Archive for the ‘Relationships’ Category

When a “normal, well-adjusted” young woman sees an older man dating someone her age [or is hit on by an older man], she often dismisses the move as “creepy.”

But none of this has anything whatsoever to do with the man. It’s the woman’s frustration with her own personal life.

She’s either single and frustrated, or unhappy with someone in her life, and hopes this kind of thing doesn’t become a routine.

She’s trying to protect her space in time from outside interference.

If I told you I didn’t understand this reaction I’d be lying. I did the same thing as a young man when trying to defend my world from older affluent men who seemed to come and go at will with women my age.

I wasn’t there yet, and there was nothing I could do about it.

It was what it was, and I couldn’t afford to compete.

As for the women who refuse to consider it as a viable alternative to younger men, the following applications of “creepy” are as follows:

1] Young women use it against their fathers for dating women their age — and against their fathers’ friends who hit on them.

2] Older women use it against older men who won’t date them because they’re no longer young.

3] Feminist yoga Nazis use it against men because any weapon against men is a good thing.

This is the backlash all older men face when bucking the system.

It’s also blatant discrimination, sanctioned by all women for the reasons enumerated.

All men are fair game. Not that we haven’t always been the scapegoat for all of the world’s nightmares. Thank God we don’t have menstrual cycles or the shit would really hit the fan.

You definitely do not want to fuck with testosterone.

Just let us buy into our own delusions for a solid week every month and there would be nothing left to talk about.

So back to the “creep” thing, if dating women half our age is “creepy” then tell younger women to stop dating us.

There are many reasons they do it, including the ones you imagine, so stop wasting your breath.

Do women actually think age-appropriate relationships come with money back guarantees?

Check out the latest divorce statistics — or how about the number of single women running around with kids they can’t afford because their age-appropriate husbands got sick of their emasculating bullshit and moved to another state under an assumed name.

Cry all you want. Men will take what’s available because it’s in our nature. It’s what we do and who we are, and just because women resent it doesn’t mean it’s going anywhere.

When women hand their bodies to us in the name of feminist egalitarianism, we take the bodies and forget about what the hell it’s called. All we see is availability…and now we’re opportunists; soulless scumbags with no moral compass bordering on the sociopathic.

Hey, it’s not our fault that Oxytocin doesn’t run rampant in our bloodstreams.

The regret drug. Oops. Didn’t think feelings would play a role in rough play, did you?

Frankly, it’s time all women took a long, hard look at what they’ve created.

Yes, this is their world, the one they carved out in the name of equality and then hammered over our heads for 5 decades.

So this is what hammering us over the head for 5 decades looks like…

You reap what you sow. Knock off the bitching.

…………..

Feminism was a beautiful disaster: Inevitable and utterly demoralizing to gender relations.

Blame my generation if it makes you feel better — the Boomers, the dickheads who set everything ablaze with angst and fury and righteous prose.

And after the angel dust settled we turned our backs on everything we stood for because, as it turned out, we liked money and fame and celebrity and materialism after all.

So now the kids today are living with the scars; the entitlement, narcissism, and ever-elusive fantasies.

This was particularly bad for men, because today masculinity is a plague with anti-virals in every media domain.

Young men are left to feed when they’re hungry, and then go back to the web when it subsides because there isn’t anywhere else to go.

Okay, I’ll shut up.

…and why it’s never fair or equal. She pays her price. He pays his.

Live Dolls aren’t just 125 pounds of rubber.

They’re 5 feet 6 inches of perfectly proportioned rubber.

If they were 4’8” at this weight, they would be fat. But they’re not fat, which is one reason you can expect to pay seven thousand dollars for a typical blonde.

And when the body starts to crack, you can just order another one. Many people like to keep the same head, particularly if they like her personality.

 

Narcissistic women need men in their lives to protect them, which fuels their behavior. I suggest you tape this to your refrigerator.

Diagnostic criteria for 301.50 Histrionic [Narcissistic] Personality Disorder [with some flourish from me]

Women with narcissistic personality disorder exhibit pervasive patterns of excessive emotionality and attention seeking, beginning by early childhood and present in a variety of contexts, as indicated by five [or more] of the following:

1] She is uncomfortable in situations in which she is not the center of attention.

