Oracle of Ambiguity

http://www.the-spearhead.com/2010/02/12/the-legend-of-truth/

 
Comment:
Name: Traveller
Email: Traveller@live.com
Web: www.gulliverstravels.com

All I could think about was how poorly written this article was, how it contained repetitive and annoying vocabulary,and flowed like some meaningless stream of conciousness that you were somehow hoping to draw meaning from (or at least give an impression of meaning that by confusing the reader with the vague details of your mind might do).

 
By cheating your readers, attempting to baffle or confuse without a clearly explained thought process (or any presentation of facts) you’re claiming we’re “thinking freely” because we’re confused and questioning things – you existentialist fool, making such trivial references to The Matrix and Alice in Wonderland. Rubbish. You are transparent.

 
Also, I was thinking your presentation might be better if the images had… more effort, so that one doesn’t have to click them to see the writing, and so that it doesn’t look like a kindergarten student’s first experiment with Microsoft Paint.

 
All I could think about was the overall poor presentation, and your inability to come across as likeable. You can’t force your audience to be interested by writing them that way, you have to actually impress. 1 star.

 
Would others like this comment if they could see it? Who knows, that’s for them to decide, you pseudo-intellectual ass. Take this criticism with a grain of salt, Oh Oracle of Ambiguity.

A Letter for You

Dear Fictional Customer,

We are writing in response to your many, many complaints which we have assessed to be very, very similar and unnecessary. We will address all issues; you need not reply, unless our shredding machine should hunger for more of your intimidation, manipulation, and unreasonable requests.

* You claim one or more of our staff were rude to you.

Now we can’t really put a price on that, as much as you think it’s worth $50 each time. We assume you will understand why we will notate the idiom that there is no smoke without fire, and whilst our staff may be emotionally inclined and motivated (much like yourself), they’ve controlled their language and voices far more than you ever will.

* You claim the time spent complaining to us has cost you valuable time and money.

When you call us. It costs us. It costs per hour to pay our staff, it costs us per minute for you to make that ‘toll free’ call, and it costs time that could be spent helping potentially hundreds of other customers in all the time we’ve spent dealing with your issues which you insist are more urgent and more important than theirs. Why, what have you done for us? You insist on taking our time. We did not ask you to complain, you chose to. It costs us each time you call us, it costs us each time we call you, it costs us to write you this very moment, and it costs us each time we give you ‘freebies’.

* You claim that other companies offer cheaper, better products. And ‘better’, customer service.

We are pleased to hear the market in today’s economy is so competitive! You have so many choices. Some of our things are more expensive, and some are cheaper. Some are worse, and some are better. It’s called differentiation, so we will not ‘match’ what anybody else is doing. You can take your money elsewhere, and next financial year we’ll make even more improvements to see if you’re worth winning back again. Which brings us to the next point…

* Your attitude indicates that if you ‘break even’, then we also ‘break even’ and you’ve refused to meet us ‘half way’ because of our ‘shitty’ service.

We don’t owe you anything. Even if we paid for 5 of your products you have broken, and even it was one hundred times as ‘shitty’ as you say it is, you haven’t paid a cent. So whilst you can threaten us that you’ll no longer deal with our company we can only say this: thank you.

We don’t want your money, it costs too much.

Sincerely,
One of the many people you’ve annoyed in your lifetime.

Epilogue: End of Rubbish Women – Garbage Day

The personal lessons learned from the last chapter:

Damn distance.
Damn trust.
Damn promises.
Damn neediness.
Damn loss.
Damn women.

I didn’t cry, and I didn’t seek help. I just demonised her, and all of womankind.

But, let’s level.

Individuals unfortunate enough to know me, also know that I’m nothing like the way I am in this series. I’m here to face my past, I’m here because I used to write FUNNY things. I’m here because I DO write FUNNY things but I just needed to finish this, I needed to ensure I was “over it”. I’m tired of AVOIDING this. You’ve listened to my side but what of theirs?

Their Story

Natasha – she wasn’t ready to defend me or stick by. Maybe she liked me, but her friends did not. We were kids.
Maria – held onto a lot of insecurity, and lied out of fear of rejection. She was sorry, and is married now.
Theresa – was an insecure compulsive liar, a breed of human I’d no idea how to deal with, I pity her current husband.

