The Great Human Condition

HallofHumanOrigins2

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Depeche Mode People Are People

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People are strange. You could spend your entire existence attempting to fathom them out but, in the end, all you can do is speculate. Keeper has always been a ‘people person’ so I have deliberated long and hard about this topic in the past. Have I come up with any definitive answers? Of course not, I’d need three lifetimes to gather such Intel. I do, however, have archives of theory to share and, being a sharing kind of guy, that’s exactly what I’ll be doing.

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Firstly, the battle of the sexes. I’m going in at the deep end, rolling up my sleeves and stuffing the turkey with my bare fist. I believe I speak for the entire global population when I say that we are worlds apart. It’s inescapable as we come from entirely separate design templates. Our minds operate in different ways, have our own needs and niches. That’s just basic science.

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Generally speaking men like nothing more than being mothered. Pamper us, tickle our tummies and throw us a biscuit when we’ve done well and we’re all wagging tails and ‘here’s your slippers love’. On the whole, we have simple needs and goals. We mature at a far more lackadaisical pace than our female counterparts and I believe there is more than a slither of truth to the words ‘men never really grow up’. It’s something we battle our lives; we wear our rose-tinted spectacles at all times and see no reason to mature on command.

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Ladies are born with an exclusive skill set which includes the fascinating ability to multi-task (until Baby Brain kicks in at the least). Far more aggressive a sex, the pendulum swings ordinarily in their favor as a relationship wears on. While the guy is throwing his rattle from the pram, desperately clinging on to the last remnants of childhood, he loses focus and gifts his liberty to the other party, normally via an ongoing series of insensitive bird-brained blunders.

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You can look at it from two varying perspectives. One is that it was all a great ironic prank by our creator(s) and a fitting punishment for ravishing that apple. The other is that, seeing as opposites are known to attract, it’s just the natural order. Whichever way to choose to view it, there is no denying that it throws up some glorious match-ups.

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Having worked in the business, retail and public sectors, I have come in contact with all manner of wackos and fruitcakes, from those with no concept of positivity whose neurosis is too deep-set to ever so much as dream of overriding; to horizontal Herberts without a care in the world. It’s a mind-field to traverse and folk do it with varying levels of grace and guile.

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Everyone is wired individually from millions upon millions of disconnected neurons waving like war brides. Dependent on circumstance, learning environment and a host of other factors a select few are stimulated and bracketed. Ta-da! It’s all a mad free-for-all with the more puny neurons on a hiding to nothing as the more burly clamor over the last few remaining spots.

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The cards we are left with fluctuates from person to person, as does the manner in which we play our hands. But essentially any damage inflicted in early childhood invariably relates to particular fears or anxieties. As one can imagine the disparity is vast, we’re all wound up like wind-up teeth and left to chatter amongst legions of gnashing gnibblers.

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There are those who enjoy putting a spin on events to give them some flavor, often becoming the ‘wolf-crier’ and taken with a clutch of salt. Keeper is the polar opposite; despite pouring my creative juices into various reenactments, in reality I tell it very straight. My Hippocampus is like China, I can barely fit any more data in but my short-term memory is more Mongolia, a vast stretch of open land with hardly a Dickie bird to be discerned.

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There are those with filters and those without. I have an impenetrable filter but choose to adjust the settings dependent on condition and environment. As Keeper I switch it to standby, simply to save electricity. If chatting to old Doris at the bus stop I don’t spout out “Fucking dreadful weather ain’t it? Makes my dick itch”. Pensioners have enough frailties to deal with, without me shaking her hip replacement. I do hold a fondness for the filter-free; they’re such a breath of fresh meadow air and can really liven up Bar-Mitzvahs.

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We can’t forget those priceless nondescripts who possess not a smidgeon of anything resembling a social repertoire. Duller than a mute karaoke bar, there just isn’t enough behind their peepers to convince you they’re not body snatchers. I feel for these dudes and dudettes, they cry out for interaction and it becomes inaction. Confidence often plays a major part in their condition and, in a society which is survival of the fittest, they lose their rightful place.

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On the flip-flop you have the Joes who have an over-abundance of tactlessly applied social skills. Quite often, they are absolutely oblivious to the color draining from your face as though it were a defective piss-satchel. As for the light in your eyes which is flickering precariously, they can be right up in your grill with not a clue to be found. They think nothing of breaking your flow and, if aware that they’ve just pissed on your dreams, they certainly don’t show it.

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OCD manifests in various different ways and, it just so happens, Keeper just loves those three letters. Just seeing them on the line above makes me want to cry their name eight times. I have been afflicted for as long as memory serves and, by eight years old, I became known as ‘I Want’ by my three older siblings. Right through my teens, twenties, most of thirties, should I stumble across an item that would look good in the rack then it has ended up there faster than a wanking bullet.

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I have hoarded to such a ludicrous degree that even I’ve thought my hinges are rickety. Case in point; in my late teens I had a confectionary drawer in my bedroom. It was crammed with every candy bar in circulation, except Bounty, in regimented rows and even color coordinated. Freak huh? You ain’t heard nothing. Should a family member swan in for a packet of Pacers, then I’d fucking know it. Verifying…Row 5, Article D is missing; that’s it…bust out NWA’s Fuck The Police full decibel.

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It was beyond preposterous, I was like a Terminator, scanning data while rows of stats scrolled up my Peepers. The real kicker…and you’ll love this…I didn’t ever eat them unless I had already purchased a back-up pack. Numpty doesn’t even scuff it man. By the time I unwrapped that bag of Maltesers (and 70% oxygen), they have welded together into a chalky clump and were beyond consumption. Still ate ’em.

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Keeper counts himself particularly blessed with regards to reading the vibes of others but, the truth is, I don’t think think any of us will ever gain the true understanding of another. To me, that just makes it all the more fascinating a prospect…OCD, OCD, OCD, OCD, OCD, OCD, OCD, OCD!!!

Fatal Attraction 1987 Adrian Lyne Glenn Close

 

Sinners come in all shapes and sizes,

Keeper of the Crimson Quill

Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2013

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3 Comments

  1. Another peek into what makes The Keeper tick…tick…having said such, and touching on The Great Battle, you are correct. Women are taught from babyhood (in the Manual) to be…stronger stuff. It just is fact. Men have their attributes too you know….XXOO

  2. Ohhh…Keeper…I love reading your work.

    …though I promise I know something better you could scream 8 times in a row, with your eyes rolled back in your head, no doubt.

    Keep writing…

    — That Stalker

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