Is it possible to fail – at being human?

 

You can fail a math’s test. You can fail to acquire an internship position. You can fail to successfully complete a project to adequate standards. But is it possible to fail at being a living, breathing human being?

What makes a human being who they are? Okay, would you consider a person born with a head and a torso, but no legs and no arms a human? They can do everything a human can, with the exception of using the appendages that they do not have. Is this specific person a human? Yes, in my opinion; this shows that physicality does not alter one’s humanity.

That would leave the psychology of humanity.

Tell me, when you see on the news acts of intense violence; unspeakable slaughter and genocidal actions; civil and international war; unspeakably heinous evil; the people who are involved in instigating these actions, do you think ‘this is not what humans are meant to do – they are absolutely terrible at being human’, or do you think ‘that is what humans are supposed to do, and therefore, my inability to commit such acts of violence proves I am incompetent at being human’?

Additionally, if you see people that you know injuring others either verbally or through physical abuse, do you think that they are failing to be human, or do you think that you are for not being involved?

Now, maybe someone could simply say that such an argument revolves around human decency and the idea that some people are generally good and others are not, and it is all a matter of choice.

I am making an alternative argument. I am saying, what if, hypothetically, to be human means that you need to be violent – that such is a mandatory requirement, a fixture of our genetic structure – that it is our destiny and we cannot escape from it – none of us can. What if humanity is supposed to naturally be a race of violent zealots?

What if those who are causing horrific acts of violence; those who do bad onto others; those who hate, loathe and incite rage; what if these people are not the monsters? What if the people who do not commit these acts; the people who do not harm, abuse and bully; what if these people are the freaks; the incompetent delinquents; the monsters of society?

Would it be too hard to imagine? War, after war, after war, after confrontation, after confrontation, after confrontation; it seems that one group of people on the planet win a tremendous battle, and the next day another, far more violent confrontation has sprung up to take its place.

Moreover, how many times have you thought you knew a person; you befriended them, talked with them, worked with them, helped them, and they in turn returned these favors and worked and talked with you? How many times has something happened, something nefarious, and all of a sudden, this person you thought you knew is no longer perceived in a positive light, but you see them as a horrible individual? They have made a mockery of you; they are tormenting you; they suddenly loathe you.

Was this occurrence inevitable? Were they always this person underneath what could have been a deceitful façade all this time? Or was it you who triggered this by wronging them? But if this was a surprise occurrence, then technically, it would not have been you who caused this, right? So, how could this have come to fruition?

One could argue that society has laws which state that those who enact acts of violence will be punished for their offences? But how often do you see these offences going unpunished? How often do you see those who are supposed to protect society and uphold the law doing quite the opposite? How often do you see people harming others in comparison to people helping others?

Why is it that violence is often inevitably the first action to be taken, rather than the hope for a peaceful resolution with formalised discussion?

Why is it that a person can commit the most heinous acts imaginable, and then be so easily forgiven by their God with but a few prayers and words?

Why is it that when most people become drunk and intoxicated they do not suddenly begin acting so nice and caringly, but so violent and aggressively?

Why is it that children as young as five are carrying knives and are becoming involved in acts of horrific evil, like stabbing another child?

Why is it that on the news, you are quite often no longer shocked to hear of a suicide bomber killing several dozen people; no longer shocked to hear a warlord is on a genocidal rampage; no longer shocked to hear a husband beat his wife to death and killed his children; no longer shocked to hear a young man went on a rampage in the city, murdering and raping women; no longer shocked to hear that a person was murdered and the person who killed him or her did so without a reason?

Why is it that the news is often filled with acts of evil rather than acts of kindness?

Why is it that random acts of violence are filmed on smart phones, uploaded to the internet not five minutes later, and after an hour are suddenly the most popular videos online?

Why is it that on occasion, doing the right thing can seem so wrong, yet doing the wrong thing can feel more right than any other option?

Why is it that sometimes sorrow, pain, anger, animosity and heart ache come as easily as breathing, whilst happiness seems so incredibly difficult?

