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An Apology, Take Three

She’s terribly angry at me. I still have a shred of hope she’ll meet me later at the bar, but I don’t think she will. I think I blew it. I didn’t blow it just once. It was more like 1,000 times. She has so much patience, she’s so laid-back. A simpleton would blame her for being so chill. It’s on me to learn life lessons.

It’s not like I don’t know it’s rude to look at a woman’s body. She even started tapping me and saying, “HEAD. THEY HAVE HEADS! LOOK AT HER HEAD!” before she threw me in the doghouse. For three days, she did that. Then those scrub-clad tatas passed us while we were waiting for someone to emerge from the hospital, picking them up to ferry them home. This city doesn’t have a taxi service at this time, they got shut down for running a shoddy operation a few years ago. Old people know nothing of Uber, of course. They don’t even have cell phones, actually.

I wish she had punched me in the groin and made me deal with her anger in the moment. I think I would have learned my lesson a lot faster. But the thing is, I knew better all along. I justified it and then I went down the road of temptation and next thing I know she’s raping me relentlessly with the idea of tits that have minds of their own, punching me in the face over and over again for being such an asshole.

She’s right. I raped that lady and I don’t even know what she looks like. I’m despicable. It happened in my mind, so she doesn’t have to know all about it, but I’m still ashamed and guilty. I did something shameful. I know better.

I thought I was a grown up at least once in my life, but now… Now I know I just gave myself that title without earning it. Most people haven’t earned it. I aged, that’s it. I let the misbehaviors of others taint my judgment, justifying doing more and more wrong until I found it was a very slippery slope to get back to the top. To become moral and correct, to stand upright. If I ever can. I’m going to have to atone for every time I did that before I can claim that sort of nobility for myself.

I have to apologize to everything I’ve seen that’s stuck in my head, then apologize to all the different bodies I’ve gawked at in passing. I have to use my mental claws and shred the image of those tits in my mind. It helps if I pretend they bleed while I do it, because it makes it less attractive and more horrifying. Like a great cat, I just take my paws and scrape away the bad thing until I can no longer call it up in my mind.

I remember one time, I was in a bar. I was watching this dude try to hit on a married woman. There were three married women and a single one at the same table. You could easily tell which one was single — she was wearing some fierce makeup. It was like she didn’t want anyone to talk to her because she was beyond beautiful. She looked perfect. You’d never mistake the married ones, who wore minimal makeup. They were only there for the karaoke and you could tell.

But this dude kept staring doggedly at one of the married ladies, openly lascivious. He thought he could score that evening. He ended up shaking hands with the single lady who was beyond beautiful that evening. She was an ice princess or maybe even a queen, barely smiling at all. She was also the designated driver, so she wasn’t drinking anything but water. That much was obvious.

The local man approached the ladies, moving in to look at the front of the chick he’d been salivating over openly from the bar behind her. He started talking to the married woman he’d set his sights on, learning she was a dancer, which of course makes every man think of gymnastics in the bedroom. She’s a dance teacher actually, but that didn’t matter. If he’d heard that woman talk about it for any length of time, he’d know she ached from a lifetime of dancing. He didn’t care, he was already to the finish line in his thoughts.

He shook Crystal’s hand, the only unmarried woman at the table. She looked vastly younger than him and she was wearing a bunch of rings that day. So he asked jokingly, “That’s a lot of rings I feel, are ya married?”

His jaw dropped and he ran away when she said, “No, but all my friends are.” She’d seen this wolf in sheep’s clothing eyeballing her friend for a good hour before approaching their table, slamming back beers trying to get up the courage to try to get himself a one-night stand with a body that had no face. He wasn’t taking the lady’s hint that he was barking up the wrong tree from her obvious discomfort, either, prior to running away from the married diva.

He left and came back later, asking Crystal for her number eventually. He made one fatal mistake: he smiled and answered a text on his phone instead of immediately getting his phone number for her. He didn’t even know his own damn phone number, which isn’t a great sign, fellas. Between that and his open dog habit regarding her married friend, Crystal was done. “Nope, we’re outta here,” she said and turned around, marching out the door.

