If you want to date me: Please don't read my blog!
Ignorance is bliss. I'm quite fabulous, actually.
Recently during my adventures in the fish pond I told 2 individuals I wrote “articles.” “Articles” is the word I hide behind. I harbour no illusions on this front, as I know the minute I use the word "BLOG" I am in deep shit without hip waders, because anyone that I have already had a date with or is entertaining the idea of taking me out, or getting to know me better - is going to be looking to get the goods on me before his fingers even hit a keyboard.
This means trouble.
I was already busted by ‘Toscano’ aka. the Mad Genius, back in January after nailing his wishy-washy rear to the fire of the cross via my judgement over his online persona and questionable authenticity. It was written cross my blog’s gigham wallpaper for all in the blogsphere to see, and rightly so. I called it as I saw it: Esoteric Zeitgeist and I didn’t apologize. It was the truth according to me. He indirectly asked for it, and there was no doubt he set me up, then he came looking for an excuse to bail. (My guess is he was married or at least had a fiancée.)
Then, a couple of months ago I had joked about my "articles" with ‘Italian Clark Kent' who seemed to be more or less content for letting the whole issue rest. No worries now, as he has vanished within the 'I went a date/s with Cakes McCain Witness Protection Program,' and hasn’t been seen or heard from since.
Where could he be?
However, this issue of ‘articles’ came up not that long ago with someone I met online and with whom shortly thereafter I met up with in person. Not so much for an 'official date’ but just to meet, greet, hang out and chat. Let it be known I never said the 'BLOG' word - he did (damn - at least I think he did). In spite of that, somehow I inadvertently went along with it, and my little literary snowball dilemma grew and grew. He's curious... "I can find anything, I'm really good at that" he says. He's sharp, so I don't doubt it for a second.
Hey M... Are you enjoying this?
Let me know the Google search criteria you entered. btw... you inspired this one.
The honest-to-god truth is, my skeletons aren't cowering n some 3x4 crawl space under the stairs, they are having a schmooze-fest in the metaphorical 'Pasta for One' Lounge, smoking Monte Cristos, drinking single malts and designer brew while listening to The White Stripes.
The voice here in this forum is CAKES MCCAIN. Me? Yes. She is only one miniscule portion of the entire me, but far less watered down and highly concentrated.
Forgive me if I start to sound like a fruit juice commercial.
With no further adieu, I give you the pre-view of 'Pasta For One.'
Here in my Blog you can read about:
- My germaphobic, moralistic holier-than-thou 'Stalker-ex' who told my male-friend that the Canadian police were after me for murder (you know that already). And who also - while we were still together, and after our break-up (when he was calling me a "dirty whore"), had set-up online profiles on sexual encounter websites looking for women, couples, bi's, anyone basically - to have sex with. OOPS! Beg your pardon, I haven't blogged that one yet! Here's his profile though! Enjoy!
Yes, my ex is a douche.
- All the sublime and supremely crummy details I immortalized from my last relationship with "The Englishman." The man (frozen cod) I actually thought I loved in my haze of false perception during his 'faking' of his real personality (until of course he crucified me over the last banana). And the Oscar goes to...
- Then the other bits like my overall neurotic tendencies, my 'Formula 1' sex-drive (in reality I have very few partners), and my resilience - because despite the fact my heart is always going in the Moulinex, I still pick myself up, dust myself off and get back to business.
Of course there are my other proverbial anvils of shame and epic regrets:
- "The Virgin" with about a million Euros in assets, whom I pitied then bedded in in a moment of insanity. Then in the end all I got were several kilos of oranges, potting soil left in my bed, and that sinking feeling.
- Roberto, a sexual tape-worm/perverted stalker-creep that drove a crappy blue fiat and with whom (against my better judgement), I had a one-night-stand with in order to rejuvenate my mojo after my train wreck break-up mentioned previously. Despite my objections, he later attempted to ‘milk the one-night-stand’ and at one point masturbated in my living room while I was preparing for a dinner party. After the whole debacle I felt the incessant desire to cleanse within a drum of acid.
Then there are 'the others' I openly generally discuss here in my Blog:
- Online singles that have made my eyes roll with their ironic, brilliant-stupidity and online banter.
- And especially Italian men: those beautiful, infantile specimens, some of which - to my horror: dry-humped me in my kitchen, and most of which couldn’t find my clitoris with magnifying glass and GPS...
To the Men:
All of whom I emasculate, and metaphorically tear apart from my little black rectangle that sits across my thighs...
At one point I once had a favorable opinion of most of you.
But all men are not created equal...
To whomever reads this...
You want to see that I am NOT a completely psychotic, egocentric, Italian-man hater: You can always read about my friend “Dog-guy” that has always been decent and a good friend to me despite some suspicions I had about him in the beginning over him wanting to jump my bones, and especially “LL” an ex-stripper and my former wing-man, someone I trust implicitly and consider a national treasure.
If all of this, and the entire content of my blog prove anything…
It proves I am by no means perfect, I sometimes make poor decisions, but despite a battered and bruised heart - I'm (essentially) still human, and haven't lost faith in the good that exists in people, that things always get better, and good friends are golden.
So strangers, quasi-friends, aquaintences...
Don't expect to like everything you read, or perhaps even ME if you decide to read on.
From here on, this is your can of worms...