Cracks In The Venus


I’m happy for you.

You, who have healthy relationships, a new child, who just got engaged. No, seriously. I can say sans sarcasm, that I’m totally happy for you.

But for those who know that I personally have a cascading CV of romantic failures and an admitted inability for intimate interactions of any merit – why, why, why would you ask me my opinion when things start to go wrong?

Like, are you seeking someone out to agree with what you’ve already decided or something?

Honestly, now. Real talk. If you just want to complain, you can tell Auntie Ashley (Ew. I just came up with that term and immediately decided I don’t like it for you, so I’m retracting and reserving it for my new niece).

Regardless, I’ll totally be ready to say, “Gee I’m sorry you’re going through that.”

Promptly followed by, “Now if you will excuse me, I have to return some videotapes…”


The only honest offering I can make if I’m truly trying to help you, is how I have failed in past relationships – what I was doing wrong when I was in a similar situation and what I needed to do to fix my sitch. I can’t tell you in good faith what to do and I won’t – mostly because I myself stop listening when I hear the phrase “what you need to do” or the word “don’t” (or else I do listen just so that I can actively seek out and commit those acts I’m being forbidden).

Your boyfriend is not here for this conversation.

Your girlfriend is not here either. And, as I am not a therapist, we couldn’t change them even if they were. What we can do is work on you if you are willing to identify with my demons and perhaps identify your part in the problem – sound good?


Because after you read what I have to say, you’ll either think “thank God someone else is fkkd like me” or (more likely) “Jesus, at least I’m not that bad.”

Either way, I’m alright. I won’t feel badly about myself because I’m not alone, seeing the world from some Sagan style remote cosmic location. I’ve had a chance to meet a lotta like minded folk who’ve been there. Also, I’m making an effort to expunge all that ickiness on the daily.

That said, let’s get general before we narrow in for the kill:

Some lovers – when they say that timeless phrase of adoration, “I love you” – they totally mean it.

They can love you when you’re there.

They can love you when you’re absent.

If you make them angry or don’t fulfill expectations they didn’t realize they had about you – there is no platform of adulation from which you will fall, because you’re equals.

A power couple, if you will…

…Und you VILL.

Some of us have aimed for this and failed.

We repeatedly fall short with our manifold amorous affairs that amount to one long amorphous daytime dramedy – an endless parody of terror and a self fulfilling prophecy building on the belief that we deserve to die not knowing where our adipose accumulation ends and the armchair stuffing begins.

To avoid the seedy singularity of darkness that resides deep within, we use and we use up the objects of our misidentified love to try and assuage our disregarded intrinsic agonies.

We deny our own darkness until the only option is to take to the streets like werewolves who feed on feelings.

If we find comfort in a chemical, we slowly self destruct.

If we find it in our objectified idea about a fellow human, god save them….

For, should they comply with our hypnotic manipulation for any length of time, we start to see the cracks in our ideal Venus goddess made of marble. We eventually resent that thing we thought we loved after that initial levity frenzy from acquiring our prize subsides.

And as the fog begins to fizzle from our maladaptive daydream world, we pretend that we are angry at them for not helping carry in the groceries.

We pretend that we’re mad when they have to cancel plans we had for work.

When they don’t compliment us.

When they can’t read our minds… (or even when they try to: “Oh, well DONE, Dr. Phil… Now shut up and wear this shirt I bought you…”)

When they won’t share what’s on theirs.


Or how about when they’re just human and forget an annual love celebration wrought from commercial motives?

Deep down, we know that frivolous crap doesn’t matter.

Deep down we retrospectively see that the second we saw what we deemed beautiful, we craved it. But we craved that human object not to love it, but to make it a God we could rip down from up high, and pluck up like a flower from below. Saying, “he loves me… He loves me not” – before we could say: “I love me… I love me not.”

Deep down, we know we’re just pissed because their fcuk-ups remind us of our own failed lives. But now that we’ve added a whole ‘nother person to the mix, it’s even harder to fix our inner tornado. Now we’ve got an ego to protect, so we scoop it up like Toto and get the eff out of Kansas to seek our yellow brick road to Damascus in a fantasy land.

In the end, it’s easier to just tell the other person what to do, not follow our own advice, get angry if they don’t comply, and take credit for it if they do.

