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這種女生,請別愛她。

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她会和每个异性朋友大声说笑,无所顾忌。但是,当他们向她表达爱意时,她却像刺猬一样,保护自己。

她对爱情没有安全感,也给不了别人安全感。她想对你负责,对她负责,对自己的过去和未来负责,但请你别轻易给她誓言和承诺,她很难相信,她习惯在人前表现的很坚强,一副大女子主义的模样。

她是完美主义,对感情,容不得一点瑕疵。她有时是迟钝的,在感情方面,她有时却很敏感,因为她在乎。

她有点懒,猫科动物喜欢睡觉的,她不擅长做家务,她喜欢悠闲自由的生活。

她不喜欢跟陌生朋友玩,更不喜欢不熟悉的人说爱她,有人会觉得这个女生有点冷,她太自我。心里不想笑就不笑,不想说话就不说话,不想出去玩就不出去。一定要对方先流露出对她有好感,她才散发她的热情,她爱的永远是对她最好的。那个好她心里是有一个标准的,你的积分超过了那条线,她会爱上你。

但大多数没超过线之前就离开了。

这样的女生,她的心脏会时常痛,就像碾转在自尊下的爱,疼了痛了心死了,也说不出口。

她独立,也好强,她宁愿忍受太多的寂寞和痛苦也不愿跟任何人人提前。但其实骨子里,渴望有一个避风港湾,让她去依靠。

但她不会承认,她必须确定那个人是否可以承受这一切。承受她的撒娇、她的无理取闹、她的倔强、她的悲观,她所有的性格缺陷且永远不离不弃。

只有这样,她才放心,可以放心继续做自己,不会害怕有一天要面对失去。

其实她要的并不多,只是一个温暖的家而已。

她分手之后完全不像别人,在人前要死要活,她嬉笑怒闹,变得更加开朗,在听到朋友说有关他的话题时间,她不会回避,会参与,然后淡然微笑,她的表现总遭人怀疑这段感情的深浅,没有人看得到她的眼泪。

她不会在恋人面前大声哭泣,但她会躲在被窝里独自哭泣到天亮,既便在你最爱她的时候她也会胡思乱想让自己悲伤。她们不在乎,谁说什么都无所谓。

这就是她们,坚持做着自己,如果你看到她的眼泪,这是她骄傲的心不得已的放纵。

分开后你会发现她周围的异性多了起来,可你不知道曾经她为了表示对你的专注,疏远了那些朋友。现在的她只是想找回原来的自己。但是她会需要很长时间才会开始新的恋情。

她就是这样,死要面子,不认输不服软。
她从不轻言爱,她的爱很沉默,那并非是她缺少那份勇气。

在她心里有一个栅栏,那就是自尊,她看的比生命还重要的自尊。

如果这样的女生对你说她爱你,那就代表在她心里你的分量胜过了她的自尊。

所以如果你不了解她、不懂她,请别爱她。

Written by smudgi3

January 12, 2014, Sunday at 14:18

Posted in Braincells

Love After Love

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The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other’s welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.

– Derek Walcott

Tokyo 2012

Written by smudgi3

July 24, 2013, Wednesday at 00:05

Ground of Being

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All my life I have looked and looked at the mystery of desire and I feel no closer to understanding it. Nothing else has so shaped my decisions, my way of life; were one to inventory the costs my sexual difference the total would be enormous, yet I know that I would have paid any price. But what is it that compels us, what is it we want? Touch? Entrance behind the barrier of the skin, to penetrate the boundaries of another body, or be penetrated ourselves, as a remedy for our extreme loneliness, the awful sensation of the singular self in the singular skin? Some narcotic form of forgetfulness, an opiate dispensed in the hands of another? Not orgasm, finally, and only partly pleasure: there are many sorts of pleasure, many forms of satisfaction, but what other has the deep lodestone pull that sex has? And I don’t believe it’s simply biology, the imperative to reproduce – since for me, obviously, there will be no issue from the unions I can’t seem to live without. I want; that is the prima facie thing, the ground of being. But what is it, in a man’s body, in the heat and touch and warm interior, the rush and delay of contact, what is it that I want? Shouldn’t I be able, after a life’s worth of practice, to name that?

******

How can these things ever be inscribed, do they forever belong to the realm of the unwriteable? I have the language of pornography, I have the language of anatomy or medicine, I have the language of euphemism, and I’m happy with none of them.

