Enlightening Nonsense

In between her favorite pastime of constant cursing, Ogre has said that I am emotionally stingy. I was raised in a Jewish family, so I understand the stingy part, but “emotionally” stingy? In my defense, your honor, she told me she was 18. Oh wait, I’m mixing up my cases. From my perspective I am pretty open emotionally it just doesn’t tend to come in the form that she wants to hear it, and that is compliments.

She asked me, “Is this how you fuckin’ complimented—or rather, DIDN’T compliment—your past girlfriends?” I had to think about this for a minute. I never heard any past girlfriends complain because I often commented on their asses and admired their chests. “Yeah your ass looks fat in those jeans.” “I have to write a quick note to someone. Bring your chest over here, being it is flat as a board.” I was always mindful to be ready to dodge projectile glassware or furniture after my comments but I didn’t think I was being “emotionally stingy.”

"Don't hit me anymore! I'm seeing the word "fotolia" everywhere now!"

“You look beautiful in that dress.” “You look so thin I was thinking of calling the Anorexic Hotline!” “Your new bikini wax takes at least ten years off your pussy.” Sure, most people like to hear how youthful their vagina appears. I get it. But because my perspective on Who We Are has shifted from the inside, most of what others consider “compliments” I just see as ego reinforcement and I’m not in the delusion game. And I am not an enabler. If you are an alcoholic, all glory to you. Drink and drive and kill for all I care. Just don’t ask me to buy you a drink!

If someone says to me, “Your dog is beautiful,” the “proper” social response would be to say, “Oh, thank you.” Since I am not trapped by social graces, perhaps one could even call me “socially stingy,” I don’t respond this way. “Although I did have sex with a few girls I would call ‘dogs’ in my day, I assure you I contributed nothing to the genetic make-up of my canine companions looks.”

Break it down and it almost becomes bizarre. It is as if I am walking with a vanilla ice-cream cone and some stranger says, “I like vanilla ice-cream,” and I respond, “Thank you.” That would require that I have some investment in vanilla ice-cream. Perhaps I created the flavor because I figured even boring people needed a favorite flavor and the so-called compliment giver is telling me that he appreciates me looking out for the oft-neglected dull. But I have nothing to do with vanilla ice-cream besides I’m holding a goddamn cone of it! And why the hell do I care to hear your dumb ass opinion or comment on what it is I am holding or wearing or doing or saying? Answer: I don’t. Action: Shut the fuck up.

You are not your body. So if I comment on your body, it has little to do with Who You Are. If I say, “Your breasts are very large,” that is not really a compliment, per se; more an observation. “Thank you,” as a response means not only that you are a breasty whore but that your identification with your breasts is so complete that you will funnel every commentary into your Willy Wonka magic machine to make it come out appearing like a chocolate covered compliment to you. But a comment wrapped in chocolate, although not dull, doesn’t change the comment inside to be anything other than that oozy cherry nastiness that you bite into in the chocolate variety box and think, “One out of eighteen chances and I picked this crap? Weak!”

Life is like a box of chocolates and you chose that crappy cherry-filled one!

The other day in the subway I saw some young dude wearing a wooden assault rifle pendant around his neck. When I asked him why, he told me because he liked it; I made a mental note to buy a wooden vanilla ice-cream cone pendant for myself. I said, “I’ve never seen anyone wearing something like that.” He said, “Thanks,” and I almost went into one of my rants on Comments vs. Compliments and how wearing a model of a gun around his neck perfectly complemented his wearing his pants down below his ass for the “I’m a dumb ghetto bitch” look, but it was about 6:30 in the morning and I don’t come into my full douchery until around 7:30.

Ogre, as well as many women, is very body-centric. If her body gains a little weight, due to hormones or Ben & Jerry’s, she identifies not only her body, but herself, as being fat. I have found myself in many a difficult situation with her asking me, “Do I look fat?” and me having to lie and say, “No, not at all, honey,” when what I really want to say is, “You are NOT your body so don’t ask me such a moronic question, fatty!”

