I mean, he asked…
I WOULD NOW LIKE TO OUTLINE FOR YOU THE WAYS THAT MEN ARE OPPRESSED IN AMERICAN SOCIETY:
1. They often lose in child custody cases.
2. Sometimes they’re accused of rape, and they didn’t do it. I mean, sure, this hardly ever goddamned happens, but it HAS happened. And it’s totally as bad as rape, even though it’s less prevalent. Even though people who make false accusations are often fined and/or jailed. It’s oppression. Obvs.
3. Jock itch.
4. Not being able to cry at movies without being thought of as a sissy.
5. Sometimes, like, some bitch sabotages the birth control, right? And then the guy has to make these fucking payments for, like, 18 goddamned years. Oppression.
6. Women and children first off of sinking ships or whatever.
7. The Friend Zone. You know what I’m talking about.
So about four months ago, I wrote an email to a guy I used to be quite fond of, and he wrote back. At the time, it seemed we’d said what needed to be said, and I was comfortable trying to move on from the whole thing.
But, if you’ve been reading this here blahhhhg, you’ll know that I’ve been doing some work on self-blame lately, and damned if what he wrote to me doesn’t stick in my craw something fierce.
Because: We dated for a year. A year of hanging out and drinking in bars and spending time together in our respective houses and going out and doing things and having lots and lots of what was, quite frankly, amazing and unprecedented sex. For a goddamned year.
And that whole time, he was embarrassed by me? Afraid to let me around the other people in his life that he cared about? I was good enough to fuck but not good enough to bring around his friends? For a year?
Let me tell you, the audience, and you, the guy who isn’t reading this (but whose network of little gnomes probably are) what my life was like during that year. I was losing my shit. Pretty much the whole time. My life was made up of three things: The Boy, numbness, and panic. I was not well. The drugs I was on to help my depression had turned me into a numb, panicky zombie who couldn’t function or even manage to leave the house very often, at least not when it was light out. I’d dropped out of school because I couldn’t sit still. I’d alienated a lot of my friends. I slept all day and stayed up all night and was making art with my own blood and was completely, balls-out obsessed with The Boy. Yes indeed.
He would have been entirely correct to have run the other way. He would have been more than justified in never seeing me again. But he didn’t stay away. He kept on having (crazy, wonderful) sex with me. He kept seeing me. For a year, until I deliberately sabotaged things so he’d stop coming around for free sex and emotional torture.
What the fuck does that say about him?
I might be crazy, dear readers, but I am not and have never been that much of an asshole.
So K is getting married. I know this because I am an idiot and I checked his Google+ page the other night. And he’s getting married. Whoop-dee-fucking-doo. I’m happy for him. But I don’t know whom to be more jealous of– her, because she has HIM, the love of my life, my cute geeky boy, blah blah blah– or HIM because he found someone he wants to spend the rest of his fucking life with and I’m alone, all alone, forever alone.
He was like my poly role model, people. And then pretty much as soon as we broke it off, he hooked up with this [redacted], and now they’re getting MARRIED.
Yeah, yeah, move on. I know. I have.
But he’s seared into my soul. Never loved anyone like that, not before, not since. Blah blah blah.
I met someone. He’s older than me. He’s kind. I don’t want to jinx it. It’s new. It’s open.
My poly role model is getting married, and here I am four years later, still doin’ the free-love thing. Odd how things work out.
And it’s odd how meeting someone new can throw all these things from my past into such sharp relief. I forgot what it feels like to let my guard down. I forgot what it feels like to be adored back. But now I remember.
One night with K, after some private adult aerobics, he rested his head on my chest for a few moments. That may have been the closest he ever came to tenderness. I can’t believe I was so in love with someone who wouldn’t/couldn’t/didn’t even hold me. Or that I spent 15 months of the last two years with a guy– well, I’m done saying mean shit about Emery for now. BUT I AM THINKING IT.
I deserve better. I’m gonna go out and get it.
[For an assignment in the greatest class I took in college, “Dangerous Words.” We were supposed to write a cover letter for an imaginary job application. This is mine.]
I am applying for your job as “Mattress Tester” which was listed in the Oregonian and on Craigslist. As I have been sleeping in beds every night for nearly 27 years, I feel I am well and uniquely qualified for this job.
My parents raised me in a home in which beds were the norm. I have slept on many different mattresses, and feel that I can distinguish not only good ones from bad ones, but which ones may be good for children or the elderly, due to issues of size and accessibility. I can also evaluate frames as to their stability, durability and dimensions. I have experience with cots, futons and the most luxurious of mattresses, including memory-foam mattresses, and can tell almost immediately whether a bed is comfortable or not.
In my past experience evaluating mattresses, I have often even worked double-shifts so that my assessments are thorough and detailed. My dedication to sleep and the accoutrements that accompany it has been commented on many times by parents, friends and housemates. Please consider me most seriously for this position.
Thank you for your time and kind attention.
(Mr. E and I are playing a game of Lexulous on Facebook, and he’s winning. The following conversation takes place)
Mr. E: prepare to be FB ameliorated
Kate: ameliorated means “relieved.”
Kate: or eased.
Mr. E: humm, sigh. facepalm
Kate: Now you know. Isn’t it nice to know?
Mr. E: I will *emolliate* you.
Mr. E: and then ameliorate your ass.
Kate: You’re going to moisturize me?
Kate: Oh, honey.
Mr. E: With lotion.
Mr. E: Bitch.
Kate: You mean “immolate.”
Kate: You sweet, precious thing.
Mr. E: fuck double facepalm
Kate: I feel great affection for you right now.
Kate: You know big words! Let’s just work on the definitions, shall we?