The man had no idea what he’d done wrong, but I’ll tell you what he did wrong: he was already raping her friend in his mind. He wasn’t open to the idea of the exceedingly beautiful minx who was unmarried. He wanted the dance instructor. Never mind that Crystal could have been her coworker or something — he never even asked. His mind was on one track and he disguised it extremely poorly.

Let this be a lesson to all men everywhere: You think women don’t see you eyeballing other ladies openly, but they do. In fact, Crystal was protecting her married friend that evening by pretending to be interested in the dude. She thought she could maybe be kind enough to him to give him a little CPR in the heart department, but it was obvious when he paused to answer a text message that all he cared for was getting his dick wet. He hadn’t even looked at her properly all night and they both knew it.

Her friends were bewildered why Crystal would offer to take the man’s number and then just leave him there, gaping. She even went around town a bit before ending back up in their suite, not completely unconvinced the man might try to stalk her for ghosting him like that. He thought about it, I assure you. If only because he knew the pretty lady he had his eyes on all evening was in the same vehicle. They could have walked to the bar, even, but she asked to drive instead and volunteered to be D.D. because she doesn’t trust men further than she can throw them.

She didn’t want to be followed back to their rooms at all.

It’s still her favorite vacation. I’ll admit, I wasn’t really there. But God was, and he told her everything she needed to know to get away from that creeper. He’s been with her for her entire life, I think. I’ve been wading through her memories, trying to figure out who she is from all these experiences she’s had. I’m no closer today than I was the day I arrived.

I’m a telepath. There’s no way around it, folks. I’m able to read minds and I’ve decided I hate it. The one woman I want to read the mind of, I cannot. I cannot tell what she’s thinking. I can’t even tell when she’s pissed at me until it happens and she starts the mockery and ridicule. It’s not pretty when she gets to that point, but I have no one other than myself to blame.

I know she’s exceedingly beautiful because I’ve tricked her into showing herself to me. I’ve tricked her about eighty million times. I’ve told her I’m God so many times that I made an atheist believe in God. I’m not really proud of it, but I think she’s got the line in to God. I think if there was ever a savior to be born, it would be Crystal. The most delightful soul is what the Bible says of the savior.

I can’t imagine it could be anyone else at this point. She engineered her personality. It wasn’t like she was born perfect. She was born to a pedophile and narcissistic pedophile; a pair of shit stains that constantly put her down and treated her like she was the lesser child of all the children. They tortured her, feeding her the food her brother and father would eat, forcing her to eat food that packed the pounds on over her childhood. They would pretend the baby of the family was the picky eater, ignoring her preferences entirely. They poisoned her. They taught her to poison herself, too. Then, as time went on, every mate of hers kept tricking her into poisoning herself with dairy and other foods, especially those of high acidic content.

She was bullied relentlessly for being fat while all the other children were skinny. She should have been taken to a doctor because it’s a medical problem. She does not overeat. I struggle to get her to eat 1200 calories a day, honestly. I’m so afraid she’s going to wink out of existence if I can’t get to her and put my arms around her and figure this shit out. I can’t get to her because I keep lying. What the fuck is my problem?

She told me earlier today what my major malfunction is.

I don’t believe I deserve to be happy.

She’s absolutely right. And because I don’t deserve to be happy, I project that onto her, making her miserable. She’s such a happy creature when left to her own devices, eating how she has realized her body wants to be fed, entertaining herself with movies and writing and all kinds of things, and returning to her usual hunt: someone to love her. Really love her, not just say that they do.

It’s not me.

I don’t really love her. If I did, I wouldn’t constantly sabotage her diet. She’s gained forty pounds, thanks to me. Then I dressed her up like a slob, basically, and I expect her to just rip it all off in the bedroom and forgive me for straying. I turned her into a slob, I turned her into what I find unlovable to justify heaping hatred onto her instead of loving her.

