Broken, Done or Dying? Actually, just Dead!

 

Contains sexual references and coarse language.

Weird title? Not really – it basically describes how I will inevitably feel if everything goes belly up in regards to the current girl of my dreams; Elisha. Yes, back on this topic, and I decided I would dedicate an entire post to this subject matter, so if you do not want to be bored to tears by the soporific ideas of some love depraved love struck anti-hero – I suggest you flee immediately!

Now, some themes and ideas I have brought up in previous posts may come up during this topic, but that is just because they are directly tied in with this subject matter.

Now, I have mentioned before and I will say it again; I suck at deciphering the codes that women use. I have found that women emphasise less with vocabulary, and more with physicality; basically, they say more with their faces than with their mouths. I however could not interpret an ‘I love you’ from a ‘go screw yourself’. Hence I don’t ever act on anything in that regard. A woman could give me the ‘I fancy you’ look, and I would be able to interpret that as easily as I could fly to the moon using nothing more than a jet propelled pack constructed from tissue paper. A woman could give me the ‘I think you’re a douche’ look, and I would probably interpret that to mean the exact opposite, but still not act on my ideas from fear that I am wrong. Yes, fear, it can be a very powerful ally. It is also the one bitch that prevents you from getting anywhere in this world.

What I personally would like, is for women to go up to guys and say what is on their mind, rather than giving them a look from a distance. I can’t translate what intense and frequent gander’s means, or what raised eyebrows or smiles are meant to signify, or what bared teeth and a tongue sticking out is supposed to represent. What is so difficult with just walking up to a bloke and saying what is going through their mind? I of course mean all this in regards to relationships. I don’t mean, go up to a guy if you’re thirsty and say ‘I like diet soft drink and I’m gonna go get me self some’. No, I mean go up to a bloke and say ‘hey, I think you’re as hot as magma’ rather than staring at a guy from across the room.

I read once on the Facebook page of a Miami psychologist that apparently 92% of all men would rather women make the first move in instigating a relationship. 92%? That is a big friggin’ percentage! With my views, I probably make up 65% of that entire statistic.

That would be the benefit of women making the first move – there would be no more looks. They would do the talking rather than ogling blokes from a distance, and I would be in a finer position for it. I would for one, not be in the fine mess I am now, for if Elisha liked me – she would have said something. Or has she? That is the problem, for when women are not looking at blokes, they are insinuating ideals in their dialogue and behaviour. God, if women wrote a dictionary on their codes and their looks and such, I would be so much happier for it. Then I could look in the little book (it would probably be a huge friggin’ book) when a woman pokes her tongue out at me and say ‘oh, that means she either wants to lick me genitals – or she hates my rotten guts. Oh, she’s winking at me, and giving me the finger- yeah, she totally hates me.’

On top of interpretation of codes and hidden messages and the like is, of course, the competition. The problem is that men pursue women, not the other way around, which would be another benefit of women making the first move. So all women have to do is sit back and watch the potential lovers come up to ‘em. Men need to actually be the potential lovers, which is somewhat more complex. I believe that women often do not notice many blokes until they make contact and ask them out. Until that moment, a woman may know a bloke exists, but will see him in a neutral fashion because women are better at being friends with blokes than blokes are at being friends with women.

At high school, the only real competition are other high school students, and it is very easy to prove yourself better than the rest. Actually, it’s not, but if you can’t win on that battlefield, then you are gonna die alone, afraid, and a virgin when the real fighting starts. How come? Out in the real world, and by ‘real world’ I mean post high school, which is as real in the dating game as it is ever going to get, all of the women are now like free range hens, pardon the comparison. All of them are now on the market for all the men. Most men in their early to mid twenties are attracted to women in the same age group – women in their early to mid twenties. The problem? Men in their thirties, forties and fifties are attracted to women in the exact same age group! Hell, I’ve seen my father who is breaching sixty checking out friggin’ teenagers! He’s married BTW, and I dunno if that makes it better or worse.

