her testimony proved that this was the case.  Apparently his Pops had forgotten a poignant remark his sister in law made during their last visit, and left Moms on the line being accused as a liar.  Italian women never take well to that kind of thing.

“Put him on”

“Hey Nick,” his soft spoken father said into the phone.

“What the fuck is going on?”

“I didn’t remember her saying that, I do now, but it’s too late.”

“Do you really want to be crashing on my couch?”  Nick asked, referring to his aged lounge in the front room of his small apartment. “Surely, you don’t want that.”

“Well, I wouldn’t mind.”

“Ok then, let me know when you’re coming.  I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Do you want to talk to your Mom again?”

“No thanks, talk to you tomorrow.”

A thousand thoughts raced through Nick’s head.  He was the oldest of three children.  His parents, though not perfect by any means, did the best they could with what they had.  It was truly baffling that after 35 years of marriage, Nick’s mother was going to kick his 70 year old father out of the house.  It didn’t make any sense.  When talking to others, he can vividly remember some of his friends saying that their parents should have divorced long ago, but instead inflicted suffering on themselves and their children.  Nicks parents did not fit that bill.  He used to think of them as a shining example of what a successful marriage could look like.  But here he was, looking at the prospect of having his Pops as a roommate.  Not only that, but the impeccable image he had come to admire in his own life was shattered right there during a 5 minute phone call.

Nick called up his brother, because after all, it’s his wife who’s causing shit.  He was at work and bitched about having to deal with this shit while he was working.

“Well it’s your wife, and she’s your fucking responsibility, so deal with it.”  Nick intoned angrily into the phone.

The rest of Nick’s night was spent going over the possible outcomes.  His father, now retired, living with him in an unfamiliar city, with nothing to do was not an ideal situation.  However out of love for his father, Nick decided he would endure and move forward.   He couldn’t shake the feeling of being played a pawn in a fucked up game.  He also entertained thoughts of kicking his brother’s ass but ultimately decided that was the wrong focus.

A couple beers later, it was time for bed, as that sort of emotional ride took a lot out of Nick.  He dreamed intense violent dreams over the course of his 8 hours.

The next morning, he got out of bed and grabbed his cellphone, immediately calling his father.

“Hey Nick”

“Hey Pops, what are you doing?

“I’m walking the dogs for the last time.”

“Jesus dad, she hasn’t relented?”

“Nope, she’s at work or something, maybe she’s having an affair.”

“Oh come on Pops, don’t talk like that.  What are you going to do?  My couch is still open.”

“Well, I slept on the couch last night, and I slept like shit.  I’m so tired I can’t do anything. I think I’m going to find a place here to stay, and if not head your way.”

“If you’re that tired, you shouldn’t make the drive here today.  Get some rest and then come this way, I’ll take the couch and you can crash my room.  How are you feeling?”

“I feel sick.”

Then, as if prompted by some unseen jukebox, Nicks father sung into phone, with his soft aged voice that was all too familiar, his own version of that classic John Denver song:

“The sun is up, I’m outside the door. My bags are packed and I’m ready to go.  I don’t want to leave, I’m so lonesome I could die.”

Later on, he couldn’t name the artist, he just said, “I thought it was appropriate.”

Happy Saint Patrick’s Day.

Gone Batty? Get the Shaver.

I have never been a fan of short hair on a girl.  The one exception to this is Natalie Portman.  Of course I was not a fan, but there would be damned near nothing in this world that would stop me from plundering her innards, short hair cut included.  I guess Winona in Beetlejuice would fit in that circle too.  Plus she shoplifts, so you know she gives up the butt pussy.  Recently, there was an article at RoK about short haired chicks being damaged goods and I would like to riff on some examples I can pull from my knowledge.

The first thing that popped into my head when thinking about this subject was Brittany Spears.  She had some sort of break down and shaved off all her locks.  I can relate to the feeling of a new beginning by shaving ones head, but it seems in the case of girls, it’s a sure sign of impaired mental health.  The salon owner actually tried to talk her out of it, and her little testimony is quite telling emphasis mine:

“She sat in my chair and said, ‘I want my hair shaved off.’ I said well I’m not doing it,” Tognozzi told the syndicated entertainment news show “Extra.”

“Of course I tried to talk her out of it,” Tognozzi continued. “I said, ‘You know maybe you’re having a hormonal moment or something, and maybe tomorrow you’ll feel differently about it. Let’s talk about this.”

Yes, I’d say going batty and shaving your head is a sure sign of some compromised thought processes.  I’m not trying to take a jab at the young pop star, or chicks who cut their hair short, I’m merely trying to highlight some examples.  If a man shaving his head was an indicator of mental stability, I should have had my head shaved for most of my life.  At any rate, I can pull two examples from high school that also add to the insurmountable pile of evidence.

