Friday, February 19, 2010

I've been hiding away from blogland for a little.

It's been a combo of things. An incredibly packed schedule leaving me dragging my ass to bed at 2AM a couple days in a row, emotional upheaval due to GV8 and my conflicting desires (and fears), and a comment that left me in a bit of a rage for a little under twenty-four hours... which is odd. It's rare for me to stay angry for that long.

But I could not bring myself to come in here and write with that rage weighing on my brain.

So I waited it out. Still irritated, but less prone to snapping.

I've got a few pet peeves.

1. Littering
2. Tailgating
3. Being Pedestaled
4. Being white-knighted
5. Ego- or ethnocentrism
6. People who aren't aware of personal space or their own physical boundaries. This isn't World of Warcraft, kids, I can't walk through you if you're standing in the doorway.

I actually do not know which I find more offensive, being pedestaled or being white-knighted. Both of them are incredibly demeaning, white-knighting for its lack of respect for a person's values and desires (among so many other things that I really don't have the focus to write about at the moment), pedestaling because one isn't being viewed as a complete person. You're being loved (or lusted after) because you're being idealized. Because someone doesn't know, doesn't get, the fullness of you as a person.

Some girls like being pedestaled, so it could be argued that a person pedestaling them does, in fact, understand them, see them as a full person, so well that they are fulfilling the object of their love's desires by pedestaling them.

However, being pedestaled creeps me out. It reminds me of religious fantasism, makes me feel like I no longer exist as an individual but, instead, have being a minor sum of a person's interpretations of who they see me as being, who they want me to be.

And who I actually am... discarded. Insignificant. Minor details.

It's not a matter of disliking myself so I end up distrusting those who would adore me, but a matter of needing to be understood. And anyone who would adore me, who would place me on high, does not understand me.

Much like when I receive emails from men who would read my other blog (and the occasional one from this blog) telling me that I was the girl for them, that I understood them, that they were perfect for me, that they would understand me better than anyone else, that we should run away together, be soul mates, etc.

Anyone who would send me an email like that... doesn't understand me at all. On an epic level.

Those emails make me about as uncomfortable as when my platonic guy friends try to shift into dating me, and I end up scrambling to put a stop on their intentions without embarassing them by showing them that I know very well what they're trying to do, that I've seen it so many times, and I'm simply not interested... but I can't let them know. It becomes this sad little vaguely choreographed number of me dancing out of the way, deflecting interested queries, dodging lips because "ooh, look at that!" or "omg, I haven't see him in forever, BRB!" or whatever childish number I have to play to preserve their ego and, ultimately, our friendship. Sexual pushes are telegraphed before they even execute them, I play innocent.

And wait and hope.
And wait and hope.
And wait and hope.

That they'll become distracted by another girl.
That they'll start reading my body language and the signs and back off, feeling relieved that they did not actually ask me out or try to steal a kiss (and that, if they did, that I didn't notice because I suddenly became "distracted" by something).

Or that, for the ones that can't contain themselves, that they'll push past a boundary of mine and I can drop all pretenses of politeness and respect, and show them what happens when they try for the passive-aggressive sexuality of a Nice Guy with a girl who has played this game before and always wins.

If you can counting "winning" as watching one of your friends change from friendly and caring to desperate and disrespectful, discarding friendship and shared history for the chance, the freaking chance, to either a)hit that or b)forcefully sweep you off your feet into an emotionally one-sided relationship.

Lust overpowering simple respect.
Overpowering boundaries.

You'd think it would be good for a girl's ego, but you'd be wrong.

It makes you feel like an object, in a way. And not the fun, being objectified, whip-me-beat-me-spank-me-make-me-write-bad-checks way.

You get objectified when your objections cease to matter. His personality drops away, the easygoing behavior, the friendship- all discarded. Traded in, really. While he converts to desperate animal brain in a lycanoid shift, you become the prey. He doesn't remember why he wants you, only that he does.

Object of the hunt.

It makes me feel like I'm in a straitjacket.

