When She Met Him One Summer- Prelude

My story is not an ordinary autobiography. I thought it was, but the pursuit led me to the discovery of the unknown.. at least not to me now. Men to me are classified into average assholes and then the psychopathic ones. The former are the most amazing lovers you’d find. They’re close to perfect for a reason, a hybrid of my own becoming. Their gift is a product of chaos, when  their conscious young mind was deteriorated by unconventional tragedy.

So I was almost at my 31st year, lavishing the product end of my painful romantic experience. The most daring thing is that I managed to let go of men like a penny spent on a dress I’m dying to wear. At times, the letting go comes when less expected, battering man’s most precious ego. And from there is an association to slut, whore or worst names you could think of.. but I never cared, never shown remorse of sort. A plausible reason I guess is the cheating nature of human in general. With all the numerable excuses I’ve heard, it only got me to one realization—men retard or consume commitment by giving in to their special needs. As opposed to any traditional theories, it’s the fear of the commitment not the need that keeps them from doing it. The real perpetrator is not the stimulus but the one who acts on it. So he loves his wife, his kids, the girlfriend, partner or anyone who validates his existence. Just as every human’s nature though, he loves to walk, run, or fly.. do anything that keeps him mobile. That’s where he finds freedom from society’s expectations, which is synonymous to an accompanying responsibility. That responsibility equates to what-else but commitment. In which case made me wonder who I am to men I’ve been with. Years or months after breakup, I’d see them lurking around my apartment door, begging for sweet fantasy land. Some of them have gotten married and some are playing still. I found no reason why they’d stick around except convenience. To me, imposing force or accountability was never an option. The conclusion leading me herein is that I was their freedom.

Sometimes I wish life is less complicated, or can use plain words at least to describe me and what I do. Change, I must admit, used to be a mortal enemy.. Through time though, I’ve come to enjoy it like morning coffee. I was doing night shift for 6 years now and never could imagine myself getting into a job that requires dealing with burning agitation of daytime. Up at 9 in the evening, day starts with hot coffee from those 3 in one ready packs kept in cabinet kitchen. Before I get to a painstaking shower and scrub, Rihanna or Katy Perry album records are played, setting day to another womanhood deliberation.

My closet is a museum of outfit with no specific theme except eat-me-but-I-can’t –let-you-yet. Dresses vary from black classy to red flaunting, and sometimes white virgin twisted with tint of flirt mood.  I have boot leg pants waiting for resurrection, Capri  jeans regular and tight ones, skirts  with an overlooking scenery to good spots and of course, shoes for lengthy delightful accents. The accessories are worn matching a character to portray. Everyday is a never ending anticipation for those who love to peek teaseful sights.. Walking on the floor is like watching the world in revolting disorder, whether it be among women suffocated in despair or men who are nothing but slaves of their own weakness. My hair, being the first hand symptom of changes, reaches down to the waist, giving a Candida Martinelli look. I don’t remember how many times I’ve played around it the past years.

People love to make stories about me. The animating part is that it had made me a picture of real fascination. Beyond those unconventional stories, I am nobody but a challenge to the herd…and without those missing pieces yet to be discovered, I’m probably just a regular whore.

An absolute cynical to relationships, that gave rebirth to my principles, psychopathic  maybe to majority’s perspective.  I believe in women’s mounting possibilities for power if harnessed right. There’s a thin line though to overusing it ruining your best traits (traits alienating us from men), or underestimating it by becoming too involved with subjective anatomical part of the brain. By meticulously weighing a balance in both lead me to other people’s confusion of my real orientation.  I guess, that’s just what I need to survive.

No relationship. No attachment. No expectations.

Just as the women’s domestication had come natural by bearing a child, men to me are physiologically and mentally designed to committing fornication. Their heads are big signage for “don’t trust this asshole”, which is as basic as “don’t step on the grass”. And I never did. Mistakes in the past are Masteral short courses for specialization of their nature. The stakes are unbelievably high though, almost costing life.

When I get home from work, unmasking process begins by pouring out the sinister mind through this tick-tacking rugged laptop that never gets tired. This is comfort. My dungeon.. nakedness. After few minutes, another  piece of thought is shared on my portfolio. For the past years, I’ve managed to be anonymous in this feminist blogsite (ironically set up by a man) with content written in pessimist world. Women’s feedback and stories are affirmations of my existence.

I usually end the day by nourishing myself with facial mask application, and then moisturizer before bedtime. Phone never rests especially on weekends. I’d have occasional dates pending but find comfort in spending the day contemplating in bed, if not, hang out with friends who insist on sleeping over.


Leave a comment


  1. toogoodtoobebitch

     /  May 24, 2012

    Why shield yourself? afraid of being hurt? It hurts to be hurt. Sometimes, the pain is unbearable. For when we get hurt, we gain wisdom.. Don’t shield yourself my friend, for life is beautiful. Just depends on how you live it.

  2. toogoodtoobebitch

     /  May 23, 2012

    “No relationship. No attachment. No expectations”. wow! just curious though…. what are you when you grow old?

    • At some point, the alter ego who claims all her stories become the author embracing those principles that shielded her..If age comes and brings me to that final pain everyone fear, I will embrace it, write about it till, my last breath..


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Abby Mabb

Snarly female. Occasional book reviewer.

Espen Stenersrød- From Pen To Heart

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