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Contradictions, Consequences and Canons

July 13, 2014

*** All “quotes”, unless otherwise stated, are Ayn Rand. Not because I am a freak, because I have just read The Fountainhead and Atlas Shrugged back-to-back, and it suits my current mood and my overall beliefs.

All the weeping an gnashing of teeth below took place the same week as this bullshit that I didn’t feel like putting in chronological order:

  • The criminals who stole the truck and vandalized my employer are the same guys who stole an RV that belonged to a dear friend’s brother.  The friend lives in Texas and his brother lives about two hours from here. He called to tell me less than 20 minutes after the bad guys were arrested, so I got to tell him that they were already locked up.  (Please remember that fb is now faster than the cops when it comes to getting people busted.)
  • The brother of a person I used to date (long before B) committed suicide and, of all people in the world, he turned to me for comfort.
  • A good customer at work finally succeeded in getting his son to ask me out on a date.  I declined, but he is getting his truck detailed next week and I can only hope he isn’t out mudding in the truck right now.
  • Two attorneys later, I finally got some action to take place on a real estate deal that has been dragging on since May last year.

I should be drunk right now, but I am not. Hell, I should have been plastered all week so I didn’t have such a clear and unrelenting memory of the insurmountable pile of batshitcrazy™ that was heaped upon my humble existence in the past few days. I am steeped in Ayn Rand, a little sun-burnt, sick of drinking iced tea and utterly confused despite my 30 days of dreadful clarity. My bedroom is littered with cherry pits, candy bar wrappers, pistachio shells and books; on one side of my bed is a loaded 9mm (a permanent fixture) that I am constantly in danger of using to obliterate my cell phone. Every wall that isn’t hidden behind racks of clothes, is covered in mirrors and photos that are constantly changing. If I was writing on a laptop, I wouldn’t have bothered to leave my bed. If I have one single fuck left to give, it is covered in dust bunnies and hidden somewhere under a pile of half-expensive heels that I will probably never wear again.
This week began with having to clean up glass that was shattered all over a very expensive truck which was vandalized over the long holiday weekend. (If anyone is keeping score, that is the same long weekend that Bike Boy declined to see me.) As if the vandalized truck wasn’t enough, the dealership also had a truck stolen… Monday morning, Yay!!! Police reports!!! Shards of glass were freaking everywhere, and it would take hours to polish off the scratches, the tool marks around the ignition, and get all the little bitty pieces of glass out of the interior. Plus, I walked around half the day with two perfect circles of fingerprint dust on my chest because I leaned over the roof of the truck to pick off the shards of glass so they wouldn’t scratch anything.  Naturally, the last thing on my mind was B or the particularly unpleasant email that I sent to him back before all the fireworks and family time with Number Three.


Because that is precisely what I never expected to happen… (“I layed on your truck so the hail didn’t get it”)

A few messages later, B told me that he would bring the truck to me soon. I didn’t believe him, and I wasn’t nice about it. All in all, the break-up with B took more of a toll on me than any of the other terrible things that I have gone through. I searched desperately for that glorious sense of detachment that has kept me going through most of the last 6 years. After the initial pain was gone, I had grown to realize that I didn’t even hate B personally as much as I hated the pictures. The photos and the mental images that motivated me to try oh-so-hard to live up to his expectations were my reward and my downfall. The pictures – plastered all over fb for nearly a year. They were here, too, on the blog,  just look back. If a picture is worth a thousand words, then there were countless volumes of meaningless words publicly mocking my stupidity, and in the end, that, and nothing else, is what made me cry. It’s a big part if my decision to hold as private and sacred all things Bike Boy.  (Not that I wouldn’t have been really flattered if Bike Boy had posted anything publicly, I just wasn’t willing to do it myself.) Live and learn…

“Every form of happiness is private. Our greatest moments are personal, self-motivated, not to be touched. The things which are sacred or precious to us are the things we withdraw from promiscuous sharing. But now we are taught to throw everything within us into public light and common pawing.”

