After reading the subject title and jeering at the image above, one might draw crippling conclusions. The kind that could undermine the venerable achievements I've made while celebrating my manhood in this blog. Therefore, it is with critical care that I preface this entry by saying you are impossibly wrong.
Any presumptuous declarations made about me becoming a sensitive man should be treated not unlike a vicious rumor that involves playing leap frog with a mythical Unicorn pet. Reputations become deflated for life after people learn of such tendencies.
Irony has more resonance than reason, therefore I'm embracing my sensitive side for this blog, on this one occasion only. It's been promised by a female collective that opening myself up and broadcasting my vulnerabilities to the world-wide-web will create a gleam of disbelief that will ooze with incredible joy for readers from afar. This promise also maintains that I will acquire instant accreditation as a premier authority in heterosexual comfort. I wish I could paint this blog pink and decorate the interface in such a way to go all out in being sensitive. I'm so painfully, profoundly self-aware (some may say narcissistic, but that's neither here nor there) that I can't even express emotion without being self-deprecating. But I will try.
With that said, I will address central themes of emasculating tenderness that I have sidestepped with emotionally inept grace for the majority of my adult life. These topics of discussion include what happens to me emotionally and physically when I pick up a puppy, love letters written to old tacos, my journal entry if I were a 14-year-old girl, music heard while rainbow watching, NBA Jam poetry (the arcade edition), a guide to being a gentlemen around wild beasts, and the anatomy of a romantic walk.
The high quantity of mojo that typically bulges from this blog, like a rippling bicep, will be reduced this week. But for good measure. I'm about to explore my feelings like an adventurous Magellan navigating his adolescent youth, touching himself while dancing between earnestness and satire. Let's Go! (*Note There really won't be any touching, other than hearts and souls. Zing!)
A Love Letter Written To A Two Day Old Taco, Now GoneI was told it would never last. People advised me you had expired, too old for my years, but you, spicy supreme taco, are my Demi Moore. Your seasoned age and beef reminds me that everything is better with thyme. After all, it is the spice of life.
When I first met you, I was younger, (two days younger) and more naive, sure. I figured everything not fresh tasted bad. I was wrong. I tried you on a whim. You didn't seem like anything special. But you were available, and I was hungry. So I picked you up, oblivious to the delight you would bring to my inexperienced mouth.
The second your stale tortilla met my lips, I knew there was no turning back. People scoffed when they saw me holding you next to my mouth, ravaging you in a public display of affection. I overheard, "That's sick" and "He's desperate and really hungry" but I paid no attention to it. I didn't see them with a taco in their hands, so they were simply jealous.
The limp lettuce and blackened avocado spilled from your folded glory, but that just reminded me that you've been around the block (or on the counter) and are full of wisdom and experience. I admire that. Some say because you have been left unattended for far too long, that you are damaged goods, and that you no longer have that youthful crease that tightly holds everything together. I love bohemian messes though, and you remind me of wryly disaffected, sloppy art.
It was a short lived affair, but I loved it while it lasted. Sure, I can go out and get another cheap taco, late at night from Taco Bell in some dark, shady area of town, paying next to nothing for instant pleasure, but I'm not exactly into that. I am not morally derelict. I have standards and I'm afraid what I might catch, eating something from the East side that's not fresh. No telling what happens to old food from there. Ebola, SARS, or venereal diseases abound. But you satisfied me in my rage of hunger and desperation. Don't let anyone tell you differently. You tasted just fine and you rekindled a flame in allowing me to eat to my heart's content.
-- signed, Two Day Rule
Walking You Through My Romantic WalkConsidering I've never taken one, I was wondering how far one's testicles would have to ascend in order to achieve moving from point A to Point B, romantically on foot. I'm sure if I were to experience a romantic walk it would involve a crisp fall morning, with cobalt blue skies rolling in like a Pacific tide crashing gently. The sun would swell over the horizon as the mild air fills with newborn baby joy. Birds would be crooning and rabbits would be procreating openly. A Polaroid perfect setting so lovely (fuck yes I said lovely!) that I will be inspired to write Chuck Norris erotica, but I won't. (I would want to, badly though).
Then I'll look at the crook of my arm (you know, the bending nook between the bicep and forearm muscles) and ask the rhetorical question, "Why the hell would anyone wanna be anywhere else other than in my arm?" If the back of girls' necks were made of metal, the crook of my arm arguably had more magnetic pull than gravity.
