There Once Was A Girl . . .

Who thought she would grow up to be pretty.

Who thought boyfriends would be a fact of life.

Who thought she was special.

Who thought love was inevitable.

Who thought "abandoned" only happened to puppies and babies.

There once was a girl . . . but she doesn't think anymore.

She's a woman now.

Spiteful Loner

I stumbled onto this test over on Tom Allen's LJ page. I only answered the questions honestly! I promise!

Your Score: Spiteful Loner

You are 85% Rational, 14% Extroverted, 57% Brutal, and 28% Arrogant.

You are the Spiteful Loner, the personality type that is most likely to go on a shooting rampage. In high school, you were probably that kid who wore all black and who sat alone in a corner of the lunch room, drawing pictures of dead babies. You are a rational person and tend to hold emotions in very low-esteem; not only that, but you are also rather introverted, meaning you probably bury any emotions you feel deep inside yourself, like all of the bodies in your backyard. Combine these traits with your dislike of others and your brutality, and it seems that you would be quite likely to shoot innocent people in a rampage. Most likely, you also have low self-esteem. Hell, I get low self-esteem just looking at you. This is only yet one more incentive to go on a shooting rampage, because you wouldn't care if you died as a result. Granted, you probably haven't gone on a shooting rampage and probably never will, but all the motivations are there. All you need is for someone to push you over the edge, calling you names and belittling you. Like me. But don't shoot me. I have a 101 mile-long knife, you know. In conclusion, your personality is defective because you are too introverted, brutal, insecure, and rather unemotional. No wonder no one hangs around you, you morbid, cold-hearted freak!

To put it less negatively:

1. You are more RATIONAL than intuitive.

2. You are more INTROVERTED than extroverted.

3. You are more BRUTAL than gentle.

4. You are more HUMBLE than arrogant.

Compatibility:

Your exact opposite is the Televangelist. Other personalities you would probably get along with are the Capitalist Pig, the Smartass, and the Sociopath.

The other personality types:

The Emo Kid: Intuitive, Introverted, Gentle, Humble.

The Starving Artist: Intuitive, Introverted, Gentle, Arrogant.

The Bitch-Slap: Intuitive, Introverted, Brutal, Humble.

The Brute: Intuitive, Introverted, Brutal, Arrogant.

The Hippie: Intuitive, Extroverted, Gentle, Humble.

The Televangelist: Intuitive, Extroverted, Gentle, Arrogant.

The Schoolyard Bully: Intuitive, Extroverted, Brutal, Humble.

The Class Clown: Intuitive, Extroverted, Brutal, Arrogant.

The Robot: Rational, Introverted, Gentle, Humble.

The Haughty Intellectual: Rational, Introverted, Gentle, Arrogant.

The Spiteful Loner: Rational, Introverted, Brutal, Humble.

The Sociopath: Rational, Introverted, Brutal, Arrogant.

The Hand-Raiser: Rational, Extroverted, Gentle, Humble.

The Braggart: Rational, Extroverted, Gentle, Arrogant.

The Capitalist Pig: Rational, Extroverted, Brutal, Humble.

The Smartass: Rational, Extroverted, Brutal, Arrogant.

About Saint_Gasoline

I am a self-proclaimed pseudo-intellectual who loves dashes. I enjoy science, philosophy, and fart jokes and water balloons, not necessarily in that order. I spend 95% of my time online, and the other 5% of my time in the bathroom, longing to get back on the computer. If, God forbid, you somehow find me amusing instead of crass and annoying, be sure to check out my blog and my webcomic at SaintGasoline.com.

Link: The Personality Defect Test written by saint_gasoline on OkCupid Free Online Dating, home of the The Dating Persona Test View My Profile(saint_gasoline)

Hisssssssssssss . . .

That sound? The sound of my ego deflating.

So, the being stressed out and miserable and overwhelmed creature that I am, I decided to advertise on Craiglist for a houseboy. My life simply requires a second person in order to operate smoothly. So I posted about my situation, making sure to point out that this would be a No Sex position. While - between you, me, and the lamppost - I might be interested in sex with a houseboy after I got to know him and like him, I am not looking for sex with strangers. I have been down that road, and it does not interest me.

The responses that I got to the post range from "who the fuck do you think you are?" to earnest naivety. There was one, however, that stood out for both its literacy and it's attention to the details of my post. He was a 21 year old college student; younger than I was looking for, but cute. So we emailed back and forth, and seemed to be on the same page about our expectations.
I agreed to meet him in a coffeeshop. We chatted for a few and things seemed to be ok, so I agreed to take him home and show him around the house. At one point I turned my back for a moment to get something, and when I turned around he was naked. Oh, boy.

Somehow, he had convinced himself I didn't really mean it when I said No Sex. Just for the cock he had, I *might* have amended the deal to eventually include sex if he had shown himself to be a Nice Guy.

When I declined to give him a blowjob then and there, he said that if I didn't guarantee him sex in exchange for work, with a "test drive" right now, he wasn't interested in the deal. At all. I pointed out that his proposal was the equivalent of asking me to prostitute myself for the cost of hiring Molly Maid. I pointed out just how insulting that dollar value was. And I pointed out that I am not interested in sex with a stranger.

Ultimately, he left. No sex for him, no laundry for me. And now I'm hurt because some twit kid doesn't think I'm worth a couple of hours of labor.

Battlestar Firescapery

I have this thing for women with guns.