Silly me. I gave my best to B- the best I had to give, or the best I thought I had to offer, to make the pictures ever prettier for my own edification and for the satisfaction of drawing the envy of others. It never dawned on me that there was no real value being exchanged or mutual respect celebrated in meaningful, intimate ways. I willingly chose to be sweet, blind, obedient and subservient to a man-child who had nothing to offer in return except for coming home to me, too tired for sex because he worked hard to make things nice for us he’d been banging some other chick all day, but he sent me sweet messages every morning, left little notes in the snow, in the dust on my truck, in the refrigerator…Everyone was so haaaappy for us, and, truly, we did make a great looking couple and I still mourn the loss of something that never existed in the first place and I am a first-rate dumbass and because the pictures were more fake than a 1950’s Hollywood car-chase. (Gratuitous run-on sentence. So what?)

Salina2 030
“There was no such person as Mrs. Wayne Wilmot; there was only a shell containing the opinions of her friends..”

I looked up from the Nissan I was waxing a couple of days later when I heard the truck pull up. I knew the sound before I ever saw it and I felt his presence. As I turned to face him, he spoke, “I forgot how beautiful you are.” I stared blankly at him, and he held out passes for the County Fair. “For the girls.” I took the paper passes out of his hand, “I will be sure to thank [your employer] next time I see him.” I heard myself ask about the truck he was supposedly giving to me. Then he was gone, or rather, I dismissed him.  As he pulled off the lot, I hated him, briefly, thinking back over how he turned what I freely gave to him as a gift, into a debt he had to repay. I flashed back on the beginning of our relationship. He was generous like that back then, too… little tiny gifts and surprises all the time. It is his pattern. It is exactly what he has done to the others – women who I now know personally. He gives just a little in the beginning, but all the while, he does nothing but take. It’s a monstrous slight of hand.  As I remembered the feeling of the first time, I could feel him taking from me again when we spoke this week face-to-face for the first time in nearly a year. The only value he can hope to have to me now is through his obedience. It’s much worse than the dreaded ‘friendzone’.  Silent devotion (and I do mean silent); acceptance of my hatred-minus-anger; indifferent calm; and contempt more transparent and twice as pure as most people’s drinking water – that is what he has in store for him, and it is richly deserved. The very best he can hope for is that I am not openly hostile in public.


“You can fake virtue for an audience. You can’t fake it in your own eyes.”

You can fake being a vicious bitch, too. This time I am not faking it. I still remember the first time he came to my office after weeks of chatting on fb. Six-four, and a ten-thousand dollar smile… Cool rides (which I had noticed in the parking lot, long before I knew who they belonged to) a pretty little farm with cattle and tractors and beautiful pastures. This week, it was all déjà vu and ice cold sweet tea – appropriate if only for the oxymoron of something being both ice-cold and sweet at the same time… which is what I was by Friday afternoon.

blessyourheartYes, I did say it. More than once – but just the ‘bless your heart’ part of it, the rest was implied.  

The truck is in better shape than I thought it would be. He came and dropped it off, and we talked about nothing but the truck and it was the strangest business transaction I have ever conducted. It was one of the hardest things I have faced alone in quite some time. The old pictures played in my head like a malicious slide show. Exactly three people knew he was coming over to bring the truck. Boss, Bike Boy and Shoe (my bestie) were the only ones who knew he was coming over. Boss (my actual employer and closest thing I have to a ‘dad’) had a social obligation or he would have been here, Shoe was busy with some really dreadful business of his own, and Bike Boy, he was at work, with more notice, maybe he could have/would have sent his dad to protect me…. or hell, honestly, he just doesn’t give a fuck, but we will get to that…

truckScrew Salvador Dali and his melting clocks… THIS is surreal.

B left. I sat and stared at the truck for a while after he left waiting for my spirit to come back into my body and to regain the ability to think again.  It was like leaving the stage.  It just takes a while to be your own self again.  I just sat there. Perched on a frame rail, chain-smoking and sipping sweet tea, holding a Bill of Sale for $1, wondering what the hell just happened, eventually watching the lightning bugs and waiting for Bike Boy to text that he was online so I could send pictures. I finally had enough waiting and went to bed with my Kindle. I woke up at 4:04 am – the infamous “Error 404”: Bike Boy Not Found.

