Lately, I've felt a strong urge to write a letter to David de Angelo. Dave DeAngelo, as he writes his name (sorry David, but I can't agree), writes self-help series for men, to help them improve their lovelife. Even though I'm not quite the target group (non-paying female) I've been subscribed to his newsletters since puberty.
Initially, I just googled him for laughs. I wanted to see what men thought would actually work, and cackle maniacally. I admit it. This is the part that people understand straight away.
But that's not how Dave earned a spot in my inbox. For one, he actually gets it. Rather than provide some silly guidelines like 'Kiss her when she says, "So..." without hesitation', he suggests an overall attitude that's both funny and confident. What do women want most in a guy? Humor and confidence. This guy's golden.
Most of all Dave has a way of boosting your confidence that none of my friends would ever dare use. He instantly singles out the mistakes in your behavior, calls you names for it, and then tells you what you should have done. This often involves buying his program, advanced program, and the other programs, but in the newsletters he often says just a little too much about what ought to be done.
I'm telling you. This guy dragged me through puberty.
Lately, I've had some quick brushes with dating life. I even went to the movies with a guy.
Sidetrack: I have a more or less irrational fear of going to the movies with a guy. Not out of fear for kisses or anything of the sort, but simply because whenever I go to the movies with a guy, the relationship (be it friendship or something else) cools down to practically nothing within a week. The fourth test-subject is currently slipping though my fingers.
Basically, when I go to the movies with a guy, it opens me up to the possibility of really dating this guy. And basically, testing the possibility always results in me pushing him away instead.
I thought subject #4 would be different. It certainly seemed promising: no awkward moments passed near the food counter ("No, I don't want a coke! You don't want me on caffeïne. No, it wouldn't be 'funny', it would be traumatising..." - Erane to #3), I didn't accidentally insult the guy's greatest hobby (which happened with #2), and we didn't get picked up by the guy's mum (as was the case with #1). I even felt a certain attraction for the guy, something that's never happened to me before (with real life people).
I'll even do you one better: I shared my first kiss with number Four.
Discounting that one occasion where I was as good as drugged and he was way drunk. I did not consent to that one...!
Anyway... Promising. You'd expect me to be happy. Or thrilled. Or in a rush, perhaps. At the very least, you'd expect some butterfly movement.
...
Nothing.
I checked.
Butterflies is one of those feelings I've only ever had where fictional characters were concerned. I don't know how, I don't know why. When it's actors, I have an impossibly broad taste. With people, I recognise beauty in virtually everyone. But when I get to know them, I don't feel a thing. The people I've probably felt the most for were close female friends, though that might have been a categorical error (normal friend + more = love? wait, something doesn't add up...).
So when even Four couldn't spark some butterflies, I began to worry again. Do I even like guys at all? But salvation came, in the shape of a new edition of Dave's newsletter.
What Women HATE Most About Single Guys...
1) Giving Up Your Status In Exchange For Her Attention And Approval
2) Being Needy, Clingy, And Insecure
3) Not Leading - And Even Worse, Trying To Get Her To Lead
4) Using Insecure, Approval-Seeking, Low-Status Posture, Gestures, Voice Tone, And Body Language
5) Not Understanding That She's A Woman And You're A Man
6) Not Being Interesting To Be Around
7) Not Understanding Attraction
The issues in this particular case, as becomes clear, are points 2 and 3.
Four made it very clear that he doesn't understand what I feel. Usually, he's so attuned to people's emotions he refers to himself as an empath. What he describes doesn't sound very different from the way I'm attuned to people emotions, even though Four --the bastard-- doesn't get the side-effect of being swamped by the bad ones.
I happen to be that one person he cannot read. On one hand, it makes me proud; hiding my deeper emotions is a skill I've honed to perfection since elementary. But on the other hand, it prompts him to constantly ask for my feelings instead.
Constantly.
Besides trying to squeeze things like favourite food out of me (which I honestly don't have, nor do I have a favourite animal, colour, or anthing of the sort), he actually asked me what I was thinking, what I was feeling, whether I objected whatever he was doing at the time. In fact, the kissing part is the only thing he didn't ask about in advance. Perhaps that's why it was possible in the first place.
