defining crazy

today's previous posts aren't in anyway supposed to be a testament to my superior and serene sanity or to infer that the pony i ride isn't looped on applejack most times i saddle up.

when you get down to it, i often engage in what 99% of the world would consider extreme craziness, with the emotional and physical s & m that is so central to my relationship being just the tip of my barmy iceberg. mostly, i share very little of what we do. years ago i tossed off a casual remark about a surprise stunt by the owner (he "broke in" while i was in the shower, scaring the daylights out of me, lol) and my dear loving friend said in all earnestness that i needed to set some boundaries. there i was, deer in the headlights, unwilling to explain our deal was "no limits". that mine had ceased to matter and we now only kept his as the border.

his authority being absolute is something else that would send my friends running for the butterfly net. "why can't you just tell him no?" yup-- heard that a time or two hundred. even on a forum where others purport to live within a similar framework, the bottoms seemingly get a pass whenever the wind blows up their whimsy. i don't feel well, i'm tired, i don't want to, all swing the power right their way, where as for me it may be offered as an explanation, but it will never be tolerated as an excuse. if he wants it and wants me in it, i do NOT get to opt out. ever. we don't compromise or negotiate. we. just. don't.

people look at us and remark how in love we seem, that they've never known a couple who laugh together as much, and i so often think "if they only knew!"

so while i most often engage in behaviors that many would consider on the extreme end of decidedly not normal it works for me and for us. the owner frequently crows about how happy he is and how good his life is, and when i'm not driving myself cuckoo about something or other, i allow myself a little pleasure in knowing i'm part of that.

what has this to do with the drum-banger, already, right?

she went on and on and ON about behaviors that impact her negatively and how she had determined to cut the shit and have her life on her terms. a few glasses of wine later, she was proving einstein's definition of insanity, and manically ping-ponging about for casual sex, which she claimed not to want, with a guy who clearly had other broads on the brain. double fail, there, girly.

she blurted out: "he doesn't think i'm pretty!" which nearly knocked us all out of the park. huh? i stoopidly asked/said, "he did not say that!" which only opened the bruised ego floodgates because his nonchalant rejection must mean that she was ugly. gaaah. nope. he fucked you once, so he found appeal, ok? that you text and call him incessantly since, however (a professional drummer who lives in ny, ffs, with whom she also had some sort of sex melt-down) only shows him the bunny in a stockpot in his future.

why are you making it our responsibility to make you feel validated about the lack of your own? this scene has played out before with this woman and i just won't take the bait anymore. cuz i'm not a nice person, go ahead, say it. she's also the one to toss off that i can't feel her pain because i have somebody, conveniently forgetting my long lonely struggles as "the other woman" and then the black hole of my abandonment. she may as well put her hands over her ears when i offer that i knowingly became involved with a married man and him trying to repair his legal union did not make him a jerk. i had only myself to blame for keeping myself no place i belonged.

a desperate woman smells like brand-new dogshit to a man and he will cross the street through high-speed traffic rather than step in it. instead of being in the moment, out with friends, who knows, maybe meeting a guy, she spent the night flagellating herself and only feeling worse about a dead end. a door that had closed as soon as she left his hotel months ago, k?

both the owner and our drummer friend offered that "she's not that bad." to be generous, i know that. the lowell paper is frequently full of angry chicks who take all sorts of pointy implements to men's tender bits, while the only one she harms is herself. over and over, like a cutter.

even as a masochist though, that strikes me as the definition of sadness. trying to force these guys to bend in ways they don't want, ignoring signals as big and bright as sky-flares and coming up empty EVERY time. they scream RED in your face and you just hear 'lalalala".

plenty of women succeed in sucking the life out of the man they claim to love and the men are complicit in the demolition. no matter how much i say it, and how much they see it, none of my friends will admit that the best way simply is to let him be. allow him to be the man he is and wants to be for you. amazing how quickly you can parse a bad fit, but you then also have to be willing to walk away, long before he runs from your kung-fu grip trying to salvage what's left of his balls.

it doesn't make you a bad person to walk and it's not the scent of failure that clings when a guy turns out not to be "the one."

we all make choices. she will not admit she chooses to be miserable. who's gonna tell her? i'm not that not nice, regardless of what you may think.