I knew there was a reason, and my looks couldn't be it.

"According to New Scientist, two studies have confirmed that "bad boys get the most girls." "Evil" men possessing a so-called "dark triad" of personality traits, i.e. who are narcissistic, Machiavellian, and psychopathic, attract abnormally high numbers of women. Interestingly, the results hold true across cultures in 57 different countries, suggesting an evolutionary imperative for evil men to exist and reproduce."

I don't know if I'd go as far as using the word "evil"  about myself but... to be honest... that "dark triad" concept does make a lot of sense.

Save your Scissors

I think I'm coming to terms with being so melancholy lately. I think it's a healthy expression of human emotion which is convenient as we all know it's my dream to one day be a real boy. I appreciate the irony that it works out well for me that my life isn't necessarily working out well for me.  I think that's one of those revelations you only get when you listen to sappy music on repeat.

Every time my heart gets broken (which is less than you'd think) I have to shed another layer of my preconceived notions on 'forever' and what it really means to be happy with someone versus being content with not being alone. Sure, the Diana thing is taking me a lot longer than usual to process but regrettably I have to do just that. I'm working through second guessing the breakup and questioning if things would have been different if I would have been more confident. If I would have flown out there and talked to her and demanded answers instead of quietly accepting heartbreak on the phone. A thousand what ifs are constantly going through my head which, while necessary to process are never the less hurting me more than I readily admit. The politics of loneliness and what one will do to not feel alone is a matter thats close to heart right now.

So much so that I've become "that guy" despite my best intentions. This blog was never meant to be 'Shawns whiney emoblog" but thats what its become. I'm working on changing that, but this seems to be the only place I feel comfortable being this honest, at least in print. There's a certain freedom to be had in getting all of this out; sadly it comes off as me being a desperate loser who can't get over love lost.  Shawn Porter, this is your life. Nice and Smooth.

I promise I'll have something more pleasant and less whiney to post soon.

Forgive me my trespasses. 

Garlic Heart meets the immovable force.

As the weeks since my breakup speed past, I find myself in uncharted waters emotionally. Usually by this point I'm so far past "over" that my ex-of-the-moment is little more than a funny anecdote told with cruel flair over drinks with my fellows or a promised-deleted picture or two  that's  shared to the delight of my bawdier friends.

Instead, in my weaker moments I find myself admitting that I'm still in love with Diana.

This hardly seems uncommon, judging from the torches carried by friends of mine who've recently ended relationships. But for me, it's a psychoemotional bomb that goes off every time I let it get the best of me. 

After a while, you start understanding the melancholy and the longing in a Daniel Johnston song. How one person can so succinctly personify everything you want in another human and then just disappear makes you feel a gamut of emotion that, particularly when you're someone like me who feels emotions distantly to start with, can cripple you.

She was always the one that was different- so against my "type". From the day I met her I always knew she'd be a significant force in my life. Sure, I always thought it would be a force that I grew old with, but sadly the cards weren't in my favour this time. 

I'm strong enough emotionally to be able to 'move on' and not let the specter of her ruin future relationships. But if honesty is permitted here- on a blog that no one reads- I'll admit that there hasn't been a day that's past since she broke up with me that I haven't thought about her. Even for a second; a song, a scent; something that makes me think of her and smile.

I swear, one day I'll find a girl that loves me back.

-'Well I once caused your cells to shimmer

And you once caused my cells to shimmer
Now we go all the night without love
Without love…' 

-Elvis Perkins

yours,

sp

I am all things phallic.

There are things you take for granted, having a penis. The inalienable right to always know where you're going regardless of the GPS telling you otherwise, the knowledge by sight alone which pepper is the hottest, and how to do manly things like changing windshield wiper blades.

I usually can't play the role of Alpha-Male. Hell, I'm usually hustling to even fulfill the role of "male"- so when things like the aforementioned windshield wiper situation come up, I tend to freeze. You can imagine then, when driving home today in a rainstorm, how awesome it was when my driver's side wiper blade shit the bed.

As I rolled back into Philly, I had two revelations:
1. Grocery Stores don't carry wiper blades.
2. When shopping for wiper blades at Target, check the Bluray section. Gotham Knight may be on sale.

Once home, with a windshield wiper blade (which as it turns out isn't one size fits all) a bottle of anti-depressants and a blu ray copy of Gotham Knight, I set towards figuring out how the fuck these things work. After about three attempts (which coincided with the three different illustrations on the back of the package) to fix the thing I just went for broke and managed the replacement. I think. I've yet to test it in foul weather.

But it LOOKS fixed. Which in the end is the biggest hurdle.