During his Emmy-award winning performance, Kill the Messenger, Chris Rock has a hilarious bit on the differences between men and women. He sums it up succinctly:

Women cannot go backwards in lifestyle. Men cannot go backwards sexually.

An example he uses for women is the first time they get into a nice, warm car after clubbing, waving bye to their friends who are waiting for the bus in the cold. After that, they can’t be with a man who doesn’t have a car, or as Rock puts it, “That’s how the fuck you roll for the rest of your life”. This extends to guys with their own places, then guys who take them on vacation.

On men, he says, “Once we get the sex we like, that’s how the fuck we roll. I like my coffee like this, I like my steak like this, and I like to fuck like this…Ladies, don’t get mad at us. Get mad at our ex-girlfriends. She’s the one that [sic] spoiled it for everybody” because if your ex-girlfriend licks your ass (again, his example), you expect your current girlfriend to do the same.

For me, the same is true for girls in general, but not just in these aspects. I can’t be with a girl who refuses to try exotic foods or refuses to give unconventional music a chance, who wouldn’t recognize the effort I put into my presents, who wouldn’t cherish the love and affection I give, who wouldn’t understand me, or wouldn’t laugh at my stupid jokes, because I’ve been with girls who are a combination of open-minded, appreciative, romantic, on the same wavelength as me, and actually find me funny (when not completely awkward).

That’s why this entire idea scares me.

I know most people get more flexible on things about their mates as they head towards (or beyond) the marrying age but I seem to be moving the opposite direction. Each girl I’ve been with has been an improvement over the last. Now the bar has been raised so damn high I don’t think I’ll ever get there again, and I’d rather be alone than compromise or settle.

My standards are getting higher, and I can’t go back.

A social experiment to get people to open up about themselves, because it’s our little idiosyncrasies that make us unique. Maybe people will learn that they’re not alone in their intimate ways as well. In the process, it’s also a way for me to open up more, as I seem to be too careful about watching what I say here in recent years, and not writing with the same honesty that used to characterize my entries.

For every person who adds a comment with the most private thing they’re willing to admit here, between now and Sunday night, I will (try) to add a private detail about myself. Include a name instead of remaining anonymous¹, be as honest and open as possible, and only one “thing” per person please. I don’t have that many secrets. Or do I?

I’ll start everyone off with a bonus one:

I hate making my bed. I get it messy (I do a lot of tossing and turning) in another 16 hours, so I don’t see the point of making it. I clean my house in general when people are coming over because I want them to be comfortable, but the bed is a different story. The only reason why I make it is because I feel self-conscious about it, not because I care if it makes my guests feel more comfortable. This makes me feel like a phony.

1. Without some sort of identity to bind a detail to, there’s no point to the experiment. [↑]

(A brief continuation of my diagrams for heartbreak.)

I love making these little diagrams. It’s so cathartic. I remember reading this xkcd comic (Do you know the functions? Answers in the footnote¹.) a long time ago, and thinking, “Yeah, I don’t get it either”.

I’ve always been a visual person, but I never realized that doing something like this would make things so much clearer. All those years earning a degree in computer science — learning Venn diagrams, flow charts, and the like — have finally come in handy.

1. From left to right, top to bottom: square root of love, cosine of love (trigonometry), derivative of love (calculus), matrix multiplication of love (linear algebra), and someone help me out with the last one, it seems like another calculus equation with some constants thrown in the Fourier transformation of love (Hat tip to Edd Sowden for this one). [↑]

Often, when someone thanks me, I find myself saying “Don’t mention it” or “No need to thank me”. Yet when someone doesn’t thank me for a favour, I feel like I’m being taken advantage of.

It’s a funny thing that I feel like a thank-you is unnecessary only after someone has said it. Maybe it’s because as long as the person appreciates the favour, that’s all that matters.