Women are, and always have been attracted to older blokes. So, those guys in their thirties and so on have a much higher chance of gaining one of those young ladies than a bloke in his twenties does. How so? Older men are better equipped economically, professionally and sexually (as in experience), and are better equipped with transport and accommodation too. Would a woman be more interested in that? Or in a bloke in his mid twenties who still lives with mummy, has a job that pays about fifty bucks per day rather than five grand, has a wooden car with a wooden engine that when started up wooden go, and whose sexual experience ranges somewhere between nil and not much. Yeah, real attractive – my arse! (I was not describing myself just then, FYI).

Of course, the next issue after communication and competition are standards. Every single woman has the image of the perfect man in their minds eye, and if you do not fit that criterion, then you have already failed before the relationship has officially begun. Now, this is one section that I do know about. You see, the woman of my dreams has a blog. I ain’t gonna provide the link because I don’t want other blokes going over there, thinking she’s a fox and stealing her right out from under me! I’m already having enough trouble right now without adding any more to my list!

How so? Well, apart from issues with communication, there was my intro…the first day we met was at university during a Media Management in Public Relations class. Yes, the girl of my dreams wants to be a PR consultant of sorts. Well, PR consultant or no PR consultant, an intro is still an intro, no matter which woman you are attempting to woo. So, as for my intro – I get out of my chair, take two steps forward, trip over a chair that some bastard has left out, and nearly break my neck and flatten the girl of my dreams in the exact same moment. Yeah, real smooth. Lucky for me I grabbed hold of the table, and lucky for me it did support my weight, else that would have been the end. No, I ain’t fat, but those tables at university…you barely have to look at ‘em and they wobble. Falling on ‘em – hell, I would not recommend it in the future.

Moving on…So, I am going to provide a couple quotes from her blog to explain what she is after. Elisha’s dream man needs to be a chef, an electrician, a mechanic and a carpenter. He needs to be capable of changing a light bulb and the water in the car, and additionally needs to be skilled in child care.

Of these areas, I have potential in cooking, in changing the light globe, child care and…awwwwwwww fuck! A mechanic? I don’t even own a car! An electrician? A carpenter? Fuck me! No, she won’t be doing that any time soon! Not with the pathetic resume that I have to offer.

But wait, what is Elisha’s opinion on the subject matter. Here is a quote from her blog; ‘So wherever my future husband is, I know he will have these skills and if he doesn’t, I know that he will learn these new skills so we can build a life together.’

Okay, so perhaps things aren’t completely over yet. I do however have to learn the skills and prove myself competent in them to ensure a successful relationship. But a carpenter? I don’t want a carpet! I would rather have wooden floors! (I realise carpenters do not work with carpet – this is my sick idea of an ironic joke).

Additionally, Elisha had this to say; ‘I don’t have any preferences on how my future husband has to look. But I do have an impressive checklist of what qualifications he must hold before even considering wanting to marry me.’

So, basically, if Elisha chooses to be with someone, they could be friggin’ hideous, that is what this sentence is saying.  An impressive skill set? She wants the fuckin’ impossible! She wants fuckin’ superman for Christ sake! Also, I’m not saying I want to marry this woman, but I would like to have a long term relationship, which is looking less and less likely to occur with every paragraph I write of this post.

Adjunctively, Elisha has mentioned in the past to me that she is a strong believer in the Christian religion. I am an atheist. Is that going to spell doom and gloom? Wait a minute, if we were to get married…does that mean the wedding will take place in a church? Could I even go to church? Hypothetically, let’s just say God is real 100%. I’m an atheist, I walk into church – will He smite me down with lightning? Or will I spontaneously combust and catch fire from the spells and hexes placed across the church to prevent people such as myself who are inevitably doomed to end up in hell from entering? Oh no, perhaps I should call this whole relationship thing off…this is just far too strenuous. Second thoughts, Elisha is far too foxy and amazing to give up on just yet…moving on.

On a more serious note, returning to the views on Christianity, I want to know one thing. At the start of 2011, Elisha mentioned she was a virgin. Yes, quite the thing to admit to, but she did. Being a Christian, what is the chance that she believes in getting married before you know, having rudey nudey’s/ the deed/ a roll in the hay/ the time of our lives/ how else could I put this without putting it any other way? I am not asking this question because I am a sex crazed loon – not at all. I would just like to know where she stands. One friend of mine has decided to not have sex (oh my God, I used the word!) before getting married, and although she is a Christian, she is not as strong a believer as Elisha is.