Gina – was never the most loyal person. I should have foreseen that she’d some growing up to do. She was sorry.
Chloe – was rightly too proud to be treated second best after so long. She accepted my apology but doesn’t talk to me much.
Cherish – didn’t know how to keep people liking her without her false stories. She was sorry, but couldn’t talk to me much after that.
Emily – never really liked me, I was just so damned lonely that her hugs left me infatuated.
Brittany – didn’t know what she wanted, and wasn’t accountable. She did try calling me once. I assume she was sorry.
Mel – Got scared, and found something familiar instead. It took 3 years to forgive her, we spoke briefly and quietly, then went separate ways in peace.

My blogs have been often exaggerated to highlight particular points about human behaviour and my reactions to it, adding a darkly cynical twist. Whilst based on real events, they do not reflect reality. Keep reading.

Prince Fucking Charming

I say they’re scum, and well, they are.  They’re ‘malicious, vindictive, sadistic and demonic psycho-über-bitches’ to quote a reader, or ‘disgustingly vague bad eggs’ to quote another. Even putting any personal circumstances aside, I can honestly say I don’t want to be with any of them. I know some people ‘fall’ fast, and have their ”Happily” Ever Afters together… They put aside all differences etc, but none were an ideal match. I should have rejected them all, I should have been more picky.

Natasha – aka Miss Rejection, I just wanted to comfort her when she was lonely.

Maria – aka Miss Lies, I just wanted to be a better guy to her than her last.

Theresa – aka Miss Manipulation, I was a sucker for her sob stories.

Gina – aka Miss Disloyal, the whole thing was about ‘comforting’ one another.

Chloe – aka Miss Unattainable, I was wrapped up in her flirting.

Cherish – aka Miss Doomed, I wanted to be a freaking hero.
Emily – aka Miss Cock-tease, I misread her kindness and liked it too much.

Brittany – aka Miss Miserable, I just wanted to cheer her up.

Mel – aka Miss Bipolar, oh fuck it… do you see the fucking pattern here?

Who did I think I was? Prince Fucking Charming answering to the calls of Damsels in Distress?

Reality

These people were all NEEDY AS FUCK, and/or CHARMING AS FUCK and once they didn’t need me anymore, that was it. They didn’t love me, they loved what I did for them. I didn’t love them, I loved attention.

You want an even bigger reveal? Try this:

2003 – Age 14, Year 9   Natasha lasts a few weeks. I move schools/towns at the end of the year.
2004 – Age 15, Year 10 No chance. No interests. No desire to be in a relationship.
2005 – Age 16, Year 11 Theresa dumped me in June, which triggered a clinical depression.

2006 – Age 17, Year 12 Main subplot: Gina. I move to the city at the end of the year.
2007 – Age 18.            Mel dumps me in June. My life starts getting better with single life.

See that? See how quickly I was dragged from one to the other? See how insignificant this all is? Good grief.

None of this has really changed me, it just made me less susceptible to emotional manipulation. More stable, more withdrawn. If you like me now, you’d have liked me then, too. But as I’d lived a fairly sheltered life, without much in the way of friends or media to warn me of such things… – well, if I’d had warnings I’d have listened, I was always as wise as I could be.

I’ve never read anything like what I’ve written here, which is why I’ve done this. I started writing these for myself, but I finished them for you. If I may self-indulge for a moment, here are some quotes from readers:

“A grim insight into the mind of a troubled and confused young man. 10/10″

“It’s like the diary of a psychotic aspie, the writing is brilliant; the content, troubling.”

“It’s like reading a really good Chris Ryan thriller except I’m in hysterics rather than excitement!”

“Adrian is God! A sympathetic, righteous God… So not really God at all.”

“I’m going to stick it out for the paperback release.”

“I added you so that I can get all the updates on your depressing, angry, woman-hating blogs.”

The Obvious

You’ll notice that I tended to base relationships almost on narcissism, “Wow! This person actually likes me! This person ACTUALLY LIKES ME! Fuck YES!”. I’d misinterpret flattery for my own attraction/affection toward others, sometimes due to loneliness. This is partly why I try not to flatter people, or show too much kindness.

As is the moral of a chapter: I should have based attraction on the actual person, not the idea of a relationship. I had to be READY for one yes, but not reliant on one, or reaching for one like these horrid creatures that pulled me in. I talk to plenty of people online, all across the globe, though I only hold a similar schema to those more local… Those like me. They’re not rubbish.

Sometimes opposites do attract, and I don’t think it’s necessary to have all the same interests or always agree on everything, but I think it helps to think about things in the same WAY. I know how to spot untrustworthy types, I know how to spot incompatibility or potentially dangerous women – though it’s fair to say I’m incompatible with most, and I’m relatively distrusting of all women, for reasons that may now seem particularly clear.

