Tag: Stickyisaslut

Sticky Is A Slut: Woman Haters…

stickyisaslut:

He shared with me that, for a while, he was a woman hater. A woman hater is a man who seeks out women, dates them even, for the sole purpose of hurting them. A woman hater is not to be confused with a rebounder, or a player. A woman hater is a relationship masochist. He wants to make girls cry. He will see a girl regularly until he knows she likes him, then he disappears.

I was in Daly City the last time I became so angry that I couldn’t concentrate on the task at hand. Driving, that time. I wanted to rip the steering wheel out of its shaft and let my Jeep careen off the side of the road. I wanted fire to accompany my fury. I wanted blood.

I pulled over in a suburban neighborhood. I was still logical enough to know to stop. The walk home was long, as it required me to traverse through Daly City, South SF, and then turn north toward Brisbane. I wanted to find someone along the way and antagonize them. A woman, perhaps. Someone with her white skin and freckles. Dark, straight hair like hers. Nimble hands like hers. Confused soul like hers. I wanted someone to hurt and had no other way of letting it out. I made plans for myself to be better and excel for the sole purpose of revenge. I would unleash the pain on any woman who fell for me from then on. I was growing weary and ignored my aching feet. I raged in my mind and in my heart. The field of many broken hearts would sate me.

I walked for hours. The January rain poured and I marched on toward home. There was something pathetic and petty in me that screamed to be let out. I contained it so well that I lost all sense of passion, self, and love. It took years to recover a fraction of who I used to be.

Sticky Is A Slut: Woman Haters…

stickyisaslut:

He shared with me that, for a while, he was a woman hater. A woman hater is a man who seeks out women, dates them even, for the sole purpose of hurting them. A woman hater is not to be confused with a rebounder, or a player. A woman hater is a relationship masochist. He wants to make girls cry. He will see a girl regularly until he knows she likes him, then he disappears.

I was in Daly City the last time I became so angry that I couldn’t concentrate on the task at hand. Driving, that time. I wanted to rip the steering wheel out of its shaft and let my Jeep careen off the side of the road. I wanted fire to accompany my fury. I wanted blood.

I pulled over in a suburban neighborhood. I was still logical enough to know to stop. The walk home was long, as it required me to traverse through Daly City, South SF, and then turn north toward Brisbane. I wanted to find someone along the way and antagonize them. A woman, perhaps. Someone with her white skin and freckles. Dark, straight hair like hers. Nimble hands like hers. Confused soul like hers. I wanted someone to hurt and had no other way of letting it out. I made plans for myself to be better and excel for the sole purpose of revenge. I would unleash the pain on any woman who fell for me from then on. I was growing weary and ignored my aching feet. I raged in my mind and in my heart. The field of many broken hearts would sate me.

I walked for hours. The January rain poured and I marched on toward home. There was something pathetic and petty in me that screamed to be let out. I contained it so well that I lost all sense of passion, self, and love. It took years to recover a fraction of who I used to be.

Twenty

Sticky got me thinking about twenty. Namely, what the hell was I up to?

This must have been after the one-night stand. I was certainly with the older woman who had a son. Wild one she was. Cool kid, too. This means that twenty was when I realized it’s not for me, the casual thing. Too unstable. I’ve had to relearn this lesson again since then, but fucking up’s about as necessary as walking. Learn from my mistakes. Tell me so.

Really into video games. I wrote a fuckton of game guides (the earliest onset of any interesting in writing). I spent a hell of a lot of time playing video games. Good ones, bad ones. There were probably many guns involved. 2003. The Internet was a newish thing. Computers were slow as hell. Everything was written in Notepad. No more than 79 characters wide. It’s strange what sticks to your memory.

That must have been when I decided to do this for money. Video games. What’s better than getting paid to fuck around with video games all day? I found out the following year. It’s alright, all things considered. I learned about office politics and conduct in the work place. I was no different at twenty than I was at eighteen. It was all mind-boggling. Just some kid from Inglewood, you know. None of it prepares you for real people. None of it prepares you for people who aren’t real.

I’d stopped smoking by then. I’m pretty sure. It was toward the end of any notions of rebellion. Hell’s bells did not a-hang off of me, I’ll tell you that. L.A. What can you say about Los Angeles when you own a car? Went all over the place. Shitty beer was alright when investment in quality was low on the pole. I was hangover-proof. I could chug shit like any ol’ bro. I didn’t do this often, but I did. I used to be good at billiards. I would’ve hustled you good.

I can’t regret any of it. Not the apathy, not the indifference, not the living at home when my gut told me to leave. It took care of itself in time. I took care of it. Twenty came and went like a can of cheap beer.

Twenty

Sticky got me thinking about twenty. Namely, what the hell was I up to?

This must have been after the one-night stand. I was certainly with the older woman who had a son. Wild one she was. Cool kid, too. This means that twenty was when I realized it’s not for me, the casual thing. Too unstable. I’ve had to relearn this lesson again since then, but fucking up’s about as necessary as walking. Learn from my mistakes. Tell me so.

Really into video games. I wrote a fuckton of game guides (the earliest onset of any interesting in writing). I spent a hell of a lot of time playing video games. Good ones, bad ones. There were probably many guns involved. 2003. The Internet was a newish thing. Computers were slow as hell. Everything was written in Notepad. No more than 79 characters wide. It’s strange what sticks to your memory.

That must have been when I decided to do this for money. Video games. What’s better than getting paid to fuck around with video games all day? I found out the following year. It’s alright, all things considered. I learned about office politics and conduct in the work place. I was no different at twenty than I was at eighteen. It was all mind-boggling. Just some kid from Inglewood, you know. None of it prepares you for real people. None of it prepares you for people who aren’t real.

I’d stopped smoking by then. I’m pretty sure. It was toward the end of any notions of rebellion. Hell’s bells did not a-hang off of me, I’ll tell you that. L.A. What can you say about Los Angeles when you own a car? Went all over the place. Shitty beer was alright when investment in quality was low on the pole. I was hangover-proof. I could chug shit like any ol’ bro. I didn’t do this often, but I did. I used to be good at billiards. I would’ve hustled you good.

I can’t regret any of it. Not the apathy, not the indifference, not the living at home when my gut told me to leave. It took care of itself in time. I took care of it. Twenty came and went like a can of cheap beer.