On that note, I have one final question;

When can somebody honestly say without a doubt in their mind ‘I am not very good at being human’?

The rat bastard playing loud music down the road from me must be silenced!

 

If I can hear the sound of the bass, the drums, the guitar, the lyrics and everything else several houses down, what is it like for the occupants of the residence where the music is playing?

I for one have never truly understood where playing music as loud as friggin’ possible ever managed to be described as ‘enjoyable’.

Having your eardrums blown in by music that is been performed by a band playing some brute European deranged rock song is not my idea of a good time, but who am I to judge the deluded, deranged lunatics down the road from me who get off on it? Whatever rocks your boat I say, I would just rather prefer not to hear it over where I am.

The second issue, apart from the noise, which is bad enough, is the time. The music starts at approximately 9:30 at night, and then proceeds to continue until 2 in the damn morning.

Now, calling the cops about this is like calling the man who runs the ice cream van and telling him the exact same thing; some arsehole’s idea of a good time is playing music louder than any sound that has ever been recorded. On top of this, calling the local council about this is as productive as calling the cops, which already illustrated, is pretty friggin’ useless.

Of course, you could always try communicating with the guy playing the music, who takes your attempt to calmly deescalate the situation as an act of war because not only is he a few tiles short of a roof, but he can’t even speak a word of English so you might as well go beat your head up against a wall cuz if you stand there any longer your head will certainly look just about as terrible.

Of course, this leads me back to the title of this post; the rat bastard must be silenced. First off, why rat bastard? Well, because he is a rat. No, he didn’t inform on anyone to the cops – remember, he’s no good with speaking the Eng, so he’s informing skills will be about as useful as his ability to play music at regular room volume. By rat, I mean, he really is a rat. He has tiny black rat eyes, a little nose with whiskers protruding out from the sides, has a pink tail sticking out from the arse end of his body and is additionally covered in a gargantuan layer of hair. Okay, maybe it ain’t such an in-depth comparison, but there certainly is a similarity.

Now, let’s access that word ‘silenced’. I’m not saying that something untoward needs to happen to him – I’m saying that something untoward absolutely must happen to his sound system – it has to be silenced; muted; permanently.

The question would ultimately be how to successfully do so – hypothetically speaking of course.

As previously mentioned, any legal means would ultimately be unsuccessful, which would perhaps leave the illegal, or as some may call it, the desperate means. Basically, I would need to gain entry to the residence, temporarily gain access to the sound system – then grab hold of it and run out of there faster that Road Runner been pursued by Coyote.

I guess it would come down to how many people were at the ‘event’ in question, and, on top of that, how many people were inclined to have the music system there.  Surrounded by a bunch of angry, drunken music loving freaks who came for the songs would be somewhat unimpressed in my view by a certain handsome, intelligent, amazing, quick witted, humorous, fun loving individual stealing their reason for been there.

I could additionally take a sledge hammer to the sound system – that would put both it and me out of our misery, for I cannot imagine that it enjoys having terrible music pumping out from its mouth. The question would be how to get there – a person walking about a party scene with a weapon of mass construction would stand out like legs on a rattlesnake at an event of this proportion – unless there a builder theme to the occasion – then nobody will question me.

Or I could take a pair of scissors and chop the cable – but this issue can be easily amended to some extent or another – unless the cable is fed into the sound system rather than been an attachment which can be connected to the arse end of the device.

Decisions, decisions. Oh, maybe it’s all too hard. How many parties can these people have in a week? Quite a few it would seem. This would make me wonder what the hell they are celebrating? The fact that they are alive? Come on! What happened to the days when a party was just that – an occasion to celebrate the birthday of an individual. Now…well, wish me luck, in any event. Desperation makes people do crazy things and I fear I may be on the verge of doing something really out there. Now, where did I put that sledgehammer?

…And the Crusade to hath hold unto: The story of youth, of life, of what is and what should not have been

 

This piece will contain some coarse language.