He snapped back after, predictably enough. Did he go too fast? Did I need time? What was I feeling? What did I think? I barely left before it continued through text-message. Right now, I gave him a semi-honest explanation of how I simply don't feel anything for him, and he's still trying to prod me into coming over again.
As if.
Clearly, his clingy and insecure behavior is what's turning me off. But I didn't see that. I thought it was all me. That he was perfect for me, and I was a freak-show for not feeling anything. If not for Dave, that line of thought would have continued to eat me away.
That's what I want to tell Dave. Not the kind of success story he usually receives, but as far as I'm concerned, it's just as fundamental. He's not helping me improve my dating life. He's helping me secure my confidence in life. Comments about "I got 8 phone-numbers in one day!" can't compete with that.
Think on it,
Erane
Monday, April 14, 2008
Thursday, April 10, 2008
A room
No, I didn't get one. I got invited, and then I got uninvited. Looks like making the living room smoke-free was not as negotiable as they first assumed. Three hurray's for consistancy.
That's about all I have to say, I think...
I have a party tomorrow, though I'm not sure I feel like it. A friend of mine is having her birthday, and she's the kind of person who will invite 60 people (I'm not kidding. Sixty.) and still realise she forgot people. I've also been warned that I cannot crash in her large bed, as I normally do, because a male friend claimed the spot. I suspect that's why she's been acting strange lately.
I don't generally like her when she has a boyfriend. When she's single, she's a nice, confident young woman, even if she's a little overbearing. She's spent her entire childhood trying to prove she was worth being around to her dad (and failed), and the habit kind of stuck. Add a boyfriend in the mix, and she suddenly gathers the notion that, hey, a guy likes her, so she must actually be worth being around! It amplifies her already strong display of confidence by about fifty, and it's suffocating. Besides that, she tends to flaunt her sexuality even worse when she has a boyfriend, and her sexuality is probably one of the last things I want to be made aware of.
I'm not saying she's ugly. Moshie says it of her often enough. I'm just saying that flaunting her sexuality in front of me since I was 12 doesn't help. At 18, I could be called shy. Imagine that at twelve. Sheer traumatising. She actually tried to do a show and tell. It still makes cold shivers run down my spine.
So no, I didn't need to know just what you do with a condom six years ago, and I don't need to hear about one-night stands now either. (Well, stands... As it turns out, neither of them managed to get it up. I don't blame them. When Blondie's in the mood, she scares even me.)
And no, I don't want to know what's going to be happening one floor above me tomorrow night. I'm hoping Blondie and her blond friend will spare me, but I doubt I'll be so lucky. Sometimes being attuned to people's thoughts and emotions sucks.
Of course, nothing is final yet. Blondie won't even tell me; she just flaunts the possibility and throws me obvious hints about how happy she is lately and how she's spent most her days with him. I think she wants me to ask, but I refuse to show interest in the information.
La la la, I can't hear you. La la la.
I'll just camp downstairs with my own bed, blanket and pillow (how am I going to drag that all along in the train?) along with all the other banished friends. With any luck, we'll have the snackables.
Oh, crap.
I still have to get her something. And bring my own food and drinks.
Who ever said friendship pays for itself, never met Blondie.
Think on it,
Erane
P.S. ... I like that. It's about the Pensieve, about the leftover thoughts... and it doesn't sound as disgusting as "Slither away, my precious", which was my first instinct. I think this one's a keeper. Think on it. Yesh, me like...!
That's about all I have to say, I think...
I have a party tomorrow, though I'm not sure I feel like it. A friend of mine is having her birthday, and she's the kind of person who will invite 60 people (I'm not kidding. Sixty.) and still realise she forgot people. I've also been warned that I cannot crash in her large bed, as I normally do, because a male friend claimed the spot. I suspect that's why she's been acting strange lately.