Way back before the holidays last year, I went to a get-together at a small hot-rod shop. I had Tigger with me, who was there like a security blanket since I really wanted to go see the shop (and because he was doing some penance for being a complete douche), but I didn’t want to go alone. Bike Boy was there. I had never seen him before and really couldn’t have told you his name from the online interactions with the group. For some inexplicable reason, I couldn’t stop looking at him. So odd, since it wasn’t really physical attraction that was compelling me to look at him, but whatever it was, it was immediate without being urgent yet, completely undeniable. It seems like a really long time ago.  Hundreds of hours of conversation later, I am still wondering. Just a few weeks ago when I went to see him, he made me supper, and while he stirred this-or-that on the stove, I still looked at him with the same feeling. I have no clue why I couldn’t stop watching him, and even less of an idea why I am drawn to him in the first place. It certainly isn’t because of a picture, mental or otherwise, and it’s not just that I have no ability to define it, I also have no desire to.

first hint2

Yes, candy and cookie hot rods, what the hell else do you take to a holiday gathering at a custom shop where you will inexplicably be drawn to some total stranger?

Bike Boy was made Captain of this ship several months ago after the Valentine’s Day car show we went to together. Chemistry (or whatever that was) that led to my annoyance at his rejection, which later gave way to our talking regularly again, and then a few times seeing each other face-to-face, and now he’s basically dismissed me.  All along, I never knew what to make of it, and his refusal to see me over the 4th, coupled with his purposeful, and evermore frequent absences online… yeah, shocking. But what I don’t know now about what is really happening happened doesn’t amount to some terrible betrayal, it’s just readily apparent that I am not his first choice or second, or any type of priority to him.  There is no blame to lay here. I am ever grateful that I had the strength to place my trust in someone in him to guide our friendship as he felt best. I didn’t do it to avoid responsibility for my own actions, I did it because I am ridiculously selfish and I wanted to have the feeling of being seen as a valuable person in his eyes. If he had never chosen to escalate the friendship to a different level, things would be pretty much as they are now –  only I would have missed out on a few nights of getting to trick myself into thinking that I meant anything at all to another person. Bike Boy does have real value to me, more than he intended or realizes. A few moments of believing that there was any mutual respect outweigh any opportunity I may have passed up to allow myself to be used by a lesser man. (Yep. I just typed that.) I don’t regret it, nor will I remain content to be an afterthought to him subsisting on crumbs of attention.


“The loneliness for an equal – for a mind to respect and an achievement to admire. …no, not hatred, but boredom – the terrible, hopeless, draining, paralyzing boredom. Of what account are praise and adulation from men whom you don’t respect? Have you ever felt the longing for someone you could admire? For something, not to look down at, but up to?”
“I’ve felt it all my life,” she said.”

I could have gone back to sleep sooner if I was able to spare myself the inner dialogue where I tried (unsuccessfully) to convince myself Bike Boy was purposely letting me work out things for myself after B’s visit. It just defied logic in too many ways. A real friend would have been there for me. Real friends were there for me. The extra insult is that a lover should have been far more concerned. Bike Boy was (and is still) conspicuously absent in this process. If I internalize the message that the ones closest to us are a reflection of our inner selves, then when I look in the mirror, I am seeing a very heartless bitch looking back at me as evidenced by my feelings for Bike Boy if for no other reason. I don’t like it. In fact, if the ‘reflection’ postulate is valid at all – and whoever I allow to fuck me is a representation of myself, then I, as a human being, am well and truly fucked indeed.

I finally drifted back to sleep around the time the sun came up. The girls (Two and Three) woke me up this morning when someone pulled into the driveway. The question of whether or not I have any value to Bike Boy was answered by an unexpected visit from his parents this morning. (Seriously, it is a two hour drive- seems a little less than random that the ended up at my house.) In the strangest coincidence ever (no, I do not believe in ‘coincidence’ any more than I believe in ‘contradiction’) or it was some strange mission to ‘check up on me’ (which is an abominable insult to my loyalty to Bike Boy) or, possibly, the second most cowardly act ever committed by a grown man in utilizing his parents to end a relationship.