It’s similar to the way Pat once offered to let me stay with him and Jen if I ever find myself without a job and a house. I’d probably never take him up on the offer because I never want to be a burden anyone. At the same time, he knows this and doesn’t expect me to take him up on it, but he offered anyway because he knows I wouldn’t take it for granted, and would still be happy to take me in if the situation warranted it.

Perhaps such acts become more of an acknowledgment than a practical gesture. As long as I know that someone is appreciative and recognizes a favour, that’s all that matters. But really, isn’t that what a thank you is — an acknowledgment through thanks? At the same time, without a thank you, how would we know that someone is appreciative?

It’s like the act itself is simultaneously necessary and unnecessary.

Jack: What kind of movies do you prefer, the ones with the sad endings or the happy ones?

Claire: The sad ones definitely. I like movies that make me cry.

Jack: Then you’re with the right guy.

Jack is the leading man. Such screen time is only reserved for protagonists, though anti-hero’s fit this mould too. You want to root for him, to discover that in the end he’s smart enough to give up the criminal life, to stay out of trouble, to truly appreciate the one who loves him. That’s what Claire is banking on too.

She wants to fulfill the dream that she’ll get the bad boy, and she’ll be the one for whom he gives up his criminal life. A story that’s been told time and time again, in life and on the screen. But he won’t, and that makes her want him even more.

Through their relationship, you have a hard time believing that anyone would be so self-destructive to fall for a guy like this, the way you don’t believe a professional assassin would suddenly develop a conscience when discovering that his mark is a 12-year-old girl. But this is Hollywood, and we’re lead to believe that anything is possible.

And as he cleans Claire’s blood off his bedroom floor, you realize that it’s harder to believe he was able to fill a bucket of water from the faucet when he just got out on parole and his utility bills have been unpaid for over a year, than a girl falling in love with someone so bad for her. After all, life has not proven otherwise.

This quietly fills you with bitterness.

Some people are hurt by the things I say here. But I make no judgment; I only speak the truth, supported by the facts. So if someone is a stalker who blames her problems on the object of her attentions, or treats her son like a trained animal, or decides to charge friends and roommates for rides to the grocery store, and I document it here, I’m not the one who’s embarrassing them. They do that enough for themselves.

It’s like a documentary about the Holocaust. The filmmakers don’t need to offer an opinion that condemns it. The footage and testimonials speak for themselves.

Sometimes, the people who don’t like what I have to say are so delusional that they supply their own realities, perhaps because they don’t want to be at fault.

They don’t realize it’s the truth that hurts, not me.

I almost walked out of Tai Chi class the other night.

Someone asked me if I was going to “pass out again”, because I got light-headed the class before and had to leave early, most likely due to a side-effect of the new medication I’m on, though I was far from passing out.

I was flat-out offended, and began experiencing what my therapist explained are “automatic thoughts” — irrational thoughts that affect mood negatively. I had to step back from the situation, put the words out of my head, and calm myself down. If not, I would have overreacted, and probably regretted it. But I couldn’t figure out why I was so upset. After all, I’m far from one who gets offended easily.

Was I being publicly emasculated? Was I being judged without consideration of all the facts? Was my commitment to attend practice after not eating for two days being belittled? Was it the tone? Was it because I couldn’t speak back and defend myself, for fear of polluting the sanctity of the class¹ with my personal politics? Probably a bit of each.

I tend to have similarly bad reactions to people being surprised that I don’t know something. It feels like I’m being judged, as if they presume to know who I am. Even though it’s supposed to be a compliment, it’s a back-handed one, like saying “I thought you were smarter than that”. John used to be especially guilty of this², but he successfully corrected the behaviour years ago. It took a psychologist to point it out to him, and adverse reactions from several people, including me.

I know I’ve already come a long way. I’m not so sensitive about my weight (for a guy) any more. I stopped caring what people think when I know the truth. But this incident made me realize that I still harbor a sensitivity to certain things. I still have some growing up to do. Still have to realize that people say things without thinking, or don’t mean what they say, or that I may even take innocuous things the wrong way. Even though I feel that I had a right to be offended, I still don’t want to be.

