your dream "man," minus the fucking class

Ingredients for this My Time: a fucking classy man, learning how to settle for less and/or more

Oh Honies, you've been told that he is out there. You've been told that it doesn't matter that you spent countless hours on your last one, a fucking classy man, listening, watching, perceiving, engaged in pointless cunning, rubbing his scalp, trying new things in new places, burning thousand year old lemon oil to help him sleep, rinsing his seed from your delicately permed up-do, cooking him tacos to eat while he tells you of his masculine achievements in self-love and self-knowledge, drinking on someone else's time but not dime, whittling away your dignity

before you decide in one triumphant benzo haze to try and feel proud yourself by strapping on those shoulder pads and telling him what you think...well, he won't talk to you so you call...well, he won't answer so you email. Yes, yes, you explain your needs over email, triumph, pride, testimony, everything! But then, like little wood chips, your one moment of Shoulder Padfemdom falls on the ground at his feet, with his words, his sophistication, his fucking class: "Dagmar Ottenham, you've inflicted thousands of words on me. Thousands."

What a fucking classy man. What's an elegant lass to do? Obviously, LEAVE. DON'T LOOK BACK. RUN. CLOSE DOWN THE RIDES. CROSS THOSE LEGS. THE CAT STORE IS CLOSED! Or, until that one check comes in the mail, practice another life lesson in which you set up for yourself 6 months from now the ability to look back and say, "never again, Honey. Never a man with so much fucking class." Really, it'll all work out the same anyway yatta yatta.

AnyWAY, it's the just way of things. Of life. Sometimes it takes a little sip to get to the bottom of your night, and sometimes it takes a night of drinking to get to the bottom of your relationship. Exactly, you see? Life, sometimes, in its winters and with copious supplies of blues, is really an opportunity to take all the things The One called you that show his own unwillingness to know you beyond your 80s-hot-bitch-in-a-soap-opera-exterior--volatile, losing yourself, unloved by him, not above suspicion, incapable of being the whore in bed he wants because of how nice and fun you are to those closest to him--and become those things. Oh, you can't bang me because it's complicated for you? Then I won't be bangable. Oh, I'm volatile? Now (and this is my favorite) I don't mind punching you in your fucking classy nose, so mind yourself. Oh, I'm too close to the people you're close too, as in, I'm too close to you to actually see you? Then a spell will keep your mind on my proximity. Oh, I'm losing myself? Well, if I'm gone then I'm untouchable. Oh, you aren't in love with me? Then I'm unlovable. Oh, I'm not above suspicion? Then I will use satire to be: suspicious.

Ex of suspicious behavior:

But this brings us, Honey, to what to do after you've powerfully transformed yourself into how he sees you. Sure, there's the whole eventually needing to ground yourself, be healthy, use alcohol like any normal person to soothe the anger, and move on yatta yatta, but for now, Honey, for now, how does it feel to Not Be You?

It's fucking classy: it feels inhuman. It feels safe. It feels safe without ankles and toes. And with a wad of cash and sophistication. This month's alimony check goes to only plastic jumpsuits, so you can become what he has always wanted you to be: mouth open but soundless, no feet to stand up for yourself to him, arms always open yet incapable of closing around him, quiet, distant, a fucking classy woman to match his own class, yet distant, unreachable, unknowable: loveable.

Oh wait. Wait. What's that, Honey? Is something else on your mind? Are you pensive, even through the destructive, brilliant haze of your "medicine?"

There were all the other things he told you? Oh. Oh. Huh. Oh, you mean those things. About how it was hard to understand if he was in love with you because you've changed his life so much, his conception of reverence. Then later, that he did love you, that he was in love with you. That you would be a good mother (something your background in the upper echelons of society made you dispute so much that you like to snort a line of The Pill along with your daily allowance). That all he wanted to do was sail around the world with you. That he couldn't go that long without seeing you. That he could argue with you late into the night and love you at the same time because he was a fucking man, that you body was like drinking from a stream, that you were good. So good. Cue the fucking air guitar.

Confusing, isn't it? Well, well, how we often find clarity in paradox. Or acid tabs. Ladies (and all you men who read this elegant site in order to learn about women from the top 1 percent: I know who you are, you fucking classy guys). There are some words that can never be unsaid, that leave imprints on your body. And when you feel a fucking classy man start a sentence that is going to amount to one of those body stamps, breathe in, because even when he says that he doesn't remember saying those other lovely things, that he never felt lovely things, that you break and inflict, that you are not above suspicion...well, you remember. Which says a lot, Champagne Sally. But balancing a dude's words against a dude's other words isn't the point, really. It's about your words. Have you ever said anything to your one and only that would imprint his body with a bruise? Fuck no. And do you ever want to? Nope. My my, this post has gotten lost like a round, light blue mixed in with a bunch of oval whites. Anyway, he may, in all pride and self-knowledge (oh Honey, isn't it hilarious when a warlock says a spell that only reveals its opposite? It's called a "revealing spell," or as the witches from the west say, a "proud man." Exactly) and terrifying lack of empathy need to stand up for himself, but Honey, a proud man is like a dead man.So much honoring himself. Well, he can applaud for himself, too.

