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.