I don't generally like her when she has a boyfriend. When she's single, she's a nice, confident young woman, even if she's a little overbearing. She's spent her entire childhood trying to prove she was worth being around to her dad (and failed), and the habit kind of stuck. Add a boyfriend in the mix, and she suddenly gathers the notion that, hey, a guy likes her, so she must actually be worth being around! It amplifies her already strong display of confidence by about fifty, and it's suffocating. Besides that, she tends to flaunt her sexuality even worse when she has a boyfriend, and her sexuality is probably one of the last things I want to be made aware of.
I'm not saying she's ugly. Moshie says it of her often enough. I'm just saying that flaunting her sexuality in front of me since I was 12 doesn't help. At 18, I could be called shy. Imagine that at twelve. Sheer traumatising. She actually tried to do a show and tell. It still makes cold shivers run down my spine.
So no, I didn't need to know just what you do with a condom six years ago, and I don't need to hear about one-night stands now either. (Well, stands... As it turns out, neither of them managed to get it up. I don't blame them. When Blondie's in the mood, she scares even me.)
And no, I don't want to know what's going to be happening one floor above me tomorrow night. I'm hoping Blondie and her blond friend will spare me, but I doubt I'll be so lucky. Sometimes being attuned to people's thoughts and emotions sucks.
Of course, nothing is final yet. Blondie won't even tell me; she just flaunts the possibility and throws me obvious hints about how happy she is lately and how she's spent most her days with him. I think she wants me to ask, but I refuse to show interest in the information.
La la la, I can't hear you. La la la.
I'll just camp downstairs with my own bed, blanket and pillow (how am I going to drag that all along in the train?) along with all the other banished friends. With any luck, we'll have the snackables.
Oh, crap.
I still have to get her something. And bring my own food and drinks.
Who ever said friendship pays for itself, never met Blondie.
Think on it,
Erane
P.S. ... I like that. It's about the Pensieve, about the leftover thoughts... and it doesn't sound as disgusting as "Slither away, my precious", which was my first instinct. I think this one's a keeper. Think on it. Yesh, me like...!
A hunger
I am absolutely starving. Why, you ask? I haven't eaten (or drank) all day, and it's nearing lunch time, so go figure. It's all because I'm hiding out in the library, where food and drinks are prohibited. Well, except for bottled water, but I haven't got any.
I'm hiding out, because I'm supposed to be taking a test right now. Only this test has absolutely no function any more, seeing how I already missed out on the mid-term test. As for tomorrow's test, I won't even be here; I flunked my essay.
Gah.
I want my own room here. I'll probably have to make a few calls in a bit, to see if I can tag along on an election evening for one tomorrow. They have a cat, but they know someone I know, and hold a hobby I have in high regard, so I think I'll just give it my best shot and see if I get in. If my cat allergies do leap up, I can always continue my search, I suppose. But with the added benefit of having my own room to search from. After 20 rejections, all I can say about the success-rate is that it's not as big as 1/20. Definitely smaller than 1/20.
...
I think I will go out for food. Or just go home, and grab something along the way. Something along that line, anyway.
Doegs,
Erane
P.S. Hm... no. It should be English.
I'm hiding out, because I'm supposed to be taking a test right now. Only this test has absolutely no function any more, seeing how I already missed out on the mid-term test. As for tomorrow's test, I won't even be here; I flunked my essay.
Gah.
I want my own room here. I'll probably have to make a few calls in a bit, to see if I can tag along on an election evening for one tomorrow. They have a cat, but they know someone I know, and hold a hobby I have in high regard, so I think I'll just give it my best shot and see if I get in. If my cat allergies do leap up, I can always continue my search, I suppose. But with the added benefit of having my own room to search from. After 20 rejections, all I can say about the success-rate is that it's not as big as 1/20. Definitely smaller than 1/20.
...
I think I will go out for food. Or just go home, and grab something along the way. Something along that line, anyway.
Doegs,
Erane
P.S. Hm... no. It should be English.
Monday, April 7, 2008
A blog
I'm still not sure why I'm starting this blog. I don't really need it; I have people to talk to, I have stories to write, and I even keep up a blog especially for strange bits of penmanship that cannot truly be said to be fiction. Clearly, it's not enough. I feel like I'm missing essential paths to guide my thoughts out into the world, lest they keep bothering me. And maybe I'm just curious to see whether having a blog would be noticed.