The day we trade in self-validation for chaotic chance, our auto-annihilation initiates – coding from blueprints of self deception.

Yeah, man. This is another one of those blogs.


From the start, we formed the whole torrid affair on a fatal foundation (you know- that gut feeling saying “you’re not ready”, “she’s superficial”, or “Um…he definitely has Charles Manson eyes.”)

Why? Because everything’s temporary, and external drama becomes a less daunting option – opposed to redressing congenital pain even if it’d mean we could love life sailing solo and centered, eventually adding in an appropriate plus one (not plus half).

Thusly, with all these thoughts stuffed deep down an anesthetized abyss of disconnected sentiments, one day we identified beauty in a human.

And we had to possess that thing. We had to have it and hunt down the flaws like some depraved Easter egg hunt. Break it down. Crack it open. See what makes that bitch tick.

Is it because we’re monsters? No. And we can totally fix it.

We’re just marred, don’t want to admit it, but do want someone to identify with. The problem is that when we’re really cranky at our cores and ignore it, we ultimately try to mine out the misery of loved ones ’cause, ya know, it’s how we really feel. Plus, we put a lot of negative energy into it by actively and constantly suppressing it. So we know it really well, too.

Until we sort that out, we’ll always be dismantling some abstract deified dynamic yet to be erected with another – petal by pedestal.

And… that’s our time for today.

Same time next week?

Fear and Loathing in Most Relaches


I like poking fun at gender disparities:

Chicks, man…

During a convo earlier today with a friend, I indicated that it’s not so much that we enjoy hearing ourselves carp. It’s just that action is so much more terrifying; our brains can’t process it. So many of us grow into these child women who wear the facades during the day of “How are you doing? Nice weather we’re having…” and then take our masks of confidence and professionalism down at the day’s end for those with whom we’re closest.

And we let them have it – like it’s their fault.

Because it is often so hard to dig even close to the source of unpleasant feelings causing unhealthy behavior, we stop short of searching at all, and fall into that seductive trap of victim-ness in lieu. When we unload the weight of our world onto the shoulders of our partner, he feels like Atlas himself. *Sigh* If only he knew we aren’t looking for a psychologist – or a maintenance man for that matter.


Rather, expecting to hear “I’m sorry” or “that must really suck” from them has become more than the mere obligatory shoe in for the less comforting words “There there…” Nine times out of ten, the expectation isn’t a Freudian couch session or a logical answer, so much as a few meaningless words like “Yeah, those people you mentioned from work who I don’t even know are total douchebags”. This reinforces our own cognitive dissonance; by making sure they take an active part, chime in, and say anything signifying agreement, confirms that you’re the victim here.

And voila. The loop is complete. Fear continues to play third wheel to you both, and you don’t have to a damn thing but watch it eviscerate your relationship inside out.

Don’t get too comfortable, though, men. You aren’t excused from this behavior. It’s just that you’re taught not to cry or show emotions or even talk about them for that matter. So, try as you might to think you can control everything, that painful-whatever-it-was-from-childhood goes somewhere in those neuro-recesses. Since tears aren’t an option, it will manifest in a different way if left unchecked… and it’s every bit as unhealthy to the relationship.


Usually anger and self righteousness are the main means by which it manifests. Since domestic violence is socially unacceptable, it has to get further filtered until it becomes this faux representation of control or power. Going to the gym sometimes helps unleash these sentiments healthily; but for others, this either isn’t an option or falls short of satiating. Thus come the passive aggressive jokes, patronizing remarks, punching of walls in the house, cold body language, abuse of drink or drugs, and so on.

Some might argue that women do the latter (anger) as well as the former (despair/misery). And you’re not wrong. However, you’ll have to concede that men also do the former, then. The difference is that their “complaints” are masked in a kind of pseudo-superiority. Instead of a whiny “why me?” or commentary on how painful or depressing it (whatever “it” is) is, they stay the course of one-upmanship, and instead talk about what an idiot everyone else is.

I have to hand it to them! I mean, when everyone else is an idiot, you’re still a victim (of every other person’s alleged stupidity); but by declaring it (rather than emoting it or implying a desire for confirmation), you’re not asking for your girlfriend’s agreement! Your word is just a fact. You’re a fcukking god! In control! All powerful maintenance man who fixes other people’s problems!

And…yet… you still don’t have to do fcuk-all about your own “nail”.