I would extend my arm and begin said walk, with the lucky girl through the park, (only because the beach was not available) and I'd begin with a slow steady pace, paying close attention to nothing but what's locked in the crook of my arm. Girls seeking a romantic walk appreciate subtle details of life, like the endearing mispronunciation of words, sand between their toes, and intoxicating rose scents. I will bring none of these to the table. Working to not bring up the weird thoughts that bounce around my head is challenging enough. It's key to repress my thoughts because they would squander any romantic mood, instantly.
I would try to think about romantic things, like French mustaches, French wine, French kisses, French vocabulary, French horns, and triumphant lyrics stolen from Cold Play but alas, all I will be able to think about is an episode of MTV's "Best Week Ever" and the events from the night before that involve ping-pong thunder shorts and doing cartwheels in them. This will inevitably prevent me from experiencing a romantic walk.
It would prove to be a futile effort after she complains about my arm creating a lot of sweat and discomfort on the back of her neck. As a result, I will get slightly embarrassed, but more amused, and feel compelled to place her in a headlock and begin a moderate power walk, thus ending any hope of being romantic. Days later, I will remind myself that I actually tried to experience a romantic walk. I will then be flushed with shame and remorse. This secret would then be blogged about on my own accord, haphazardly, because I have no shame.
When Obsessive Behaviors Demonstrated Towards Your Emotions Get CreepyCalling your common sense and hanging up, repeatedly.
Driving by your sense-of-humor's house at 2 a.m.
Leaving unsigned notes on your grief's car while it is at work.
Following your bliss home, late at night.
Writing long 'I-hate-you' letters to your anger, then tearing them up.
Spreading rumors about your sympathy.
"Bumping into" your compassion at the store and getting a cheap feel.
Calling the police and reporting your curiosity for animal abuse.
My Secrets Revealed, Minus the Details
I've sat through an upholstery class.
I've asked myself before "What would Martha Stewart do?" to escape a baking debacle.
Girls need to challenge me. In Checkers. Or riveting thumb wars. Or trivial pursuit.
My goal in life is to climb a mountain - not Everest - without the slightest urge to write a book about it.
I've watched scrambled porn for longer than 15 mins. before.
I've sacrificed a goat and summoned Satan with a cowbell (joking).
I'm slightly less threatening than a Care Bear, thus I have never been challenged in a fist fight. But that doesn't mean I'm not intimidating in other ways.
I monitor my heart rate for reasons not relating to health.
There's something endearing about awkward moments.
I know more about the plot to MTV's the Hills than I should.
Effects of Picking Up A PuppyThe most jarring sign that my sensitive posturing has interfered with my masculinity was evident when I said the word 'cute' which was followed by ridiculous baby talk. It was a puppy that caused me to do it, too.
Furthermore, the reactions I experience when coming within a five-feet radius to puppies is debilitating. Puppies can turn a grown man into an irrational wheezing wimp. I'm allergic to dogs and swell and scratch more than a DJ without Benadryl when they lick me, too. I also don't openly profess my emotions.
So when I picked up a puppy recently, I died. Yes. Died. Keeled over, physically. Gasping for air. That was after I felt an overwhelming desire to thumb through a Crate & Barrel catalog and point out "fantabulous" and "adorable" home furnishings. Using suspect vocabulary I've never been able to incorporate into any sentence before, I felt like giving everyone hugs and licking their faces, much like the way a puppy might. Damn puppies!
I've made the most diminutive gestures of compassion towards puppies in an attempt to breathe normally and stave off my asthma. Not to mention not get all mooshy when I hold one. I maintain this to be ironclad when I say puppies bring out the worst in me.
Taming the Beast: A How-To Seduction Guide, Told From the Perspective of A GentlemanFellas, we all have that inner beast that tends to get out of control at times. You know, you let your emotions get the best of you in a fit of rage, or a display of inappropriate behavior around the ladies, or perhaps you simply look like a beast. Well, this is something you might be interested in then.
The goal of this excerpt is to remind everyone that I am a distinguished gentleman of refined character and manners, and not a pig. But if I were a wild boar, pig, warthog, or any other type of swine that wallows in its own feces and says the wrong things to court girls, then this might be a guide on how to correct everything.
When situations permit, and you are at a bar full of wild animals, stop and ask yourself what it would require to not come across as a pig. For example, the Bengal tiger sitting with its legs crossed is not suggesting anything to you. Sure it will be alone, not talking to anyone, surveying the scene coyly like the predator it might be , but refrain from accidentally brushing your arm against its fury leg when you walk by. Simply say hi instead. Do not mention you are tired of relationships and only want to share moments. Do not ask if the tiger needs a ride home, no matter how attractive her striped coat might be. You're a gentlemen, not a pig, remember?