– “The Unwriteable”, Mark Doty

Written by smudgi3

June 11, 2012, Monday at 23:35

Gaslighting: So I’m Not Crazy.

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Why Women Aren’t Crazy
SEPTEMBER 18, 2011 BY YASHAR ALI

You’re so sensitive. You’re so emotional. You’re defensive. You’re overreacting. Calm down. Relax. Stop freaking out! You’re crazy! I was just joking, don’t you have a sense of humor? You’re so dramatic. Just get over it already!

Sound familiar?

If you’re a woman, it probably does.

Do you ever hear any of these comments from your spouse, partner, boss, friends, colleagues, or relatives after you have expressed frustration, sadness, or anger about something they have done or said?

When someone says these things to you, it’s not an example of inconsiderate behavior. When your spouse shows up half an hour late to dinner without calling—that’s inconsiderate behavior. A remark intended to shut you down like, “Calm down, you’re overreacting,” after you just addressed someone else’s bad behavior, is emotional manipulation—pure and simple.

And this is the sort of emotional manipulation that feeds an epidemic in our country, an epidemic that defines women as crazy, irrational, overly sensitive, unhinged. This epidemic helps fuel the idea that women need only the slightest provocation to unleash their (crazy) emotions. It’s patently false and unfair.

I think it’s time to separate inconsiderate behavior from emotional manipulation and we need to use a word not in our normal vocabulary.

I want to introduce a helpful term to identify these reactions: gaslighting.

Gaslighting is a term, often used by mental health professionals (I am not one), to describe manipulative behavior used to confuse people into thinking their reactions are so far off base that they’re crazy.

The term comes from the 1944 MGM film, Gaslight, starring Ingrid Bergman. Bergman’s husband in the film, played by Charles Boyer, wants to get his hands on her jewelry. He realizes he can accomplish this by having her certified as insane and hauled off to a mental institution. To pull of this task, he intentionally sets the gaslights in their home to flicker off and on, and every time Bergman’s character reacts to it, he tells her she’s just seeing things. In this setting, a gaslighter is someone who presents false information to alter the victim’s perception of him or herself.

Today, when the term is referenced, it’s usually because the perpetrator says things like, “You’re so stupid” or “No one will ever want you” to the victim. This is an intentional, pre-meditated form of gaslighting, much like the actions of Charles Boyer’s character in Gaslight, where he strategically plots to confuse Ingrid Bergman’s character into believing herself unhinged.

The form of gaslighting I’m addressing is not always pre-mediated or intentional, which makes it worse, because it means all of us, especially women, have dealt with it at one time or another.

Those who engage in gaslighting create a reaction—whether it’s anger, frustration, sadness—in the person they are dealing with. Then, when that person reacts, the gaslighter makes them feel uncomfortable and insecure by behaving as if their feelings aren’t rational or normal.

My friend Anna (all names changed to protect privacy) is married to a man who feels it necessary to make random and unprompted comments about her weight. Whenever she gets upset or frustrated with his insensitive comments, he responds in the same, defeating way, “You’re so sensitive. I’m just joking.”

My friend Abbie works for a man who finds a way, almost daily, to unnecessarily shoot her down and her work product. Comments like, “Can’t you do something right?” or “Why did I hire you?” are regular occurrences for her. Her boss has no problem firing people (he does it regularly), so you wouldn’t know that based on these comments, Abbie has worked for him for six years. But every time she stands up for herself and says “It doesn’t help me when you say these things,” she gets the same reaction: “Relax; you’re overreacting.”

It’s a whole lot easier to emotionally manipulate someone who has been conditioned by our society to accept it. We continue to burden women because they don’t refuse our burdens as easily. It’s the ultimate cowardice.

Abbie thinks her boss is just being a jerk in these moments, but the truth is, he is making those comments to manipulate her into thinking her reactions are out of whack. And it’s exactly that kind manipulation that has left her feeling guilty about being sensitive, and as a result, she has not left her job.

But gaslighting can be as simple as someone smiling and saying something like, “You’re so sensitive,” to somebody else. Such a comment may seem innocuous enough, but in that moment, that person is making a judgment about how someone else should feel.

While dealing with gaslighting isn’t a universal truth for women, we all certainly know plenty of women who encounter it at work, home, or in personal relationships.

And the act of gaslighting does not simply affect women who are not quite sure of themselves. Even vocal, confident, assertive women are vulnerable to gaslighting.

Why?