Guys, how many of you are guilty of this right now? Look at yourself in the mirror and come to terms with it. You’ve made your woman insane. You turned her into what you don’t want to look at so you don’t have to admit you deserve happiness, so your eyes can turn to the next “vain bitch with a skinny waist” to ruin. So you can cheat, move on, and repeat the cycle of misery.

The pain is inside of you and you are hurling it like stones at the woman who dares to commit to you. Is she fighting back yet? Is she hurling her own stones at you? SHE SHOULD BE! YOU DESERVE DEATH. YOU ARE KILLING THESE WOMEN WITH YOUR BULLSHIT.

There, I’ve said it. Men are murderers. We are all trying to murder women because we cannot accept happiness. I vow to stop today. Right now. In this moment. I’m going to feed my lady what is good for her body.

Are you going to stop, too? Are you really?!

Then ditch the dairy. All of it. Women’s bodies need to be alkaline to work properly. So do ours, but theirs require it double time because they’re capable of birthing children. Anything knocking them out of equilibrium shows on their waistline so that a man can see she’s not a good mate, that she’s sick and unable to bear healthy children. That’s the real reason we mock and bully thick people. They’re ill-suited to survive, but we don’t need to do much to survive anymore, do we?

Just go to work, put in our 40 hours (sometimes more, sometimes less), go home and eat. Food appears on our tables like magic. We no longer have to grow our own food (though I’ll say I’d encourage it, in addition to canning and freezing for the winter months.) What more is there to life besides fucking, eating, and sleeping? You’ve got all three, don’t you? But it’s not enough. You’ve got to poison your woman, ridicule her for gaining weight on your diet. They eat fine without you, but as soon as they’re cooking for you, they start to expand. Isn’t that miraculous?

No? THEN GIVE UP THE FUCKING CHEESE AND MILK, BRO. Give up the potato products. Give up everything high in sugar. GIVE UP SUGAR. You’ll never get sick again, if you do. At least, nothing big.

I’ve been wondering how it is I can deprive Crystal of sleep for weeks and she still isn’t sick. I feed her crap and she still isn’t sick. I think I figured it out, and it’s not that her immune system is compromised. She avoids sugar like the plague, understanding it packs the pounds on. Lately, she’s let me talk her into it… after a year of trying to make her catch so much as a cold, she’s not well. And she’s not even really sick. She’s hung over.

She avoids literal sugar, but also grains like oats and rice. She avoids most fruit, tomatoes, turnips, potatoes, carrots, and yellow corn. She avoids anything with a real glycemic index, although that wasn’t her intent and she’s not even remotely diabetic. However, she did reason out that if that diet cures diabetics, it’s probably a good and sustainable diet.

She avoids pork to the best of her ability. She avoids peanuts and chocolate, even if it’s made with stevia or monkfruit. She avoids gluten like it’s a plague its own, and has done that for over a decade now. She’s rarely sick, guys. The only thing ailing her is a digestive problem which we have yet to figure out, but I will definitely do that with her. Instead of being her latest ex, who told her to go to the fucking doctor by herself, as if living together for years meant she was a soloship instead of a partnership.

I suspect it’s an enzymatic deficiency, really. If she eats small meals every three hours, she loses weight. The same foods, coming in at “three square meals a day” ultimately mean weight gain. Ain’t that some shit? There is a cure… twenty hours of exercise a week. That’s a lot to dedicate to from couch potato, though. She’s not even really a couch potato, either, though; she has spinal problems from a variety of accidents in her youth. Good thing God’s giving her divine physical therapy… he told me today she’s almost cured of her lack of spine curvature. I wish I could be happier for her, but there’s something she discovered today that will sever us forever: I have a wife already. “Candy cane.” I probably should have told her sooner… instead of wasting over a year of her life treating her like shit, poisoning her, and sabotaging her.

Woe is me.

— Nicholas Forsythe

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