2] Her interactions with others are often characterized by inappropriate sexually seductive or provocative behavior.

Jay: I notice this with alcoholics and women who can’t get their meds straight.

3] She displays rapidly shifting and shallow expression of emotions.

4] She consistently uses physical appearance to draw attention to self.

Jay: Why they included this one is beyond me, since every hot woman on the earth would be forced to check it.

5] She has a style of speech that is excessively impressionistic and lacking in detail.

6] She shows-self-dramatization, theatricality and exaggerated expression of emotion.

7] She considers relationships to be more intimate than they actually are.

Jay: Narcissistic women gravitate to enablers who fuel their grandiosity. This keeps them in denial about things that aren’t as grand.

There is, in fact, life outside of their own. Of course, you’d be hard pressed to make that point without an abrupt turn in the conversation and subsequent dismissal for failure to fan their delusions.

Okay, let’s get down to business.

Note: We children of narcissistic parents carry a heavy cross. We have to fill in all the blanks our parents left in a state of impressionism. So we’re particularly sensitive to narcissistic behavior. It’s in our blood and we are forever recovering.

With this in mind, both genders are hostile to beauty.

It’s the way of things. Competition is at the root of survival. Where there’s life, there’s a reason it exists, and it’s always the same reason. Asteroids and black holes are exceptions to this rule if only because their grandiosity is exceeds out ability to medicate it.

Anyway, men who perceive a woman to be out of their leagues will often harass them, and/or reduce them to stereotypes in an effort to salvage their porous egos.

Another ploy to level the playing field is to offer all-expense-paid trips to Spain in private jets, which brings us back to stereotyping and harassment, so it’s a wash.

The ploys are endless, but a necessary part of the process of competition, and ultimately, survival.

Beauty is a drug we can’t live without if survival is our objective.

Frankly, this is one irony I can’t live without.

Women envy the beauty of other women, so they resort to cattiness and other strategery designed to destabilize or weaken their position in the food chain. Their best option is to befriend them and then exploit them from within once they feel secure. No matter how you look at it, the whole damn thing is like chipping away at the Berlin wall.

So at the end of the day, beauty is a mixed blessing.

What this means is that in order for a beautiful woman to be freely beautiful, she must feel protected. This usually comes in the form of a handsome and/or powerful man everyone admires; someone who dotes on her as though his life depended on it.

This is the Holy Grail to the female narcissist.  He is her stage, her lighting, her audience…and her fuel.

We love each other so much. [see #7]

We’re inextricable. [see #7]

Fused. [see #7]

One. [see #7]

I have my blessed man so fucking nailed down to me that he wouldn’t leave if his life depended on it, not that he has one without me, but he doesn’t need to know that. I don’t even know that. But as long as this union exists I don’t have think about it and that’s all that matters to us, and to everyone who aspires to be us.

[see #1, #3, #5, #6]

He loves me more than his own life. It’s a kind of perverse idolatry, which I encourage and exploit.

[see #7, again]

Everything about him is perfect, so much so that I document our union on Twitter, Facebook, Myspace, LinkedIn, Flickr, local gossip magazines and social gatherings which afford me the opportunity to fuel even greater speculation and fantasy.

[start with #1 and re-read the entire list]

In public, no one else exists. And he carries me through this fantasy like an indentured servant. I am so in love with myself, and the envy of everyone fuels my persona. My evasiveness alone charges the atmosphere like an atom bomb with fantasies and speculation about me a union they will never know. With my man fused to my side like a heroin addict in a poppy field, I am free to wander the earth like a God.

[at this point, feel free to move on to the chapters covering psychosis and hallucinations]

I post photos of him in his most glorious moments to fan the flames of my own narcissism. See it’s not about him as much as it’s about how much a man of his stature loves me, which turns the focus back on me.

In short, he is my God and I am his Princess. He worships me and I worship him. So I guess we’re both fucked. No, I didn’t say that! It must have been those goddamned blogs of Jay Rusovich. I didn’t think or say that at all! We’re like a Hollywood movie. We’ve transcended the human condition. He makes love to me 10 times a day and never fails to rise to the occasion. We orgasm together – each and every time – as if our relationship were guided by celestial forces.