And the fact that I was offended just makes me more upset.

1. I approach my work with the same kind of reservation and detachment to remain professional. After all, these are situations in which we can’t choose the people we work with, so there’s nothing to do but accept and any unpleasantness. [↑]
2. And quite self-aware of it. As a person oblivious to pop-culture, he loved to hold it over people when he knew something they didn’t. [↑]

The checkout clerks (girls mostly) at my grocery store have a strange habit of not acknowledging the next customer until the current one has paid. So there’s often a point where the current customer has passed the cash register to put their groceries in a cart, and they’re just waiting for their credit card to go through.

I end up standing right in front of the clerk, who won’t say anything, even though you know they see you out of their peripheral vision. They only say hello as soon as the previous customer has been rung through. Like they’re computers who can’t handle more than one task per person at a time.

It’s quite awkward.

After going through therapy, I’ve started to recognize complexes and issues in other people.

Some put their hope in someone, then hurt them. Some only fall in love with people they can’t have, and as soon as interest is reciprocated, they lose the attraction. Strong signs of emotional deprivation, stemming from traumatic relationships. (Unfortunately, I’ve been the cause on more than one occasion, and it was my own issues that lead to this destructive behaviour where I didn’t treat a heart as delicately as I should have.)

Most people aren’t aware of their issues, but I’m always baffled by the ones who are aware and still don’t do anything about it. They repeatedly make the same mistakes over and over again.

I’ve always believed that self-improvement is the highest form of living, and I’ve been able to work through my own baggage, so I refuse to accept those who don’t work through their own.

• Everyone — and I mean everyone — between the ages of 25 and 30 used to watch The Fresh Prince Of Bel-Air
• The token Asian guy has a fraternal connection with the other token Asian guy in every clique
• Fire has the ability to bring out people’s primal natures, and make them throw their hands in the air and wave them like they just don’t care (or some reasonable facsimile thereof)
• Some people think they’re never too old to get hooched up for a Saturday night
• A good DJ can make you feel like you never left high-school
• Even at 27, I still look like I’m 18, according to the bouncer who carded me

I can gather all the news I need on the weather report.
Hey, I’ve got nothing to do today but smile.
Da-n-da-da-n-da-da-n-da-da and here I am
The only living boy in New York

Half of the time we’re gone but we don’t know where,
And we don’t know here.

—Simon and Garfunkle, The Only Living Boy in New York

Every day, we get caught up in our lives.

We adopt pets to give us a sense of family. We eat breakfast at work or in the car to save ourselves time so we can work some more. We scorn those who express emotion, we avoid eye contact with strangers on the street.

Everything we do — the food we eat, the movies we watch, the home team we cheer for, our coffee shop romances — they’re just trying to fill that hole, that gap that’s missing, the only way we feel alive.

We don’t slow down, we don’t figure things out. We don’t reflect and appreciate what we have.

Like strawberry cheesecake ice cream with a thick graham cracker swirl. Like the serenity of the snow that falls around us, when heaven decides to bless the earth.

Life gets in the way of living.

And now I realize just how guilty I’ve been of this. I’ve been looking for love, but never recognized it when I found it. All I ever wanted to do was lie in bed, look into your eyes, and go through my favourite albums with you. But I never did. And now I wonder. Why can’t we just live? We can’t we just love?

Sometimes you have to stop. You can’t capture everything. You need to throw yourself in.

A thousand kisses deep.

If a woman sleeps alone, it puts a shame on all men. God has a very big heart but there is one sin he will not forgive: if a woman calls a man to her bed and he will not go.

—Zorba the Greek

There exists a spot on every woman that needs to be kissed.

It can be as innocuous as the curl of the lip, the web of the hand, or a mark on a landscape of skin.

It’s the responsibility of a man to find this spot. Not as a service to the woman — sometimes she isn’t even aware of such a spot — but as a service to the creator of such things.