Chad, Chad, Chad… My Champion

I will not deny that you knew me, and still know a part of me, but I must respectfully disagree with you – that you do not know me as much as you think you do.

I will concede that I do have a defense mechanism, that is in essence my “bitchiness”. I will concede that you are right and I need to have a talk with my subconscious to determine what I really want.

But I whole heartedly disagree that I am not willing to make the first move as evidenced by my attempts at approaching men to hand them my card, (approximately two cards a month) and per the ads I put up on-line then ask the men out for coffee or drinks and per the occasional approaches I make to guys I find attractive (every so often).

I make my move.

I rarely get moved upon.

That being said, because I believe I make efforts – maybe not as much as some but certainly more than others – I have much less tolerance for stupidity and bullish tactics and random douche bags trying “cheesy pickup lines” and cocky macho bullshit… such as, “Hey Baby, what’s your name?”

I believe I am entitled to blow off or be bitchy to any asshole stupid enough to treat me less like a human/woman and more like a skanky hoe.

While I do agree that I can be less defensive – I do believe I am not a bad judge of character or intentions and I have pretty good instincts. With that, I suspect that is typically why I frequently make the first move – because I have read him, and determine him worth the risk of rejection because he is in fact a marvelous individual. Whether I get him or not, I have still won something in the attempt.

I have never asked a man out – whom I didn’t think to be an honorable and brilliant man, whatever show he may have on the surface.

With that understanding, I believe I am entitled to be “puffy and bitchy” as you put it to keep moron’s like the asshole at the strip club who touched me, and the idiot who called me “baby” from getting too close.  I don’t want them gumming up the works or clogging my energy for when I am ready to spot the “right guy” and either make my move or accept a move coming in.

I love you, Chadley, but I think you are wrong.  I am ready to love and be loved – I am NOT ready to settle just so people wont think I’m a crazy “independent fem Nazi”. I have no need to prove I can be a co-partner and I do not have a fear of becoming the “stinky crazy cat lady”.

If that is my future either way, then I am content to accept it.

I am happy right now.  I’m overwhelmed and overworked and tired but I’m grinning from ear to ear and I cannot imagine giving up that joy for some fucker at a strip club who thinks I’d make a good sandwich.

Either someone will see in me, the marvelous brilliance that I can be beneath the bitchy sarcasm – or better yet, they even love that about me, or they don’t.  I am okay with it either way.

For my own personal growth I expect I will try to lessen my impact on some things I say, but I cannot be but what I am, and I am a woman – - who will not tolerate foolishness or disrespect or dumb-fuckery.  I expect a man to be a man, not a tail-tucked weenie who gets schooled by a chick in a poker game and cries about it into his Pabst.

Because I have to live with myself when all is said and done, and if I settle for less than exactly what I want… I am not on my BlissQuest, I would be on someone else’s BlissQuest – and I already know from experience that never works out well for anyone.

I have no doubt in my mind whatsoever that if I were to settle for less, than the man who can keep up with me and also keep me in check and I could return the favor – YOU would not be happy about it! In fact I would hazard an opinion that if I’d gone home with the strip club guy – you would have hopped a plane here JUST TO KICK HIS ASS, then KICK MY ASS FOR GOOD MEASURE. Am I wrong?

I love that you wrote in, Chadely – But I suspect that you already knew I’d say all that, and I also have a sneaking suspicion that you’d have been disappointed if I hadn’t.

But that’s why I love you, My Champion. You just like to hear me confirm out loud what you already knew – so I would also have to live up to my word. I am a bitch because I refuse to settle.

Sometimes I hate you for it, but only for a minute.

The deadline pattern goes like so;

Sit to write regularly for several weeks.  Feel charged and have an optimistic idea of my discipline. Until week two when I determine what I’m working on is stupid and I need a better plan.

Three weeks into the project decide a different project is a better idea. By the time I switch project ideas – the deadline is closer so I must focus harder.

Therefore, write like a maniac for 8 weeks. Eat, sleep and think about script/book/ etc. Three weeks before deadline suddenly get cocky and at the same time claustrophobic and run out to play with friends while re-writes on the character arcs are percolating in my brain while sitting at the beach.  Once I’m out of the house I’m enjoying having much needed social time so I don’t actually want to go back to the isolation.

Then after the guilt sets it that deadline is approaching I reluctantly go back for a week of grudging rewrite. Then as if a magic switch is thrown I suddenly want to date, and play at the club and go drive AND still have the excitement about the script to keep working on it till two in the morning every night!

THEN… the wall.

One week before the big day… I get cranky. Emotional. Stressed out. Snappy. Inspired. Confused. Angry. Creative. Passionate and to channel all this I CLEAN LIKE CRAZY.  It’s not procrastination so much as building a focus to clarify the utter panic that is pressurizing, right?

Last night rather than sit and work immediately I cleaned, and cleaned and cleaned some more. The baseboards needed wiped, the fridge deep cleaned, the recycling sorted, and the laundry all three loads redone. Three hours later I put on a mud mask and sat down to write feeling like I’d made some progress.

I’m not going to put it lightly. I’ll probably be a really big bitch for the next five days, and after that I’ll likely be discombobulated and disoriented. As soon as the package is in the mail I will likely be a sobbing mess and cry for another week before I start to re-center and find my non-panic way of being.

So there you have it. The Process.