Monkey Diaries Archive

In case this facet of my being has gone unnoticed by you my reading public... I am a writer by trade. Granted, I write copy for two websites but I do consider myself a professional writer (albeit, one who likes to bend the rules instituted by Strunk & White into literary pretzels). That said, perhaps you have never had the pleasure of reading my novel-in-progress? It's called Man-made and it's essentially a story that was born through a series of realizations I made when my current girlfriend finally figured out how much of an asshole I really was... Here's the first few pages of the first chapter... Man-Made by E.A. Castro “All you need is love…” Paul McCartney, The Beatles, circa 1969 It’s raining and Sam is leaving. I stand in the doorway of my apartment building as she struggles across the street with the few odd bags she had filled with the mystical appliances women often transport into the homes of their boyfriends. I was losing a girlfriend true, but with those articles gone, I’d now have room for my vast collection of soft porn magazines where they belong, which is next to the toilet. The argument that preceded this unfolding drama, what was to be our last apparently, had started out as almost all our infamous rows did. She asked me a question and I, being a man, which of course is a big mistake in itself, answered honestly, which of course is the biggest mistake of all. I had committed THE cardinal sin of manhood. One of three all men know and abide by. In reverse order of importance, the third is “skip dessert after a fine meal.” By doing this the man is simply reinforcing a basic thought constantly on the mind of a woman: her ass is comparable to that of a water buffalo. So, the rule is to suggest dessert before she does and the more decadent the dessert, the more meaningful the message…”sure honey, eat another slice of cheesecake, you look half-starved inspite of inhaling two loaves of bread, a half-side of beef and four pounds of mashed potatoes.” The second is “act like a perfect gentleman.” Some men make the mistake of thinking women want a gentleman. Those men may get the fairytale for a while, maybe even a long while, but eventually that woman will eventually seek out a project man to shape and mold into her idea of perfection. Any man who knows anything about women will leave the toilet seat up, drink milk straight out of the carton, forget to shave, belch in her face…etc. She can have hours of fun with her girlfriends complaining about you and at the same time get the sympathy she so desires from her friends (as a special bonus, this tactic thereby alleviates you from that particular responsibility). Leave it to the two or three buffalo-assed girlfriends who’ll say such things as, “men are pigs” and “he doesn’t deserve you” and the most sought after commiseration, “you deserve so much better.” And of course, the first cardinal sin is “never answer certain questions directly or honestly.” Lie gently, lie intelligently, but for god sakes, lie like prostitute selling sex to a pornstar. There are moments, when the stars align and the moon is bluer than your balls during her menstrual cycle, that she’ll seek out the god’s honest truth…but for the most part, she doesn’t want to hear it. Case in point, if she asks you “do I look fat in these jeans?” Lie. If she queries, “do I look older to you?” Lie. And for god sakes, if your girlfriend asks “do you see a future for us?” lie like your balls depend on it, because they usually do. Because if you don't know what the future holds, like most males, she will hand you your balls on a plate...figuratively of course, but some women have been known to take that extra step into the kitchen for a sharp knife before proceeding with that conversation. And that, my friends and neighbors, is where I made the fatal mistake of telling Sam the truth. “I know I like you a lot, right now...But I don't know what the future holds.” The fight escalated rather quickly after that. Of course, being a man, I was completely oblivious to my mistake at the time. As all men do, and if patterns are to be believed in and trusted, I firmly thought we would end up in bed, fucking like two porn stars smoking Spanish Fly. But this row took an odd turn. Hours later, I'd know exactly what phrase prompted this move from bad to worse. “I’m through with this…what ever it is. You love yourself too much for there to be any room left over to love someone else,” Sam cried. Ouch that hurt. I’m not that self-involved. There’s plenty of room in my heart for someone else…preferably with bigger tits and a firmer ass…but I didn’t say that…that would be breaking the cardinal sin once again. She stormed into my bedroom and picked through my closet as she continued, “One of these days you’ll realize what you had and wish you hadn’t been such an ass.” I was already starting to regret my mistake since she was stuffing a bag with some of my boxer shorts…some of my favorite ones at that. “You are so fucked! I'm just through with it all...you know something? You always joke about being superman and this being your fortress of solitude but do you know what? You can have it...I'm through being your Lois Lane.” If it wasn’t such an awkward moment, I’d laugh, which would have done absolutely nothing for my current prediciment. It had been one of our funnier inside jokes. My apartment, for years before I had met Sam, had been nicknamed The Fortress of Solitude, mostly by me but also a few close friends. She had become like Lois Lane, becoming the only women to ever set foot in my Fortress of Solitude and I had become Superman, powerless to stop her.