All World Issues is one particular blogger that I follow. A young, Australian woman, this particular blogger has some many interesting, yet at the same time relatable views on life and other such ideologies and concerns. On Saturday I do believe, the young lady conceived a post on bullying, and her general dislike of such a nefarious issue in society today, the post that she wrote located at the link below:

http://allworldissues.com/2012/09/08/my-crusade-to-help-the-youth/

By the conclusion of her piece, All World Issues asked her readership if they wouldn’t mind developing a post of their own in regards to any experiences they had endured in regards to bullying. So, with that said, this here post is my response in regards to such a question.

Now, I myself have had some experience with bullying in the past. Perhaps I should amend that last statement. I suffered quite a fair bit, no, a shit load, that’s the word, a rather large amount of bullying when I was younger that was active during my high school years.

If there was one thing I could say about high school, it’s that I survived.

All World Issues is not wrong when she says that bullies will often target you for no particular reason. So, why me? I wonder how many people say that when it happens to them?

I was new. Most people at the high school knew each other from primary school. I came from an area that was farther out, whilst a majority of the other students just lived around the corner, so had grown up together.

Amazingly enough, I was lucky – at first. I befriended those who were perceived as the ‘cool’ crowd. They allowed me access to their friends and appeared to treat me like one of their own – to my face. Behind my back it was a whole different story, and eventually I guess they just grew tired of talking behind my back and made sure it was to my face.

I guess I realised I was not wanted when I was simply told that – in one way or another. The guy sitting next to me said I did not belong there at the school. Then he said I should go fuck my mother. I was 12 at the time, and believe it or not this was the first time I had been told this. I had no prior experience and didn’t really know what to do, and so told him to go fuck himself and I wished him best wishes in getting his tiny prick any larger than one centimeter.

That apparently didn’t go down well.

I realised again that I was unwanted that same week when the same guy, along with all his friends said they wished that I would ‘fucking die’; how so – a sword to chop my head off – and then to hack me into a thousand pieces with.

Maybe a little over the top, but still, the message was acquired.

Then the violence started.

I was winded twice during my first year. On both occasions I did not suspect the punch was coming.

Later on in that semester, the guy who had said he wished I was dead became angry with me when he attacked me and I knocked him to the ground. He managed to get the better of me and beat the shit out of me for fun. The class laughed.

In the second semester though, something new happened. Wood work and other such classes are supposed to be fun for the guys. I leant three things during the class. One, I’m good enough with wood work that I would probably always pass with a solid C. Two, I’m probably always going to be a shitty carpenter, and three, a piece of wood hurts when you get clocked over the head by one.

I guess that guy who said he wished I was dead really meant it. I just never assumed he would take the threat to the next level. Perhaps I should have known – surrounded by sharp objects and such that someone who hated me enough might see the potential opportunity to do some damage. When the teacher temporarily left to go into the back room, the guy saw his chance – he grabbed a nice shiny piece of wood whilst my back was turned, and whacked it across the back of my head.

I got a whopping good head ache, nothing else, which I should have been glad for. I tried to tell the teacher what had happened – and apart from ignoring me, when it came time for the truth to come out, the entire class sided with the guy who had hit me – I apparently was a clumsy son of a bitch, had tripped, and had hit my head in the side of the metallic bench I was working at.

I came to the conclusion that I could not win and chose not to tell anyone else. I was the freak in the eyes of a majority of the people.

There were some that were not so bad. In music class I befriended a couple guys, and over the course of high school we founded ourselves a school band with some older students and managed to do a pretty good job at rocking and rolling around, which is probably one of my better moments from high school.

I could have left I guess to escape the times that weren’t so good, but a bunch of rotten apples were not going to scare me.

In the second year it was much of the same thing. There were less physical attacks and more verbal ones.

I must have been called every name available. A couple that stand out would include:

-fucking friendless freak (‘triple f’ for short)

-disgusting fucking creature

-mother fucking fucker

-fucking hideous lanky cunt

-Anglo cunt

-dead cunt

Imagine this every single day. It does get a little tiring.

