Bitter Baby
by Babyfreak
What’s up with the oppression that women subject their musician boyfriends/husbands to? HELLO!!! Loosen the leash! I, being female, get to hear all of the complaints firsthand from my female “friends.” Kinda like a test run. It makes you want to vomit profusely. What I’ll never understand is why these men allow these women to run their lives. I don’t let anyone tell me what to do!
A prime example is an ex-whatever of mine that ever so politely requested that I not wear my Dr. Martens in his presence because he was “embarassed” by them. Imagine that! A grown man bothered by a pair of boots! Drop the Bomb! I calmly told him that the next time him and I had plans to go out, and I felt like wearing my Docs, that my Docs and I would find something else to do. Package deal, baby!
Enter Musicians. When a woman, or girl (depending on the guy), meets a musician, she is immediately attracted to the fact that he’s “the image of the ’90s.” Long hair, short hair, purple hair, spiked hair, dreaded hair: It doesn’t matter. It’s the image that counts. Will this guy offer major shock value when introduced to friends and family? If the answer is yes, and both parties are interested, enter relationship. They date a couple of times, nothing major, just the menial crap that we have to go through in the beginning. Then she alerts all her friends to this wonderful, charming, sweet, and musically talented man that her life now revolves around.
Oh, he’s so cute! He’s got great hair! His leather jacket is like totally intense! His penis looks sooo big in his extra tight jeans! And he’s all mine! Enter lack of proof of ownership. No bill of sale. No title. No pure-bred papers. Just a major assumption that he is her’s.
Now here we have the guy. He’s not much phased by this new “thing.” She’s just there. Cool to hang with and semi-convenient. She’s attached, and he’s not. Or maybe he is, but doesn’t care to acknowledge the fact. Everything goes smoothly for a while. Enter Hell. The average musician does not want to be bothered with a relationship that needs constant re-modeling. He has other things to do with his time. Enter problem. She wants all of his time and he can only give her some of his time. They discuss the fact that he spends too much time with his instrument and not enough time with her. He defends himself to a moderate degree which further infuriates little Miss Muffet, all pissed off on her tuffet. She huffs, puffs, and throws a fit. He just tries to take it, hoping she’ll come to and realize that she’s flippin’ for no reason. No reason that he can see. Enter blind-spot. She’s already read into the whole relationship and knows the way it should be. She’s written her first name combined with his last name ten thousand times, picked out the perfect name for their first child, and already sent away for the China.
But, see, he doesn’t know this, therefore he doesn’t understand why she’s overreacting. He just blames it on PMS and keeps his fingers crossed that this “wrath of woman” will cease and desist ASAP. The poor guy’s clueless! Enter ultimatum. As she stands hovering over him like the hormonal mess that she is, complete with arms crossed and foot tapping, she delivers the final question. Unlike Jeopordy, there is no correct answer, and whatever your answer happens to be, there are no prizes waiting for you. Just Hell. Uh-oh! Here it comes! That inevitable question! You can’t run, you can’t hide, and even if you duck, it’s still going to slam you. Ready!?!
Oooh! Anticipation! Here goes! MUSIC OR ME?!! As this three word sentence gets harpooned into your brain, you stutter, you stammer, you wriggle like you’ve got to urinate. Your brain turns into a carousel, and no matter what horse you choose to ride on, you’re screwed! If you choose music, you lose the girl. If you chose the girl, you lose the music. Kinda screwy seeing as how she liked you for your music to begin with. Enter decision.
Let’s say you chose the girl. She’s elated and you’re bummed. No longer do you have what you used to live for. All you have is this “monster” that now thinks she can tell you when to conduct bowel movements. Man, you’re fucked. Your friends are disappointed. They thought you would remain faithful to Manhood and stand up for yourself. Mind you, you’re not allowed to hang with your buds anymore because they’re a bad influence and they might consume a minute fraction of your time, which is unheard of in your new world. The choker chain gets tighter and tighter until your head feels like popping off. Stand up for yourself! Tell this chick to get lost, get help, and find herself! Live! Speak now or forever hold your peace!
If you chose to speak, good boy. You get a consolation biscuit and the leash is gone. Move on to next hydrant.
If you chose silence, you’re doomed to eternal Hell. May Satan be gentle.
Now let’s say you chose music. She spazzed, you grinned, she cried, you grinned, she left, you grinned. Good for you! Gold star on your forehead! Keep on fishing.
Summary. If you’re female, and this story sounds all too familiar (which it won’t ’cause if this is you, you’d be the last person to see it!), get a life! If you have a musician boyfriend/husband, treat him well. They tend to be neglected creatures, despite the hype. Support him in his musical endeavors and, guaranteed, he’ll appreciate every bit of it and will show it. Don’t be silly jealous, either. That’s a sure fire way to piss him off. Just remember, they don’t make Pampers Phases for people our age.
If you’re female, and you understand why I wrote this, and what I’m trying to say, and you honestly sympathize with jailed men, stand up with me and let’s help these men find the key to their cells.
Per chance you’re a guy, and you find that you’re in this situation, for God’s sake, stand up, you fool! You’re being walked on! That goes against your nature and nature is not something you can argue with. Find the key. And if you’re a guy who’s been in this situation, and you know what I’m saying, congrats. You, at least, can get a few laughs out of this and be shocked that this came from the brain of a female. Be glad I’m in your corner, faithfully, and eternally. All’s well that ends bitter!
