“… if you’ll hand me my crayons, I’ll be glad to take your name…”

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One of the commonalities shared by we men in the ‘sphere is this:

 

A penchant for giving others more leeway in the context of errors than ourselves.

 

By which I mean:

 

We are far quicker to forgive others than ourselves.

 

Funny, that, considering many (if not most) are Christian.

 

And Christ said:

 

“Love others as you love yourselves.”

 

Note, He did not say:

 

“Love others more than you love yourselves.”

 

 

 

Women, in their infinite pragmatism, forgive themselves easily.

 

(Often, more than is warranted, in fact.

 

But that’s a tale for another day.)

 

While most men scourge themselves long after such corporal punishment is deserved. 

 

Let alone useful.

 

 

 

All this leads me to advise:

 

Let it go.

 

Give yourself the gift of forgiveness.

 

Understand the man you are now is not at all the man you were then.

 

Realize the fellow that made those mistakes/errors in judgement/faulty decisions was killed.

 

Murdered by his folly.

 

So bury him.

 

Mourn his naïve passing.

 

And move onward.

 

 

 

 

 

Ω

“That’s why I cut you just to heal you.”

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Since I’m unemployable, I do odds and ends jobs.

 

Thus, I find myself working manual labor for a military attorney in some extremely rural town in Oklahoma.

 

He’s a great guy.

 

We get along.

 

And he’s one of the few that doesn’t look at me like a total fuck-up, degenerate (what with my long hair and Motörhead facial topiary).

 

Smart man.

 

That one thing, if nothing else, brings him a windfall.

 

 

 

See, he’s 44 and dating a 20 year old.

 

Thus, it comes to pass that I – an overweight, former (well, mostly former) drunk, writer – sitting in his deceased mother’s recliner, walk him through how to handle her.

 

Don’t let her drag you into drama, I say.

 

Let her sweat your absence.

 

If you doubt whether or not you should respond to a message:

 

Always choose silence. 

 

 

 

I give the aforementioned directions between bites of mass-produced cherry pie and sips of 2% milk.

 

All the while, the 20 year old ingenue that looked at me as though she got whiff of dog shit when she met me—

 

Begs for his attention and binds herself to him with ever stronger ties. 

 

 

 

See, one of the hardest things for “Nice Guys” to understand is this:

 

Healthy women like to suffer.

 

[DON’T CONFLATE SUFFERING WITH ABUSE.]

 

It’s a feature; not a bug.

 

If they didn’t, humanity would’ve died out, long ago.

 

[Birthing, being what it is, and kids being pains while breast-feeding, and all.

 

Chalk yet another one up for the Book of Genesis.]

 

 

 

Brother, it’s no coincidence that “cutting” and women’s lib ended up on the same commuter train into town.

 

If you won’t hurt them, someone else else will.

 

And if no-one else will (boyfriend, dad, et al)—

 

They’ll fucking do it themselves.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ω