Men: A Rant that’s the Opposite of a Love Letter

There are so many different types of men in this world and I’m pretty sure I’ve met most of them.

You have the ones that are searching for a mother – not a girlfriend – a mother. As if any woman wants to have children with a child. Come on now.

Then you have the ones who have no idea what they want and seem so incapable of love that us woman have this undying need to try and break them. Yeah, we’re stupid creatures at times.

Then you have the ones who are natural born Casanova’s. Those ones are definitely fun to flirt with. However, knowing that my man is “wooing” every other pair of tits in the place is rather unsettling.

Then you have ones that are just too good to be true, and more often than not, they are too good to be true.

Then you have the ones that are so utterly annoying that you just want to throw them through a window.

Then you have the ones that have been in the same routine for so long that they cannot and will not break out of it – even if it is in their best interest. That generally applies to the much older men. While I have no desire to date a much older man, I know a few women who find older men intriguing. Personally, I want my man to be able to “perform” for longer than a couple years. That was harsh, but that’s a harsh reality when dating older men.

Then you have the ones who are so scarred that they no longer have a desire to get close to another woman again. I can understand that, I’m sure everyone can. Scars can run rather deep, but there comes a time when self-destruction must come to an end and forgiveness must be had.

Then you have the ones who do not know what they have until it’s gone.  Those ones are my favourite. They’ve certainly taught me to really get to know a person before I kick them to the curb.

Then you have the mentally and physically abusive ones. Part of me feels sorry for them. They’re so out of control of their own lives that they prey on women whom they can control. It’s sad and pathetic and any other word that means something similar to the previously mentioned words.

Then you have the “druggies” who are more in love with their altered state of mind than they ever could be with a woman.

Then you have the shy, quiet ones who are TOO difficult to read. Some women like them like that – personally, shy guys just irritate me. If you want something, GO FOR IT!  Don’t sit around and wait for everything to come to you. If they’re like that with women, I can only imagine what they’d be like in every other aspect of life.

Oh, then you have the “mama’s boys”. Sure, it’s cute and respectable, BUT it can become a problem when the mother starts to interfere in the relationship. Mind your own business, woman! You’re obviously going to take your sons side on this, so butt out!

Then you have the ones who are convinced they know everything. Yes, I joke that I know everything but I know damn well I don’t. Honestly, if he thinks he’s that smart, then he should make use of this uncanny intelligence and make lots of money and take me on a lot of trips .

Oh, then you have the ones that are DEFINITELY gay but have yet to come out of the closet. I’m not sure whether or not to be insulted or complimente. Come out already.  You’re not fooling anyone!

Then you have the ones who think they’re so high above the rest of the world when it comes to looks that they think they have a right to treat people like shit. Please, when will people realize that looks only last so long, and when someone’s a complete jerk it actually makes them appear physically ugly. Well, to me anyway.

Then you have the ones who want to transform you into the “perfect woman”. I’m not 5′10. I don’t wear belly tops and I do not want red, purple, blonde, green, auburn, etc hair! I’m perfect the way I am thank you very much!

Then you have the cheaters. Thank god for a woman’s intuition. Men, one thing you need to realize is that a woman generally knows when you’re out sneaking around on her. She may not have proof but if the feeling is strong enough she WILL find some! I assure you of this.

Then you have the ones with the “only child” syndrome. Wow, those ones make me laugh. You never realize how much having siblings prepares you for life until you meet someone who’s never had that experience.

Then you have the ones who couldn’t grow a back bone if their life depended on it. If I’m in a bad mood and saying things I shouldn’t be saying, I deserve to be told off! Granted, I shouldn’t be saying those things in the first place.

Then you have the stereotypical man who is COMPLETELY incapable of talking about his feelings. ARGH! COMMUNICATION is the foundation of ANY relationship regardless of whether or not it’s romantic. I could go on but I’ll stop this rant here. I should make a list about the different types of women. Yes, I’m bitching about men, but trust me, I don’t envy males in any way. Us woman can be EXTREMELY difficult at times. Don’t worry, I didn’t forget about that but that’s a note for another day

- Anonymous author

You’re in the Classroom, Again

You’re in the Classroom, Again. 
by Ian Koontz  

Imagine owning a car. Your very own anything, be it a Honda, a Ford, or even a 1985 Pontiac that has seen more road than Jesus, Lance Armstrong, and Frodo Baggins combined. You’re driving down a street, one that leads to your home. You’re distraught, having just left some kind of meeting that has left your mind feeling raped. The facts and figures, and just the general feeling of shame, have slipped into your mind, forcefully, and are now expecting to be understood. They need you to play with them, to sympathize with them, to make them feel at home. Imagine. And as you’re trying your hardest to give these interlopers some room, some sort of corner in your mind, you rear-end the car in front of you. 
   

