In My Brain-Bed

Last week waking up, the man sharing my brain-bed wants to know the answer to this question.

Which before I start, he should be in my actual bed.  Nobody likes it when I write this way – with conviction.  Without timidity.  Balls out.  And unafraid of your opinion of me.  So, yeah, he should be in my bed.  I should have been able to have many REAL men in my REAL fucking bed.  Shit, even when I was overweight, I should have been fucked often.

BTW, these Nerds candies are so delicious!

Jesus Christ I am an easy woman to love!  I am loveable.  I am adorable.  I should have had many love affairs in my life!  I should never have had to spend my entire life all alone!

I am fucking hot at the moment!  So, yeah I’m fucking swearing!  No one likes when I swear like a sailor either.  Don’t fucking care about your opinion on my flying fucks.

Fine.  Brain-bed.  The one-armed man at Hilton – I am sorry I forgot his name.  He drove a Mustang, I am pretty sure it was a dark blue.  We are talking nearly twenty years ago, so it is possible I am not correct.  Sorry, it’s laughable – wondering if a memory of a co-worker’s car is incorrect from twenty years ago.

Jesus, give me a break!

Why did I not try with him.  I did explain in an earlier post how I saw his brain in many pieces, fractured, broken-ness everywhere…and, there is nothing wrong with that.  There was nothing wrong with him.  I want to make sure it is understood that he is a man who could and should be loved.  However, I had already met David Wolfe.

Let me interrupt for just a moment and clarify my caring for my mother.  I am a caring woman, however it should have been my mother’s husband taking care of her.  I was filling in for his lack.  How often does this happen?  How often do family members fill-in for another’s role because the other person is missing, unable, or incapable?

It should have been my mother’s husband taking care of her until her dying day – not me.

He should have divorced her if he did not wish to fulfill his husbandry duties.

Hard truth, there.

It is a hard life for a funny woman.  Men –  as it has been for me in my life – do not appreciate a funny woman.

I guess no man has yet to find me marriage material.  All they want to do is experiment and do clinical studies and research on me – like I am a thing rather than a woman.

So, I had already met David Wolfe.  Peebles and Bam-Bam as I once said to him with his big club going bang, bang every time I tried to get near him.  Yet, when we looked at each other and the world stood still…that is the kind of love I wanted to have for the rest of my life.

No one seems to get this funny business –  that funny people, some of the funniest people are the most cerebral and intellectual.  Rowan Atkinson comes to mind, my guess super smarty guy there.

Plus, the – man, I hate to keep writing this, I wish I could remember his name – the one-armed man never asked me out on an official date.  Do men not do this anymore?  I don’t think so.  For some reason men just don’t ask me out.  What the fuck is that about?!  Do I honestly have to pretend I am less than I am to get a man’s interest?!  Fuck off with that!

Where are all the good and available men?!

In my brain-bed, he wanted to know why I loved David Wolfe, who would never love me in return.

Well, I neither look the same as I did in college, nor am I the same in my head.  I’ve worked through a lot on my own in my head.

Edison said when he was here that I was obsessed with David which I vehemently denied which is I guess one reason why I slept with him.  Fucker!

Now, because of DKW and James Franco I am no longer able to meet any available men.

Sleep with me for real men, I fucking dare you!  Flesh to flesh!  I fucking dare you!