I am not happy

There is little that sets me from zero to 60 (or depressed to seething) like being sold short or underestimated.

 

And this story a friend passed along has me mad.

 

Look, I am not a stick-in-the-mud. Neither am I a knuckle-dragging neanderthal. I read that story, and I want to ram my head through a wall.

 

To be thought of as a guy who is 1) clueless about a woman's needs 2) shallow 3) unwilling to be cad, the jerk, the jackass makes me angry. To be put in a box that limits me just pisses me off. I hate, I mean really hate, the picture the writer paints.

 

God knows I'm neither perfect nor complete, but damn, give me some credit for being human and not some idiotic cardboard cutout of what somebody thinks a man is. The writer's idea of how I see myself as a man now and what I can be just leaves me seething.

 

For weeks, for months, all I have been writing about, thinking about, breathing, living, meditating on is how I can be the best man I can be for a woman. How can I best nourish a woman's soul. And nourish mine.

 

Ahh. I feel better now.

 

Namaste