Suicrat

@Crocio: I might do the same if they weren't all obtaining approximately triple the legal tender from their work that I am from mine, but that's another matter entirely.

@blackbird415 said:

" @Suicrat: @Suicrat said:

" @PenguinDust:  That's like commenting on how sad it is that no one mentioned tomato sauce in a pizza recipe -- it goes without saying! 

I get what your sayin' but das a bad analogy there. Pizza sauce doesnt have to be made of tomatos. In fact the first pizza had an olive oil based sauce. I can get all kinds of different sauces at the pizza places around here. Theres this garlic sauce, an Alfredo sauce (never tried it, but doesnt seem appetizing). I guess if you said pizza sauce in  general it would have been a really good analogy considering love can come in all different forms and flavors :P yum yum... I want pizza now "

Dammit, now I'm hungry for strange pizzas too!

@PenguinDust: Okay, now you can fuck right off. Commerce is the very lifeblood of humanity. It's not the least bit my fault that seemingly -- though I know it's not true -- everyone but myself, a few of my friends, and the woman whom I love most look at commerce as a 'passionless' process. It is the highest ideals of humanity being played out between multiple people! How could that possibly be passionless? Sure, it's a rational process, but it isn't very rational to not express one's emotions, now is it?
 
Can we move forward without disparaging commerce any more than we already have done, please? Commerce is what makes every aspect of this conversation possible!
 
As for the why, I admit, it's discussed in fairly elemental terms (i.e., I'm essentially asking the question "what is masculinity?" and "what is femininity?" And those questions have different answers to different people.)

@IzzyGraze said:

"   @Suicrat said:

" @IzzyGraze: As far as I'm concerned, that post was written in plain English. What "fancy" words are you talking about? "

Well,  "the married men are subjugated to the male sluts" do you mean "made fun of by"? Because I don't know how the married men are being submissive or subjects of male sluts.
 
" hierarchical acts of conquest", that doesn't make sense. Or I guess it could make sense if you're saying each woman they go after is of a different social status or attraction level but that's a bit of a stretch considering the context.
  
" it's retarded to epitomize the essence of one gender as the degradation of the other". I was wondering why this bothered me so much and I realised that you're saying that they're only men when they degrade women. Or that degrading women is what makes them men, not manlier but straight up men.
 
They're not million dollar words but belong to a higher register than people often use, unless they're trying to speak scholarly. Like with the last one, I would think in casual conversation you'd say "It's retarded that some men think what makes them manly is degrading women."

And by fanciness I'm talking about sentences such as:

"However, every now and then, one of you says something to me about your relationships with other males that gives me pause, and thrusts me in the direction of reminding you that there is nothing special about men, they are not, by fact of their gender, superior to women. "

Smaller sentences are easier to read.
 
Sorry, I'm just reading the comments and most people either didn't know what you were saying or are "taking things out of context". Figured I'd try to offer an explanation as to why that might be happening.
 

"

Okay, let's take it from the top: "to subjugate" means "to place oneself above another" or, "to place another below oneself". The married men are openly mocked, and they sit there and take it because they hate being married.
 
"Hierarchical", juxtaposed with "equal"; "conquest", juxtaposed with "commerce". Again, pretty straightforward.
 
I don't think you realize that this is how I speak in casual conversation. Again, my vocabulary is a mix of crass colloquialisms and multi-syllabic words that convey specific meaning. I know it's weird, but I can't help it; it's who I am.

@PenguinDust: 
That's like commenting on how sad it is that no one mentioned tomato sauce in a pizza recipe -- it goes without saying!
 
The issues raised in this blog post are about WHY we love certain people and not others.

@IzzyGraze: As far as I'm concerned, that post was written in plain English. What "fancy" words are you talking about?

@Shirogane: I guess you don't know many construction workers from the suburbs then.

@ahriman22: Ahriman, you're almost as good at taking things out of context as Jakob. You'll notice the comment about 'worthiness' is with regard to respect. If you want to be respected, you need to be respectful. That was the point I was trying to make; and this whole entire blog post was an attempt at piercing the mating-dance bullshit in the first place, so can we move on from your misconception?

Umm, well, it's more directed toward my friends who aren't assertive enough with their loved ones, and to get my female, heterosexual friends to stop thinking of their counterparts as holding some sort of power over them.
 
Some people like to role-play domination into their sex lives, and I wouldn't want to deny them that (alleged) pleasure, but I prefer to conceptualize sex in different terms, and therefore it is a different experience entirely.
 
But this post isn't just about sex, dudes, it's also about inter-gender relationships and friendships too!

@Mmmslash: I'd say that all sexual acts are economic transactions. Whether or not they're equal at face value is another matter though, I'll grant you that.