On this planet, my favorite by far is Angelina Jolie in her Lara Croft and Mrs. Smith incarnations. Even the Sarah Connor of T2 doesn't hold a candle to her.


But I prefer the girls who are out of this world.

Aeryn Sun. Aeryn Sun. Aeryn Sun.

The sounds of this glorious woman's name roll off the tongue like a goddess's
invocation. She was the first of my space-faring crushes. I had little use for the stars until I was wooed by her sharp tongue and gun-wielding ways.

Her affair with John Crichton - which could have been played badly - only enhanced my interest. Who wouldn't want a little of both of them? Yum!


My desire then turned to Zoe Washburne. Battle-hardened galactic mercenary with a heart as black as my own. The deeply loyal family ties on Serenity are something I envy greatly. Zoe doesn't take shit from anyone, and backs it up with a gun. I only wish I could do that.


However! Lest you think I do the wet and slippery only for the dark-haired beauties, I will show you my current flame: Kara Thrace of Battlestar Galactica. Her insouciant rebellion and troubled heart make her a compelling character. Her rough-and-tumble play with the boys just makes her HOT!


And there you have it. . . The secret to my science fiction.

Whiplash

Last night I got to see Mr. S when his wife went somewhat unexpectedly to see her boytoy.

After stewing in my alien-ness for the last week, it was intoxicating to be with someone who takes it as an *absolute given* that I'm a completely normal human being. All of my issues of isolation and invisibility are completely off his radar, because in his world it's entirely natural for everyone to be warm, caring, and connected. Sometimes I wonder which of us lives in reality.

Our sex this time was mostly vanilla, except his brilliant attempt to use a needle-point pattern tracer on me. I am so NOT a pain slut, especially with the stingy. He was momentarily a bit petulant about it, pointing out that several other gals he knows just love it. Bully for him and them, I say, if that's what he wants he is welcome to go do it with them. And that was the end of that topic. :-P

On further consideration as I write this all out, the pattern tracer is probably the result of some miscommunication between us. We had a conversation earlier this week in which I mentioned I'd like to explore what marks he could leave on my body without my going into fight-or-flight. I was thinking nail scratches and bruising. Apparently he was thinking perforation. *sigh* I still think it would be neat to be able to go around for a day or two after fucking him and being able to say to myself, "Mr. S was here. This mark is proof."

In the end there was lots of snuggles before we put our clothes back on and went out to dinner. At the restaurant waitress was making googly-eyes at him. I said he should ask her out, he said his girlfriend probably wouldn't appreciate it. It was a cute moment.

Later though, on our way somewhere else, he pulled the No-Girlfriend thing again. I really want to say something to him about it, but how do you tell your friend that every time he merely points out the truth it rips you to shreds inside because all you hear is that you're not worth his love, that you're unlovable?

A Day Late & A Dollar Short

Switch said about Valentine's Day: "I used to wear all black on this day, every year for ages. In relationships and out. Because the cruelty of this holiday for those of us who don't have relationships is not lessened by the fact that I happen to have one."

The cruelty of this holiday. Yep, that about hits the nail on the head there. For me, the day has always been one of explicit mourning. Kind of like the Mexican Day of the Dead, only personal and less cheerful. A time for me to commune with all the relationships that I don't (or never did) have in my life.

Although this year's V-Day itself was less painful due to the exquisite distraction provided by Mr. S, I find myself -- despite the delay -- going through the same mourning. All sorts of ugly thoughts are bubbling up.

According to Aristotle, man is a social creature.

According to Donne, no man is an island.

According to me, it is possible after all to live in a vacuum.

For all my self-pity, the vacuum I live in is rather like space: there's a lot of nothing interrupted by a few little somethings. People see me, people recognize me, a few people have history with me. But nobody knows me. Were I to die tomorrow, no single person would be able to piece together an accurate narrative of Who I Am. Then again, I don't think that if every person I know pooled their knowledge about me could they even then piece together a picture of who I really am.

Nobody knows about The Lech. Nobody knows about the funny sounds I make at the dog. Nobody knows about my attraction to cosplay (not even Mr. S!). Nobody knows how much I love to dance. Nobody knows anything about any of the men that I have seen, except a few know about Number One. Nobody knows the last time I heard the words "I love you" from anyone, be they friend or family.

And yet . . . And yet when I get like this, all curled up tight and cramped inside myself, reaching out to other people is a physically painful thought. I don't want to get out and meet people and date and do all the things social non-islands are supposed to do. I hate that the options now are either lie outright about who I am and what my past is or else be labeled as aloof and a closed book because I don't talk about my non-existent social life.

On the other hand, Sartre says that Hell is other people.

Never Have I Ever . . .

Let's play a game, shall we?

10. Never have I ever . . . been to the prom.

*sigh*

9. Never have I ever . . . held hands in public.

*shrug*

8. Never have I ever . . . received a love letter.

*ponder*

7. Never have I ever . . . received a gift from a man.

*frown*

6. Never have I ever . . . been on a date to a place fancier than jeans.

*grumble*

5. Never have I ever . . . been asked to stay the night.

*puzzle*

4. Never have I ever . . . been pursued.

*shiver*

3. Never have I ever . . . been told I was beautiful - or even pretty - by someone who wanted to sleep with me.

*lament*

2. Never have I ever . . . been referred to as "my girlfriend".

*cry*

1. Never have I ever . . . heard the words, "I love you."

*dies a little*