I have this thing where I like to know the ending of a story.
I looked up the Wikipedia page for Cool Hand Luke while I was watching the movie. I skipped to the end of my favorite childhood book, Jean & Johnny.
I need to know if I’m going to get a happy ending before I invest in a plot that moves me. By now, I’ve realized that if the story moves me it’s got a tragic ending.
Jean & Johnny don’t end up together.
Luke eventually finds the ultimate and only true freedom a man can ever have.
*SPOILER ALERT: we’re all going to die*
This is my preface to the conclusion. We’re skipping ahead here.
They want to fuck you more, the more vulnerable or weak you appear. They want to fuck you the most when you’re broken. So they aim to break you, in order to fuck you.
Joke’s on the them because I was already broken and the more you want to fuck me, the less I want to fuck you.
When we skip to the end here, we accept that both life and love are fundamentally tragic. We will experience joy, and we will experience loss. And in the end – and every story must end – our protagonist will have unavoidably suffered.
Life is what you make it, sure. Your perception creates your reality. Your invisible mind manifests in the material & tangible. Et cetera x2.
I’m working on this book (have been since 2014, so take that with some salt) with the working title “Ragdoll.” It’s about a group of women who work at a roadside bar/restaurant in New Jersey in the 1980s.
The theme is something along the lines of female endurance.
All of the main characters have endured their own share of bullshit as women. In the end I’m planning to have my protagonists win.
As I was working out character outlines one afternoon, a question presented itself to me, and I don’t know that an answer exists. But I’ve surely pondered it ever since.
Is a woman’s inherent attractiveness her duty to diminish or utilize?
Of course, we all have choices. Of course one could dress modestly. One could avoid men – those baser, dangerous, vulgar simpletons and lovers of destruction. A woman could never drink. A woman could never go to bars.
A woman could never smile, or she could always smile. She could always appease, and bend. Or she could wear pants, and sneakers, and drink, and be vulgar. She could do everything or nothing, to be less or more attractive.
It seems to me she could still be attractive. At the end, whatever events unfolded as a result of her inherent attractiveness would seem almost unavoidable.
I feel I’ve come off the rails on this question. The book is still not written.
I’m currently super stranded on Bali, alone, and rejected – actually banished – by the only man I actually respected on this island.
And that whole affair is its own other bag of questions on the topics of energy, fear, denial, projection, power dynamics, respect, control, and desire. It’s not even a question of sex at all, unfortunately, as it would seem he was definitely attracted to me, but not as definitely interested in sex with me.
Anyway, let me try to regain my footing here. About the title. (Everyone wants to fuck me – except that one guy)
I’m often very aware that I am alone in this world. It’s a choice for sure, no matter how naturally independence comes to me.
I think for myself, I think.
I prefer not to ask for help if I can avoid it. People often prove themselves incompetent or incapable of providing either answers, affection, or assistance in the ways I demand.
And I’m demanding. And bitchy. And judgemental.
Boy, if I were a man.
This passport situation has infuriated me exponentially for MONTHS.
It feels like everyone involved has only wanted to fuck me – either fuck me over and exploit me, or actually fuck me with their dicks.
And this is the other part of the thing: if I wasn’t a single woman in distress, in need, out of viable options and control would anyone behave this way?
There are only ever two dynamics at play, always: Race & Gender
In different scenarios one can outweigh the other, even rendering it a non-starter.
For me, it’s always that I’m not a man. It’s why I can speak and people don’t reply, much less acknowledge me. It’s why I’m always told to calm down. It’s why people talk to me like I’m stupid, or put off following through on anything I ask for.
It works against me, no matter how much better my mind works against the structure. Add to this, I’m not soft. I’m loud. I’m abrasive. I’m bold. I’m undeniable. You have to WORK to ignore me. You have go out of your way to ignore me. I’m a force that way.
And I’m a woman.
And no matter what someone is always trying to fuck me.
Backtrack to the top, where I mentioned perception and reality. Argue with your mother. The only reason I’ve even made it to here – Bali, independent author, creative freelancer – is because my perception of myself and my own abilities manifested that reality.
With regards to my perception of the world as inherently out to get me? Look around, this world is out to get everyone. I didn’t write that script.
One could argue, on another rambling post, that we all collectively wrote that script. One could argue that perception is malleable through experience. One could argue our super souls wrote these nonsense scripts, before our human births, and like idiots we eagerly elevator pitched them to the source like “Literally OMG SEND ME TO EARTH!”
No matter how much I read, or ponder, it continues to elude me why any divine entity or magical soul would want to come here. But sure, k.
To touch back on this tormented affair that has completely riddled my mind into a giant, unsolvable Rubik’s cube…
The worst part of it is I can’t even have a conversation with any other men here, because they’re all dumb and not nearly hot enough to deserve my breath or time. And even if they’re not dumb, they’re too short. And even if their height is doable, they only want to fuck me.
I’m too emotionally vulnerable to be used for sex right now.
But I suppose that’s a big part of their attraction.
Tell me what you think before we both die