@jakob187: 
I wouldn't do it, but I am in no position to criticize other people's (mutually consensual) sexual activity.
 
The reason why I don't personally want to pay for sex is because it's not equal commerce, the person paying is the one (implicitly or explicitly) saying that their contribution is insufficient, and therefore must add money to make the transaction justifiable.

 The majority of the people with whom I work do not live in the downtown [Toronto] core. It is surprising how much this seemingly small shift in geography produces an enormous cultural difference. This is most palpable with respect to their expectations of women: they are constantly dumbfounded by the sight of two effeminate-looking people (one male, one female) walking together. Every time something to the effect of "Why did that ridiculously-sexy [insert demeaning term used to refer to women here] choose that [insert demeaning term used to refer to homosexuals here]?" is uttered by one of my co-workers, and I have the energy to go through the explanation, I try to level with them.

"It's all marketing."
"What do you mean?"
"All women, secretly, are lesbians."
"Yeah, it's true, I read that somewhere."
"The guys who look, act, dress, or otherwise seem gay aren't. They've just found a particular marketing strategy to attract particular women."
"Huh?"
"What I'm saying is, these girls have had their fill, or are not at all interested in muscle-bound, car-obsessed sociopaths, and these men realize it, and do their utmost to soften or obscure the more nakedly-masculine aspects of themselves."
"But don't they get bullied out of it by their buddies?"
"No. Most of these guys have more female friends than male friends, and their male friends tend to be more like them. The ones that get dates with their female friends are the ones who can straddle the line."
"What line?"
"Between the worst place in the whole world and the best place in the whole world."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean the friend zone and the inside of a woman's vagina."
"So these guys act gay to get laid?"
"No, they act bisexual to get laid."
"O."

Yes, I do talk with that bizarre combination of crassness and pretension to construction workers too (not just my friends and loved ones), but only once I learn their first names. And yes, this level of incredulity persists, these men treat the women in their lives as though they are disposable, and the married men are subjugated to the male sluts, because the male sluts believe it is masculine to treat women like shit, and the married ones have been treated like shit by their wives.

Well fuck that talk, it's retarded to epitomize the essence of one gender as the degradation of the other. I am a man, I enjoy sexual activity with women, but realize such actions must be seen as equal acts of commerce, not hierarchical acts of conquest. I see our complementary chemical compositions and organ array as facts of biology, not class; if you wish to be worthy of the respect of your counterpart (in sex, or any other interpersonal activity) then you must demonstrate your worthiness of it.

Now, I'm well aware that the vast majority of my female friends are strong-willed, free-thinking individuals, and not vacuous, self-denying servants, and I take heart in that. However, every now and then, one of you says something to me about your relationships with other males that gives me pause, and thrusts me in the direction of reminding you that there is nothing special about men, they are not, by fact of their gender, superior to women. Yes, we are strange and fascinating beings, but any pretense of superiority belies a fact of inferiority.

I guess what I'm saying is, we all need to be assertive, not passive, and certainly not passive-aggressive in our relationships. A person who treats you like you don't matter is not worthy of you; it is not a challenge to make yourself seen or heard, it's a warning that the person is an asshole.

(P.S.: The quote in the title is actually from a Ghostface Killa song, and the song is actually pretty good.)

Indeed, if I met the owner of that voice in real life, I'd give him a stern, Suicratic talkin'-to ;)

@MauveForest: The woman I love most and I are far more than our material value to one another, and will be for the foreseeable future. However, as long as I keep cognizant of the fact that excessive reliance on routine kills the love in a relationship, as well as continue to communicate with her about what's going on inside of our heads, then I don't have to worry about whether I'm just my material value to her or whether our lives will devolve to just that.
 
I mean, I am fully prepared to do the husband-like things for her, and I would actually take pleasure in such things (botany is something that has always fascinated me... from a distance. I've never owned land of my own upon which to do any gardening though), and if her gratitude came in the form of non-sexual physical contact and a home-made refreshing drink, then I would be more than grateful. However, she and I are both aware of the cynicism that surrounds most people's conception of that imagery.
 
She just damn well better remain an atheist (whether or not she decides to start attending church.)

Just because the voice in the poem is pessimistic doesn't mean the poet is pessimistic. Let's try to bear in mind the difference between author and voice.

 365 days ago, I spent the last of a quiet evening with my friend Kyle, discussing small sundries, and said good night to him as he left my room. As I lay there, contemplating the enormous cost I was about to impose on my fellow Ontarians, I felt an overwhelming sense of guilt. My life was already going pretty crappily, I admit: I had lost my part time job precisely 2 weeks before my injury, and it was becoming obvious that I didn't have enough money saved for another year of tuition, but that was the first time I ever felt guilty for existing. It was a new kind of suicidality (for me, anyway.) Most of my attempts in the past spawned out of a sense of inconquerable frustration, fear of the future, or an overwhelming sense of regret at past mistakes; but as I said, this time was different.