As difficult as I have found to navigate in the minefield of social complimentary, I have come to understand the rules of engagement and can diffuse many bombs before they blow up and take with it one of my limbs. With Ogre, if she is wearing a dress or outfit I haven’t seen, I am “supposed” to say something like, “Wow, that’s a nice dress”—which to me is not a compliment but commentary and a personal opinion at that which, based on my lack of personal style, means little—and she’ll glow a bright pink and tell me some tedious story about where she found this dress and how much she spent on it and how she wasn’t sure if she should buy it but then “What the hell. I said, ‘I deserve it’ and so I bought the fuckin’ thing and not a day goes by that I am not fuckin’ glad I did. But do you think they go with these shoes? I have another pair that fuckin’ rocks!” to which the whole saga continues until I wish I had a wooden gun around my neck with which to shoot her and run away, only to trip on my down-below-my-ass pants.

The dumb ghetto bitch look

Ogre had just picked up her dog, Boar, and her friend’s dog, Dolma, after boarding them for 2-weeks with the girl from Connecticut who takes care of Abandon when I am away. Boar is up there in years. I think in human years he comes to…uh, carry the 3…divide by 2—something like 1,050 years old. As a result of his age, just like an old man in a nursing home, he can’t seem to hold his shit and piss so easily. Unlike an old man in a nursing home, he doesn’t wear an adult diaper. This results in Ogre walking him four times a day. This can be tiring and tedious for her, especially when she goes out for the day and has to think about getting back home just to walk the incontinent bastard.

Another thing that Boar does is constantly howl. It appears to be an attempt for attention. As he is a little deaf, it seems to me also his way to hear his own voice in order to get his bearings, kind of like a bat sending out sonar. In dog philosophy terms, “I bark, therefore I am.” This can be extremely annoying and has resulted in Ogre losing her shit often at the crooning Boar—and Ogre doesn’t wear an adult diaper either.

Ogre, a professional photographer, had just had an all-day photo shoot the day before. The drive to and from Connecticut took her 6 ½ hours and combined with the realization that the Maniacal Moaner was back from vacation in Tic Central where he had to have a few embedded and engorged tics plucked off his body, by the time she got to me she was a little moody. Needless to say, I was completely insensitive to her heightened state of need and my idiocy only added to her angst.

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I’m in Florida visiting my parents for the week and taking a break from the arctic temperatures of New York City, where it’s gotten so cold that I put Abandon’s leash in her mouth and say, “You’re on your own, kid. Go out for an hour or so and buzz the apartment when you come back.” At one time I gave Abandon a key to the apartment but she kept sneaking home in the middle of the night with strays and so I took away her key privileges.

As annoying as I can find my parents to be, one would think to remain in close proximity to them for a whole week straight would clearly make me a candidate for admission into Bellevue. But, surprisingly, we tend to get along pretty well while I am here. Perhaps it is because I am usually somewhat comatose from all the all-you-can-eat buffets in which we partake. I kid you not, last year I pointed out to my parents, “Do you realize that in the last five days we have eaten four times at all-you-can-eat buffets?” We all laughed as we hopped into the car and headed for the next buffet.

"Just give me one good reason why playing with one's own feces is wrong!"

In past year visits, my menstrual cycle used to sync up with my Mom’s. Now that she’s hit menopause, I’m the only bloody vag in the house. It wasn’t until her hemorrhoids got infected that we were able to share in the mother-son bloody orifice bonding once again.

I also thought this trip would be a good opportunity to get some distance from Ogre and her assembly line curse mouth [See “Potty Mouth” at http://rebelyogi.com/potty-mouth], as I have found myself cursing a lot more since spending more around her. For instance, when I first met her I used to lovingly gaze into her eyes and say, “Would you like to join me in the bedroom and make love?” After three weeks of her barking at me to, “Get your flat ass into the bedroom and fuck my ass ‘til it bleeds!” I find the form of my invitation has changed dramatically to something like, “You fat bitch, I’m going to treat you like the whore you are!”

Even the loving gaze foreplay has changed to a wad of phlegm spit into her face and dragging her by the hair into the bathroom, where I tell her, “I’m taking you to the bathroom because that is where a piece of shit like you belongs!” So I had hoped this week away from my ghetto girl would help me to reacquaint myself with my feminine nature once again.