My first oneitis was a girl named Heidi.  I say this, because this is the first chick that friend zoned me hard and I went along with it hoping one day she’d change her mind.  She didn’t.  But she did hook me up with a place to stay when I was kicked out of my house, drove me all over the place, and knew the dark place I was living in.  I’m attracted to crazy and crazy is attracted to me, birds of a feather.  Eventually, I realized what torture I was placing on myself and stopped tooling around with her, but this didn’t occur until she moved up to where I was going to college.  I saw her maybe 2-3 times up there over a year long period.  She had many issues, including being a slut, however, like I said, “friendzoned hard.”   She went crazy one day, from who knows what, and shaved her head all the way.  She looked terrible.  However, this was one crazy girl.  She’s doing better now and has been married to the same guy for a few years.   I saw her at my buddies wedding, we talked like old friends, but I don’t keep in touch.

My second example from my past is a chick who was dubbed as “Rape Dog” by the cats in our circle.  She was a very cute girl and I remember seeing her walking around school and thinking damn she’s cute, but I’m too white and she’s too much a vata so it won’t happen.  I don’t know the ins and outs of her situation because I never really talked to her, but she cut her hair short.  I don’t know if it was to try to be punk, but I do know this chick was off her rocker.

The origin of the nickname “Rape Dog” began after a night of partying at my friends house.  Even back then I was a cocky motherfucker so after getting a heat on, I saw her making out with this kid in the living room.  I went up to her and said you should be getting with me, or some shit like that.  She came with me.  I didn’t kiss her but she blew me 5 minutes after that interaction.  Then I couldn’t keep her off.  She’d try pulling my cock out when I was playing dominos in the kitchen.  She tried it again when I was rolling a doob at another party a few weeks later.  She blew me before I passed out and again in the morning.  There wasn’t really conversation, she was just a cock thirsty chick who had short hair.  Rape Dog.  Due to the small size of the town I grew up in, later when laughing about it about a year later, I remember at least 8 dudes raising their hands when asked if Rape Dog had got them.

Actually I have at least two more stories like that but I’m going to hold onto those.  I do think it is an indicator of some level of crazy.  Any readers with similar experiences?

She Said WHAT? : Comment Edition.

stolen from quick meme

stolen from quick meme

Instead of following up on the previous post, I am going to riff on something else.  I wrote some of the follow up but it is not something that needs repeating as anyone in this side of the sphere already knows.  Essentially, it was just me going for a sure shot with a gal I had previously gunned down, however by the end of the night, she was screwing her coke dealer as I had a cigarette.  He was supposed to leave, and I to stay the night.  Shit happens, I guess.  I saw red like I only saw one other time.  I don’t want to give it too much power, and just want to put it behind me.   Higher quality gals is the answer, and I knew better than to be there.

I was turned onto a blog post by Vox Day in this post about a girl riffing on being objectified at a comic-con.  Amazingly, she was baffled by attention she was given for wearing a short skirt.  Supposedly there were comments from both genders on her attire that made her feel uncomfortable.  She even goes so far as to blame it on the patriarchy.  At any rate, the hamster is strong in that one as she does not appreciate, nor feel the comments justified. Being the brazen asshole that I am I took the time to write a knee jerk reaction in the comment section:

“You wore a short skirt with leggings and got comments from both genders, but according to your article, it’s the fault of the patriarchy? I don’t want to seem dense, but if I see someone I find attractive, I look, and even say something to them. I know that sounds crazy but life is too short to ignore a natural attraction. Now, not to cut you down, but I wouldn’t have looked twice at you. Just my natural impulse and desires. However, if you are going to wear something like that you should be expecting commentary. I know quite a few gals who go to cons wearing much less than that and much more revealing, and maybe because they are young and attractive, they know what they are doing. They don’t complain about the attention, they just have their time. You said you felt perfectly safe, then what are you complaining about? Some cats saying you look hot and some j bird gals talking smack? They probably weren’t saying half you thought they said, but it makes a boring story. Congrats, you are 1 in like 4 billion.”

I know it’s not my finest work, however it received such a fantastic comment from “Amy Styles” that I feel like it should be posted here.  As any of my readers know, I have my own experiences with false rape accusations, so obviously this one made me laugh.  Behold, emphasis mine:

“Thank you, really – thank YOU for taking the time to condescend to us lowly women about which ones of us you think is attractive and which ones you don’t because this is THE most important issue I think facing women today – Am I attractive enough for dudes with Leprechaun icons on the internet to stare, judge, and comment on my appearance because of manly “natural impulses?” If you haven’t guessed by now, I am not a woman whom you would ever find attractive (mostly because of my capacity for abstract and independent thought, but also my thighs are fat) and clearly that has left a lot of my days free since I don’t have to worry constantly about what you think and feel about my appearance. I don’t know maybe I should take up knitting.
I think what we all can really learn from you “Rojo” (if that is your real name) when you say ” if you are going to wear something like that” could you provide a list of clothing that a woman could wear that will not invite comment from you? I am terribly interested because I am thinking of starting a clothing shop featuring moderately priced comfortable clothing like the “I-want-to-stand-on-a-subway-platform-and-not-get-groped cardigan” or the “I-hope-my-ankles-aren’t-too-revealing-but-I want-to-be-able-to-run-from-you ballet flat”
Let’s see if you can resist coming back to call me a nasty slur you saw on 9gag while you were trolling the upskirt shots because you clearly have no capacity for understanding or mature discussion about how women are individuals capable of commanding the same respect afforded men.
Congrats you exemplify rape culture.”