I had quietly, emotionlessly, and (so I thought) contentedly wrote a brief (three page) note, and resolved to consume all the tylenol, aspirin, and painkillers in my room and the bathroom, and did so without any second-guessing. Within about half an hour or so, my stomach started to rumble, but I wasn't concerned or fearful, I was at peace. I decided to smoke a bowl and let the THC quiet my stomach and put me to sleep.

The next morning (Monday, March 16, 2009) I woke in quite a different state. I was covered in my own vomit (which was neon yellow due to the just-add-water Gatorade I had been drinking the night before), and I felt more coming. As I scrambled for my crutches, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My eyes were totally bloodshot (and surprisingly wide, considering I had just woken up), my lips were purple, and my face was red. I couldn't keep my mouth closed, my lower lip hung lazily off my jaw.

For a moment, I had felt an overwhelming rush of excitement: I had finally done it! After all these weak-ass attempts at suicide, I had finally taken the action that would kill me! I'm not sure how long I'll have to go through this puking, but before St. Patrick's Day I'll finally be dead!

But as I stood, suspended by my crutches over the toilet, reality set in. Wait, this was the day they scheduled my pre-op. My mom's driving into town to take me to the hospital, she's going to be the one to discover my corpse. More guilt, not like the kind I had felt the night previous, but a new kind, began to rush over me. This was the kind of guilt one feels when one leaves a terrible mess for someone else to clean up. I didn't know what to do. I wanted to go out to the yard, and hide, but I was barely able to get up those stairs using my crutches before, I knew I wouldn't be able to in my drug-addled state.

More guilt. And then even more.

Finally, I was pushed to make a phone call. I dialed my mom's number, and asked if she could arrive sooner, as I was not feeling well. She told me she still had to get some things ready, but would leave as soon as she could. I called my sister at work, told her I wasn't feeling good; I held back tears, but I couldn't tell her that I thought I was going to die by my own hand. She told me she was really busy at work, but would come by during her lunch break.

As more fluorescent vomit flowed from my innards, the guilt started to turn into regret. Not the suicidal regret that pushed me close to the edge in the past, but regret at what I let my own depression do to me.

You see, I had been diagnosed with depression as a teenager, and prescribed SSRIs to combat it. I never told my mom I didn't take the stuff, that I sold it to the kids in my school; and I only acted like I was feeling better about myself; while setting in motion the idea that if I keep on doing shitty things to myself, and putting myself in intractable situations, eventually circumstance would force me to kill myself.

As the paramedics stumbled into my smoke-filled room (my sister decided to call me an ambulance after getting off the phone with me, and I had decided to smoke more weed), I snapped back to the present. I was barely conscious at this point, but I remember them calling me "Mister Barbieri", which to me was really weird. I hadn't heard those words for over a decade, and the last time I did was when the doctors were futilly trying to bring my dad back to a state of consciousness. (The painkillers they gave him were so strong, his ability to communicate devolved to a slurred, and barely-audible Italian.) They asked me if I was okay and what was wrong. I swallowed some vomit, and told them that I had consumed a couple hundred pills, and was hoping to be dead before sunset. They brought in the stretcher and one of those oxygen-nostril things, strapped me in and hooked me up, and took me to the ambulance.

On the ride to Mt. Sinai, we encountered a large group of Tamil (and Tamil-sympathizing) protesters, staging a demonstration against the Sri Lankan government's destruction of the last of the Tamil Tiger strongholds (and, presumably human rights violations.)

Having realized she could do nothing without running blood tests, the paramedic decided to interrogate me.

Why did I want to die?
What was so bad about living?
What did I think my family would say?
Wouldn't this hurt any people who were close to me?

I was barely coherent at this point. I had vomited over a dozen times, and I was just too weak. She won the contest, instead of justifying my decisions, all I could say was "yes, I realize now how big a mistake this was. I'm sorry to have drawn you in." (Or at least that's what I thought I said, but who knows really.)

I remember feeling really cold before regaining consciousness, I remember seeing the strain in my sister's and mother's faces, and the silent, stoic anger in Jeff's. (Jeff's my future brother-in-law), and I remember the doctor, with his thick Russian accent, and ridiculously colourful pants, telling me that I had only sustained minor liver damage. At that point, all I wanted to do was go to Toronto Western, and do my pre-op.

