Why I...Secretly am attracted to female versions of myself (Part 2)

Now I’ve got that off my metaphorical electronic chest. I’ll say something else somewhat misogynistic.

I feel like most nights I could go out to some sanctum of beverages attract a female (or females whey), pull some trick or play some game enough to be near the process of engaging in the horizontal mambo very soon after.

Judge that as you like.

Without a hint of sarcasm or sounding condescending, at various times in my life and for a lot of dudes and dudettes such practice is considered a lot more than adequate.

Waking up in an awkwardly accommodating bed (or person) was more than well and truly enough to have signalled a reasonable bookend to an excellent night/day weekend or holiday.

But I have grown, or in the eyes of some shrunk (It’s only the whiskey), not that long ago going home with someone you’re not sure you like yet would be considered good.

I’ve pasted this point in my life I think.

The point which I’ve got to (by hating most people basically) is that I’d rather go home by myself a lot of the time (with the possibility of a subway sandwich as my source of enjoyment) than have to try and tolerate someone else I have every chance of not liking a short interrupted sleep later.

Especially without a stiff drink.

I am getting older as we all are and over this time I have acquired tastes and patterns of my own which may in part comfort and also become defining to myself in some nature. What this has included has been a solid hatred for the possibility of anything mediocre in my life. Although that being said the notion of disliking clichés is in itself a cliché and if I tried to analyse this in more layers I’m sure the universe has every chance of doubling back on itself. Or I’d just confuse you and most likely myself also.

But that’s exactly what these posts are not about, they are meant to be rare uninterrupted moments of thoughtfulness harmony. Yeah…

So back to talking about girls. I know a few things about women, and one of the few things I know about is how little I know about women.

So what I meant to say is I know very few things about women. But what I know and love as you’ve read is I love myself. (If you haven’t read I don’t)

So what happens when I put together my lack of social skills and at times extreme ingenuity when it comes to using alcohol as the basis for any of these such interactions?

The Answer: Uncomfortableness

People (Myself included) enjoy what they know, it’s comforting a lot more than the unknown which apparently is feared and probably also (besides of course severe brain injuries) explains why so many people watch “Packed To The Rafters”, this of course goes completely against what I said earlier about fear/disgust in regard to the mediocre and bourgeois.

Because people, women especially want comfort, entertainment and safety, on the majority the stumbling bumbling idiot who’s not in anyway friendly is not really the best approach I’ve found.

On the other hand the completely interesting but yet completely exotic and mysterious thing is also appealing for some reason. But this method involves not only timing, (which I lack) but also delivery (also lack) and an attention span longer than 2 large drinks (which the majority of people my age lack).

So in conclusion this is why Rose Byrne, Natalie Portman, Lacey Chalbert, Erin McNaught, Ella Hooper, attractive pony bar staff, anyone who doesn’t talk about zumba or is orange, girls with the names like Lucy, Ruby and Abi and various other female interests have eluded me. That plus the fact I haven’t met any of them.  And am I horrible person.  

Why I...Irrationally love female versions of myself. (Part 1)

I’m a romantic at times, that's fine I guess, there are plenty of those going around as far as I know.

But being a cynical fuck too? That’s not a skill, that’s an art form…

Actually no I guess that’s pretty common as well.

Let me tell you a story young travellers, it’s about a person only moderately close to my own heart. Me.

I’m mildly repellent at the best of times; you may have picked this up already.

But after what I’m about to share this I may become even more so clear.

Love for a guy like myself when mentioned directly, is a notion that in theory may seem great at times, like mostly in the beginning. But the unfortunate reality is when I battle to think of it or on the rare occasion I say the word in the “romantic love” sense normally the first things I think up are uncomfortable notions of commitment, awkward forced valentine’s gifts (outside of the bedroom) and possibly witnessing more Hugh Grant or John Cusack movies than I care to admit to.

When you’re struggling to sit through “Must love dogs” and it’s just as a vacuous as it sounded before and your one superseding thought is hoping someone buys a pit bull and is mauled to death just so the movie would finish you know you’re not in healthy relationship.

 

My point is, or is going to be, cause I haven’t got to it yet, where this initially well intentioned clear-cut notion of love mainly falls down for men like me (alcoholics) is when you don’t know someone well enough and you start to assume things about them. In my case, usually for the better unfortunately.

And as I’m sure you’ll find if I write enough of these, there is nothing worse a person can do than assuming the best of people.

Especially hipsters. Those fucking hipsters.

Now to my story.

For Example: I called someone a “Honey glazed ham” as an insult few weeks ago (as one does) while slovenly out and about, and a girl I had never seen or met before made a slight Homer Simpson “mmm” noise, this amused me.

I like this in a woman for some reason. 

The conclusion I came to, based on this very short exchange of ideas, some would say “moment” that we had together was when she mmm-ed at my ham if you will, was that she “got it” (Another concept I’m sure I’ll explain at some stage also).

And so based on this, the fact that she had amused me and so effortlessly once already meant somehow that in my mind there were several neighbourhoods of amusement just waiting to be explored with this complete stranger.

Needless to say that’s the best it got.

Her name was Sasha she talked about her entirely inaccurate attire related issues searching for compliments and shit; there were several reasons why I lost interest but the moral of the story is…

If I’m shallow/stupid enough to find someone attractive in a split second, for something like a funny noise, then doesn’t it seem logical that I’m also just as likely to do the same thing the other way and potentially not like someone for something just as minor? For example- Liking Nickelback.

