If you’ve been coming to the Quail the last couple of weeks, you know I’m trying hard not to project my past issues with men onto all men.
And that I should probably clean the mirror.
Unfortunately, it takes practice to get this right, but I’ve definitely been making progress.
Have I stopped loudly and publicly yelling at men who aren’t there like I was last winter?
(I’m pretty sure, at least. But then again, we haven’t been through the exact same season yet. The short, cold days can just make me so mad. . . I mean, are you fucking kidding me?! Pull THAT shit, THEN hog the blanket. Wait, no. No. I don’t care anymore.)
Anyways, I finally, hopefully learned my lesson about that after I was almost attacked by dogs three times when yelling aggressively at a man who wasn’t there, and the dogs thought I was being aggressive toward them, which is only natural. So after the first time I was like, get your shit together, Ronnie. Then the second time, I was like, Ronnie, seriously, get your shit together. Then the THIRD time when a rottweiller made a running leap at the cyclone fence I was walking by because I happened to be on-the-go yelling at a man who wasn’t there, I was like, yeah, that one would’ve really hurt, and I worked on cutting that shit out.
I had a small relapse in spring, hanging out at the river with a friend and some wild horses. I started to get a little riley about a memory, and the leader of the horse crew tapped his front hoof ever so softly but authoritatively as if to say, hey, get your shit together, Ronnie . . or I will stomp you. And I was like, yeah, you’re right. I don’t need to be stomped by your majestic body in this incredible setting because of anger over that dude, so I cut that shit out.
I’d like to say I’ve completely learned that lesson, but sometimes it’s hard to tell.
I did discover I was still projecting my dude issues onto other dudes this morning though when I told this dude cat I was petting (an actual feline, not hip new slang, but I kinda like the sound of that), I ain’t falling for your crooked, manipulative dude cat ways.
But then -- the thing is -- he was KINDA fucking with me.
Like, he wanted my attention, and I gave it to him, but then as soon as I’m right there with him, he starts walking away. But not just walking away, walking away and doing that thing dude cats do where they walk reeeaaal slow and drag each one of their hind legs out behind them in succession to entice you because they’re not REALLY walking away yet, they just want you to follow them and pet them wherever they wanna be, and I’m like, nu-uh man. Are you kidding me? I ain’t doing that.
So sure, maaaybe I shouldn’t be projecting like this onto a cat, but hey, at least I didn’t call him a MOTHER FUCKER like I would have last fall.
Looks like someone’s growing up.
*sticks lollipop self-righteously in mouth and skips off*
In Case You Were Wondering . . .
Sometimes Ronnie D writes funny stuff. Sometimes she writes desperate teenage prose. Most times she just slams her feeble, little woman-hand onto the keyboard in an attempt to feel something, anything.