Which is how I usually feel when my words cease to matter. When, not only am I not being listened to, but someone is taking action around me, involving me in their plans and ideals without actually caring about my plans and ideals.

An object. An object they've idealized.

An idol? When people impress upon you their desires, and tell themselves that, really, you're the one that wanted a goat sacrificed at your feet. That you needed those virgins. That you'd have supported Bob"s theft of his neighbor's wife.

What was that movie, when there were two opposing sides shouting "God wills it!" at each other in a frantic frenzy?

This is what you want. You know this is what you want because someone has told you so.

And they know what you want because they've constructed an image of you based on their intrepetations of your words and actions, not verifying, unless it is to confirm their own ideas.

You're reconstructed.

The You? The Version 1.0? Not so much.

You're a doll now. They pull your string and the words they've recorded themselves play back at them. Trapped inside, they position you, they move you, and in their mind they make love to you until you're moaning their name.

The girl that Jack built.


  1. I wouldn't put you on a pedestal, per se. I'd possibly chain or tie you to it. As for the white night thing... yeah, not so much.... But I might wear armor while chaining (I have to go with chaining... I like metal) you to the pedestal....

  2. How about a short pedastal? A stool really.

  3. my favourite is being an asshole to the douchebags. then they're all "give me back my pedestal, you bitch!" and i say "oh, was that footstool yours? it's not my colour."

    then i burp loudly, and walk away. sadly, this does not change them, but fortunately, i feel no compunction to do so.

    excellent slamming of douchebaggery, mz poetry. hopefully, whoever it was intended for understood the message.

  4. Jeez, Poetry, you dedicated a whole posting to me. I'm honored.


    You're extraordinarily intelligent, and so it's easy for you to create different online personalities. Let me discuss two.

    One is that you're a sexual bully. You were a bully with SFPlayboy and, probably, a bully with your platonic menfriends. You tease men, you make them want you, and then you drive a stake through their testicles. No big deal as far as I'm concerned. For all I know, they deserve it.

    Your other personality is "the victim."

    You were your father's victim, your high school teacher's victim, your college 18- to 30-year old classmates' victim, your first lover's victim, and GV8's victim. The result? You hate yourself, you say. You attempted suicide shortly before you went to your high school prom. You often wished you were dead.

    I believed your "victim" persona.

    Now, put yourself in my place. What's a reasonable response to someone who has a "victim" persona? C'mon. It's an easy question.

    The reasonable response is to reject the "victim's" self-assessment. That's what I resolved to do, and here's what I wanted you to know.

    I wanted you to know that you are important. I wanted you to know that you are a good and worthy person. I wanted you to stop trying to kill yourself. I wanted you to start believing in yourself.

    Unfortunately, I overshot the mark.

    Please go back and examine what I've written in your blog. You'll find that I never tried to find out where you live. I never told you I loved you. I never intended to communicate that I wanted sex with you or even to kiss you (except, perhaps, through a little harmless flirting).

    In any event, none of those things was going to happen. That needs to be made perfectly clear. Nothing was going to happen. Not even if you wanted it to.

    You made me laugh when you turned the definition of sexual "objectification" inside out. As you use the word, "objectification" doesn't mean turning women into sex objects. (That's what GV8 does.) No, "objectification," in your view, means respecting women as human beings and treating them well.

    That's wrong, Poetry.

    According to you, my worst sin is not understanding you. Maybe it's true, but I think I've done real well. I've known you two or three weeks and only through your weblog. If I really don't know you, then it's because you play games.

    This is the internet, after all. It's where you can be whomever you want to be. It's where it's easy to play at having blue eyes, at being compassionate and courageous, and at being beautiful and desirable.

    Still, if you accuse me of misunderstanding you while you're playing games, then it's only fair that I accuse you of misunderstanding me while I'm not.

    Your posting makes me into an Ayatolla Khomeini, women's public enemy number one. For what? For thinking you're intelligent, compassionate, and courageous? For posting on your blog? Give. Me. A. Break.