The sarcasm is so strong, I don’t feel I really need to comment on this.  But I will.  My feeling is, anyone reading this blog probably knows I love me some abstract thought be from a male or female.  Sadly some of my writing does lean on the bitter side when dealing with the opposite sex, but like a dog that has been on the streets for a while, you learn to look over your shoulder accordingly.  It’s something I am working on and with yet another great post over at 80 Proof Oinomancy, I am reminded about just how guarded I am.  At any rate, let’s look at a few things in this comment.

Aside from her piercing snark and identity fishing, she mostly hones in the fact that I called out the appearance of the author.  I’ve said in the past, I ain’t no spring chicken, but the gal in the photo is not either, and we all judge.  She then goes in on a spree of accusatory-assault-hyphenated-because-it-proves-a-better-point about what kind of clothes are acceptable in order not to be looked at, or in her words, groped.  People are going to look no matter what, and often times that leads to some sort of comment, either to the person next to you, to the person, or to yourself.  When I said I would comment to someone I found attractive, it wasn’t meant to be on their appearance, but I’ve been forcing my introverted self to talk to people more often, so I would say something.

I know when I go out, with some nice fitting jeans, a good shirt on, some comfortable boots and my dope ass corduroy jacket, I am going to get some looks, and maybe even accosted.   A pretty face in a fucking burka is going to get looks, its human nature.  But she doesn’t grasp this at all, not to mention her completely ignoring my comment about some of my girl friends who attend cons. It’s obvious my capacity for understanding is at an intellectual standstill (/sarcasm off) and anyone this side of the sphere knows what kind of respect is afforded common man in this society.  The thing that got me is “I exemplify rape culture.”  That’s far from the truth, seeing, I am abhorred by the atrocious act and have had my own share of false rape accusations.

I have no anecdotal evidence, nor is it really necessary for me to riff on this, but the abundance of this type of thinking still floors me now that I have grown to recognize it.  When the wool was finally pulled from my eyes, what an even more shocking world lay before me.

Also, I don’t know what the fuck 9gag is.  What a dumb cunt.

A Tale of Two Titties*

The speakers on the back patio at one of my favorite dives was blasting hits of the 90’s.  I was people watching, barely participating in the conversation with the group of girls I had opened.  Inebriation had been reached accordingly, downing one PBR tall can after another.  The girls weren’t very good looking, but due to my b.a.c.  I was quite content.  I was about to light up another stotch, when my friend came stumbling out of the bar. His hackles were raised resembling the way my dog reacts to unknown creatures in the night.

This is a whole different story

This is a whole different story

He sat down and started slurring out a story.  His woes began when he walked up to the bar to get another beer and was positioned right between a cougar and a fat chick.   The cougar took an instant liking to my friend, pawing, being wrinkled and trying to get his attention.  The fatty and cougar were in cahoots.  Like two vultures waiting for the carcass to stop breathing, they circled my friend, feeding him drink after drink.  It was probably around three in all reality.

My friend said he knew he had imbibed a bit too much so he decided bring his head up for a breath of air, reeling against the uncertainty of his balance in response to the impending gravity.  His reprieve was brief for as soon as he wiped the fog off his beer goggles another fatty had him pinned against the wall.  She grabbed his beard and pulled, smiled up at him.  “You’re Irish, you’re cute, I like you.”  The manatee groped at him with her sausage like flippers.  She grabbed his dick.  Fortunately for my friend, she was too short to get her face up to his for some salami flavored face sucking.    Apparently, oompa-loompa grew tired of his drunken master styled deflection and shambled off to other pursuits allowing my friend a hasty escape.

Hey Baby.

That poor bastard was so upset.  I tried to make light of it, saying, well you still got it ol’ chap, but he denied any positives in light of this one, stomach turning fact:  He said when she rubbed his flaccid member, it moved.  He almost hurled his fermented hops right then and there.

The chicks had picked up on the laughable exchange and started to ask him questions.  Was she cute?  Did you like her?  Why are you so upset?  What’s wrong with you?

Choking down a vurp, he muttered, “but she groped me.”

“So what, she liked you, she was just trying to show you some love.  You’re such a hater.”

And with that final remark, my friend did the unspeakable.  He wandered into territory that could have landed him in jail, or worse.  The dastardly terrain he began to trek, similar to Will Navidson discovering the Five and Half minute hallway,  would possibly necessitate him to say things in a similar vein as “Megan’s law requires me to inform you…”

He reached out towards the bimbo berating him for denying the advances of the recently spurned barrel with arms.  The contempt welling up in his glassy eyes was palpable.  I knew where this was going.  In one fell swoop, he reached, grabbed the sweater puppet of that beezy, gave it a squeeze and pulled his defiant claw away.  She squealed with indignation.

“You perverted bastard,  you filthy pig.  How dare you?. You’re a piece of shit, you can’t do that to a girl.”

And on and on.

I still don’t think they understood his point.

*This post was only about one titty.