I could post at CM's much-discussed blog, and just maybe one of my closest friends would find this blog. Other than that, it'd be a fine challenge for anyone, if they ever even suspected I kept a blog to begin with. I don't really read other people's blogs anyway (except for CM's, but who can blame me), so I wouldn't hold it against them. In fact, I'm not even sure I want them here.
This is my spot, these are my thoughts. Theoretically, I can say whatever I want here. It doesn't explain why I'm posting in English, but... well, that's probably just some silly cry for readers. As an author in heart and kidneys (as the Dutch expression goes), I can't very well be expected to limit my number of readers to an absolute zero for anything less than a diary. And since I don't keep diaries, this will do just fine.
Should I use this place as a proper diary, though? Should I actually describe my life's events here? Something in me screams no, but then this blog would be no better than the vague outlets I have carefully spread over the net. Also, I wonder if 'We Feel Fine' will pick up on this blog. That'd be cool. But I'm drifting off topic...
My name is Erane, a name contrived by my calculator, donated to a now-discontinued character, and adopted at my students association. I'd call it a fraternity, were it not a unisex, alternative and equal-rights sort of thing.
I'm a first year student in Cognitive AI, and doing terribly at it. It's not that I'm bad at it, or that I don't like it. I simply don't have the drive for it, not while my energies are constantly being sapped by my lack of housing.
In America, there is this lovely invention they like to call dorm-rooms. Students there don't have to find their own place through strange internet sites, or advocate themselves to their prospective 'dorms' hoping to get a spot. And I'll bet students there can simply fill out a form saying they can't share a room with smokers, and get placed just as quickly. Are my problems dawning on you yet?
I'd probably write a lot more if my free time had a constant setting, or the computers I used could at least all understand Word files. Maybe I'll find a way to make my projects reachable online, so I can work on it from a Mac too.
Because yes, I am a writer. After a few missers in the fanfiction genre, I'm easing back into regular fiction. Above that, I'm easing back into my native language (Dutch) for these stories, if only because most of them are merely character summaries for tabletop or liveaction. I mostly just write people and some events; places and the like are still quite a challenge, though romantic scenes are the worse. Up until last saturday morning, my romantic experiences mounted up to zero.
Hm. Do I want to talk about my fresh dip into romance?
No, I don't think I do. It can hardly be called romance anyway, even though all the ingredients were there. It felt more like just a bit of fooling around. I know he doesn't see it that way. That makes it all a whole lot harder to linger on.
Moving on, then.
I am going to say something I have never admitted to anyone in my life.
Ever.
I hate brushing my teeth, and will avoid doing it at all costs.
I think I brushed my teeth about a week ago, but I'm not sure.
Not only do I detest the taste of mint with a passion (which is why I now have strawberry-flavoured children's toothpaste), brushing my... hm. Does English have seperate words for cutting teeth and grinding teeth? No matter. The ones at the back. Brushing them makes me feel sick, like I'm about to throw up. Needless to say, that isn't the best motivator.
I've missed my dentist appointments for at least a year now. I know I have cavities; I can feel them with my tongue. A while back, I actually lost a small chip of tooth at the front-top, though you can't really see it unless you know it's there. And heck, with my teeth as yellow as they are, I hardly flash them in a big grin to everyone I meet. Puh-lease.
And yet I've recently been complimented for my teeth. Complimented! All because I had bracelets in my pre-teens, when I didn't conveniently misplace them... Madness!
...
Yes.
I do believe I've figured out what to do with this place.
If any find it, fine. If any read it, suits me. If anyone feels like they ought to leave a comment, be my guest. I might even reply, though I'm still not sure whether it's more unethical to reply or rather not to reply. But I'm not going to wait around for it. I'm not reaching out for help, or trying to persuade people of my opinions, or anything of the sort. Much as I'd enjoy writing for Slim (when he gets that Stetson, I demand pictures), I am going to write for me.
And maybe Moshie, if she happens upon this place. I'll indulge you, old friend.
Erane
P.S. This feels wrong. I need a signature sign-off greating. I'll get back on that...