Because women bear the brunt of our neurosis. It is much easier for us to place our emotional burdens on the shoulders of our wives, our female friends, our girlfriends, our female employees, our female colleagues, than for us to impose them on the shoulders of men.

It’s a whole lot easier to emotionally manipulate someone who has been conditioned by our society to accept it. We continue to burden women because they don’t refuse our burdens as easily. It’s the ultimate cowardice.

Whether gaslighting is conscious or not, it produces the same result: it renders some women emotionally mute.

These women aren’t able to clearly express to their spouses that what is said or done to them is hurtful. They can’t tell their boss that his behavior is disrespectful and prevents them from doing their best work. They can’t tell their parents that, when they are being critical, they are doing more harm than good.

When these women receive any sort of push back to their reactions, they often brush it off by saying, “Forget it, it’s okay.”

That “forget it” isn’t just about dismissing a thought, it is about self-dismissal. It’s heartbreaking.

No wonder some women are unconsciously passive aggressive when expressing anger, sadness, or frustration. For years, they have been subjected to so much gaslighting that they can no longer express themselves in a way that feels authentic to them.

They say, “I’m sorry” before giving their opinion. In an email or text message, they place a smiley face next to a serious question or concern, thereby reducing the impact of having to express their true feelings.

You know how it looks: “You’re late 🙂 ”

These are the same women who stay in relationships they don’t belong in, who don’t follow their dreams, who withdraw from the kind of life they want to live.

Since I have embarked on this feminist self-exploration in my life and in the lives of the women I know, this concept of women as “crazy” has really emerged as a major issue in society at large and an equally major frustration for the women in my life, in general.

From the way women are portrayed on reality shows, to how we condition boys and girls to see women, we have come to accept the idea that women are unbalanced, irrational individuals, especially in times of anger and frustration.

Just the other day, on a flight from San Francisco to Los Angeles, a flight attendant who had come to recognize me from my many trips asked me what I did for a living. When I told her that I write mainly about women, she immediately laughed and asked, “Oh, about how crazy we are?”

Her gut reaction to my work made me really depressed. While she made her response in jest, her question nonetheless makes visible a pattern of sexist commentary that travels through all facets of society on how men view women, which also greatly impacts how women may view themselves.

As far as I am concerned, the epidemic of gaslighting is part of the struggle against the obstacles of inequality that women constantly face. Acts of gaslighting steal their most powerful tool: their voice. This is something we do to women every day, in many different ways.

I don’t think this idea that women are “crazy,” is based in some sort of massive conspiracy. Rather, I believe it’s connected to the slow and steady drumbeat of women being undermined and dismissed, on a daily basis. And gaslighting is one of many reasons why we are dealing with this public construction of women as “crazy”.

I recognize that I’ve been guilty of gaslighting my women friends in the past (but never my male friends—surprise, surprise). It’s shameful, but I’m glad I realized that I did it on occasion and put a stop to it.

While I take total responsibility for my actions, I do believe that I, along with many men, am a byproduct of our conditioning. It’s about the general insight our conditioning gives us into admitting fault and exposing any emotion.

When we are discouraged in our youth and early adulthood from expressing emotion, it causes many of us to remain steadfast in our refusal to express regret when we see someone in pain from our actions.

When I was writing this piece, I was reminded of one of my favorite Gloria Steinem quotes, “The first problem for all of us, men and women, is not to learn, but to unlearn.”

So for many of us, it’s first about unlearning how to flicker those gaslights and learning how to acknowledge and understand the feelings, opinions, and positions of the women in our lives.

But isn’t the issue of gaslighting ultimately about whether we are conditioned to believe that women’s opinions don’t hold as much weight as ours? That what women have to say, what they feel, isn’t quite as legitimate?


Yashar will be soon releasing his first short e-book, entitled, A Message To Women From A Man: You Are Not Crazy — How We Teach Men That Women Are Crazy and How We Convince Women To Ignore Their Instincts. If you are interested and want to be notified when the book is released, please click here to sign-up.

This post originally appeared on The Current Conscience.

Taken from here.