Or the panther across the room. You don't need to be discreet, but don't gawk either. Buy the panther a drink, not to lower its inhibitions, but to talk. Flaunt your comfort with commitment and your desire to be fiscally stable by offering another drink. Spark a conversation about the inaccurate portrayals of panthers in Disney cartoons like the Jungle Book. But then say you need to leave soon after its tail rubs your leg. Tell it that it was a pleasure talking. Do not mention what you've heard about panthers being known as experimental and borderline degrading in the bedroom. You pig. Don't do it.
Then there's the African elephant taking up the entire bar. The fact that you approach it speaks volumes that you're making giant strides in not being a pig. Get an elephant smiling and you've got it loving you. Feel free to compliment its three exquisite toes on its hind legs. They like that. Also, mention how an elephant never forgets a friend, and that its just made one more.
Finally, the lemur. Its been following you the entire night. Its had its eyes on you. They are incredibly shy. You will have to do all the talking. Just be a gentleman and write a poem on a napkin. It might reach for it slowly with its tiny paws and stick it in its mouth. Don't embarrass it by laughing. Instead pet it with your index finger. All the lemur wants to do is snuggle. Give a sigh of contentment and take the lemur out for lunch sometime.
And there you have it. Fellas, being a pig gets you nowhere. Unless you want to put yourself in the "smokes more than one pack a day" subgroup. Have sex in public. Tell the doctor you don't need your liver. Buy a motorcycle. Get married in a chapel on the outskirts of Reno. That is the life of a pig. You're better than that.
My Music Play list If I Were An Unused Broken CrayolaSince this is a blog pertaining to my feelings, I have selected various songs that reflect colorful walks down Lolly Pop Lane and everything you would expect to find on a more sensitive guy's play list. But the music is still dope shit, so don't even trip.
NBA Jam Poetry Expressed In A Break Up (The Arcade EditionNot sure how to end a relationship when I was 15, I took an ex to an arcade because it was the most reasonable thing to do. I dropped my quarters into the machine. I removed my jacket and pulled out a rose when my ex-girlfriend looked at me in terror and disbelief. She saw it coming. I challenged her to NBA Jam.
"Razzle-dazzle," to thine own heart of exaggerated hoops be true,
"He's on fire", with unlimited turbo and 360 head-over-heals slam dunks,
"Boom-Shaka-Laka", tossing flaming balls, impossible to miss, I bid you adeu,
"At the buzzer", the first half ends, your heart still jumps,
"Is it the Shoes?" begs the question of my greatness, in our affair of two-on-two,
"Nail in the coffin", our love is done, with no refs or fouls, I steal your heart,
Fade away jumper, "nothing but net" and sadly we part,
Seconds are waning, I ascend for a "Monster Jam", buzzer sounds and I freeze in mid air
Get thine self a rebound or two, get over me, I dare
Excerpts From My Journal If I Were A 14-Year-Old GirlDear Diary,
I like chocolate. I feel fat. I'm like so sad, and maybe a little fat. Why is homeroom class so boring? I think I have cankles but so does my BFF Sarah. I think she's fatter than me. And more pimply. She totally has cankles too. I hate her. She smells like a humpback whale. I think I'm going to spread rumors about her having an eating disorder. I can't wait to get my braces off. Maybe the 9th grade boys will notice me. Maybe I'll get a boyfriend then. I'm pretty, and in shape, why aren't guys checking me out? Rugby practice was so fun today. I think I can leg press more than some of the guys now. Coach asked why I shaved my head and I was like, "fuck off". But I was so awesome at practice, that Julie kept butt slapping me. I've never had a guy's hand touch my ass before, but girls are kinda cool. I wonder if she's having anther sleep over this weekend. I wish I had boobs. I'm so emo.
Love,
Gertrude
Thanks For Comin' Out! So there it is people. The longest blog ever, and you can no longer say I'm an emotional rock. My sensitivity and masculine sides were drawn together like darkness to a single, flickering candle flame that's lit by lightning flashes of humor. Yup. Not everyone can pull that shit off either.
Few things belong together like peanut butter and jelly, which, when placed face to face, meld like an almost sexual union of opposites. Sticky and sweet no longer compete, but instead congeal into a mortar that warms the roof of the mouth while plugging the gaps in the heart's levee. The snack sandwich a giggling brother and sister share after Mom has cut off the crusts. That, my friend, is essentially what this blog entry is ... peanut butter and jelly ... emotional and masculine fornication. WORD!
Dope ass shit, at its finest. Look for another blog to be written this Wednesday. Oh and if you're wondering, my pet unicorn's name is mythdemeanor. It's a tough-guy unicorn.
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