Charging the Catch-22 Game

Charging the Catch-22 Game
 
I went all in with eyes wide open. I even went through the trouble of writing down rules of engagement so as not to get caught unawares. I only got to three before I recognized the pattern: 1. No getting right back together without discussing important issues. 2. No getting back together no matter how torrid the break-up sex. 3. Don’t spend any money on not getting back together. Relationship ending is a nasty thing. The separation of pledged souls is never supposed to occur, you know? For any two souls can be meshed together somewhat with the right amount of love so when mistakes are made the guilt lies solely with the amalgamated product, or more plainly, the sum of it’s independent parts. It’s a sticky business as well with bits and pieces of the ridded aberration clinging to you like napalm, all jelly-like, but still burning all the while. There is no stop drop and roll when someone that you desperately love decides to leave you, either. The good part is that you only suffer so long before you go numb and black out.

Blacking out is the thing to do these days because who wants to keep track of how many brutally fatal relationships you are going to have? I mean, am I supposed to be keeping score of exactly how many good women I’m going to disappoint in one way or another so that they can’t stand being with me? I certainly don’t keep track of the one’s that disappoint me. And maybe that is the problem. I’m not in contact with enough of the people that are in a position to give me positive feedback. Most of them are too busy enjoying the successes of blissful marriage and committed arrangements to trifle with helping me now. I guess that is the burden of being a thirty-year-old bachelor. All the girls that you fuck up with supposedly on your way up, you have to eventually hunt down again to confirm that you’ve been traveling in the wrong direction the entire time.

This shit is so confusing that I need to keep a log. I used to keep two lists but they serve no functional purpose now other than reminding me that I am an optimistic womanizer. A catalog of women that I want to bang and women that I have banged is far from a meaningful and useful tool to help me rectify my emotionally bereft approach to finding a soul mate. And why not give into the temptation and just run with emotions, you ask? Because no woman in her right mind is selecting a man solely on the basis of her emotions and neither should I. Everything these days is about what you do for a living and where you went to college. Those subjects are not exactly the foundations of strength that they should be for most of the African-american male population. While I am considered as one of the lucky college graduates with a middle class “good government” job I still identify with the brothers that have to make do with less because I still have to see them everyday.

I live in the hood and I go to the clubs so I wind up competing directly with the rest of the sharks in the gene pool. It’s hard to get past those two initial questions and I can see it on brothers’ faces when they are ready to fold before a girl even calls a bluff. I understand that in the world of “bling” and ice there has to be casualties but the black man is already going extinct as it is. There isn’t much hope for finding what you want when everything that looks good is taken by the bigger and badder fish story. Chances are that you don’t play for the Knicks and your not coming out with your third consecutive album in three years and you’ll have to settle for whatever is left. And whatever is left are those disappointed disaffected and often disrespected women that chased their dream and realized they didn’t have enough of the goods to lure in the mother lode catch of a lifetime. Truth be told, there were never enough of those to go around in the first place and most were living the waking dream and quietly working towards fulfilling their own fantasies.

And this is when I really feel for most of the Black males that are below average according to European standards. The women that go out and make their dreams come true should be commended and uplifted but jealousy and fears of inadequacy only serve to undermine anything that a man can say to someone outside of his station. Part of the reason is that as the initiator, a man isn’t even supposed to be in that conversation store unless he intends to buy into the fact that he can offer anything that isn’t just plain lewd. (Cock for cocktails and some tail never add up.) If Black women were more like some white people, they would follow broke brothers around the club and deter them from aspiring too high. Thank God for blanket wholesale materialism in the Black community that let’s the disenfranchised roll out in Polo and Versace with security in the numbers of people who place social status values on what they wear. Sure there are many times when the roles are reversed, but men seldom get the divine break of the “beautiful clause” which can propel them into socio-economic nirvana. For one thing, if a nigger really is that pretty he’s not too concerned about a woman in first place.

Anyway there are a lot of different sets and sub sets of sets. Financially challenged, educationally limited, and even gay brothers are just going to have to deal with that. When Too $hort rapped “get in where you fit in” he was preaching to the choir of men doing just that, and eking by. I suppose that there could be an exact match for everybody but that doesn’t make it any easier sifting through the pile of mismatches, now does it? My game comes as easy as I can take it. Flings turn into regular things, which turn into casual relationships, which turn into serious relationships that usually end. It’s a pretty simple and anticlimactic process, actually, that is somewhat similar to watching a solar eclipse with the naked eye. You may not feel the impending loss with every passing moment that it draws nigh but you are fully aware that it was a bad idea to undertake such a foolish endeavor just to satisfy your curiosity from the very beginning.

And oh how my curiosity makes me weak! I’m always curious to know if the next one is, in fact, the one. Sometimes I’m even curious to know if the one that I just left is, in fact, the one. This is why I need rules, though, and I recognize my weakness can’t be totally controlled but at least I can have some semblance of dignity. Pride is so hard to swallow when the very nature of your being there entertaining the idea of a relationship is an admission that you are emotionally invested in the outcome, either way. It’s all loser’s catch-22 when you have to convince your soul mate that you were meant to be together even though you have no intention of making good on that promise because someone that was meant for you wouldn’t have to be convinced in the first place. Nobody wins in any of these scenarios anyway, and it’s best to put on the most resilient face possible and to try and defy the odds.

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