When my parents picked me up at the airport, the first words out of my mouth were, “What’s up, fuckfaces? ‘Bout time you bitches arrived.” Needless to say, I needed this weeklong detox from depravation.

"Serenity now. Serenity now..."

Because Ogre is excited about our new relationship, she has spent as much time as she can with me over the past three weeks. I was excited until she surgically removed my testicles and put them in a jar with formaldehyde which she takes down whenever I challenge her in anyway to remind me of who wears the jockstrap in this relationship, such as if I say something like, “Honey, can we take a break from Angelica’s for one night and go for Thai food?”

But as much as I like having someone emasculate me on a regular basis, I have been depriving myself of my alone time and blowing off the quiet activities, such as meditation and walking Abandon, that keep me sane. Not to mention that toilet training Abandon was, in Ogre’s language, “a fuckin’ shitload of mother fuckin’ work!”

So while in Florida, in between gorging myself with gluttony, I have time to meditate, listen to spiritual discourses and go for jogs and imagine the girl who boards Abandon for me walking her and pick up women at the local watering holes and ask them, “Is it okay if I gaze into your eyes and don’t treat you like a whore?” And I’ve also had a lot of tie to reflect. And what I have reflected upon is not so pretty and I am not only referring to when I reflect upon the time I fucked a fatty.

I have come to a pretty high state of awareness and was finding myself being pulled from the bondage of worldly affairs, such as sex, making money and personal hygiene. Meeting Ogre started to pull me back into the world and soon I started exploring sex again and stupid arguments equivalent to toothpaste cap tantrums and found my behavior somewhat deplorable.

A good Columbine never hurt anyone.

They say that those who don’t love themselves can’t love another. It is not that I don’t love myself, as I realize my Self not to be my body, thoughts, feelings or even my bad behavior and so the fact that I have let my body go to shit, think about going to Columbine High School and shooting up the students and act like a complete douche doesn’t change my love for the me beyond all the veils. But my behavior, while at times can be thoughtful and even deep, seems mostly to reside in the range of mean to abusive, with a dollop of pain-in-the-ass to make it that much more unbearable. If I were dating myself, I’d take a Louisville Slugger and swing for the bleachers towards the back of my skull and crack it like a piñata; I find myself almost unbearable.

I wonder whether Ogre is some saint that the Catholic Church will indoctrinate as soon as they find the time in between molesting children or a pathetic masochist who subjects herself to the abuse of a dickwad for reasons that would leave Einstein and Edison scratching their heads and declaring that physics and electricity were far simpler abstractions. But more than wondering why she puts up with my bullshit, I wonder if I can free myself from my behavior’s clutches.

I’m not saying Ogre is free of being an annoying bitch herself but regardless of her hormonal tidal waves of abuse, all I can control is my own behavior. Or can I?

They say one of the nicest compliments you can give someone is: “I want to be a better person for you.” The second nicest compliment being: “Your tits are, like, sooo hot!” I don’t really care about doing anything for anyone else, be it a grandmother struggling to cross the road or an altar boy with a Vaseline-prepped asshole. Let the old bag get hit by a car; let the altar boy have his first taste of true Christianity for all I care.

"500 points for a granny with a shopping bag!"

I want to be the expression of my Self that I want to be—not for my parents, not for my alma mater, not for my partner—but for me. To be some cartoon character painted by the hand of past conditioning at an art school that either paints within the lines of convention or intentionally paints outside of the lines in order to project a sense of individuality—which is nothing other than conformity into the “out of the lines” group of artists—is to be a slave to the artists hand, whose whip of control is in the form of a paintbrush. And while it is easiest for us all to blame another artist for “making” us who we are, there comes a point where we have to jump off the page and draw new lines to destroy the old definitions—not only of ourselves but of what is possible.

I don’t know if Ogre and I will ever work out the challenges in our new relationship or whether we will part ways and wish the other a good “Fuck off and die!” I don’t know whether I have come to a point where I can no longer share an intimate relationship with another and attempting to do so is just trying to shove a round cock into a square asshole. But I do know that continuing to watch this jerk and his behavior is growing tiring even to the Witness who watches without judgment. He’s ready to change the channel and at this point even Jersey Shore is starting to look good.

Jersey Douches