I read an article entitled ‘How to Know if you are Dating a Real Man’.
Ahem *cough*, um…does he have a pulse and a dick?
He’s a real man.
No pulse…he is still real but he’s dead honey, no judgments here, but you might want to put that down.
No pulse…he is still real but he’s dead honey, no judgments here, but you might want to put that down.
He wasn’t born a man but now has a dick or plans on getting one or chooses to live as a man?
He’s a real man.
The over use of certain words is painful to me.
Epic
Decadent
and Real.
I have Epic experiences. I have to find a new way to describe them. The word has been cheapened, on an epic scale.
Decadent means rotting opulence or formerly grandiose, currently in a state of decay.
Yet the word is somehow used to label and sell cookies.
I am vexed, but I really like the cookies.
I am vexed, but I really like the cookies.
Real (to me) means an object or sensation triggering the activation and subsequent acknowledgement by one or more of your senses.
By doing so, it exists.
This laptop is real, I am touching it. This feeling is real, I am feeling it.
I propose a change. A transition to the idea of ‘how to know if he/she is good for you’.
3 questions
1. Do you smile in this person’s presence substantially more than you cry?
2. Do you feel physically and emotionally safe with this person?
3. Is their happiness important enough to you that you would make an effort to contribute to it?
Bonus question *do you feel like he is an alien robot sent from your home planet as a reward? Yes? Good, you have attained relationship nirvana, enjoy.
3 yeses pours you a concrete foundation on which to build a relationship.
3 no’s and you really should go, like now…seriously what are you doing? Leave.
*if you answered yes to the bonus question, get off the computer, go fuck him, make him a sammich. Seriously, you really shouldn’t be here.
For the sake of argument and with full acknowledgement that grey areas exist, I am going to state that there are two directions in which to go with your ‘hat trick of yes’… friends and/or lovers. What kind of relationship is dependent solely on whether or not you look at this person and get sexy butterflies or you just wanna hang out. The sexy butterflies may come or fade in time, don’t force it. You found someone who makes you smile, enjoy.
The term ‘real’ when used to describe a human being is judgmental and yucky.
The only consistency here is the absence of it.
Real women work out or are curvy. Pick one.
Unfounded, unnecessary judgement, doled out by arm chair warriors to bored housewives. Slinging propaganda and fighting the good fight, against what exactly? The happiness and universal acceptance of others and the manner in which they find joy in their own lives? A one sided fire-fight aimed at the self-esteem of people they will never meet?
How shitty must their life be to make a swooping glaring statement like ‘your man ain’t real if he doesn’t bring you flowers’?
The last Real man that brought me flowers on the regular also cheated on the regular, with a Real woman. The two acts went hand in hand.
My ex and his current are flesh and blood, they exist.
If I pretend they aren’t real it brings no comfort. What brings comfort is my acceptance of what happened, acknowledgement of my place in it and with great effort, my full forgiveness of all of us.
Oh wait, I think I read somewhere that real women hold grudges? Strike 236 against me.
I was born fucked, I am not a real woman, medically speaking. I was born with a deformity that, without modern medicine would have resulted in me only having one breast. I have one child that I had young and shared custody of (so I am not a real mom), every subsequent attempt to bake a bun in my oven has failed. Broken uterus and one tit. I am hanging onto my womanhood by a thread here.
What I am is a beautiful, soft creature with an epic capacity for unconditional love. I am a nurturing empath that wants to take care of everyone all of the time. If it is within my power to add to your happiness, I shall, no question. I breathe, sleep, fuck, eat, drink, walk, talk, write and I promise, I exist.
Decadent is New Orleans, not cookies; YES!
Second last paragraph, “I was born fucked…” I heard to Hozier’s Take Me To Church, which is what you keep doing, lady. Keep it up.
love hozier.
and yes, new orleans. all the yes
i loved every single word of this one. it will be re-read and re-read, again. every single word.
i think you have seen it before no?
i cleaned it up
As always, Sarah…….you write like no one else….and I love it!
Jim
thank you. i needed to hear that, badly
Yes