The funny thing is, two days later, after having surgery, and deciding (yet again) that I didn't want to die, my blood pressure went up severely, and nearly died due to the tylenol and aspirin mixing adversely with the painkillers I had been given post-op. My decision to attempt suicide could have killed me twice! Needless to say, I'm starting to realize what a waste of time and effort such endeavours are, and am focusing my resources in more productive channels.

Anyways, that was a really long-winded note and it didn't really go anywhere. I just thought that the following poem needed some better context. I wrote this poem while recovering from surgery, as I contemplated the thoughts that had dominated my mind for the eleven or so years up to that point. I posted it here shortly thereafter, but no one really got it. I didn't expect you to, because I don't either. Anyways, the reason why I'm reposting it is because it's an anniversary of sorts, and because it's no longer up here. (I deleted all my blog posts up to that point when I got my new job back in december.)

Mercy, or the rape of Entropy

Compositions with black outlines
compartmentalize our world
Awaken and pull the ceiling inward
Awareness is its own gravitation

Incursive margins
Inclusive absence
Dissolution uninhibited
Disintegration unambiguous

Eschatology, pre-written eulogies
Escapism is the gilt road
Beneath the potential energy of the world itself
Benefactors exploiting beneficiaries

Universes in hands
Unity zeroed in arms
Possibilities assayed
Posthumously distilled

Teetotalers of experience
Teetering on edges
Wealth immolated
Warmth our dividend

Fumbling with the keys to the bomb shelter
Furtive, listening for the penultimate note
Nests mistaken for turrets
Necessities and renumeration

Solipsis as thesis
Sold on annihilation
Heed blankness
Heat dissipates

@MauveForest: The first one, among other things, is how I feel when I realize I put more of my resources into my immediate needs than I want to, and not enough into my future needs. The second one, among other things, is a projection of what my future wife might feel about me if I attain the level of responsibility I wish to attain.
 
As for your reaction to the last part of the second one, forgive me for taking heart in that. If anything I write motivates a person to do something more than what they are currently doing with their own life, then I feel as though I am succeeding.

One of the lines in the above poem catalyzed the below poem, so I add it to this blog, not as an edit, but as an additional comment:
 
past selves fucking over present selves fucking over future selves

He's exacting
He doesn't say much
He seems like a douchebag

Will he graciously do the gardening while you go to church?
Does it only cost a pitcher of ICED tea and a post-washup headscratch?

Does it only net you two unhappy kids and osteoporosis?
Is it your dying wish to feed the earth with your flesh,
Or are you starting to get sick of teleology?

Thanks for the positive feedback, guys. I just wish ChristOnIce were here, so I could get some hard-hitting criticism.
 
(I'm not one of those people who don't like it when their work is liked, but I am one of those writers who like it when their work is dissected from a bajillion different angles.)

This one's really short.

In Divisible

Coherence and discordance, equally disregarded
Margins squeezed to the margins squeezed off the page

Joint accounts, registered in one name
Past selves fucking over present selves fucking over future selves

Recognition of scarcity accelerates consumption
Two yards from the cliff becomes two feet over the edge

The first wars of identities rage
The last piece of self is discarded

March Update: Big changes coming. Three (3) clauses, Five (5) additional acts

 

Clause VI

I acknowledge and am grateful for the role recreational outdoor hockey ("shinney")  has had on my fitness goals, and am melancholic to see the ice melt. The unabashed success of disorganized hockey in fitness and weight loss dimensions has hardened my resolve to join an organized league in which to play hockey this coming Autumn.
 

Clause VII

Statistical updates
 
-2 inches lost since February (currently 38"), current weight at 246 (down an astonishing 14 lbs). Taking steps to slow pace of weight loss, and work on improving tone and muscle mass.

-Projections for recreational spending far exceeding targets (Current projections at $1440-1500). Massive restructuring of habitual use called for, broader market access being sought as well.

-Debt reduction slowed during February. Pace must quicken before current employment term expires (projected to be mid April).
 

Clause VIII

Additional Acts
e) $150 to be sequestered for the purchase of cross trainers for the purposes of running. Unaware of current capacities, so setting target for kilometres ran is premature. (The matter of improving my ability to run will be addressed in the April Update.)
 
f) $250 to be sequestered for the purchase of inline skates, elbow pads, and knee pads, to be used for roller hockey.
 
g) Less than $100 must be spent during the months of March, April, May, and June on recreational substances. Results to be continually assessed, as this issue is becoming problematic.
 
h) An average of 28% of income was diverted towards debt obligations during the first two months. An increase to 40% is called for the months of March, April, May, and June to accelerate this process, and reduce interest payments.
 
i) G1-level learner's driving permit to be obtained prior to the month of May, for the long-term purpose of improving employability.