Written by smudgi3

December 30, 2011, Friday at 17:15

Posted in Braincells

My October Stimulating Reads

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To stimulate my reading habit, ahem, I bought a book of Victorian erotica, two of my favourite genres together. It took me two and a half weeks to complete, but it sure did catch my attention. It’s called “My Secret Life” by Anonymous. Yeah, I dig this kind of psuedo-mysterious shit. After all, this blog was named after the book “The Bride Stripped Bare” by Anonymous, so it’s right up my sexy alley. I didn’t learn anything I didn’t know about sex from this book (but virgin boys who want to know about a woman’s genitalia and how to please women would find more here than from pRon flicks) and I know now that men and women are the same, whether they are Victorian or Singaporean. All women secretly love to fuck, and all men love to fuck secretly. You can quote me on that.

After putting down that book, I lost no time getting into, pardon the pun, my next one. I scanned the list of novels on the right of this page that my Twitter friends (whose literary taste I trust very much) had recommended that I read. For some reason, “Siddhartha” by Hermann Hesse caught my eye. Usually, this wouldn’t be the kind of book I’d pick off the bookshelf, but I was so glad I did. The author’s words and wisdom came at the right point in my life when I needed them. If I had read this earlier, it may not have touched me so deeply. It was a surprisingly easy read and my early reservations about its religious themes flew right out the window the moment I caught on to Hesse’s poetic style of expression. The things worth learning from this novel transcends all religion. While I do not claim to have “found myself” after reading the book, I somehow felt peaceful after reading it. After all, Gam zeh ya’avor.

I read the digital version of this book, but I will get a physical copy. This is one book I will read over and over at different points in my life and I will probably reflect on how I have—or have not—changed since the last time I read it. Thank you, @Howling_Fantod.

Next book? Hello Murakami. How strange that you appear again, now that it has all ended.

Written by smudgi3

November 3, 2011, Thursday at 19:20

Posted in Braincells

Reading again

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I have been getting paid to write for almost five years now. If I include blogging, I’d have been writing non-privately for seven years. If I add those angsty poems I’d written throughout my teenage school ages, I would have been writing for eleven years.

Of course, this is nothing compared to the achievements most of the writers and bloggers (of the old school of thought) I know have accomplished, and being paid for what I do doesn’t necessarily mean I’m better than most. I’m just luckier. And cheaper to hire.

What really saddens me is that my love for writing has turned professional, and I no longer know how to write from my heart. I wonder if it’s because I have stopped reading. I have had a very normal education from a rather notorious school in the East. I didn’t do exceptionally well in school and probably graduated amongst the bottom half of my batch. Fortunately, I still had my love of reading. I read and reread the children’s illustrated bible, Mother Goose, some of the Classics, and Anne of Green Gables. I also remember fondly falling asleep with earphones on as I listened to Hans Christian Anderson and Brothers Grimm being read to me by a fascinating voice. I had always imagined him to look like Sir Ian McKellan, even though I would only know of him much later.

Lying on the upper bunk of the double decker bed in the room I shared with my brother and an aunt, I’d imagine a pea under my mattress, or try to determine what the smell of an Englishman’s blood would be like. I’d cry every time I hear of the silent princess weaving shirts of nettle to rescue her eleven swan brothers. Now I know why I’m such an emotional person.

I miss reading so much, but with the Internet, and Twitter, I’ve lost my patience with books. I can never read more than ten pages at a go, and the plot loses its hold on me. So with an itchy backside, I asked my Twitter friends to each recommend a book for me to read, knowing very well I have a leaning tower of fire hazards next to my bed. Looking at the list I have compiled on the right, either I have made the wrong Twitter friends or I am far, far less well-read than I thought I was.

Admittedly, I was feeling more discouraged than anything; I haven’t even heard of some of those books! So I let the list sit for a while as it mocks me every time I log into WordPress. But I spotted two titles on a shelf of Penguin classics while I was browsing at Borders over the weekend. All the familiar authors were sitting prettily side by side and good ole Hans and Edgar were calling out to me with drinks in their hands (as writers are wont to do). Yes, it was time to get re-acquainted.

I am happy to announce that I’m reading again.

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Written by smudgi3

July 4, 2011, Monday at 00:28

Posted in Braincells

I Wish I Was An Illiterate Girl.

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You Should Date An Illiterate Girl
By CHARLES WARNKE

Date a girl who doesn’t read. Find her in the weary squalor of a Midwestern bar. Find her in the smoke, drunken sweat, and varicolored light of an upscale nightclub. Wherever you find her, find her smiling. Make sure that it lingers when the people that are talking to her look away. Engage her with unsentimental trivialities. Use pick-up lines and laugh inwardly. Take her outside when the night overstays its welcome. Ignore the palpable weight of fatigue. Kiss her in the rain under the weak glow of a streetlamp because you’ve seen it in film. Remark at its lack of significance. Take her to your apartment. Dispatch with making love. Fuck her.

