by Ashley Beth
**Note: The author apologizes for any musings, ramblings or any other such hullaballoo that are not deemed linear foreso in thought and sensible backforth in motion. Meaning, if you get lost……well……so was she.**
On the onslaught of a new overnight work schedule, I found myself quite more than often sitting in my car, engine turned off, in my driveway, facing the wooded patch of unsettled old farm brush that surrounds my parent’s house. That is to say, I found myself sitting in my car a pretty fucking substantial amount of time. I lived in my car. I worked out of my car. I have, since 2005, always possessed a simple, all-black, weather appropriate, moderately business casual ensemble. With shoes. Like not just tennis shoes. Like black, mary-jane Crocs™ motherfuckaaaaah. I’m sorry, I have slept five of the last 41 working hours. I no longer really even know what I’m fucking saying.
But anyways, squirrel, I found myself thinking a lot about how well we are aware of how we spend our time. (This started from my own musings about how delightful and destructive my own time-wasting behavior patterns were, obviously.) I thought about how useful a tool keen self-awareness really is. How a lot of folks just end up realizing how they spent their time, and it’s usually momentously dramatic, considering most folks seem to recount quite too well how much time they wasted doing this or that.
“I done dated that man for five years and nothing but a lousy living situation.”
“I invested ten years of my life in something I hated.”
“I stared at the wall for two years.”
“I got to level 60.”
Moving on…and no this isn’t baby fever talking (soooooo glad I have nothing to feed right meow), but I was thinking about how no woman really ever decides, or at the very least verbalizes, the following phrase affirmatively.
“I’m going to be around 38 when I have my first child because I want a career.”
(I mean I guess sometimes, at like, Smith.)
But yeah. How we spend our time. How we decide to spend our time. I mean, I personally know for a fact that when I get to my Judgement Day I will have to sit and watch, popcorn free, mind you, every single hour I spent on social media snuffed out in a long chain of death by red flag notification torture. We don’t always label our time in our life. We also don’t, for that matter, label our emotions very well.
I mean, think of how much easier life would be if everyone was born with the ability to communicate peacefully to themselves and others things like;
“What you said made me feel hurt/angry.”
“Your actions are stressing me out.”
We are stellar, however, at reacting instantly to feelings of anger, hurt or stress, in a knee-jerk, gun smoking, shoot-first and ask questions later sort of way.
And I think that life is about journeying towards that.
And I think that every day after one has walked down that path their own Spirit has become stronger.
I think that irrationality and emotional availability are all miscommunications. I think it’s about prioritizing what we want our energy to go towards, not what we want to see and hear. It’s about qualifying our souls and our emotions, and quantifying time into a precious tool we have to grow the light within us.
(Once again I beg forgiveness of the cynic-minded for any inferences towards religious mania, but the third eye seeing of this prose is merely in direct relation to the cold, hard, fact that your good author is presently enjoying Neil Gaiman’s 2011 novel ‘American Gods’ and it thus, godly supersizing everything.)
But yeah, even miscommunications can be fixed. Not all of them. Not easily. Certainly not quickly. And never before the first ten times with men.
Not fair. I am exaggerating. I am projecting what I am sure is only my belittled slice of the male dating experience onto The Male Dating Experience. I certainly have never read any books on the subject. Or heard the “honey, he ain’t gonna change” story learned over a lifetime by thousands of women before me???
No.
That’s right, no.
That’s right.
……..Yeah.
Just like Bruce Willis.
What, in Sin City, you haven’t SEEN that shit? Why aren’t you watching that RIGHT MEOW??!!!?!!
But yeah. No. I’m not wasting no more of my precious tight-tittied years on a guy who can’t even seem to get to 40% on the personal grooming scale. Or the consideration for my automony scale. Or just the loser scale.
How come there is a thing called emotional availability in men, particularly under the age of 39, but seemingly all of these guys are delighted to spend hours preparing, participating and pontificating on hobbies such as video games or fanstasy sports leagues?
The millennial women live in a world where guerilla feminism has stomped out any last spontaneous acts of free, unbiased chivalry in the few men who are really even interested in adulating in the first place. And sadly, there really aren’t a lot of them.
And it’s cool that men mature fully into adulthood behavior more at the age of 39. Where women it is more like 29. I mean, that’s cool. I mean honey, it ain’t gonna change.
But it’s kind of like, our ovaries stop cooperating 100% after 35. So our urges to advance the maturity and sustainability of our behavior towards ourselves is based purely and unselfishly on that whole life-fulfillment, circular, behavior structure we call, you know, the Miracle of fucking Life.
But I mean, sure, it could totally just be hormones. I’m probably just tripping. I’m out of line. I’ll make chicken nuggets for you now. Then I will hear about how you got to level 60 and built a submarine in that craft video game all in the same month!!! Wow! …….Is that pile your laundry? Wow, you manage time SO well…….but let’s turn on your Xbox, I’m SURE we’ll find the answers to all our current needs in there……
I sound angry. I sound bitter. I sound mad.
………………………………………………………………….
I am not mad. I’m just disappointed.
Why can’t we be better? Why can’t we be stronger? Why can’t we be on the same track as the Baby Boomers?
The answer is called, population volume.
The answer is called longer lives.
The answer is called Enlightenment.
MAYDAY!!!!!!
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Ok. Ok. I’m back. Phew. Anyone who ever wants to cosplay a zombie reeeallll hard, just add some no sleeping. Every hour. For 2 days. Yeah. You will see shit. Shit will start to happen. Melatonin will be rolling all fucked up and mad at you. You’ll be drinking your beer at breakfast and taking your coffee in the eve. You will always be here, but you will always have to leave.
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