I know how to say “fuck off, you don’t love me you idiot, you’ve only known me a MONTH”, and, in the past few years I’ve had to, several times. It’s fine if people like me, but I have to KNOW them intimately AND like what I see before I can respond appropriately. I’d go on and describe myself if I could, but I don’t really know how, all I can say is that I’m decent – damned decent, I’m independent, I’m stable, I’m more than just a bunch of empty feel-good promises and there is at least one thing that none of these bitches have taken from me.

I genuinely think that if I had a female housemate I’d have to ENSURE they constantly brought other guys home just to prevent emotional complication. Maybe we DO fall for the ones we talk to most – so now it comes down to a choice, who the hell should I talk to most? Certainly none of the women you’ve read about here, or anyone like them. If I regularly talk to scum, I can either fight attachment or be burned by it.

I’m ‘too good’ for the bad, and ‘too bad’ for the good. I don’t want to be with some poor-taste Disney Princess who acts shocked by cursing, nor would I put up with some money-leeching nymphomaniac who refuses to respect my values. I’m Adrian fucking Snrub and I’ll not act like some sissy romantic boy just because daft women pretend to want one, nor will I fold to attempted manipulation of the character I’ve maintained from the very beginning. I’m a man damn it. I’m an entertainer, and a clever one at that. I’m ‘marriage material’. I’m me.

The Lesson

Frankly I was a MORON: noun = fool, idiot, berk, charlie, dope, ass, wally, twit, bonehead, chump, imbecile, airhead, dimwit, dickhead, schmuck, dolt, blockhead, pillock, halfwit, thicko, dumbass, gobshite, doofus, mental defective, fuckwit. In case one word didn’t get the message across, I’ve slapped myself about the face with Collins Thesaurus for you.

This documents the end of ‘rubbish’ women, I’ve ’taken out the trash’, this is finally Garbage Day. I’m the same brilliant person I always was, even if I act a little differently, or more cautiously. I’ve a better understanding of what I want, and what I don’t.

This blog is dedicated to someone who probably meant something:

Just because I’ve become extremely picky,

And I finally pick someone…

It doesn’t mean they’ll pick me back.
But it may reveal their lack of worth.

Whoever said “it’s better to have loved and lost, than to have never loved at all” lied.

Thank you for your time.

Chapter Twelve: How To Lose Your Fucking Mind

Previously:

She put her head in the sand,

When I damned well needed her.

People seem to only care about ‘the now’, the ‘gimme gimme gimme’, the ‘I want’, like children jumping up and down in a shopping centre, squealing their fat little faces red until they get their rubbish “Turbo Man” or whatever, to be thrown in the bin a week later. As these rotten scumbags become adults, they wonder why people want to punch their face daily, when it’s clear they’re such impulsive, inconsistent pieces of shit.

I no longer needed anybody, I’d definitely had enough and coiled in disgust and fear of anything vaguely ‘womanly’ being contagious… You know, ‘womanly things’ like irresponsible flattery, endorsed dishonesty, fickle feelings, attention-seeking lies, overuse and misuse of the word ‘love’, worrying vagueness, manipulative questioning, conflict-seeking blame, promoted disloyalty, two-faced bitchiness, passive-aggressive emotional attacks, and selfish snakelike decision making.

One beautiful voice whispered through the foul stinking muck of harlots, hussies and hoes, a rose amongst thorns who proclaimed “I won’t be womanly”, and indeed she wasn’t.

Mel was attractive; think of me with tits and slightly darker skin, but infinitely less disgusting. Infinitely.

She was into sports, writing, philosophy, self-discovery… She was level-headed, calm, upfront, generally honest person who didn’t care about sexuality one iota, didn’t seek physical compliments, nor was she too proud. She thought she looked ‘average’ and was just fine with that. She showed persistence, determination, despise for all things ‘womanly’, and a love of all films great. She’d interject and intervene when she had to, but also knew when it was time to silently listen. Never before had I felt so… safe. I never even fought with her, not once… Perhaps that was where we went wrong.

She wrote me wonderful letters of appreciation and adoration… A friendship that lasted a year, followed by a newer, closer relationship that had lasted a further 7 months. She was the fourth girl I’d known to express any interest in the idea of marriage, though sensible about the indication that she was keen to stick around, rather than look for whimsical circumstantial passing flings. Unfortunately my housemate Fabian Goobe talked to her, but even his uselessness and fucking stupidity seemed no threat to the wholesome relationship I had.