No! He is not sleeping with a transvestite!

Stopping Jay Rusovich is the new focus of my life. No, I don’t mean sole focus, just one focus, because the real focus is my wonderful boyfriend.

I cut a little piece of his skin off every morning and drop it in my coffee. He does the same thing so we never feel distant. I am a psychopath. No! I am not a goddamned psychopath! Go away, Jay Rusovich. Your venom is a nightmare … and contagious. You should be exterminated. My life is perfect. Are you listening? Perfect! Look at the picture. Observe his behavior towards me in public. You don’t even know his name because he doesn’t want to meet you or anyone else. He adores me. Holds covets me like oxygen. Everyone else is completely invisible to him. He takes care of his body and then comes home to take care of mine. His focus is narrow and I’m in its cross hairs. No I am not a pathological narcissist. No I don’t need anyone else’s affirmation. Shut the fuck up, Jay Rusovich. Shut up and go away! My life is perfect and you’re just jealous that some of us transcend the human condition.

Poppy farmers sometimes feel the same way. No, I did not just say that!

I find it fascinating that the very security and freedom these relationships provide narcissistic men and women are also the windows through which one can observe the unfettered behavior of the insane.

“They sent me a snake! I assure you! Do not be fooled by appearances!”

PLEASE NOTE: Within the past few days my blogging has been stymied due to certain unforeseen events. This has led to psychiatric reactions that should be within my control, but still aren’t, which is why remain in therapy. Posting will resume tomorrow — after my electro-convulsive therapy and Haldol injections.

UPDATE: It’s the next day and I have decided, instead, to give my cats the Haldol and skip the ECT altogether.

So Anton and I chat…

AZ:

They sent me a snake!

J:

Anton, please calm down. What exactly happened?

AZ:

The thing came to me in the night, like something that hunts in the cover of darkness. Oh, yes, beautiful. But, beware my friend, beware. This is no ordinary creature. Not at all. No sir. Not ordinary in the least.

J:

What could possibly be so horrible about a beautiful married woman they sent you? I mean they didn’t even send a hooker, for Christ sake! You paid a basic membership fee!

AZ:

Ah ha! You immediately called it woman. How do you know what it was? How can you be sure?

J:

The website targets married people who want to have affairs. They don’t do anything other than provide the website. The rest is up to you. They had nothing to do with your hook-up.

AZ:

What is ‘hook-up?” You think for a minute I would waste my vast array of skills on foolishness? This is the ploy they use, but it is useless with me, you see.

J:

Anton, they didn’t do anything. You did. You obviously contacted some desperate married woman, sent her a fake photograph and lured her out here into the desert. My guess is that you intended to inject her  and she ran, but probably the moment she met you. Is this the photo you used?

[jpeg of 22-year old college athlete sits on his desktop next to his schematic of The Atomic Table of Elements.]

AZ:

Do not dare to insult me, I warn you! The snake came at me like a wild animals and attempted to strike!

J:

You lied to her, and then attempted to assault her with your completely illegal experiments! The last woman is still on morphine!

Did you try to stick her?

AZ:

I don’t use such crude terminology. I will not even acknowledge it!

J:

I had to bail you out of jail for sticking that hooker with python cells, which almost killed her, by the way. And if the authorities could find you, you’d be behind bars for the rest of your life.

AZ:

I have already expressed to you my feelings about these feeble beings. I have no interest in them.

J:

Well they have a great deal of interest in you.

AZ:

The woman should be proud of her sacrifice. Enough about this! Let us move on.

J:

Let’s talk about Ashleymadison.com. You have demanded a refund on your initiation fee, but you paid with a stolen credit card and used a phony mailing address.

AZ:

I called a hooker from there. A true thing of interest, I assure you. I told her to come here right away to pursue matters of mutual interest.

J:

Who’s mutual interest? She though she was coming out here to meet a handsome young athlete for sex.

AZ:

How dare you! Be careful, I warn you. I know what you are saying!

J:

Where’s the black eye come from? The woman probably punched you and then ran for her life.

