Destination W

Women.

Women?

Women.

I know nothing about women. I grew up with five of them, and I'm just as clueless now as I was back when my aunts dressed me up in little girls clothes, and made pigtails out of my - then dirty blonde- hair.

What does that tell you? Since I can't say what I don't know about women, I can tell you what I see about women, but to see what I see I suppose I'll have to open up a bit.

There is a connection that I can seemingly make with women, and more that I do not. This doesn't keep me awake, by the way. I'm not trying to solve the mystery that is women; I stopped thinking about that a long time ago. The answer would have never made me any happier, so I didn't bother.

I never stopped listening. I can say that. I don't like speaking, yet I can speak more to women than men, and I will listen. I have listened beyond the realms of pain, having nearly collapsed from overexposure twice. I fight to listen, I am cursed to listen.

I say I fight because lately the voices have become broken records speaking in harmony. Details are always a bit different, but pulling back and looking at the little things, it's the same old stories.

Older women and I mesh splendidly, for some reason. I am easily frustrated with the eighteen to twenty-five year old crowd. They always think they're eighteen, with some exceptions, naturally.

My best relationships have been with older women.

...to be continued.