Any other issues? Well, there is of course location. Elisha has said in the past that she wishes to go to London for a year, and to go around the entire world. I intend to stay at uni to obtain my masters, so I will be unable to accompany her if we are in a relationship. That is the thing – I do not want a long distance relationship; I want a long term one, which is completely different people! At the moment, this same difficulty is in effect. How come? Elisha lives in Darwin. I live in Melbourne. For those of you who do not live in Australia, let me give you the geography.  Darwin is located at the top most centre point of Australia. Melbourne is located in the lower most right section of Australia. There is a cool few hours of flight time in-between each state, with a massive desert smack bang in the centre. Elisha is only in Melbourne whilst she is at university, and since every semester is only twelve weeks in length (and during the week off Elisha flies back home), that provides me with very little time. Quite the issue it would seem…

The other problem would be that I am infatuated with her. And, I am sure anyone reading this right now knows how it feels to be infatuated with the one woman/person you cannot live without – it is friggin’ horrible! I realised I had feelings for her last year, but I did not make a move. Why not? Was I chicken? No, that was not it. I simply thought she was in Melbourne just for the year, and I would never see her again. Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on how I view this, she did return this year. I did nothing again, not because I was chicken, but because I came to this conclusion; do not do anything until the last minute, the last minute being the first week of the final semester we would ever experience together at university. That way, any awkwardness that comes from me finally admitting to her my feelings will be relatively less difficult than it would be if I mentioned the way I felt earlier on. So, if everything goes belly up, then we will only have to experience eleven weeks of awkwardness rather than an entire year’s worth.

What awkwardness am I referring to? People go to university to study. They spend a shit load of money to do so. By the time I am finished, I would have a racked up a bill that probably extends to that of 100 K, if not more. I mean, my masters course alone will cost 42 thou, and who knows about the doctorate!

At high school, people can quit at any time, whilst people who attend university attend such an institution because they want to. They wish to gain an education – they do not go there to get hit on by fellow students. If they wanted some dufus flirting with ‘em, they would spend their life in a bar. So, by waiting until the end of university basically, that limits the amount of awkwardness that could very well come from such a situation. I think…

The problem with this plan is that I cannot move on from the way I feel until I confess to Elisha my feelings cuz that is the kind of guy I am. I need to verbally convey them to the woman in question, and then, if nothing happens, which is quite the possibility, I will be able to successfully move on roughly two weeks later. If something happens, well, that would be absolutely beautiful, but I always plan for the worst, and hope for the best, but do not expect it to ever come to pass. Due to the fact that I cannot move on, I have to endure these painful feelings. Yes, they are terribly, terribly painful. You see, at the moment;
I want Elisha
the way a heart needs a beat,
the way lungs need oxygen,
the way a bee needs pollen,
the way a plant needs the sun.

I want Elisha
the way a shark needs the sea,
the way a lion needs meat,
the way earthworms need moisture,
the way rich red blood needs cells.

I want Elisha
the way a gun needs ammunition,
the way a hunting knife needs a clean,
the way an army needs a captain,
the way a country needs government.

I want Elisha
the way a husband needs a wife,
the way Cupid needs an arrow,
the way true love needs to survive,
the way moist lips need to be kissed.

Okay, sorry about the shotty poetry, but I felt no other way to explain myself nor my feelings.

So basically, I still have a few issues I need to go through…

…before I go however, there is one last question I wish to pose…back in March, Elisha mentioned in conversation that she was going to cook with someone she referred to as her ‘lovely’. Now, who might this ‘lovely’ be, cuz she never went into specifics. Lovely husband? Lovely partner? Lovely boyfriend? Lovely mother? Lovely father? Lovely family member? Lovely friend? Lovely teacher? Lovely dog? It would have to be one friggin’ awesome dog to know how to cook, let’s put it that way! Also, the post I took the information about her potential future husband? She typed that up in April, one month after mentioning this dinner. Any ideas? No? Yes? No?