I was also called gay, faggot and pofter a lot. It would seem that people who bully you are scared of sexuality. I however can attest to the fact that I’m a hetero, although I think those posts should not ever see the light of day because of their incredibly graphic content.

However, year nine was the definitive moment in my life.

Physical attacks went from one extreme to the next. I was frequently water bombed. I had my locker broken into on a couple of occasions and had my lock broken, with some of my goods been stolen.

Class also became more violent than ever before. I had a pair of scissors thrown at me on more than one occasion, and they clipped me twice. Once in the head, and once in the ear. I had a calculator thrown at me, but I guess my number wasn’t up cuz it missed. I had several pencil cases thrown at me on a number of occasions. I even on one occasion had a chair thrown in my direction. Now, you might ask, what was the teacher doing? My home room teacher and my English teacher were one and the same – and she joined in on the attacks. Not the physical ones, but on the verbal ones. I overheard her call me a freak on a couple occasions. I only assume she was talking about me because my name, the word ‘freak’, and the pointing in my direction all lead me to believe one thing. On top of that, on two occasions I told her about attacks and she said ‘what exactly do you want me to do? The class is working to the best of their capability, so quit your bitching.’

The only bitch in the room was her in my eyes. She didn’t last though – she left the following year to go make some other schools’ unhappy.

I began to do my best to keep out of the way of students. No one ever sat near me in class, and I was only so glad for that. I became quite sick and tired of doing things for those who hated me; staying out of their way, was more for them than it was for me.

This didn’t really work anyway.

Later on in the year, a substitute teacher took a class. The class, well, excluding me, joined into a circle, drew a picture of me, then set it on fire, and laughed as it burnt.

I guess for some that wasn’t nearly enough, for come lunchtime, it did not take me long to realise that the hissing sound I heard was deodorant – and it was been put onto me. You know that fire warning label on each bottle of spray. I always assumed it was there for a reason, and I suppose the guy who sprayed me was smart enough to figure that out too. I spun around to confront him and knocked the bottle from his hand. I turned back to close my locker, before taking off my jumper and dumping it in there too, shutting it and turning around – to find the guy with an ignited cigarette lighter in his hand.

Everyone around me looked real disappointed. I managed to avoid all of them, but not before they managed to spray me again.

I suppose the class was still lusting for blood come the conclusion for lunch, because when I returned, the class stood around me and the guy who had intended to turn me into the human torch took the lead. He shoved a knife in my face and told me he would kill me if I ever touched him again like I had when I knocked the spray can from his hands.

A teacher suddenly came around the corner, and everyone moved to their lockers.

Out of fear for my own safety, I began to carry a small knife in my bag. It was a simple switch blade piece, where you flipped it out from the side. It had a good enough point to it, but also had a ruler along the side of the metallic blade, for that was its primary job – ruling lines on paper and then cutting along them.

Unfortunately, one afternoon when I was placing books in my bag, a fellow student saw the blade, and told a teacher about it. Instant suspension for me – for one week. I told the vice principal who interrogated me everything that had led to this moment for I concluded that if I was going down, I would take as many people with me. The guy who had been attacking me all these years – the leader – suspended for three days. Justice?

During the course of my week long suspension I had the decency to acquire bronchitis, and so was away for two weeks rather than one, and upon returning to school, it was a very different place indeed.

For starters, the kid who saw my knife – he told the whole school it was plastic – and they believed him.

A foxy young woman who was a year older than I who I obviously in regards to my previous comment had a thing for also believed the stories. Let’s just say if she ever had a thing for me, it officially came to an end when she trusted all those who hated me over my word.

Secondly, a book had been passed around the year level – a blank exercise book, that was no longer blank at all. The pages in and around the middle were filled with the signatures of 126 people. I counted them myself. I assumed there were around 150 people in my year level, which meant that a lot of people had signed this petition, for that it what it was. A petition for what? The sentence in the very central pages said it all; we want Derek Childs to die.