Imagine that the car in front of you was a shiny new something, a something whose tires cost more than your entire car. Well now, all those thoughts that were bothering you, raping your mind, take a back seat to a general feeling of, “Fuck I want to die.” You get out of your car, your Honda, your Ford, your 1985 Pontiac that has refused to start so many times that you’re surprised when it takes less than 10 minutes to get it going. You look at the guy stepping out of his more than adequate piece of machinery, his well groomed face sends out signals of frustration, frustration you’re responsible for, frustration that is bound to find its way flying at you in the form of foul language and mean looks. First thing, you apologize. Or:
   

“Hey there. My name is Charlie/Christine and this is exactly the kind of thing that shows one that he can’t ever have enough insurance. How about we go over some of the plans I have in my car. Maybe we can find something for you.” Here he realizes that you’re an insurance salesman or woman, and hates you even more. He starts screaming at you about being inconsiderate and just plain stupid. You explain, “Sir, I’m just doing my job, is all. It is not my intention to force you to buy any of this, I am simply letting you know about your option.” But somehow he can’t get over the fact that you just hit his car. He keeps going on and on about how it’s going to cost him a fortune to have it fixed, how he’ll be paying this off for as long as he lives, and of course he blames you for it. He rationalizes that because his car insurance will cost him a fortune, and you provide insurance, it is your fault; oh and also, you did hit his car.         
   

It is at that moment that you’re roused back to the classroom, where Nicole utters the following words, in the stated order, “Excuse me, I have to use the washroom.” She speaks them clearly, projecting her voice so that everyone, including that kid who always keeps one earphone in his left ear, can hear. She makes her way to the door, opens it, and exits, all with the grace befitting an awkwardly formed duck. You are left in awe of her less-than graceful exit, and wonder if there are mothers who clench their children the way Nicole clenches her laptop, ever protective and watchful. You envy her love for that thing, and wish that you knew such feelings, you imagine yourself a parent.                    
   

Imagine owning a kid. Your very own anything, be it a two-year-old, a teenager, or even a twenty-something who’s more apathetic than a tenured professor, a well-fed cat, and a pile of rocks combined. He or she lives in your basement, sleeps, and once in a while masturbates. You have friends who have children. Children who happen to be the same age as your child. They talk of them, elaborating on their successes. Yes, they all have children who live full lives. Children who wish themselves super-heroes, and despite not being, save countless lives with their math, English, and/or business skills. Like, “Did you know that my Sarah got a promotion last week. Yeah, she figured out how to save her boss a thousand dollars a week. She didn’t mention how, but I’m sure it was something that will benefit the environment.” Or, “My Simon pulled three people out of the fire yesterday, well figuratively speaking. Yeah, he got them loans they needed badly; loans to buy a miniature motorcycle, a build-your-own-boat kit, and a pool-table/bed combo they always wanted.” 
   

Imagine them asking you about your twenty-something. “What has he or she done lately?” they inquire. You explain that he or she has done a little bit of this and a little bit of that, “You know.” You explain that unlike Sarah or Simon, you child is still finding him or herself. That his or her lack of interest is due to a prolonged stay in the various educational institutions that seem to think that their job is to weed beauty out of all possible subjects. But you can’t help feeling a little uneasy knowing that both Sarah and Simon attended these very same institutions, and yet they are leading full lives. You realize that you’re simply making excuses and that your child is broken in one way or another. You interrupt his or her afternoon nap. You hug him or her, and say that everything will be alright. That whatever problem they’ve got you’ll fix, and just like Nicole, you make your way out of the room. 
   

Here, once again, you are roused back to the classroom, where Nicole has just entered, laptop in hand. You wonder how long that took, whether it was five or maybe twenty-five minutes. She works her way to her desk, with the same grace as before. She sits down and folds open her laptop. She proceeds to interact with it, using her fingers to move the mouse pointer around, and occasionally typing in a word or two – into search engines presumably. This she does with astonishing grace, a grace so astonishing that it makes you question her earlier performance. Is it that she’s compromised her ability to walk so that she may engage her computer with the skills of a veteran? You’re not sure. You can’t decide whether to slip into another daydream or continue observing Nicole – paying attention to the professor hasn’t crossed your mind. He or she is simply repeating whatever was read, it’s much like listening to a book on tape after having just read the book. You decided to talk to Nicole. 
   