I guess I will find out when I see her next…if I see her next…

Well, here’s Naughty Nefarious once more, signing off, and hoping for the best. See you round…

…and thanks for reading!

BTW, Any material acquired from Elisha’s blog is copyright of the original writer.

Am I Australian?

This piece contains the following: coarse language, sexual references and horror theme (involving hair). You have been warned….

BTW, to any Australian who might happen to read this, allow me to apologise beforehand. I think perhaps on several occasions I might take our society off and make Australians seem, I dunno, like a bunch of raving psychos perhaps. Well, I hope that is not the interpretation orchestrated within this piece, but if that is the way my words are interpreted, allow me to apologise. But in my defense, which is pretty shotty I’ll admit, is it not better for an Australian to attack (?) the Australian way of life than have an outsider who knows our culture as well as they know the planet Neptune analyse us? Well, here goes…

…Am I Australian? Of course I am, what a stupid question, but that is not my point. Yes, I was born in Melbourne, Victoria, Australia, as were my parents and the seven generations of my family that came before them. So yes, ethnically I am indeed Australian, but my question evolves more along the lines of the cultural dynamics of such a country.

So, what makes an Australian, Australian, and do I have such qualities? Well, according to a Robin Cook novel, whose title eludes me, he explained how all Australians; wore shorts, idolised Ned Kelly, and their hero was the kind of guy who would dress all in khaki. I would assume this to be considerably inaccurate. One, I don’t wear shorts. Two, I idolise beautiful women, and only wish they’d do the same unto me. And three, my hero? Well, to be perfectly frank, in my mind I am the number one super hero! So, what would I put in this interpretations stead? Well, even though I have lived in this country for a cool 23 years, I would never go so far as to call myself someone who properly understands the cultural atmosphere of such an environment.

First off, I would explore beer. According to the stereotypical norm, Australians are notorious for drinking beer, and are supposedly the largest consumers of such a product. The quintessential larrikin Australian bloke is always seen with a beer in hand, a six pack beside the BBQ, and a giant beer gut that extends a few feet out from the rest of his body. Problems with this assertion? Well, for one, I loathe beer. I hate it to such an extent that those nerds who invent new words, would have to come up with a brand new word to describe how much I detest beer. Me? I’m a wine guy myself, or perhaps port. Nothing short of a stereotypical bottle of wine will ever pass these lips, and if the letter ‘b’ begins the product, or the liquor inside looks remotely like the evil product that, like the antagonist from the Harry Potter novels shall not be named, it is not drunk. So, no to beer. Also, no to barbies. No, not the dolls…BBQ’s. Such a piece of equipment is believed to be what all Australians use to cook their dinners. And their lunches. And even their breakfasts. The stove? Huh, not for the colloquial Australian my friend, no, it is the barbie all the way. Well, I do suppose I get bonus points from having a barbie. It is however covered in so much dust and grunge and filth from the fact it has not been used since the days the Tyrannosaurus Rex still walked the Earth. This however don’t exactly score me anything in the cultural department.

Third – the Australian accent. This is quite possibly the second most quintessential thing an Australian needs to earn such a title. Shouldn’t be too hard to gain, I mean, one should have one from the moment they are born in such an establishment. Me? Not really. Odd, since like I mentioned, my family have been living here since the first fleet arrived, and that is no joke. My father’s relatives all those years ago – one of them was arrested for stealing bread, true story, no lie. So, if my relatives have been around all this time, you would imagine that I would have an accent? No, apparently not. In fact, some people (half of whom I wouldn’t trust with a stapler) have said that my accent sounds somewhat similar to that of a Chinese or Middle Eastern accent. But what do they know? Might have something to do with the fact that my voice is just very, very DEEP! So, no points in this area of necessity. Damn, if I were in competition here, I would be falling short.

