[Toot!] Index: 0.2
Communism Bit: Off
- Argh. I'm having a horrible week. I should close a deal by the end of the month, or I'm going under. :o( And the month has three days left to it, two of which are not working days. Horrible time, right now. But tomorrow, maybe. Tomorrow, I may close one.
- Alicia Keys' You Don't Know My Name is a bleeding hymn to the red-eyed goddess of unrequitted love. If you agree, say "Aye".
- Salman Rushdie got a rejection for Midnight's Children, believe it or not. Stephen King once got rejections for a book that was later let through to sell well. Heck, Stephen King has a collection of rejection slips—yes, the guy who wrote Dolores Claiborne and Shawshank Redemption. Moral: editors generally suck more than the writers over whom they have power. Christ of Nazareth! How did we end up like this? So I'm thinking there may be some semi-literate fuck telling Ernest Bazanye and Iwaya that their books won't be published, or something like that. After the Revolution, all editors will be sent to labour camps. Holy Communist Nazarene! Sometimes you want Plato's republic already.
- I'm thinking of a name for my phone. I realise she doesn't have one yet, which is a bad thing. Even my mug has a name (which I'm scared to tell). Heck, even some dreadlock on me head has a name!
- Someone once said I write "all feminine and shit, all girly [...] very emotional, sometimes [...] feminine writing [...] gay [...]". She said my writing was "feminine writing". Can you believe that? Maybe women these days write a lot of fuck-the-West and lots of racist and anti-American shit that achieves little beyond frothing at the mouth. Then again, that was back then, when I still wrote stories from the slums. I'm going to start that again, by the way. The "feminine writing", I mean; the stories. (Since half of me is entirely made up of my mother, hints of androgyny every here and there should be permissible. Yes, this is my excuse. Fuck you too. Fu ... what did you call me?)
- My left finger-tips are still in the shock of once again meeting the guitar's fretboard. Poor fuckers. And this time I'm pretty serious about wanting to play this thing, so they are only getting started. Pray for my left finger-tips. Also, I'm about to give up on copying James Blunt's chords, until some years from now, when—insha'llah—I've improved much.
- I realise this is readably-short, so far. But I want to chase many readers away, so let me lengthen it. (My posts have stage fright, so smaller audiences are all we'll allow for now. Go Away™.
Get The Daily Monitor of August 9th, if you can. Go to the women's section. I don't remember the name of the pull-out, Women's Special or the like, but there is a story there, a story of pain. A woman recounts how her new husband cheated on her with his secretary, and the hurt drips off the page and falls onto your shoes in big salty drops. Here's the problem: I think all the guys who cheat on their wives (I'll say "us" and "we", to avoid sounding like a Pharisee or, worse, like a pastor) do not intend to. It's just, at some point, the hormones grab us by the horns—yes—and hurl us against the women. Wait. Sit down. Let me explain. Calm down.
The hurt that the woman expressed was so tangible, I heard a scream in my head, which I think corresponds to the scream she gave, when she discovered him with his secretary, clamped tight, chest-ku-chest, between the unrelenting jaws of an impending climax. (Or maybe they were into less-clichéd positions.) Apparently, the door was even open (beware of wanting the thrill of discovery—you may get it). She even got a miscarriage, in the events that followed her seeing her hubby and then fainting. It's a horrible, horrible story of betrayal.
I am always scared of angry women, and this one was more than just angry.
Now, cheating is bad, and not cheating is good. That is the problem: I know myself to not do the right thing except by mistake. As such, I'm totally scared out of my wits when I realise that the wrong thing will cause such severe damage (because I do the wrong thing nearly always). But I love my women so much that I don't want to hurt them, especially not in this fashion. So I'm caught in a hard spot. What to do?
Once upon a time, there were men who would resist the urge to fuck. But they died out, because any hesitation is genetic suicide. All the men, therefore, who have survived to breed today have that strain of losing their mind in the vicinity of sex. It is why humans exist at all. (It's easy to see why it wasn't up to the women, and therefore why women, in general, are more-faithful.) The reason you'll have kids with your husband (his Male Urge™) is the reason someone else may also have kids with him. (Hey, why is it so quiet here? I'll talk to myself, alright.)