How did I come by this book? My year nine homeroom/English teacher gave it to me. No, she didn’t sign it. I guess she thought she would get in trouble. I took it to the vice principal. His response?

He asked if I had been attacked recently. I said no. He asked if I had any wounds on me. I said no. He came to the conclusion that this was simply students been students and told me to toss the book in the trash and forget about it.

Forgetting about it was a little difficult. It did not take long for me to be attacked in class again, and after I ended up on the ground, in an attempt to redeem myself I really went to town on the guy who had attacked me – and I kicked his arse up and down the classroom. Well, not quite, but I did a good enough job.

There are however always consequences for embarrassing your enemies, and I paid mine the next day. I only wish that when people chose to fight you, they did so on their own. In a fair one on one fight, although I would have rather avoided such an occurrence, I had a considerable chance of winning. One on several though – excuse my language, but I was fucked.

Long story short, I ended up on the ground.

Eventually all of this became too much for me. There is some aspects of what happened I am going to avoid due to the fact that I feel I’ve embarrassed myself enough and there are some other occurrences that I do not want to touch because I don’t want to write about those painful moments, so I will just skip to what I inevitably did.

In class one day I found myself in another confrontation when the teacher left to yell at a misbehaving student. I had a number of items thrown at my head, before been told again how the class wished I would die. One such item thrown at me was a pair of scissors – the person who threw them also yelled out how he wished I would kill myself with them.

Now, I don’t know if I really wanted to actually kill myself, or if I simply wanted the attention of the teachers who had been ignoring me all these years; but I took that pair of scissors, opened them up, and with all my might I shoved one of the sharp tips into my left wrist. I then proceeded to do this five times, over and over again. I did not slice – I simply stabbed. I aimed for a beautiful blue vein and went to town.

As for the class – they cheered me on. That was until the blood began to seep out from the wound I had created. For some odd reason as I sat there, the blood flowing across my fingers and onto the carpet, the class actually became frightened and the one who had lead the attacks all these years ran for the teacher and told her what had happened.

Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on who you were at the time I guess, the damage I had done was not terrible enough that I found myself on deaths door – no.

I didn’t need stitches, but I did need a few Kleenexes and a good couple large band aids that needed to be changed a few times over the course of the day because the blood kept seeping through. I was fixed up at the nurses office, and the leader of the bullies was expelled.

Well, it only took three years.

As previously mentioned, he was their leader, so after that the physical violence died down. The verbal attacks didn’t though. If anything, the classes seemed more pissed off than ever that I had survived.

There was one teacher at the school who was particularly nice though, and he told me that as students grew older the attacks would die down, and very gradually I guess they did over the next three years. Very slowly, but still, they died down.

Of course, the one change that happened in year nine was that I changed myself. I began to stop caring what people thought, and I instead wore that ‘freak’ title they gave to me like a badge. This was of course after my little incident with the scissors. They thought I was a freak, and so I made sure that they would not forget it.

I survived high school. I made a couple friends here and there that are still friends to this day, and I was loathed by all the rest.

I am certain that lots of people have experienced worse than I. I agree with All World Issues that bullying is pretty horrible, but it ain’t going to stop. I don’t get bullied any more, but I know that some people don’t like me, but you’ll get that wherever you go.

I think you can either attempt to outgrow those who hate you and not care, or let it consume and overwhelm you until it takes control of your life. It is difficult to avoid the unavoidable, so me recommending that option is like me recommending you avoid the killer shark that is one second away from making you yet another trophy between its teeth.

Bullying gradually will become worse. There are numerous news stories about people been stabbed at school and murdered, and I am glad I didn’t become a news story.

Anti-bullying campaigns don’t work, and neither do the videos. You will never stop it; you just have to outlive it. If you can do that, then you have officially conquered it. This is my view, and not that of All World Issues.

That particular young lady wishes to start a campaign to build awareness against bullying and has other great ideologies in regards to such a plan. I’m glad that such a person is committed to such goals. I wish her luck and anyone else who attempts such a plan.