Food. More importantly, lamb. This is seen as the essential delicacy in this country. The Chinese have fish. The Americans have McDonalds. New Zealanders have fish and chips. Australians – we have lamb. Beautiful, little, white lambs, who frolic through the meadows laced with beautiful red and white rose petals. They munch upon the green, green grass. They bleat under the gorgeous yellow sun. And then they have their legs hacked off and thrown onto someone’s plate. Me? I hate lamb. I love lamb when they are alive and bleating. I don’t like them when they are lying on my plate, its mutilated, decrepit cadaver looking back at me, smoke wafting off from the flesh that was, up until a few hours before, covered in white, silky wool. I used to live on an acreage when I was very, very young, with a couple sheep on their too. Ramsey and Blacky their names were. Ramsey was the lady – all she liked to do was eat grass, and probably smoke it too when we weren’t looking. Blacky, the bloke, all he cared about was Ramsey, more importantly – her vagina. Luckily for us he had, rather unfortunately for him, his balls removed upon purchase, so, no baby lambs, otherwise after a couple years the ratio between sheep and human would have been 1,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 to 3.

I’m not a big fan of ham either, which is meant to come in second from the lamb. I personally enjoy beef, or chicken, and when I do purchase beef, I go for the heart smart stuff, which is supposed to have very little fat. You try telling those who hand it out at the shops though. Sometimes there’s more fat on a 250gram packet of meat than there is on a humpback whale. Moving on though…

…Swearing. Yes, swearing is considered something that Australian’s do quite frequently. Almost every person I know cannot go five seconds without using one of the three major profanities, which I will not list. Why? Well, I personally don’t think I use profanities very often. On occasion, yes, but I just don’t have the time for them. I would like to think that perahps…oh my fucking God! I just fucking spelt fucking ‘perhaps’ wrong! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Oh, maybe I do swear. Wow, that’s a lot of curse words. I have never seen anything so beautiful in all my life!

Music. Yes, I enjoy such an aspect of life, but it is the variations that are most notable. If I were to make an assumption based upon most of the people I have been unfortunate enough to meet, I would say that most of the people of my generation have an infatuation with rap music. Every time a car drives by, rap music is pumping out through the stereo. That, and according to the news, a hail of bullets. Every time your neighbor throws a grossly oversized and incredibly loud party – rap music is pumping through the subwoofer’s of the stereo. Every time a guy with an MP3,4 or iPod walks by, rap music is heard pumping through the speakers. My point? Wherever you go, rap music seems to play a crucial part in contemporary Australian society. The problem? I would rather burn in the fires of hell – the fires reserved for the most nefarious of individuals than listen to rap music. There is no such word that I can find to describe how much I detest rap music. Simply put? I fuckin’ hate it, which apparently puts me at odds with the rest of my generation that cannot seem to get enough of it, and I truly mean that. I really, truly, deeply, unconditionally, unrealistically, unbelievably, unfathomably, incalculably, intoxicatingly, immeasurably, with a passion loath rap music!

Whilst on the subject of ‘entertainment’, the next subject up for discussion is Australian films. A true Australian it would seem hates Australian products. I enjoy watching Australian films. When I was younger, I used to ignorantly believe like most people that I know today that Australians were unable to decently create a good film. Once I turned twelve however, I began to worm my way out of such a belief and came to the conclusion that although Australian film finance companies have less green on hand than what American and other film companies do, this does not necessarily mean they cannot create a good feature film. Funnily enough, back in the early twentieth century when the development of films had commenced, Australia was the largest contributor of films in the entire world. Then Hollywood found its druthers and cancelled the Australian cinematic chain forever. But here’s some additional things I know – I was the only person in my entire last year of high school to have seen all three Mad Max films – some people didn’t even know there was a franchise called ‘Mad Max’. I found this to be utterly atrocious. I’ve known Americans who have known of the franchise for crying out loud! Additionally in my performance writing class at university, I was the only person to have seen the likes of Undead, Daybreakers, the Tender Hook and Sleeping Beauty – the other thirty odd or so students hadn’t even heard of the titles, let alone seen the films. Quite disturbing if you ask me.