AZ:

I am completely and finished with this discussion in its current form. I will have absolutely no more of it.

J:

Why would you contact a service like Ashley Madison in the first place?

AZ:

I found myself somewhat fascinated. That is all.

J:

Anton, were you trying to get laid?

AZ:

Don’t dare say that! I am warning you for the last time!

J:

You were trying to connect with a woman in a sexual way, weren’t you?

AZ:

Stop that! My research comes first and foremost! Why I must repeat this time after time is unbelievable to me.

J:

I dunno…23, flawless ass, sexy, unfulfilled…it just kind of begs the question.

AZ:

Believe what you will! The fact that I remain quite virile, I assure you, and astounding to many women, is of no significance here.

J:

Anton, women like guys with money no matter how good looking they are, or aren’t…just to put things in proper context.

This would include women from AshleyMadison.com who aren’t looking as much for affairs  – which they can find at any neighborhood grocery store – as much as they are looking for better living arrangements.

All this leads me to question your real motives. Is this about research or is it a desire to connect?

AZ:

I have no idea what you are saying. Our conversation is at an end, I am afraid.

J:

It’s funny how the things we don’t say are the very things that define who we are.

AZ:

OUT!!!

[To be continued…]

“Sex alleviates tension. Love causes it.” Woody Allen

When someone comes into a person’s life – either personally, professionally, or peripherally – a lot of people come with them. You don’t see these people, however, because they’re just a little piece of the person sitting in front of you. The same person who goes by one name, but often deserves at least six.

Apply where necessary.

I’ll just leave it at that.

Some people are wired for monogamy.

They’re comfortable being content, rather than excited. Pushing the endorphins through the roof isn’t what keeps them out of mental hospitals. It never did. They don’t need the fire, the unpredictability or the chaos of life out on the perimeter.

They just pass the time and eventually the baton to their kids, ignoring the crows lining the power lines as they wander outside alone to stare at the stars and wonder what happened to the person they used to know: The one who still uses their name, social security number and physical mailing address.

This is where Xanax comes in handy, or the hooker housewife from AshleyMadison.com.

But these are the unmentionables. Even thinking about such things in the presence of crows is exactly why they’re sitting up there in the first place.

With this in mind, I actually do know people who accept married life for what it is. And most of them have never heard of ashleymadison.com, nor would they care. Their libido’s beat to a different drummer; someone who’s on vacation a lot.

It’s like they’re from some far away place back in history.

I see bookshelves filled with names like James Patterson, Tom Clancy and Sue Grafton. As an added bonus, one might also find a copy of Moby Dick and the poetry of Henry David Thoreau.

But you’d be hard-pressed to locate a DSM-IV, Nietzsche Anthology, or anything by Woody Allen, for obvious reasons.

I feel a little lost in their presence. Disconnected. Like I’m peering into another galaxy where the physics is different. Time seems like an endless flow of overlapping circles, rather than hard angles all pointing in different directions.

So I’m an outsider, a perceived threat; like a virus that’s looking for a way in. I’m dangerous because I mention the unmentionables. Think the unthinkable. Step outside the boundaries of what maintains this alliance.

Just imagine ragged concrete against the delicate surface of a water balloon, if that helps.

[unconscious dialog]

What exactly does he want here? I can’t predict his comments. He has to be contained because he hasn’t signed on to this world. He’s not one of us. And whatever loose pieces reside within us, he’ll exploit. Ours is a world of serenity, through which we see the rest of life; the one we want to see because we have to see if this is to continue.

I’ve always found it interesting how married people like this interact with me. I like to play, who’s the psychotic? Because they are so interconnected, so intertwined and so emotionally indistinguishable that I feel as though I’m embroiled in some weird, low level warfare with one – rather than two – creatures who carefully scrutinizes my behavior before deciding whether or not to change the locks.

Zegoyavich at 63.

Zegoyavich: [speaking to me]

“Fools!”

“I have explained myself clearly enough. I am not interested in suspending my pursuits over some inconsequential legal or moral construct. Humanity rests in the balance of my work. Why everyone isn’t on their knees shocks me.”

