All Gut, Some Heart, No Brain

On the advice of a dear friend, I’m limiting my rambling style on my Pundit League posts & making them more readable for that particular audience. Naturally, all my meandering will go here, where it belongs. You people are quite indulgent. I’ll bet you eat cake WITH ice-cream. And ganache.

So lately I’ve been musing on the female impatience with men. We’ve gone from “Some day, my prince will come” to “Where the fuck is that asshat? I’m Whatever-Years-Old & I keep meeting guys who show up to dates in Green Lantern t-shirts. Why won’t God kill me now?” I bring this up because I’ve said it, but most of the time, now, I’m pretty good with the whole patience thing. So good I’ll probably find my prince in a nursing home. He’ll be in the alzheimer’s ward. I’ll be in the red head dementia ward. They’re next to each other, you see.

Men are on their own timer. Their timer hears not my biological clock. It heeds not the concept that they themselves are aging, because aging men are frankly hotter than a guy who shows up to your date in a Green Lantern t-shirt.

And really, who am I kidding? I don’t date. The concept is utterly foreign to me after 8 years of loving one particular dude & being fine with Buffy & X-Files marathons all weekend. Furthermore, men don’t ask me on dates. They poke at me on Twitter (& some of the DMs could be literally interpreted as “poking”), but I am one of those gals guys just expect to show up to things. And I do.

I know I’m certainly not ready to date. James, who is my kind & patient long distance friend, is right about my speed right now. I won’t lie & say I have no ambitions of getting married & being the wifey, but I know I can’t expect that desire of every dude who expresses an interest in me. Eventually, James will meet a nice girl in his area. I’ll meet a reformed bad boy in mine. It’s all good.

Last week when I was in the throws of accidental gluten ingestion, I was decidedly not ok. I now understand that when I get down, which is not my normal status, my intestine is damaged & not making the good chemicals your brain needs for PERSPECTIVE. It is in those moments that I miss having someone who’s just there.

As we know, a warm body occupying a space in your home is not a relationship. And when I’m healthy, & the intestine is working correctly, I know that. When it’s not working, I have those idiotic moments of “Everything is wrong.” It’s not. God has me right where He wants me. Then I heal & I go back to, “Ok, whatever happens.”

Meanwhile I’m working on being a writer people actually look forward to reading, making friends, trying to stay in touch with all of them and whatever comes, comes.

And I need to stop taking my sadder client encounters home with me. Cos I do that.

I guess what I’m trying to tell y’all is that I’m ok.


5 thoughts on “All Gut, Some Heart, No Brain

  1. Michael Ring says:

    I added “Drop Ship to LA” on my DNR. And the cast of “The Big Bang” isn’t that bad.

  2. bteacher99 says:

    “I guess what I’m trying to tell y’all is that I’m ok.”

    That makes your friends happy.

  3. Wakefield says:

    Be nice to me, as I’m a friend to April Gavaza.

    Oh, to hell with it. I don’t give a damn what anyone says. That’s why people love me so much….


    From the male point of view, or maybe even an alien’s, on the outside looking into this human lab of misery called Earth, let me add–not unfairly–that a lot of what throws some men off are the demands that modern females place on them.

    No fat wallet? Get lost.

    Too much grey shadow on the face at 10 am–beat it, loser!

    “That’s the car you have?” (no comment needed)


    Now, granted, some men are bummy, everything’s about their mama or some shit like that. Yep. We produce those soft-core males these days. But after decades of feminist claptrap about how boys need to emphathize and share their feelings and go ahead and shed those soft croc tears over skinned knees and other boo boos of life, rather than trying to (said in mockish intonation) “be a man” and “nut up”, it’s no wonder little boys turn into men who act like little softy boys.

    Men are supposed to be a little rough and tumble. And yes, no matter the application of scents and perfumes, their underarms smell bad if they really have testosterne flowing in the veins.

    Just sayin’

    Now, I shall stand here and allow the application of rotten fruit to the face treatment.


    Snipe at me more over on Twitter @wakepedia

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