As for clothing? Shorts are seen as been the fashionable accessory of clothing according to advertisements and the like. Me? Well, if you follow the information from the previous paragraphs it is obvious that everything is downhill from there. The last time I wore shorts I was in primary school. Since then, I have worn jeans. Except for the occasions when I didn’t, but even during those occasions, my legs were not graced by the likes of shorts. No, this has nothing to do with the fact that there is more hair on my leg than flesh. In fact, I think there is more hair on my entire body combined than flesh. Yes, that’s right folks. I make gorillas seem bald, in fact the film, Gorillas in the Mist? It was filmed in my shower. Well, not exactly, but it might as well have been, which leads me to my next point. Hair. Many of my friends (the guys I mean) have no hair. I don’t know this fact from peering under toilet lavatories and perving on them whilst they did their business in the shower. No, they simply talk about it. And so do the women who have seen the men when their clothes were no longer on their person. Now, I don’t know if such a thing comes from the fact that they have grown up to look very much like the day they first came into this world, or if they simply shave it off. At high school I went through a phase, many of them actually, where I changed my hair style frequently. My facial hair remained the same in which I had chops on either side of my face for quite a while, and a goatee on my chin. This did not go down so well with the ladies. Apparently, the women of today in this particular hemisphere, on this particular continent want their men to be bald – at least on their bodies. Now, I ain’t taking a razor to any other part of my body that is not either attached to my face or the top of my head, which might explain why some women never give me a second look. Perhaps they can just sense the hair. Safe to say, if they were to run their fingers through it, they would probably never get them back. Now, I’d have no problem with a woman being permanently attached to my person – but they might. Considerably in fact. I found out, quite quickly, that if my mother had given birth to me in the early seventies, I would have lived through the eighties rather than been born at their conclusion. My point? The eighties was the time for hair. Women loved it, and the hair loved them. Boy have times changed.

Now, this next point I intend to make may seem kind of racial – well, it is, but I don’t mean in the sense that I intend to talk about ‘race’. I mean, some people may consider me to be ‘racist’ after saying such a thing, so allow me to make this point as delicately as I can. I believe I have mentioned in the past that I was the only person in my high school year with an Anglo Saxon last name? In my university classes I am often the only person on the class roll with an Anglo Saxon last name too. Perhaps in a couple classes here and there a couple other names join mine in such a genre. My point? And I do have one…is that perhaps the key to been Australian is to typically not be Australian at all! We live in a multi-cultural society, which the government frequently refers to as an amazing aspect of this continent, so technically, if you are not adding to the wide diversity of cultures within the society I would suppose that you simply are not a part of it period. The days of the Anglo Saxon I personally sometimes believe are numbered. I’m not saying we’re going to be murdered. I’m just saying that eventually we are perhaps going to be bred out. That is of course if parents of children who are not Anglo allow their children to actually have a relationship with an Anglo, which from my experience is as likely as wings sprouting out from my back due to the overall strictness of their cultures. In fact, I’d probably go so far as to say that in a few years time, the Australian Anglo Saxon may very well join the humpback whale, polar bear and white tiger on the world’s endangered species list. Now, I’m not sure if this next point is pertinent to the present subject or not, but I do believe it highlights the point that Australia is filled with cultures that are not quintessentially Australian. Year 10, high school geography class. We are given a task; look at an atlas and discover the countries listed on the piece of paper. First person to do this successfully will be able to leave five minutes early as reward – quite the reward if you ask me since geography to me was as gratifying as running a cheese garter over my testicles. Suddenly, a student calls out ‘Sir! What is that oddly shaped country in the centre?’ The oddly shaped country he was pointing at – the one that was supposedly in the centre – what was it exactly? Australia.

So, basically that is all the essential features apparently which are necessary to build a true Aussie. Well, I get points for having a barbie. And maybe for the swearing. But apart from that, it would seem that I am about as Australian as an American French Fry. Is that wrong?

Do men really date women who remind them of their mothers?

I just thought I’d mention – this piece contains some corase language (later on).

Do men really date women who remind them of their mothers? Quite a question indeed, raised in an article I read a couple of years ago from a book that was meant to help me understand the opposite sex. It provided more questions than answers I am afraid.

Now, first off, I am not a professional, just thought I might mention this. I am a twenty something year old man who has perhaps a little too much time on his hands and thus thought about this specific idea. Over half of my friends are women and they often pose to me the question whether or not men find women that remind them of their mother’s attractive. I think this may be because on occasion men may be implied to make jokes the likes of  ‘gee, thanks mum’ when a woman might say something, et al.