The only hope for us, I think, is to not get into a situation where there is a chance of getting into the neighbourhood of the possibility of the chance of cheating. I know, you've heard it many times: don't be alone with your nude secretary. But that's not what I mean. I mean don't have a fucking secretary at all. Too much to ask? Yes. I intend it to be like that. In reality, the murders you'll save the world, if you forgo the secretary, outnumber those you incur by managing your two-appointments-a-week by yourself. It's built into your fucking mail client, after all. Work from home, if your urge, like mine, hits with stochastic regularity. (And, of course, have your wife close by.) If it sounds like you're sacrificing much (money, comfort, &c), it's because you are. Look at it as an investment, maybe.
For prominence, let me put this in a block:
It is important for us to know that we can't resist cheating on our women, and therefore to not get in a situation where we need to resist cheating.If you can't swallow, don't chew. Why? Because swallowing, like fucking, doesn't involve the brain. It's an involuntary action. It's a reflex. You can't think about it and weigh the risks. The point-of-no-return is not marked. All you know is that you've ruined two lives, and now you know—only in retrospect!—that you, at one point in time, did cross the point-of-no-return. I think this is the only survival strategy we have. Do you, like me, fuck anything that walks? Then close your eyes. I sound like an extremist, and I hate that. But, honestly, I think the only alternative is causing such pain and damage that it would be better if we never got involved with our girls at all in the first place. (Funny that they expect us not to cheat on them precisely because it is a bit hard not to cheat on them. The "effort" put in refects the worth, blah-blah-blah. That's another post, I guess.)
Lead us not into temptation.Ah. If you, like me, are in the "spirit is willing but the Flesh is weak" category, then what you want is not to get into having to make a choice on whether or not to cheat: you'll make the wrong choice. Just don't be led into where you have to make the choice (therefore you can't make the wrong choice). It's not lead us not into the right decision, but rather lead us not into having to make a decision at all. Lead us not into temptation.
~ The Nazarene
I'll close with four things.
- I love the Haskell programming language because it leads me not into temptation. Other languages require me to be very smart. But I code when I'm supposed to be sleeping—when the right decision won't happen. Hence my love for this beautiful language. (Ignore the criticisms in that article—utter bullshit.)
- I assume that, because female cheating is not as common, it is also less-forgivable. Chauvinist Pigs of the World, Unite!™ But seriously, the receptive nature of female sex, you see, makes it very much a different thing. But the hurt caused by cheating, incidentally, is bigger for the women (I swear) than it is for the men. If we want something to remind us of the damage we are causing, we should imagine being cheated on, then multiply it by 25,457.493. Hehe. Renders you impotent, no? Me neither.
- I was watching a play by Tyler Perry where his Madea character was, and there was this exchange (and you see why Tyler is a genius, even when he's generalising too much). The play was called Madea's Class Reunion, if memory serves:
- How can I tell if my husband is cheatin' on me?Ah, women. I used to think it was only my Mama I couldn't lie to. Then I discovered it was all girls in general. Then I discovered that all guys couldn't lie to girls, so I stopped feeling inferior. Women's intuition is about my strongest evidence that God is a girl.
- Do you think he's cheating on you?
- Yes ...
- Well, that's how you know!
- I think, also, it helps to give these things much thought before we have to think about them. As in, it helps for each of us to have a calculus for dealing with this kind of case before we are faced with a nude army of lesbian rapist nuns with beads on their waists and army bandannas and toe rings and full-colour Communist tattoos and piercings in hush-hush places and guns and handcuffs (ah, my fantasies!). And fire. Don't forget the fire. :o) I love fire.
That way, we work out where we stand on the issue without being compromised by the Urge™. We kind of do mock drills for survival, as we turn it over in our heads.
Maybe my fears are unique, but I certainly never love a girl until I love her very, very much, and to think that I'd hurt a girl I love in such a brutal fashion is so, so scary for me, O God, I can do little more besides pray to the Heavens Above to just never, ever let me live into the year when I'd betray my heart's love like this, to lead me not into into temptation.
OMFG. That's so ... girly. Too gay. But I'll leave it, since I can't spend more time thinking up a replacement. It's fucking late, and I have an early day tomorrow.