Jay:

“Anton, from what I understand…”

Zegoyavich:

[cutting me off]

“You understand nothing, I can assure you! What they say is preposterous in its ignorance!”

Jay:

They claim you stole someone’s snake and then used its stem cells in a live human being against her will.”

Zegoyavich:

Be careful! I am not myself these days! My work is of a colossal nature, and completely alien to most. They are invisible to me! They attached metal devices to my wrists, kidnapped me, and then took me away to some horrific dwelling filled with animals!”

Jay:

“You mean they handcuffed you, placed you in the back of a police car, and then took you to jail?”

Zegoyavich:

“Even as they stand on the very edge of apocalypse I was chained like some base thing. I could spit! And your casual assessment of my misfortune is not lost on me, I assure you!”

Jay:

“Anton, you stole someone’s pet Python, killed and dissected it, extracted its stem cells, and then injected them into a woman you kidnapped from a nightclub in Las Vegas. That would constitute several felonies in a row…”

Zegoyavich:

“Stop that! I am becoming wild! I have no interest in trivialities! You and I speak from time to time because I perceive you to be somehow enlightened, perhaps a messenger from myself to the world. But today you sound foolish. They are affecting you. Beware!”

Jay:

“I am simply stating the facts…and bailing you out of jail for the 7th time, by the way.”

Zegoyavich:

“That tone doesn’t strike me correctly. Please identify your intensions!”

Jay:

“Anton…

Zegoyavich: [cutting me off, again]

“Stop with that ‘Anton!’ It is to be henceforth, Dr. Zegoyavich. I am not at all pleased at the moment!”

Jay:

“Dr. Zegoyavich, I have been your friend for a long time and have always believed in your work. I’m not here to judge or criticize you. I simply want to hear your version of what happened so that I can explain it to the authorities. They say you’re a deranged psychopath, and therefore, whatever you say is at best, unreliable.”

Zegoyavich:

“Who are these authorities in their amusing uniforms with metal trinkets in the shapes of make-believe stars? They are nothing but errant spores on an evolutionary thoroughfare. And not well adapted ones, I might add.”

Jay:

“Thank God the woman survived or you wouldn’t be leaving this place at all…probably never.”

Zegoyavich:

“Listen carefully to me. The woman was a necessary step in my process. She had no idea what a tremendous contribution she has made. I made her as comfortable as possible.”

Jay:

“You drugged her! And if given the choice, she would have had you arrested on the spot! She’s still in ICU on a morphine drip…not to mention the hallucinations.”

[as he continues to stare into space, apparently ignoring me, I persist…]

“Dr. Zegoyavich, the authorities don’t see things the way you do. And your work isn’t sanctioned by any medical body on the planet.”

Zegoyavich:

“Curious, this term, ‘authorities.’ What makes these people have such titles? Authorities over what? They are nothing to me. I laugh at these titles.”

Jay:

“You may laugh, but they’re deadly serious. Did you at least learn something from the experiment?”

Zegoyavich:

“In my travels and observations, I have noted certain similarities between human females and snakes of the constrictor family. There is a certain resonant psychology on a primal level that is easy to miss by the untrained eye…”

Jay:

“So I’m guessing you injected the python cells into the woman to see if her body would recognize the cells?”

Zegoyavich:

“Naturally. Have you seen the American movie, Frankenstein? The scientist in charge experienced a similar fate at the hands of people not unlike the authorities of today. They descended upon him with flames and knives and destroyed his home.”

Jay:

“Frankenstein is a work of fiction.”

Zegoyavich:

“I have seen it with my own eyes. How dare you tell me the beast didn’t exist!!!”

[end]

Note: People believe what they want to believe, even in the face of overwhelming evidence to the contrary, like alcoholics and narcissists. Having said this, the attending physicians at the hospital report that the woman is coiled up in a corner of the ICU with her eyes wide open, while Anton Zegoyavich is, once again, on the lamb; presumably in route to his laboratory somewhere in the New Mexico desert.

[to be continued…]

In therapy you pay a trained Psychologist or M.D. to help alleviate psychological problems.

In yoga, you side-step the human condition altogether by tapping into the energy of the universe.

I dunno. It kind of sells itself…

Yoga is feminism’s answer to patriarchy.