I do suppose that the psychological ideals behind this theory would explore how the bond between mother and son is an incredibly close one that is instigated within the womb and carried over as the child takes his first breath in the real world. The shrinks would go on to explain how mothers are the women who are primarily around their sons as they develop, and their bond becomes ever closer, so when a man goes out hunting for a partner, he begins to look for a replacement to his own flesh and blood. After all, the end concept here is to find a woman, settle down and have a family, and what better person to have said family with than a woman who you could trust; a woman who is like the mother who raised you, and who will do the same to your children. Plus, the man is no longer going to have mummy with him twenty four seven and inevitably needs a woman to replace the empty void in his heart.

But that is just gobbedy gook spawned forth from my mind. I guess the reason why I am writing about this is my general fear about it happening to me. Yes, FEAR ladies and gentleman. Now, why would I fear settling down with a woman who reminds me of my mother? After all, she helped raise me, feed me cloth me, and do hundreds of other things throughout my life. Well, you see, it goes something like this; I kind of want to be rid of her. I don’t mean permanently. I just mean she has been somewhat of a permanent fixture in my life since birth and I do not want a woman who will continue to remind me of her in my life for the rest of time, which it will certainly feel like. I want to be free. Now, some might say that being with a woman for life is like having a ball and chain attached to your ankle. The same could be said in my view about my mother. So why would I leave her to be with a woman who looks like her, acts like her and does the same things as her? I would be taking off that ball and chain for but a second, before reattaching it with a lock far more impossible to pick than the last one.

So, how would I describe my mother? Okay, well my mother is quite tall, which is perhaps where I gain my height because she is taller than my father. She is additionally two years younger than my dad. My mother is thin, has short, light brown colored hair, green eyes, fair skin and is seventh generation Australian. Additionally, she is intelligent to the degree of being pretentiously egotistical about it, believing herself to be the smartest person alive. My mother doesn’t always speak her mind, often handling people and situations with kid gloves, has little sense of humor and tends to complain when there is nothing to become rattled about, and is quite possibly the single most negative woman I have ever associated with.

Now, I am going to be perfectly honest here. As far as I can tell, this specific subject is one that women in particular are more interested in than men, so I’ll quickly provide the answer that you may be interested to hear. Do I personally, want to date a woman who reminds me of my mother. No. What kind of woman am I interested in then? To further strengthen my argument on the subject matter, I am going to explain. The kind of woman I am interested in is as follows; petite, shoulder length (or longer) dark brown hair and brown eyes (any color brown, hazel, et al, not fussy). My dream woman will be intelligent, witty and have a great, healthy sense of humor and sarcasm, and a strong personality. She will have a happy, positive demeanor, and is, moreover, not Australian. You read that last part right. I am Australian, born and bred, but I have not ever in my life gone out on a date with an Australian woman. My last girlfriend was Canadian, born in Montreal. So, on this note, my dream girlfriend can be either American, Canadian or European and speaks more than one language. Of course, the implied stigma is that one of these languages will need to be English because I unfortunately do not have the necessary intellect to learn more than one vernacular. On top of this, my dream woman will be between four to twelve years older than me, not younger. I cannot say that I speak for every guy, but I do hope that provides you, dear reader, with some perspective on this argument. On that  note, I can’t seem to imagine a woman who has all of the qualities I just mentioned growing on trees. Wait, let me go check my backyard.

Five minutes pass…

Another two minutes pass…

No, unfortunately not!I guess the point that I am trying to make here is that although some of the characteristics that I wish to find in a partner of mine may be reminiscent of some traits that my mother may have, most of them are not, and are quite the opposite actually. Again, I cannot speak for the entire male gender when I develop this connotation. In my opinion, if I wanted a woman who reminded me of my mother I would never have moved out of my parent’s home.

Now, I might as well bring up the elephant in the room. I do mean of course figuratively, not the real elephant I have sitting in my corner who I stole last Thursday from Australia Zoo. Fools. Haven’t even realised she’s missing yet! Anyway, I digress, because this topic I will discuss now in relation to this post is quite serious. Although I may have my wants and desires when it comes to my dream woman, as does any guy. Additionally, women have their requirements for their dream boyfriend. However, culture today, as it always has, plays a significant role in our choices, as does our parents backgrounds.

