|Auguste Renoir’s Jeune Fille au Chapeau Rose|
The other day out of nowhere some guy decided to tell me about his intestinal tract. His friend nearly died from embarrassment. I laughed.
“There must be something about me,” I said. “People love to confide in me... TMI.”
They really do. However, they don’t want to hear a peep outta me.
I noticed this over and over over the years. The general consensus is that I’m a big-mouthed, opinionated kvetch, shamelessly self-promoting. I learned long ago that the only way I can stop myself from gossiping is to keep the focus on me. Yet, people have pulled me aside to tell me the most intimate things about themselves:
“My labia is always very wet.”
“I’m chronically constipated.”
“My boyfriend doesn’t bathe much. I hate the skid marks in his underwear.”
And then the financial disclosures. The dysfunctional family disclosures. And the deep secrets.
While working on a project one on one with Monkey Boy, a lover from the past known for his golden cock and misshapen head, I found myself once again recipient of secrets. These secrets, however, cemented my initial impression of Monkey Boy: dopey beyond scope. Before, when we were lovers, he didn’t really speak much so I never knew his depths of dumbness. Then, during this project, I realized he was, besides a mercurial little monster, vain, arrogant and ignorant.
Nice combo, right.
He was so dumb he couldn’t resist confiding in me. Actually, each time he told me something, he stopped and dropped to his knees to shriek, “Great. I just realized I spoke to someone who’s going to tell the world!”
“Trust me, I won’t.”
“Yes you will! You’ll blog about what I said.”
I didn’t have the heart to let him know how incredibly boring his disclosures were. Except the one about his grandfather who hung himself at 98.
“He hung himself?” I said, incredulous. “Why did he wait so long to kill himself?”
“He got tired of living.”
“Who did he think he was, Methuselah? He couldn’t wait another year?”
That’s when I discovered idiocy was an inheritable trait. Still, in comparison to boy-men, Monkey Boy is a gem. Despite his every despicable trait, I’ll hang with him over any boy-man.
The term, “boy-man,” was coined by a guy who complained about the men working for him. “No matter their age, they act like little boys.”
That expression stayed in my craw. For now I knew how to define that segment.
The boy-man refuses to take responsibility for his life (or rather his sub-par existence) and blames it on family, lost opportunities, exes and whatever else he can. Never in a million years would he dare take on responsibility to change his life let alone acknowledge who he is because of the choices he made. Hell no.
Which brings me to another point concerning boy-men. I’d rather get one of them enraged when we first meet to hear how they fight. That’s a fast and easy way, a cut to the quick, to really get to know someone instead of expending any time of wasted effort to find out what a shit they were all along. One of the boy-men here who I call, “dog-boy” says, “Fuck you,” if he doesn’t get his way, followed up with tears and apologies.
My current story stars an old boy-man: toothless, uneducated, ignorant, one step from homelessness with the added flair of arrogance. Man, I hate that combo. For some reason, he thought he was on par with me because I helped him out a few times.
Man, I hate that. When he got that additional sense of entitlement that I HAVE to help him out because if I don’t, he won’t help out my friend who PAYS him for his work, well, that was it for me. I don’t like being blackmailed, especially from a toothless, uneducated, ignorant asshole.
His way of fighting is to challenge me demanding to know why I won’t help him out at HIS beck and call. Here we go with that sense of entitlement. From what I last heard, “No,” is a complete sentence and I don’t owe him any explanation to MY decisions concerning MY life. Then, he did the low blow - he phoned my friend and said he can’t help her out and would rather have no money to buy his drugs just to retaliate against me. Then, to get her on the emotional side, he recounted an entire conversation he had with me where I threatened him and his physical well-being.
Yeah. Sure. He doesn’t merit that kind of enmity.
Luckily, my friend knows me and knows that when I’m pissed at someone, I get very quiet. She also knows that I don’t have those kinds of conversations. He gave her the passive-aggressive ultimatum: him or me. That was a no-brainer.
But it also gives considerable insight into who he thinks he is. Amazing, right?
To sum up: this man-boy is a petulant child who, when he doesn’t get his way, will cut his nose off to spite his face. His trademarks are lying and character assassination through passive-aggressiveness.
We call that the adult version of a temper tantrum.
Let me tell you, I regret ever helping out this guy and will never ever go out of my way for anyone again. Thank this man-boy for that.
One thing I learned: age doesn’t mean a person gains wisdom. It means the person, by some stroke of luck, didn’t die sooner.
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