    Anyway, I gladly declare you the winner of the game I didn't know I was playing.

    Here's wishing you well, Poetry. I still mean that.

  5. Savage,

    Aw, you say the sweetest things.


    What about a little black leather ottoman? I could totally go for one of those.


    Heheh, the angry wrenching away of footstools is amusing, but also kind of sad. Extreme emotional reactions, swinging left to right... makes me feel bad for them. It wasn't directed at any one person, though the people I was thinking of when I was referencing it are those who don't know about this blog.



    Rather, wow. While I will gladly admit that your sexually egocentric comment sent me into a bit of a disappointed rage (though I decided not to respond to it because there's way too much for me to say on that topic), this post was not for you, about you, or pointed in your general direction. If you look at the tags, you'll see one that says "Redding". If you click on that tag, you'll find a small series of posts about this particular male and how he pedestaled me and then tried to Nice Guy me. There's also reference to another person, though I don't have a pseudonym for him yet, who is giving me constant problems in the way that he keeps trying to shift our platonic friendship into a relationship and isn't taking "no" for an answer.

    As for the rest of your comment, you can believe whatever you want to about me. That's fine. All you have to go off of is text on a screen.

    But do not think that just because you disapprove of GV8 you can continue to insult him. That man is more dear to me than any other, and every time you attempt to degrade him you only succeed in degrading yourself.

    I'm sorry you thought this post was about you and reacted in such a way. We very obviously live in two different worlds with two different value systems... but you do not respect mine, and this comment showed that to me much too clearly.

    I wish you well, Rider, and hope that, in the future, when you encounter those who might treat life differently than you do, you respect them.

  6. Poetry. Re: your list of peeves.

    #2 is very Beta
    #6 is very Alpha

    But I agree with you. Both are murderously annoying.

  7. It's been a while since I stopped by.

    I relate to your pedestal-ization, and wonder what it is that causes this. What causes the complexity to be smoothed into a kind of ivory, into something that is no longer you but other things, like fences; other things, like safety or the desire to save or warmth in the winter or a mother figure.

    I am often put on a pedestal, and when I reject the pedestal, I am villiainized. This is a common thread in most of my relationships, so I have taken to thinking about it lately. Trying to reconcile it. I think that there are parts of me that give until they are empty. That want to cure every persons pain, even if it means there will be nothing left inside of me. Then there is part of me that seeks solitude, away from the burden of that giving. A part of me that wants to fly. And then there is part of me that wants to take, or to be overpowered by pleasure. There is a part of me that is untraditional when it comes to love. That believes in love in all corners of the world. simultaneously.

    These parts of me are hard to reconcile. But it's easy to lay out the pieces, to select the details needed to create the hero and the ones needed to create the villian. The Disneyfication.

    Sorry for rambling. I've been away for too long and can't sleep and wanted to share my thoughts, because I wonder if the many sides of you also play into this formula.

    As for your waiting and hoping, however, I think a direct "no" will do. You don't need to hang in suspension, waiting for the swing of a punch, or someone else to distract the boxer. You can prevent the punch by saying you're just not that into it.

  8. You can't be friends with boys, sex always gets in the way.

  9. Phoenixism,

    How is tail-gating beta, exactly? I can see a few different ways, but I'm curious as to why you think so.


    I'm glad you stopped by, I always love your comments.

    It seems, so often, that these men latch onto certain characteristics over and over again. They do love that dichotomy, the internal conflict is like catnip. You're a villain, but you're waiting to be saved, waiting for someone to see the good in you, to be kissed out of your hundred year sleep. Women try to change the bad boy. Men try to save the princess that was cursed by the evil fairy of experience.

    I really don't think it's about us. I think it's about them, what they desire. We simply supply the ingredients they need and they whip something up in order to satisfy those subconscious cravings.

    I've done some direct "no"s in the last year or so. It hasn't gone well at all.

    Please feel free to ramble any time. We seem to have similar parts.


    Since most of my friends are male, and most of those I've never touched in a sexual way, I'll have to continue to disagree.