I don't care

Women complain that men don’t understand them. That’s true but they don’t understand men any better.

Men don’t care what colors go with what. What damn difference does it make? Men figure if they have a shirt and a pair of Jeans on they’re dressed. They don’t match their wallets to the clothes and they don’t necessarily match the socks or their underwear with it. That’s optional for Gay men.

Men don’t put the toilet seat down. That’s very true. They do put it up before taking a piss, most of them. Now, that’s being considerate and men get no credit for it.

Men are NOT obsessed with watching sports. Men would watch a bikini contest as their first choice. It’s true that men would watch bikini clad babes playing beach volleyball as a first choice even if it comes to sports ....even over Rugby and Soccer.

Men are obsessed with their “vitality”. They MUST be. That’s why we’re all here. If it was up to women to decide on re-producing humans would have died out after the original pair. Men are just concerned about the future generations as in there being one. Come on.. we are just trying save the human race by generating (so to speak) babies .

The difference between men and women is that women want men to understand them no matter what signal they’re using at the time while men don’t even know they’re being signaled.

How Bizzar

Streams of regret twist through my darkened soul. I see the light of reason permeate the translucent haze of my understanding but yet I still cower in the corners. Images of past defeat are the trademarks of my emotional compass. How many times have I wanted to go back? When did the resounding clamor of my promises dissipate??? why is it that I am here again??

It has often been said that hindsight brings reason into a situation. But why is that hindsight hounds me into turmoil? If reason exists in this contorted reality why can't I see it??? I can feel the vibrating chords of regrets chorus resonate in the chamber of my deep heart. I can see the blinding images of my past as they shatter the lens of my soul. Is my existence a metaphor...Is a metaphor my existence??

I see the actions which have driven me to the edge. I can nearly taste the tears upon my lips. Will a clinical diagnosis provide solstice? I doubt. Nothing more. The logical progressions of ideal experiences are intoned in my consciousness. But why can I not follow in the path of such logic? Why must I praise self-destruction like a golden calf? Even sleep deprives me of the escape it once provided. Dreams spit the cold venom of failure into the eye of sub-conscience.

I love, I hate, I rage. Extreme emotions breathe the steady flow of life into the lungs of my mind. Introverted analysis paints a picture of mental calamity. Extroverted expressions wrath the canvass of reputation with the dark brush of insanity, dripping with the black ink of Never Forget. How many visitors to the museum of my soul leave wanting a refund? How often are the painting in my gallery scorned??? Life is...Life was.. Life will always be...

The Usher will seat you now!