And you, you with all your bitterness, closed vaginal signs, fantastic destruction and memory of his loving words, ie his love. Fucking classy love. It's like you're two people, one who is mourning the loss of that possible life like mourning the last Gucci show (oh, Honey), but also, you're the one with the alimony check. You got a hand and heart full of dolla bills (seriously, I had a surgeon put money in my heart. IT'S SYMBOLIC), and 8 lines out into the world with it and it's not fucking classy, it's fucking real as fuck. It doesn't matter that Adult Male played take-backsies with his affection or experiences with you because you're like not an adult. Besides the drug addiction(s) and house slide (most women went stripper pole. Me: slide, every time) you're not fucking classy. You're something else. So for the mean time, balance the memory of the good words with the bad ones, the want to manifest his stupid accusations with the knowledge of where your rich ass always is (safe, sound, and oh so hardcore: duh), calm the fuck down, and find your own temporary dream man.

They make blow up dolls for women and gay dudes too, don't they? Oh, but ha ha Honey, who wants to signify to one-up what the men want. It's like those women who try to look and act like dumpy men to attract women. Sporty Dykes!

Why signify on what we're all ready to be done with? So let's avoid the whole blow up doll enterprise. Hmm, let's see, something without a dumb face, something that will hold me without a sharp prick into my thigh, something that isn't trying to make me feel anything except what I'm feeling, something that won't take it all back, proudly...

Well, well, well. It's the Dream Man Arm Pillow!!! Like a gift from the gods, this guy has got everything to make you ladies feel awesome. Let's examine the differences between this guy and the man's preferred blow-up doll: no stupid face, an arm that will actually bend to hug you--not just be received, a stupid work shirt cut in half, and hands that are clearly meant for holding, not just self-applause. The blow-up doll takes a man's semen, while the Dream Man holds and is held. This man isn't fucking classy, he's fucking there. Are you saying to yourself, finally, someone's listening...oh yeah, well read some of these 143 reviews!


"The pillow exceeded even my wildest expectations. I'm told the pillow was modeled after Brad Pitt, and I believe it!"--oh my, a sure and confident woman!


"I bought it to give my husband the "cold shoulder" for some long forgotten misdeed. However, was I surprised to find that this is the most comfortable pillow I've ever owned."--and "he" educates! 

"I can't begin to tell you how much I love this pillow. I love it so much I named him Paul! Paul goes well with my mullet, so much that I don't ever plan on cutting it. It fits so well into the armpit slot and I will never feel lonely again. Paul, you're the greatest!"--well...I guess that's ok... 

"I really like this pillow. It allows me to fall asleep comfortably each night. I feel safe when I am sleeping in my own bed now. Before, living as a single woman in an apartment by yourself, you never truly feel safe."--huh...that doesn't sound good...

"My life is pretty lonely sometimes. I live in the woods alone, and it gets really cold. I try to find someone who will cuddle with me at night but it's hard when people call you names like "Bigfoot" and "Yeti". I guess I'll give up on love."--Whoa...whoa now. What the fuck?

"My husband died tragically and suddenly this summer. A few days after his death, my 5 year old daughter saw a commercial for this product and said "mommy , I want that, it's a daddy pillow" I proceeded to order 3- one for her, one for my 4 year old son , and one for myself. They have brought great comfort to me and my children during this horrible time. We dress them up in daddys shirts and we just tuck the extra sleeve into the arm. WE will be travelling with them soon. It was a great buy. recommend for anyone who lost someone or misses someone at night, not just a boyfriend."--holy shit, that's really getting into the stark reality of the matter and speaking one's need for comfort/safety and getting it fulfilled for oneself and one's loved ones in a badass and humorous way, isn't it? (drinks deeply, returns)  

So, maybe all this has to do a little more with you than a fucking classy man? Hmm. On second thought, let's go back to basics.

Tonight in bed will be: cheetos, wine spritzer, Mr Knife, a selenite orb, and not a nasty thought about any "real" man. It's sometimes necessary in order to distance oneself and spend all that alimony money without shame or even purpose, but right now, after reading those reviews, there really is no comparison. Love is hard, love is complicated, love is being able to be mad at someone and still know that you love and will be loved (a fucking classy man taught me that, who knew). Love is knowing that even though he's gone, you remember. And you're here. Which is also, here.