Let the anxious contract you’ve unwittingly written evolve slowly and uncomfortably into a relationship. Find shared interests and common ground like sushi, and folk music. Build an impenetrable bastion upon that ground. Make it sacred. Retreat into it every time the air gets stale, or the evenings get long. Talk about nothing of significance. Do little thinking. Let the months pass unnoticed. Ask her to move in. Let her decorate. Get into fights about inconsequential things like how the fucking shower curtain needs to be closed so that it doesn’t fucking collect mold. Let a year pass unnoticed. Begin to notice.

Figure that you should probably get married because you will have wasted a lot of time otherwise. Take her to dinner on the forty-fifth floor at a restaurant far beyond your means. Make sure there is a beautiful view of the city. Sheepishly ask a waiter to bring her a glass of champagne with a modest ring in it. When she notices, propose to her with all of the enthusiasm and sincerity you can muster. Do not be overly concerned if you feel your heart leap through a pane of sheet glass. For that matter, do not be overly concerned if you cannot feel it at all. If there is applause, let it stagnate. If she cries, smile as if you’ve never been happier. If she doesn’t, smile all the same.

Let the years pass unnoticed. Get a career, not a job. Buy a house. Have two striking children. Try to raise them well. Fail, frequently. Lapse into a bored indifference. Lapse into an indifferent sadness. Have a mid-life crisis. Grow old. Wonder at your lack of achievement. Feel sometimes contented, but mostly vacant and ethereal. Feel, during walks, as if you might never return, or as if you might blow away on the wind. Contract a terminal illness. Die, but only after you observe that the girl who didn’t read never made your heart oscillate with any significant passion, that no one will write the story of your lives, and that she will die, too, with only a mild and tempered regret that nothing ever came of her capacity to love.

Do those things, god damnit, because nothing sucks worse than a girl who reads. Do it, I say, because a life in purgatory is better than a life in hell. Do it, because a girl who reads possesses a vocabulary that can describe that amorphous discontent as a life unfulfilled—a vocabulary that parses the innate beauty of the world and makes it an accessible necessity instead of an alien wonder. A girl who reads lays claim to a vocabulary that distinguishes between the specious and soulless rhetoric of someone who cannot love her, and the inarticulate desperation of someone who loves her too much. A vocabulary, god damnit, that makes my vacuous sophistry a cheap trick.

Do it, because a girl who reads understands syntax. Literature has taught her that moments of tenderness come in sporadic but knowable intervals. A girl who reads knows that life is not planar; she knows, and rightly demands, that the ebb comes along with the flow of disappointment. A girl who has read up on her syntax senses the irregular pauses—the hesitation of breath—endemic to a lie. A girl who reads perceives the difference between a parenthetical moment of anger and the entrenched habits of someone whose bitter cynicism will run on, run on well past any point of reason, or purpose, run on far after she has packed a suitcase and said a reluctant goodbye and she has decided that I am an ellipsis and not a period and run on and run on. Syntax that knows the rhythm and cadence of a life well lived.

Date a girl who doesn’t read because the girl who reads knows the importance of plot. She can trace out the demarcations of a prologue and the sharp ridges of a climax. She feels them in her skin. The girl who reads will be patient with an intermission and expedite a denouement. But of all things, the girl who reads knows most the ineluctable significance of an end. She is comfortable with them. She has bid farewell to a thousand heroes with only a twinge of sadness.

Don’t date a girl who reads because girls who read are the storytellers. You with the Joyce, you with the Nabokov, you with the Woolf. You there in the library, on the platform of the metro, you in the corner of the café, you in the window of your room. You, who make my life so god damned difficult. The girl who reads has spun out the account of her life and it is bursting with meaning. She insists that her narratives are rich, her supporting cast colorful, and her typeface bold. You, the girl who reads, make me want to be everything that I am not. But I am weak and I will fail you, because you have dreamed, properly, of someone who is better than I am. You will not accept the life that I told of at the beginning of this piece. You will accept nothing less than passion, and perfection, and a life worthy of being storied. So out with you, girl who reads. Take the next southbound train and take your Hemingway with you. I hate you. I really, really, really hate you.

 

via @wallflour

 

 

Written by smudgi3

January 21, 2011, Friday at 13:32

Posted in Braincells, Insanity

Tagged with