Such a shame, too, they are really cool people. Bike Boy’s Dad, unceremoniously returned a cast iron pan that henot Bike Boy – seasoned for me, a pie plate that once held a cherry pie made for all of them and a cookbook loaned to Bike Boy for his latest form of entertainment which is pickling things (no, I have no idea why). BB’s Dad checked out the new truck, told me a little about it, and asked where it came from. I told him succinctly and honestly how it was acquired. I thanked him for the information about the truck and mentioned that I had waited for Bike Boy to come online so I could show him the pictures, at which point, BB’s Mom very quickly jumped in and made an excuse about him being ‘busy’ last night. (Way to take one for the team, mom! Sarcasm included in this post at no additional cost to the reader.)

After my very brief explanation of the acquisition of the truck, this happened: “Everyone deserves a second chance.” Wow. I never thought for one single second that BB’s Dad was capable of such utter nonsense, nor do I think he could believe it. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I wanted to smash that truck to bits. (My only response was The Look.) “Oh, I see, when you are done, you’re Done.” Point taken, subject change, general pleasantries, exit parents.  Whatever the reason for the timing of the visit, I wish them all the best. Though I find it very odd that Bike Boy is completely silent right now, I am at least a little grateful that I was spared the necessity of having to really be honest with anyone about the whole incident. Without question, Bike Boy is the only one who gets the unvarnished Truth without any of the politically correct niceties that are required when relating this type of thing to other people.  With the somewhat rare exception of this morning’s visit from BB’s folks, I try to maintain the appearance of propriety as much as possible. I half-hope it wasn’t too evident that I was up most of the night crying, even though the smeared mascara probably blew that out of the water. Just as a general rule, I am outwardly kind to everyone and the changes within me lately are really only evident to very few people. Being kind is a gift that is easily given, and when the sincerity of the gift is withdrawn, the shift is almost imperceptible, because the words are the same only what is on the inside changes.

“It’s a law of survival, isn’t it? To seek the best. I didn’t come for your sake, I came for mine.”

It’s not just the words, but the people, that are all the same and the real intent and meanings hidden away until there is no turning back. One or another makes your heart skip a beat in this-way-or-that, but the derision, the lack of personal integrity, the dearth of empathy, same; same; same and time always reveals it. I could choose to be a supplicant, a beggar, mindlessly obedient and devoid of thought in exchange for the occasional pity-fuck or for the sake of pretty public photo ops, but I would rather hold my own integrity and value as my highest priority. When I consciously, willingly submit or surrender my will to another person, it is a gift to myself more than it is to them – As It Should Be. I refuse to hold myself out as an offering to be sacrificed on some false altar where men worship their own mediocrity and pray (or is that prey) to be granted The Path Of Least Resistance when it comes to my affection or respect. I would rather have nothing than something when the something required is the death of my own ideals.


Nothing.  My choice is Nothing…my choice is freedom.

“Freedom (n.): To ask nothing. To expect nothing. To depend on nothing.”

Canons – with some paraphrasing:

  • It is much harder to keep your soul than to sell it.
  • A person who knows that they have value is incapable of experiencing love other than as a spiritual act.
  • There are no contradictions; check your premises. One of them is wrong.
  • “A man’s sexual choice is the result and the sum of his fundamental convictions…. He will always be attracted to the woman who reflects his deepest vision of himself, the woman whose surrender permits him to experience a sense of self-esteem.” (Those are the TAKERS – they want the woman to prop themselves up in their own eyes to give themselves a sense of the value they do not see in themselves. )
  • “The man who is proudly certain of his own value, will want the highest type of woman he can find, the woman he admires, the strongest, the hardest to conquer–because only the possession of a heroine will give him the sense of an achievement.” A wonderful thought – a reminder that I am not the choice of a man who has that sense of self. I have work to do, and I will not compromise my own integrity to feed the weakness of others.
  • “I swear by my life and my love of it that I will never live for the sake of another man, nor ask another man to live for mine.”


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  1. Cowboy Hank permalink

    You should consider writing country songs. There are at least two in this post alone.

  2. That has to be the funniest thing I have read in months – Thanks Cowboy!!!

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