Everything seemed wonderful, but I was travelling to a country town on a work-related road trip for a week, calling her as regularly as I had always done, when I received a message from fucking nowhere: “I love you. But only as a friend. Please don’t hate me”.

I could no longer eat.

Panic and worry consumed me, what could I do? I did what any other decent man wouldn’t. I hurried home, I packed my bags, I put my job on hold to go and talk things out. Goobe claimed he was trying to help, though he’d have done better to put a bullet in his own brain. I didn’t need help, I needed closure. I needed to know what in the Hell was happening, and why it was happening to me.

My father said “Adrian, it won’t change anything.”

I’d never spoken so seriously in my life, “I know, but I’ve got to fucking try.”

I didn’t want to get dumped by some shitty text message. People had always told me that there’s very few things that are more “low”. So my flight arrived in Perth, and I saw her standing there. My Mel, yawning in her pyjamas. I hugged her… she hugged back. I kissed, she didn’t. I stopped. She lay sleepily on the couch, as I experienced the best hug of my life and asked her what was wrong. She didn’t say, she just looked at her phone which had some fucking jerk on the homepage.

She’d distanced herself from me long enough, to fall for someone else. She. Let. That. Happen. She made no eye contact, she asked me to leave. She left me at the bus stop, and didn’t turn to wave goodbye. Later another text would come: “The guy I said I had feelings for asked me out again today. I said yes. Do not bother me again. You’re not welcome here”.

I was crushed. It was the most expensive text message I’d ever received.

Floods of cruel text messages later informed me why she was gone, as I literally stood in the rain with nowhere to go. Apparently I was the clingy one. Apparently my ‘level of commitment’ frightened her. Well I’m fucking sorry for being a decent fucking guy. I’m sorry I responded so positively to YOUR declared devotion and attachment. I’m sorry I wanted to see you so fucking badly. I’m sorry that 7 months of commitment still left you untrustworthy.

I’m sorry you think I’m a bad person. I’m sorry you think I’ll physically bring you harm. Wait? What the fuck? No I’m NOT. Who are you kidding? Is that how you sleep at night you insensitive disloyal cunt? You wretched heartless beast? You unfaithful lying demon? What’s wrong with talking shit through? What’s wrong with dealing with YOUR decision properly, decently? What you DON’T see won’t fucking hurt YOU one bit, will it. Will it?!

You’ve turned my life into a God damn stage play, a shitty arty performance where the plot meanders until an awkward lumbering anti-climax. The guy doesn’t get the girl, the guy doesn’t get dead either, he just grieves for YEARS praying that nobody will lay a finger on him, that nobody will ever be given the chance to do this to him again. Is this what you came to see? Is this why you’ve been listening? I don’t blame you if you feel cheated.

Before you grow frustrated with yourself for simply reading my seemingly meaningless misogynistic ranting… Let me address you directly for one moment.

Dim lights…

Draw curtain…

Spotlight centre stage…

In this play called “Women Are Shit”, I find myself staring at the ground with a fixed frown upon my face, trying to hold back the anger until I stare at you with utmost hostility. I declare: “The story’s over. She’s gone. They’re all gone. Why would a guy like me want ‘love’ with such vermin? What’s the fucking lesson here aside from “women are lower than dogshit”? Just what in the Hell do you want from me? You can go now, but there’s one last thing I have to say.”

I’ve one final lesson on the tip of my tongue, if you’ll listen.

To those who won’t, goodbye.

Chapter Eleven: With Apologies To Chloe Part 2

Previously:

She betrayed years of friendship,

For some fucking dick.

I was in pain, I couldn’t be close to Gina anymore. I turned to Chloe and immediately knew that this must be what they call ‘rebounding’, though I didn’t bounce, I splattered in a big emotional mess.

I’d become accustomed to having a friend I could be affectionate with, and now that she was gone perhaps Chloe would fill that void. She flirted slightly, but I read too much into it. I tend to take these sorts of things a little too seriously, and taking anything seriously at all is odd for someone who casually jokes about cancer, suicide, and almost any inane/insensitive crap.

She stopped me in my tracks. She said the flirting was fine, but that it didn’t mean anything… Sure she’d had a crush on me for a very long time, but that my being obsessed with someone else RIGHT IN FRONT OF HER meant she had to move on… (and she had moved on, rather genuinely, and pursued some jackass that ended up cheating on her a while later. She’s now a different person).