You ain’t gonna stop bullying for it is imbedded inside human culture, and honestly, how are you going to change human culture when there are 7.4 billion human beings on the planet. Now, many of them have not bullied others. Many of them have never been bullied. But the other couple billion people have either bullied or been bullied. I ask those who wish to help, can you really help solve all that pain?

People are capable of the greatest of things. They are capable of love, of happiness, of amazing intellect, of generosity, of selflessness. People can also do unspeakable evil. They are capable of hate, misogyny, and violence. This is human nature. Everyone can do good, just as everyone can do bad. Can you really change a couple thousand years of evolution?

Feeling a bit blasé…

 

Let’s talk about feelings…yes, I know, long drawn out sigh!

But what I really want to discuss is my feelings. I know, that is kind of pretentious, but hey, this is my blog, right?

One thing I have come to notice, especially online, is the way I convey my feelings to others. In blogs, I have this way about me, where as soon as I begin to talk about something serious, something that means a lot to me, I temporarily shut down, and I am no longer me, Derek Childs, a.k.a Naughty Nefarious – I become a sub-version of both these personalities.

How so? Instead of writing seriously, or from the heart as some might say, I take what I want to say, and I often make some rather crude or vulgar joke about it, or I formulate it in a rather rude way and try to make that which was meant to be serious into quite the riot.

This is quite the vulnerability for me. Basically, this occurs most when I begin talking about who I like, and who I would like to be with. I say how I really am infatuated with a certain someone and how I want to spend time with them, and then I make a sexual reference, not in a romantic way, but deliberately as to avoid the whole romantic sphere that I have generated.

I should probably not have to do this. In truth, I don’t have to do so period.

The issue is with ME. I don’t know why, but I want to talk about these feelings and issues online, and then when I do so, I begin to joke about them. I mean, how can I be taken seriously as a blogger or as a writer if I myself am not taking these issues seriously myself?

I would love to say that I intend to turn over a new leaf here, but I don’t like making rash promises that I cannot keep. What I will say is that in the future, if you read any more pieces of mine, I am certain you will know what I am talking about here when you see them.

How, the intro to the piece probably displays this whole conception to a ‘T’.

So, this is me, talking about how I talk, and how I am basically going to refuse to change.

Believe it or not, when talking to the people I have feelings for, it comes a lot easier. I know, hard to understand when reading this, but…I know I can do better, I just don’t think I really want to. I am not uncomfortable with the blogger I have turned out to be, but I ain’t gonna change cuz this is a part of me and I guess it/he is here to stay.

Thank you for reading.

Naughty Nefarious, or whoever the hell is writing this, signing off.

I’ve a Problem…

 

(May contain some sexual references)

…I talk before I think. I’ve had this for quite a while. Now, I’m not in need of any antidote, but I can’t seem to get a handle on it either. I see a person, or a situation, and I can’t help but open my mouth and say the first thing that comes to mind – without even processing it properly. Hell, half the time I think ‘wow, what a cool line!’ only to think ‘you stupid bastard!’ a couple seconds later.

This may be one of the reasons why I don’t really talk much to people I hardly know. I however make up for this when communing with people I have known for a while because in part I am sure they are somewhat used to what I am bound to say during a conversation. Additionally, I seem to only ever have a difficulty keeping my mouth shut about issues that should not be brought to life with people I have only just met. There is a certain feature, either physical or internal, or a view, value or trait of theirs that I feel the need to comment upon which inevitably leads to a very unhealthy relationship.

Now, it ain’t that I believe my opinion is absolutely awesome and needs to be expressed. I know it is! (Okay, joking, but seriously, back to topic) It is that I suddenly feel the need to speak my mind. I have come to realise that when I don’t mention something which I find to be quite pertinent, it begins to become a bit of a burden, and like a fat cat in a corner continuously being fed with no exercise to help the little tyke out, what I have not yet expressed begins to weigh quite heavily on me. Sooner or later when I feel I am going to burst with the info I find that I either have to express it immediately, or find some other avenue which can help me vent out whatever I wish to explain. This can be anything from feelings to resentment to just general observations, and my other ways which can relieve myself of such a burden can either be from writing down whatever is affecting me and transpiring it into either a story or piece of poetry, or going out and using the ol’ punchin’ bag.