If you disagree with me on this, you’re wrong. Not wrong because you have an opposing view, but wrong because your position on the issue is wrong. There’s a difference.

This is one reason so many drop-dead gorgeous women are packing yoga classes from coast to coast…and why certain male yoga instructors, including the revered yogi master – often from places like Cleveland – have improbable liaisons with women half their age and twice their I.Q.

There’s an angle for everything.

These guys offer an “enlightened” alternative to the baboons most women encounter in bars and nightclubs.

The popularity of yoga is really just a reaction to a food chain that appraises women at 35 the same way it did when they were 17.

Of course, at 17 they didn’t have a problem with it because there wasn’t much to criticize.

So it’s a kind of sanctuary for the disaffected.

In therapy you pay a trained Psychologist or M.D. to help alleviate psychological problems.

In yoga, you side-step the human condition altogether by joining forces with the universe; something that isn’t taught in medical school for some reason.

Yoga culture empowers women to express their sexuality under the pretext of spiritual awakening. They use the term, “awakening,” a lot because it sounds better than “fucking” in the context of higher human consciousness.

It’s also a way to buffer oneself from what is perceived to be constant, low-level patriarchal abuse.

Think packs of enlightened, confident, tuned in, empowered, intelligent and aware women with attitude and you get the sense that you’re in the middle of a war zone.

Yoga studios are places where women can express resentment without actually articulating it. These studios are often like psychological boot camps not unlike what one sees in groups like al-Qaida.

When a woman tells a man that she’s involved in “yoga,” the following message is conveyed:

“I’m enlightened, so don’t even think about fucking with me. I’m sexually open because that’s my right, but I only sleep with men who are on board with my message. I am smart, evolved, alert. I know all about shit you can’t even imagine. Fuck off if you dare walk in this class and stare at my ass just because I happen to be wearing paper-thin Lycra from Lululemon. I’m here to escape men like you. I’m here to escape judgment, superficiality, patriarchy. Of course, I do appreciate the attention, which I’ll deny under oath.”

The men who do join these classes accept the fact that they are perceived as emasculated members of an otherwise primitive gender afforded a second chance because of their efforts at maintaining cognition in the midst of what appears to be an all-out orgy.

With this in mind, I’m not sure which gender is the best adapted.

“Sebastian”

I am being held hostage by two Persian Cats.

Other people surrender their lives to their children, but in my case, it’s cats.

They do as they please because they know I won’t place any boundaries on them. This is because I love them unconditionally; which is something most therapists will tell you is acceptable only in the context of human infants.

So I must remind myself, repeatedly, that I’m addressing an animal in order to avert homicidal rage.

Projecting human attributes onto a cat and then expecting it to respond in kind is like trying to get a hooker to love you. They love certain things about you, but the rest of it is bad for business.

But the fact that I cannot reason with them doesn’t mean I don’t try.

This morning I was pushed to the edge of one of the aforementioned episodes by my male cat, “Sebastian.”

Specifically, he assaulted a new $5000 Knoll Studio Barcelona chair.

The reason[s] for this behavior was obvious in the abstract:

He was being passive-aggressive. Somehow he wasn’t getting his emotional needs met; needs that I was unable to intuit.

So it was my fault.

Of course, I have no idea whether or not any of this is true, but how else does one communicate with a surrogate child who’s well past middle age?

So instead of sticking to my writing schedule, the two of us sat in my library discussing boundary issues and acting out as though I was having a discussion with a neighbor afflicted with extreme autism or attention deficit disorder.

The problem here is that I’m agnostic on the issue of whether or not cats get it. On some level, I think they comprehend my drift, but they use the “I’m a cat” thing to get out of any responsibility. I don’t blame them, really. I’d do the same thing if I could get away with it. I’ve tried, believe me, but unless I’m under sedation – like, in a hospital or something – it doesn’t work.

So they scratch a chair or pee on a rug and I suffer because I can’t kill them and they know it.

This is what I mean by being held hostage.

Sorry, I’ll get back to my usual writing topics in a minute. Even Howard Stern has to reserve time for therapy. Of course, he’s probably conversing with a human, which is more than I can say for myself.