Imagine getting up and walking over, sitting next to her. You ask how she’s doing, and explain that you are bored. She barely notices you, as she’s browsing various websites at once, websites with questionable content – nothing pornographic though, not with pictures anyway. You ask her what she’s looking at. She says it’s nothing, just something she had written recently. You ask what it’s about. She says it’s about super heroes. “Oh so you like super heroes?” you say. She says she doesn’t; she says she prefers villains. She says she imagines herself a villain sometimes, and wishes that she could be one in real life. You fall in love. If you’re a woman or a homosexual man, you question your sexuality, if you’re a man or already know you’re a lesbian, you’re less affected; however, still very much in love. You ask her about her favorite villain, hoping that the topic would stir her interest and get her to talk to you. She says the Joker, nothing more.  
   

You’re roused back to your chair, realizing that you know very little about villains, so little in fact that you couldn’t continue your imagined discussion. What would Nicole say next, why would she like the Joker? You don’t know. But you do think it rather sad that she would sympathize with villains. You realize that she probably romanticized the notion of a super villain. She sees them as the outcasts, those shunned by everyone, ridiculed and unaccepted. She feels for them, and feels like them – an outcast. But, she seems to ignore that they do evil things. That they have a profoundly negative effect on everyone around them. That if Joker were to walk into the classroom, within five minutes, everyone would hate him. They would hate him, and she would hate him, because he would have killed or maimed a couple of people, including her, for no other reason than to feel better about himself. You think it unfortunate that she sympathizes with him, but let it go knowing she’s not taking it all into consideration. 
   

You completely forget Nicole. She slips off into an office building somewhere where she conducts job interviews for positions that she could care less about. There she wears glasses and has headaches on a regular basis. But you forget her. As you are imagining her forgotten the professor finally says something that gets through to you, “That’s it for today class. Remember you readings for next week. See you then.” You pack up, and remain seated. Nicole gets her stuff, places her laptop in her bag, and walks out of the room, as awkwardly as ever. You’re glad to see her go, and happy to go home. You imagine a house. Your very own anything.

A Different Perspective

A Different Perspective…

 Humans… A violent race, a race of which we see an eye for an eye. How have we come so far with a mentality that is so self destructive? Let’s put things into perspective. Earth is here. Plants grow from the earth. Plants and trees take over. Trees grow branches. Branches then grow more branches. Each branch grows leaves. Each leaf is identical to one another. They are all made the same. They come from the same source. If our way of living is what it should be, why aren’t leaves setting each other on fire? Self destruction is the quickest way to prevent yourself from growing and reaching destinations you could only dream about. 

The lines in the sand are so bold here, but most fail to follow the lines to where they go. They all lead right back into one another. Everything is connected. Everything. Imagine the possibilities if this view was shared by the rest of humanity. I wonder what would come to be. We seem to be confused by how many times we’ve changed the colour of our leaves trying to break away from our truth. Figuratively speaking, we all have a stem, we all have a branch, we all have a tree, and we all come from one source under the dirt and roots.

I wonder what would happen if you started practicing this. I wonder how many new doors would open, how many new lights would turn on, and how many lives would be altered. We all live, we all die. It’s so simple. Simplicity at its maximum degree.

I had a dream the other night. I had a dream that I died. Most people fear death more than anything else, but after this dream I can only tell you how peaceful it is. Imagine your whole life; you’ve been carrying a weight on your shoulders that you never felt or knew about. Now imagine during your last few minutes of life on this earth, there is no more weight and there are no more restrictions on what you can and cannot see. If you had two minutes left, how would the world look to you?

Would you be thinking about bills?
Would you be thinking about grudges?
Would you be thinking about debt?
Would you be thinking about hatred?
Would you be thinking about worry?
Would you be thinking about fear?

No. That is what dying feels like. Not only does your body shut down, but so does the whole system that keeps you from fully appreciating the life you’re living. Why do you have to be two minutes from death to enjoy this feeling? I think I may have figured out the glitch in the system and I am now living those two minutes for the rest of my life. Simply beautiful. Go find the blue bird.

Try this. Apply it. See what happens. Tell somebody else.

Just another leaf,
David McGill

Canadian Exposure

I have a beef with the rest of Canada. No, Windsor Ontario is not part of the U.S. It is part of Canada and there is Canadian life south of London, Ontario. I am constantly surprised that politicians don’t pay more attention to the city that has the busiest border crossing in Canada. You know the one that imports and exports more than any other? Hmmm, do they not want to make more money for the economy? Well I guess the ignorance continues….. I thank the editor for opening up this forum for all to speak.

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