Basically, I was too late. She rejected me. She wasn’t prepared to try and act upon her old hidden crush, or re-kindle any old flame.

I was very, very alone. My friend of one year, Mel, was there for me… But I’d do the mature thing and wait until I stabilised instead of rushing into anything like some infatuated idiot…

Find out how she de-stabilised your faithful antagonist in the final tale of neglect! “Chapter Twelve: How To Lose Your Fucking Mind” coming soon!

Chapter Ten: The Gina Convention Part 2

The lesson learned from last chapter:

Women are all bad eggs.
Disgustingly vague, bad eggs.
That is all.

They come packaged complete with: indecisiveness, manipulation, and free misery.*

*May contain large parts deemed harmful to everyone. Rationality and loyalty not included.

Please, convince me that the worst human on Earth isn’t a female? Somebody?

I now went back to Gina. I always went back to Gina, and she always came back to me. We never had a “falling apart” as we were generally quite wonderful to each other (until the end of this brief chapter, obviously). We freely dated other people but had some sort of attachment to one another. Now that I was free of other commitments, I was hers again. Commence vomiting in 3, 2, 1:

We were very different people who were very much in love, until she moved from Alaska, to Thailand. It would not be long until she’d forget about her “Crazy Australian”, due to the presence of her new ”Crazy German”.

Perhaps it was her new and exciting surroundings, or perhaps it was just her weak personality, but she was homesick and lonely. I comforted her… and she asked me to wait for her. I was more than willing. Then nothing. Nothing for ages.

Finally I hear from her friends that she’s FUCKING some German guy in Thailand. She’d talked to damned near everyone but me. She no longer needed me, I was discarded in the same way that a fat woman discards actual dietary advice, though I’m yet to see dietary advice cry like a bitch.

When she returned to Alaska, it was too late to get her back. I guess I wouldn’t have been so upset if she didn’t just leave me hanging with my pants down, like a regular David Carradine. I was in pain, and didn’t know where to turn. I couldn’t care for her anymore. I turned to Chloe and [end transmission]

To be continued.

Chapter Nine: Life’s a Britt

The lesson learned from the last chapter:

No matter how difficult it may be,
refuse yourself the ability to be “cock-teased”
by a woman, or any other alien species.

Love does not conquer all, it just kicks your conkers.

Now that I’d had enough of women being vague, manipulative creatures that expected me to be some kind of psychic with the ability to change reality – perhaps girls with a more forward approach would be appreciated.

Brittany was more forward than anyone else I’d ever known, advising me that I was “not too hard on the eye” and “incredibly funny” from the very first time she started speaking to me. I initially just ignored/barked against her for the first month, until the inevitable eventually occurred.

She might have lured me in with her “I’m sad about my ex” routine, her faux-ideals based around a more traditional time, her incessant compliments, or her frequent mention of her faith – which only served to gain the trust of a young idiot. When it came down to it, it was nice to be adored, and it was nice to be allowed to adore someone in return.

It was like tearing out the pages of a Jane Austen novel, and then dipping them in rich pungent perfumes. Foul attempts at poetry, disgusting displays of affection, and a ‘this will last forever’ attitude which started to rub off on me, until she changed her mind and put my fucking heart at ease with: “I don’t know why”.

Apparently she “couldn’t handle the long distance” of living in a city not too far away, and, for the first time ever, I was immediately furious. I entered rage and frustration instead of grief. Her irrationality was an attempt at keeping me on a string with which to drag me through miles of shit, and I was tired of forgiving and excusing such an act (as I had with previous heartless whores). She continued to not give reasons for her undeserved act of rejection, and bickering ensued.

As she continued to be vague about the status of our relationship, she started to act miserable and just ignored me in favour of computer games, or a nail polish, or Barbies or whatever the hell it is that girls like. Because of her childish whining, I’d continually waste my time trying to cheer her up. Eventually she cut all communication with me, seemingly while one of my friends was online to introduce himself to her and informing her that he was intoxicated. My archives indicate that she became bitchy, accused him of being me, expressed disappointment, and that is when our communication finally came to a close.

I drank with friends and proclaimed with dignity that “Brittomy Ridaall ish a fuckshun bish!” in celebration of this new-found freedom.

But who’s that lurking in the darkness, waiting to come out? See what happens when the trap door is opened in Chapter Ten. I’ll try to use less commas, if you like.