Thoughts Speak Louder Than Words

One of my absolutely favorite bloggers (check ‘em out) & Twitter friends is WisdomIsMisery (follow him).  Besides the fact that he keeps me laughing all day, he also proves my point that women love assholes.  The more of an asshole he is to women on Twitter, the more they keep coming back for more (self included).   Shocking thing is, he’s a pretty intelligent guy, and combined with his HILARIOUS nature,  his blogs & encounters of his dating adventures will leave you in tears and nodding your head in agreement.  See what I mean below. (I KNOW…It’s lengthy, but I GUARANTEE it’s worth it.)

I heard, and maybe you have too, that actions speak louder than words. I’m sure they do, in most cases, except, of course, when dealing with the opposite sex. In which case, I think the phrase, ‘I mean what I think, not what I say’ seems more applicable. Don’t get me wrong; as I have alluded to in the past, it is no secret that W.I.M. and crazy women are fond of one another. Therefore, it is quite possible I bring all this on myself, given my general attraction to women of the mentally insane persuasion, which, if true, I accept full responsibility for.

Nevertheless, being a simple creature of logic causes me to ponder to no end some of the events, conversations, and situations that have taken place at the hands of various women over the various years. I’ll discuss some of the more prominent memories below.

Although, before I begin, please note that names, dates, times and places have been changed to protect the privacy of the innocent until proven guilty. Furthermore, situations, actions and events may or may not be extremely exaggerated or completely made-up in order to emphasize the point being made and/or lead to increased levels of euphoria, pleasure and laughter or relation on behalf of you, the reader. Most importantly, if you think I’m talking about you specifically, because, you know, we dated at some point in the past and, obviously, not only is there anyway I could have moved on with life after you but you and I and everyone else knows the world clearly revolves around you. Not to mention the fact that you were, you know, crazy as a rabies infested bat from the dark, dank corners of hell and you are unjustifiably paranoid that I may share some of your crazy episodes via this blog, but I can assure you, on my life, I am not talking about you. Consequently, I must appeal to whatever is left of your reasoning mind and humbly request that you kindly refrain from calling me later to inform me that you hate me and that you’re not talking to me ever again, you know, again…With that said, let us begin!

“Don’t call me, NO MORE!”

This one seems pretty straight forward: “Do not. call me. no more.” But, as you might have guessed, you would be mistaken. I’ve actually heard this one a surprising amount of times relative to the short amount of years I have occupied this Earth. Ignoring the obvious grammatical error, I would estimate, on average, “don’t call me, no more,” has only meant don’t call me anymore about 1% of the time. Usually, “don’t call me no more” results in a follow-up phone call, roughly 2 – 3 days later or in extreme cases 3 – 6 months later or in extremely extreme cases 3 – 6 years later where the person (woman) who made said statement calls to ask, “Why don’t you call me anymore?” or, my personal favorite, “Why did we ever stop talking?”

In my youthful ignorance, I used to respond, “Because, ummm didn’t you tell me not to call you ‘no more.’” Though life, as it has a way of doing, has taught me this is not an effective or intelligent way to respond. In fact, that response usually warrants a long winded dialogue – where I am allowed to speak very little, if at all – about how insensitive I am or how I don’t care or I should have known she was just upset and really wanted me to call (by accessing my yet undisclosed and undiscovered psychic powers, I guess) and the fact that I didn’t call (as instructed) just reinforced how much I don’t or didn’t care about her, enough to call that is, despite her telling me not to – and that’s why she told me not to call in the first place!

I am, of course, paraphrasing. The actual conversations usually have a few cuss words sprinkled throughout, a “bastard” or two may be used and, in some cases, my mother or the size of my junk may be spoken of in an unfavorable light. This usually transitions us to the next frequently cited phrase, since it usually rears its ugly head near the end of the discussion, and that is…

“I hate you.”

Once again, this seems fairly straight forward: “I. hate. you.” Nothing complicated there. Its only three words, I mean, how complicated could it be? Well, apparently, very! One time I even had a woman tell me: “When I say I hate you, I mean I love you.”

Later, when I woke up in the hospital, the doctors informed me that I had suffered from an increasingly common condition effecting men of all ages. They had tentatively labeled it, ‘mind blowing,’ which means to have one’s mind blown by something they watch, see, or hear. This is usually prefaced by the phrase, “I’m about to blow your mind,” so most people have the opportunity to seek an adequate head protective device or, at minimum, mentally prepare themselves for the possibility of a ‘mind blowing’ experience. However, when this warning is not declared or the receiver of the ‘mind blowing’ information does not take the disclaimer seriously, the consequences can be quite dire.

