A place for a


Fare well, long dead uncle, the only dad I ever had

I have always lived with this quiet conviction that this world belong to the crazy monsters we call women and that men have no real place in it. I protested against it, but deep down, I felt it was futile and against the natural order. Their madness was destined for victory.

And real men? For whatever reason, they scared the hell out of me.

I avoided masculine men and when I looked into the mirror, I did not see a real man. Sure, I saw all the parts of a man. I saw a beard, a masculine face, all that. But I did not see masculinity. Could not see it. I saw a face that should look masculine to me and likely looked masculine to anybody else, but my sixth sense told me that it was a face totally and utterly devoid of masculinity. As if cursed.

Something inside me told me to call this blog Man Without Father a year ago. But I did have a father. Not the biological one, whom I never really emotionally cared about, yet that is something I did not understand. My real father was the man who took care of me until he died around my age of 2. I intellectually knew he had been there, but it meant nothing to me.

Until now.

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Shy girls are not a safe bet – Part 2: Coy kind grown wild

Although I pride myself for the crisp title of this article, she was not really coy; rather reserved. When I told her that I found her a positive and sympathetic person once, she said that she regarded herself as phlegmatic.

Back then, I thought that the word meant something like uptight, but a quick look in the dictionary reveals that it just describes a somewhat calm temperament. No idea whether she shared my misconception; I reckon she did. Nonetheless, I loved her temperament that I believe to be somewhat typical for French girls.

Born a secretary, she decided to rebel against genetics and study in a different field in her mid-thirties, which led her right into my tender tutoring arms, only in metaphorical sense unfortunately. But this isn’t a story about me. This article is of the same nature as it’s first part: An observation.

In case you wonder – the title picture is not her; it is a microstock image.

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I can not have you because I desire you, and letting go, and the hidden monster, and madness

I pass a red haired beauty on the street. She has a slim face, a joyful smile and the red hair that I love. She is the most beautiful and happy girl I have seen in days. I want her, terribly. And immediately, my stomach contracts. I know I can not have her. Normally, I would push the emotion down and read about game to convince myself that this is not true, but I instead decide to study that conviction. Why do I believe I can not have her?

And the answer is really simple. I can not have her because I desire her. My desire is shameful. I suppress it as automatically as I breathe. It does not even feel like real desire. It is more the pain of suppressing it that makes me know I desire her. It is the shadow of my desire that I feel: Shame. And like orbiting planets are used to deduce the existence of a dark star in their midst, my shame lets me deduce that I desire her.

If I desire her, surely someone else desires her, too. It would be cruel of me to rob that person of her. Who am I to deserve her? She does not need me, because she is desirable. And if she does not need me, she will just use me. It is like a law of the universe in my head: When you desire something, you can not have it. Precisely because you desire it. Some weird divinity decided to make it that way, to mock people.

So the only time I felt secure enough to fuck a girl was when she was an ugly bitch. I felt nothing towards her, which is why that relationship could be. She fell asleep on my breast afterwards and that was nice, but I think she felt something was missing, because she never asked to do it again.

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Your mother is a whore

Your mother is a stupid cocksucking whore. Why would she not be? If no woman will ever love you like mother, is it not time to stop wondering why no girl is like momma and start wondering why your mother should really not be the same stupid bitch? What a strange irregular woman!

Is it really that implausible to believe that – at least metaphorically -, you were covered with the cum of dozens of men when your mother shat you out?

But nature here provided you with the mother-son bond. A genetical benefit of the doubt. A mythic spiritual tunnel for convenient bullshit-feeding.

It is undeniable that the archetype of the mother in its purest form has intense healing power and is a source of love and strength. Yet it must not be forgotten that during childhood, the person who is our mother becomes a mere carrier of that archetype. A mask we put on her, so that we can trust blindly. The person itself is, of course, as flawed as everybody.

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I am not a slave of old ugly bitches

I stand at the cash desk and the clerk puts a bank note on the counter for an elderly lady on my left. It falls down before my feet. I ignore it, because it does not concern me. The old lady at my right bows and picks it up.

She gives me a sinister glance. I become angry and fucking stare the bitch down.

Who do you think you are, hag?

Let me tell you.

You are old. You are ugly. You are fucking weak. I can probably kill you in a heartbeat.

Let me tell you more.

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The underbelly of the female

My grandmother looked into my eyes and coldly said: What did your father do to you? He changed you. I swear, if I could, I would kill him. I felt an indistinct chill down my spine and thought that I was looking into the eye of evil.

She had my mother in her mind, who suffered from mental illness. She wanted me to keep being her daughter’s emotional tampon.

Today, I see that silent and impersonal outcry in her eyes for what it is the first time: The fatal hatred of a slave master who has invested twenty years in bringing up a little obedient sheep for the slaughter house. Looking forward to the meal. Now somebody stole it. Yes, of course she would be angry, I can understand it.

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The taboo of non-existent parental love

Yeah, I know. If those people in the picture above were real farmers, their clothes would have holes, the fabric would probably be significantly fibrillating and they would be dirty. What you see here are just stupid actors.

Actors play out ideals. How it should be.

My mother claims she loves me more than any woman ever will. I do not believe her, because I do not feel loved. I do not love her.

My father is a rather distant, if sympathetic guy. He was not around when I grew up and he never expressed any kind of emotion towards me. I deeply wish that he would tell me he loves me.

But what if he does not? Hell, everybody keeps dribbling deep down, you love your mother. The truth is: Deep down, I want to massacre her. It is the law and a vague gratitude for my life that keeps me from doing it.

Just because you love your mother or because you made a mistake in renouncing her, that does not mean the same applies to me.

But these are the things nobody talks about. It is so unspeakable that people rather keep pretending to love each other their whole lives than to face the excruciating shame of emotional realities.

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My mother’s psycho games

I know I whine a lot about my mother. Well, I like whining. I wanted to call this article Momma’s psycho games originally. It is catchier, but who would actually Google that? Sure, people Google weird things. But  anyway.

The picture in the top of this article is a symbol for, fuck no. It is just an ugly bitch and a bit of Photoshop. And yet the more I have my distance from women, the more I see a certain wickedness about them that scares me. Like the light of the angler fish, women project a perfect lovely surface that at all times manages to hide the undertow.

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Mother will leave me alone

I wrote my mother a letter, asking nothing but one thing: To live a life without her, without her madness. Today, I found a letter in my post. Just the way I had asked for it. After all these years, I get the one thing I wanted from my mother. The closest thing to respect I could hope for.

I open the letter. It is written with a computer, no handwriting. It says: ‘Okay. You never have to see me again.’

For a second, I contemplate the shock such a formal message from one’s own mother may bring upon most people. Me, it fills with joy. She showed me respect and gave me the thing I asked for, once in my life. Nothing extra, nothing special. Nothing she thought I needed, nothing she needed to give. Just what I asked her for.

I cry out in joy and happiness.

Maybe one day, I can forgive.

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Final letter to my mother

In the course of trying to become more honest, I figured I would send messages to all people I ever knew, telling them what I really thought of them. Guilt and shame overwhelmed me during the course of that endeavor. I insulted girls who had hurt me, making the bill even. I told my false friends that I despised them. I got into trouble for it. It was freeing.

And yet I could not stop. The satisfaction was temporary. And that made one thing obvious to me: It was not those girls I really had a beef with. It was the one woman I saw in all those girls, the one woman I was fighting through the proxy of other girls. The one woman to whom I was really pretending. The one woman whom I really feared to know me.

I showed my true self to all the women who had hurt me. But I realized that there is only one woman who has to know me. Realized that all the other women do not matter. Realized that there is one woman to whom I never dared to show my true self. Never dared to speak up to earnestly. That woman is my mother.

The thought of writing all these important and disgusting things filled me with shame and guilt and fear. It took me three weeks to finally sit down and write this letter. Now, the letter is on its way. Now, my mother must know me, whether she wants to or not.

Now that my mother will know who I am, there is no one I must ever feel ashamed of myself towards again. The next time somebody accuses me of being an asshole, pathetic, not nice or impolite, my mother will not be watching over my shoulder.

I will say: Yes, that is me. And shrug.

The voices in my head always and mercilessly competed, because I had not yet spoken up to the one big source of voices in my head. Had assigned mystical powers to it. To her. My failure to speak my mind robbed me of the courage to think my thoughts. Now I have spoken my mind.

Next time, the mother in my mind will have been put in her place, her looming expectations of me finally fought off with the courage to put myself first, no matter how miserable that self.

Maybe this is too optimistic. Who knows. But I know one thing: I hope to never see her again.

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