The Australian PM goes on quite regularly about how wonderful it is that this country is founded on the principles of a multi-cultural society. I however would have to disagree on that. Now, I don’t mean to come off like a racist son of a bitch, so please, allow me to explain. It might be a bit of an assumption, an ignorant one at that, but I think many could believe me if I were to say that not all of the countries in the world like each other. If they did, then there’d be one less reason for war. We all come from different walks of life; we all have different religions; different beliefs; different cultures, all of which contradict the other. And it is because of that, that these differences that make us who we are, also prevent us from conforming to the lives of others. So, if you put, oh, I don’t know, a cool hundred thousand people from each and every country in the world into one continent, I don’t think it would be too far a stretch to say that not everyone is going to get along. In fact, I can assure you, it is in my belief that they certainly would not.

On top of this, family’s pass down their culture to their children, which keeps it alive throughout the centuries and preserves that way of life. However, it hinders the advancement of it as well. Supposedly, inter-racial relationships were instigated a few decades or so ago. I would disagree by what I see in Australian society today. Parents tell their children not to affiliate with people who are of a certain culture. Hell, in high school I was looked down upon. I went to a school where I was, I swear to you, one of three Anglo-Saxons in my entire year level, and let me tell you, I was looked down upon by some of my peers because of this. A good many of these specific groups of individuals took an instant loathing to me because of my heritage.

Additionally, parents still to this day arrange marriages for their children, wanting them to marry a person who is one hundred per cent a member of their culture. Greeks marry Greeks. Italians marry Italians. Vietnamese marry Vietnamese. Iranians marry Iranians, and so on and so forth. Perhaps there are a couple of marriages dotted across the landscape that might contradict my theory, but I can assure you, not many would. I myself have personal experience of this. In my last year of high school I began a relationship with a woman who had a Turkish background. The ‘relationship’, if you could call it that lasted less than a week. A friend of the young woman I fancied happened to mention to her parents what was happening, and let me assure you, they were less than impressed. The father of the woman I liked had a quick discussion with me when I went to take his daughter out on a date. Well, ‘discussion’ might be too lax a word, since it was him doing most of the talking. Now, I don’t remember everything he said, but one sentence, his final one in fact, is what stands out foremost in my mind, to this very day even. He said, ‘I will not allow my daughter to have a relationship with some stupid fucking Anglo cunt.’

The end point I am attempting to concoct is that inter-racial relationships are probably not ‘in season’ this year, and probably won’t be for quite a while, if ever, at least in this country. Some people say that stereotypical Australians are racist. Maybe they are right. But I think that other cultures may want to wear that banner too, for I would call preventing people from having relationships with one another based on their cultural background to be racist, even if they do not. It would be hypocritical to call one culture racist, only to antagonise them racially after branding them with such a title.

There is of course one more notation I wish to discuss; the notion that I think some women (at least some of my lady friends) believe that they may become a ‘replacement mummy.’ I remember reading this terrible book my parents were given as a wedding gift which talked about what it meant to be married, and it outlined approximately five different circumstances, one I will discuss with you now. This particular concept explored the man and his mother’s meat loaf, and his want for his wife to cook that which he had been fed time and time again. So, the wife asks the mother for the recipe and cooks it for her man once a week. Later, once a month. And later still once a year, before never cooking it again. Basically, the story went something like this; over time, the woman forces her own cooking, living and general styles onto her man who then forgets all about his mother and instead focuses all thoughts onto the new woman in his life. It may take a short while, but it illuminates how it is indeed a possibility.

I guess the end point could be that even if a man picks out a woman who reminds him of his own mother, that in the end, she will try to change him so that she becomes more of what he wants to be. Wait, is that a daddy complex? Then I guess one could argue that women want a man who might remind them of their father? I certainly hope not, cuz I sincerely doubt I could ever live up to such expectations.

This, as always, is simply my opinion. I hope I did not offend too much. I also apologise if you came here thinking you were going to find GOOD information.

Thank you for reading.

Naughty Nefarious, signing off.