Unfortunately, I was neither warned nor prepared for such contradictory nonsense from said woman. It was a very terrifying experience. I could have died! To cure it, the doctors recommended I go home, drink some beer, watch Family Guy or Sports Center, and not talk to anyone of the opposite sex for at least 24hrs, which, of course, leads me to the last and, by no coincidence, most dreaded phrase of them all…

“We need to talk.”

Now, I’m not a woman, but as a man, I have dealt with enough women to know that men have about fives senses and women have, and I am estimating, something like 7,625. And within those 7,625 senses is 327 – 587 whose sole function is to alert her when her boyfriend/fiancé/husband or other is busy.

For whatever reason, and I’m not questioning the wisdom of evolution here, but it appears women, at some point in time, decided that when their boyfriend/fiancé/husband or other is busy it is clearly the optimum time to notify him that they “need to talk.” Mind you, a woman has never said to me, “I want to talk.” No, they say, “I need to talk,” which implies urgency or something that must take place with great haste – or else.

To clarify, for example, I want an Audi, but I recognize I don’t need an Audi. I really don’t even need a car. That is why when I’m car shopping, I say “I want that one” relative to “I need that one,” because it is something I can live without, much like the conversation I am often forced to have with my girlfriend/fiancé/wife or other whenever she realizes that we need to talk.

Stranger still, in most cases, when a woman tells me, “we need to talk” they actually aren’t ready to talk. Which means, although they recognize “we need to talk,” they apparently have figured out what we need to talk about or how they will communicate it to me, even if, no matter how they put it, I probably wont understand.

I cannot begin to explain to you how convoluted this experience can get, especially with the advent of text messages, email, and other actual face to face conversation avoiding techniques available at their disposal. For example, it is very possible for me to receive a text message at 6:23am, which startles me awake, with the words “we need to talk” emblazoned on my phone’s screen. Yet, when I attempt to respond by text or phone call, I receive, you guessed it, no response. Confused, I’m left to wonder what the hell “we need to talk” could possibly mean for the next 1 – 78hrs of my life, until the woman who informed me “we need to talk” feels like talk-ing.

I can promise you, on my mama’s life, a man has never said to me, “We need to talk” if he wasn’t ready to talk, usually at that exact moment. In fact, most men don’t even open a conversation up with “we need to talk,” they just start talking. If a man ever tells you “we need to talk” I can assure you what follows will be very very serious, breaking, possibly life changing or life threatening news. That’s why when a man tells me, “we need to talk” he had better be wearing a doctor’s coat, because, otherwise, I’m going to take off running or preemptively sucker punch him in the nose, as I don’t like to be caught with my guard down.

However, though I can outrun a lot of women and I wouldn’t think of punching one, these options are often unavailable to me anyway. Instead, I’m forced against my will to wait until she is ready to talk about whatever ‘we need to talk’ about. Sometimes this even involves sitting on the couch or bed or kitchen stool in awkward silence, while she gives a series of deep breaths or comes to near tears, for reasons unknown to me, you know, because she hasn’t said anything yet, even though, last I checked, she was the one that wanted to talk to me.

Often, in the deafening silence caused by the void of actual talking, I’m left wondering if Tony Romo finally made a decent throw, for once, to someone other than Jason Witten, on the final drive of the game I was forced to pause in the background of this non-talking woman, who’s head is conveniently blocking the TV – but I have learned over the years it is apparently “rude” to un-pause the game until the talking part begins. No, instead, I have to act or look genuinely interested in this melodramatic build-up to the pending conversation – which, by the way, I have learned through personal experience, has a 98.9% chance of being about something I have done wrong or I am not doing right or efficiently or effectively or adequately.

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I guess, when it comes down to it, I just don’t understand women – and trust me, it’s not for lack of trying. I tried giving up hope, but that wasn’t very effective, which reminds me, on a completely unrelated note to the male readers, you may want to avoid using the expression, “What if I told you I don’t care” around a woman within arms reach of steak knifes or other similarly sharp objects.

Honestly, I have no idea what to do about these mysterious creatures: women. For me, they are enigmas, wrapped in conundrums, wrapped in irresistible pursuits of hotness. They are my sweetest-misery. I suppose I’ll just have to accept that I will always be confused by these whimsical creatures that occupy my life from time to time – undoubtedly shortening my lifespan by volumes, because, mind you, the above or just a few of many, many, mannnny examples I could have used, but this blog is already long enough and I think I made my point. I don’t know, perhaps I should heed Chris Rock’s advice on love. I mean he has been married over 12 years…

“Fellas, when you wake up in the morning you should look yourself in the mirror and say ‘f*** you.’ F*** your hopes, f*** your dreams, f*** your plans, f*** everything you thought this life was going to bring to you. Now let’s go out there and try to make this bitch happy.”

Mr. Misery: