Maybe It’s Me

Let’s go back in time, shall we? Back before Martha Stewart, back before the combustible engine, back before horse drawn carriages, back even before the dinosaurs, before flying bugs, before plants even. Lets sit here, on this sun blasted rock known as Pangea, mere yards away from a body of water that covers over 80% of the globe. A body of water that is teeming with creatures both big and small.

Lets look down into the depths and recognize that there is something making its way up to the surface. Yes, there it is, a creature on the cusp of something totally new! It looks like a fish but it isn’t quite a fish. As it breaks the surface, it seems to be tasting the same air we’re breathing. It looks this way and that, taking in this totally alien world, as if planning something big.

With an effort that takes its brothers and sisters below the surface completely by surprise, this creature — this male creature, of that I’m sure — takes its first tentative steps onto land.

I can hear the collective estrogen-poisoned baby factories all gasp, “How do you know it was male?”

Simply put, it had to be male. Who else would risk the unknown dangers of an alien world if not a man looking to escape a fucking woman!

I say this now because, a) I can; b) I needed to and; c) I’m just now starting to wind down from a weekend trip that included possibly one of the most annoying females ever to grace hell’s green acre. This woman was my ex-girlfriend and while you might sit there and say, “well, it takes two to tango!” I will say only this… there are reasons why we are not together and most of them have to do with my inability to think like a woman, which is another way of saying that I haven’t had a good portion of my frontal lobe excised by a meat tenderizing mallet.

I’ve remained friends with every ex-girlfriend I have ever had. Some people collect stamps, others can’t bear to throw away clothes, still others collect newspaper clippings… I collect ex-girlfriends.

Be that as it may, this past weekend my ability to deal with women, my ex-girlfriends in particular, was put the to test. I failed. Like one of those little bullet-proof sticks you pee on that tells you if you’re eating for two from now on, I came up negative… or positive depending on how you’re looking at these things.

Everything that came out of her mouth was meant to cut me. When she would lunge, I’d parry, when she’d dart in with an icepick aimed at my forehead, I’d dodge. No matter what she did, I was ready. Of course, as anyone who has spent anytime in combat knows, eventually, your defenses will falter and you’re dog meat.

The whole weekend, from early friday to late sunday, I was superhero, impervious to her attacks. Unfortunately, I was unable to dodge her last gasp attack and I lost it. I hammered her like piece of abalone being prepared for dinner. I’d like to say that I’m sorry for the things I said… but I’m not. Some things just need to be said and “I hate your fucking guts you man-hating hypocrite!” just happens to be one of them.

Or maybe it is me. Maybe I’m the one with a problem… Nah, that can’t be it.