I could post at CM's much-discussed blog, and just maybe one of my closest friends would find this blog. Other than that, it'd be a fine challenge for anyone, if they ever even suspected I kept a blog to begin with. I don't really read other people's blogs anyway (except for CM's, but who can blame me), so I wouldn't hold it against them. In fact, I'm not even sure I want them here.
This is my spot, these are my thoughts. Theoretically, I can say whatever I want here. It doesn't explain why I'm posting in English, but... well, that's probably just some silly cry for readers. As an author in heart and kidneys (as the Dutch expression goes), I can't very well be expected to limit my number of readers to an absolute zero for anything less than a diary. And since I don't keep diaries, this will do just fine.
Should I use this place as a proper diary, though? Should I actually describe my life's events here? Something in me screams no, but then this blog would be no better than the vague outlets I have carefully spread over the net. Also, I wonder if 'We Feel Fine' will pick up on this blog. That'd be cool. But I'm drifting off topic...
My name is Erane, a name contrived by my calculator, donated to a now-discontinued character, and adopted at my students association. I'd call it a fraternity, were it not a unisex, alternative and equal-rights sort of thing.
I'm a first year student in Cognitive AI, and doing terribly at it. It's not that I'm bad at it, or that I don't like it. I simply don't have the drive for it, not while my energies are constantly being sapped by my lack of housing.
In America, there is this lovely invention they like to call dorm-rooms. Students there don't have to find their own place through strange internet sites, or advocate themselves to their prospective 'dorms' hoping to get a spot. And I'll bet students there can simply fill out a form saying they can't share a room with smokers, and get placed just as quickly. Are my problems dawning on you yet?
I'd probably write a lot more if my free time had a constant setting, or the computers I used could at least all understand Word files. Maybe I'll find a way to make my projects reachable online, so I can work on it from a Mac too.
Because yes, I am a writer. After a few missers in the fanfiction genre, I'm easing back into regular fiction. Above that, I'm easing back into my native language (Dutch) for these stories, if only because most of them are merely character summaries for tabletop or liveaction. I mostly just write people and some events; places and the like are still quite a challenge, though romantic scenes are the worse. Up until last saturday morning, my romantic experiences mounted up to zero.
Hm. Do I want to talk about my fresh dip into romance?
No, I don't think I do. It can hardly be called romance anyway, even though all the ingredients were there. It felt more like just a bit of fooling around. I know he doesn't see it that way. That makes it all a whole lot harder to linger on.
Moving on, then.
I am going to say something I have never admitted to anyone in my life.
Ever.
I hate brushing my teeth, and will avoid doing it at all costs.
I think I brushed my teeth about a week ago, but I'm not sure.
Not only do I detest the taste of mint with a passion (which is why I now have strawberry-flavoured children's toothpaste), brushing my... hm. Does English have seperate words for cutting teeth and grinding teeth? No matter. The ones at the back. Brushing them makes me feel sick, like I'm about to throw up. Needless to say, that isn't the best motivator.
I've missed my dentist appointments for at least a year now. I know I have cavities; I can feel them with my tongue. A while back, I actually lost a small chip of tooth at the front-top, though you can't really see it unless you know it's there. And heck, with my teeth as yellow as they are, I hardly flash them in a big grin to everyone I meet. Puh-lease.
And yet I've recently been complimented for my teeth. Complimented! All because I had bracelets in my pre-teens, when I didn't conveniently misplace them... Madness!
...
Yes.
I do believe I've figured out what to do with this place.
If any find it, fine. If any read it, suits me. If anyone feels like they ought to leave a comment, be my guest. I might even reply, though I'm still not sure whether it's more unethical to reply or rather not to reply. But I'm not going to wait around for it. I'm not reaching out for help, or trying to persuade people of my opinions, or anything of the sort. Much as I'd enjoy writing for Slim (when he gets that Stetson, I demand pictures), I am going to write for me.
And maybe Moshie, if she happens upon this place. I'll indulge you, old friend.
Erane
P.S. This feels wrong. I need a signature sign-off greating. I'll get back on that...
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