I have been taught in the past, especially in university, to generally assume the abilities of those around you. Assume they are intelligent, strong willed and capable of understanding what you wish to express. If you find evidence to disprove this theory, well, then you can assume them to be stupid, incompetent arseholes, but only then, and not before. With that in mind, I do believe it is this theory that has caused me to believe that I can say what I want and kind of get away with it when I am talking to new people for the first time because I believe on some level they will understand me.

Of course, the other factor once more is interpretation, which seems to make an entrance in an awful lot of my posts, now, don’t it? I say something and the other person believes I am conveying something else but according to certain communicative models, during a good transaction of dialogue, what is being expressed by the sender is being received by the other in the exact same manner. However, I fear the message is quite frequently being screwed up. I guess this could be due to cultural background, upbringing, personal experience and so on, with people judging what is being said on those prior ideals.

For instance, recently this young lady introduced herself to me. I was courteous, well, I think I was, and I guess an alright kind of host. She wanted to have some assistance of sorts navigating the area because she was new to these parts. I suddenly ask her not far into our meeting why she would choose me over other guys because I do not know her and that I am certain to have remembered her if we had met because she is quite attractive.

At these words the young lady in question flees for her life and I have not seen her since. Actually, come to think of it nobody has. Oh my… Actually, that was a joke, I’m sure she’s fine. Seriously though, what exactly did I say that was wrong? Yes, perhaps I should not have blurted out what I did eventually blurt out, but I don’t see the harm in it. If I had said ‘I find you absolutely ravishing – let’s make wild animalistic love on the floor right now like a couple angry lions on deep fried crack’ then yeah, I guess I could see that as being perhaps a little disturbing. But I was paying her a harmless comment that had no innuendo or nefarious motive applied to it. What I said was not some kind of code in regards to me wanting, you know, THAT! Just because I choose to go by the name Nefarious in these posts, does not naturally mean I am so.

See, that is exactly what I mean by issues in communication and interpretation. I say one thing, where I explain how I do not know the woman, although she seems to be somewhat insinuating that I do by pairing up with me to help her around town, before paying her a non-threatening, non-sexualised comment, and suddenly, she runs, like an old limerick once said, over the hills and far away.

So yeah, maybe I do have an issue. Either I need to learn to shut the hell up, or I should get myself a girlfriend – then I can say all the things I want and not care if they are interpreted as deviant sexual comments because if she is dating me, then wouldn’t this young lady in question be willing to accept such commentary, regardless if it is meant to be sexualised or not?

I mean, I can understand the tower of Babel coming down and God having everyone speak a different language and all that, I mean, if you believe that interpretation of events, but what I don’t understand is how I’m speaking English, and the other person is speaking English, and we are both talking English, and have both been taught to speak English, yet one of us is obviously not getting the message because I say one thing (in English btw), and the other person hears something else. I mean, did I stutter? Or, in society today, does stating ‘you’re attractive’ naturally mean ‘I wanna have sex with you?’

Funnily enough, if I really am attracted to a person it usually takes me a while to talk to her – or I simply never do period. Perhaps I should apply my ideas of communication in general to this line of thought – then I’ll be onto something. Right? Probably not, but who knows. Like I said in a previous post, I have a rule where I don’t ask out women I either work or study with, and if I ever do so, I leave it to the very last second when I am about to leave or quit. Then, technically I am not breaking my rules, and I am additionally not annoying the young lady in question, which is my goal in not asking them out during my time there – to not annoy them. But that’s just my opinion.

I don’t think I’m annoying. I don’t think I’m a sex crazed loon either, but these seem to be the interpretations that are coming through with those who I communicate to…

…hmmmm, ponder about this subject I will.

Naughty Nefarious signing off

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.