(Note-: Liking Nickelback is not a minor issue)

-That’s rhetorical neither of us have to answer that, this isn’t a test, so relax.

Although I didn’t ask about Nickelback, But that’s not the point. I had a point…?

Oh yes, this interaction for some reason abruptly and ruthlessly turned into an audition as most meetings with strangers for me become.

This is one of the many very large, highly conspicuous street signs along the road towards ultimate failure with people.

Visually things were not “wrong way go back”, she was pleased and not making that look of I’m going to fallaciously smile and pleasantly say that I’m going to the bathroom or to over to my friends and never ever voluntarily speak to you ever again in my life. So that was good.

If anything the look was more of excitement and thankfully for me, one of I would much rather lick, snort or swallow the many possible illicit or otherwise substances on/in you right now rather than to announce it to the bar or the police standing there.  (Who I guess had fuelled this train of thought via my paranoia when rubbing my nose) 

I just remembered that. Slightly irrelevant.

But anyway, an ever-increasing vacant space was developing due to, as a Sony record executive would call it “A lack of cross over potential” or “A lack of star quality aspects”. She wasn’t for me, and the moment she laughed boisterously at something I actually wasn’t making a witty quip about and was being serious about I knew the bar was the next and only thing I wanted from anyone at that moment. Exit stage right.

So to go over, the moment things turn into an audition or in someway a struggle, or a battle of anything, besides equal or near equal wits, you’ve lost. Both of you, losers. Well mostly her.

Firstly, this is the first time where I’m not posting a page with the intention walking in and in a high pitch Spanish/Puerto Rican accent yelling “Housekeeping?!”

So it officially begins… Go me.

Okay enough self-aggrandising, for now.

What’s that all about? (The Hokey Pokey?),

Well this is me venting my spleen. Venting like the wind.

I was sick of going around, whether it be in person, or on the Internet and hearing the same things relentlessly.

Poor excuses, recycled unrealistic crap from movies, or just flat out confusion in general.

Confusion is sometimes granted I’ll give you when I talk, but these proceedings shouldn’t take place on almost all of the occasions I look for genuine discourse. 
Figuratively screw them! Yeah, Right on.

 

So basically rather than getting increasing tired of the habitually shitful input I figured I would much rather deliberate these feelings to/with the world, or at the very least myself, in greater a much greater concentration than I was before

These “Why I” articles are meant as sometimes misguided attempts to deal with or advise likeminded souls such as myself. Or just me.

Either way just read the shit and enjoy.

Nothing happens, but a lot goes on.

I'm still trying to figure this whole blog thing out really, but from what I can tell the good ones get to the point concisely and are interesting as a whole, format wise and conceptually.
So what I thought I'd say before I post properly is that preparing to write for me is just as important as the process of sitting down opening a bottle of stone's ginger wine and writing.
So is setting myself reasonable goals. Or goooooooals as the south american football commentators say.


This isn't a regular thing so speedy updates and opinions of the world via the twitterverse shall be and are expected to be moderately few and far between.
But in saying that, as a direct contradiction, you'll also be able to get what I'm trying to deal with, usually on a monthly basis.
Something something...insert menstrual joke here.


Note:- Need to work on better conclusions/endings.

Welcome/I am sorry

When I was younger, much younger than today... God what a cliched start.
The worst thing I was told you can do when speaking to people you don't know for the first time is to apologise. 

So...partly cause I'm a non-conformist, and partly cause I'm insufferable.

Sorry
If:-

-You've already had to deal with my shortening by the second attention span previously

-Disagree with or take major offence to anything I say

-Or if you don’t understand my writing, mien english ist fein. (Ich bin nicht deutsch)

If You can't deal with this, in the nicest possible I guess the undertone of what I’m trying to say is, to be honest, I couldn’t really give two shits about your difficulites regarding any of the above, so deal with it.

To introduce myself mi nombre es Tim or Benim adım Tim
the tjr screen name consists of my other initials (creative I know) of which I’m not telling you, mainly because as much as I’m an open person in just about every single way I can think of, this is just simply not one of those ways.

Plus it creates a kind of mystery don’t you think...? No. Ok, I thought not either.

By day I study design arts, have a semi practical Film & TV degree before that, work professionally "On Paper" doing various things including music, copywriting, production shenanigans, advertising & marketing tripe and by far the worse of them all, god awful free lance writing.
By night, I tire immensely of all of those at different points which has something to do with why I'm dropping major amounts of acid painting myself fuchsia and planning on listening to Pink Floyd writing now. 

At this point in my mind this blog is mainly an outlet for everything that I want to say to some and do say repeatedly in frustration to others, and despite filtering out the words fuck and cunt when getting my point across, others still do not deem appropriate. Oh yeah I should mention I don’t curse like a sailor, but like most Australians swearing is mainly a way of life and when used correctly is completely for comedic effect.
Unless you spill their drink.

I’m Australian yes, that’s right you heard it here first. Even though I have a dual citizenship because of being born somehow in Hawaii.
It makes sense, just don’t question it.

I’ve lived here almost all of my life and I’m patriotic enough to defend my country to others such as Americans (So myself?), but thankfully not so overboard patriotic that I would consider joining the armed services and doing a a low budget Australian version of Vincent D'Onforio's character in "Full Metal Jacket", or have a Southern Cross tattoo.
Yuck.