Dear Desperate Housewives,

Throughout my life, I’ve had a fascination towards the female gender.  Mom even told me that as a baby, I used to smile at all the pretty nurses who gave me shots.  It scared the daylights out of them.

I never understood the attraction behind my first love/hate relationship.  I was only five with an older woman of six.  I also had a girlfriend in grade one.  She was a year senior to me.  She nurtured me with dotted alphabets and many hugs and kisses, but when she dumped me for some pretty boy, I became an uncontrollable slut of emotions.  I stole her favourite pen and made her cry.

But then I met you.  I was eight at the time.  I followed you in the bathroom while your husband continued chatting with my parents.  Sitting there on the counter with my dangling feet, I became envious of your crimson lipstick.  I felt my tiny heart slowly melting away.  When I asked for your kiss and you really did, it was then that I discovered the art of seduction.

I realized why I didn’t mind staying longer with my elegant teacher back in kindergarten, so she could pinch my cheeks and ask about my day.  I needed love and affection from someone who really cared.

Crazy you might think, with all the young girls in town, but older women have feelings, and I’d like to fool around with you.  I’ve always imagined you as neglected, while hoping for your husband to pay a little more attention.  You’re a beautiful girl lost in this world, yet you fail to realize that your life is only beginning. 

You use lotion to try and look younger; hoping for him to notice, but it’s your almost sagging boobs and small belly that makes you lovely and distinguished.  Stretch marks are quite sexy, if you know what I mean.

I love the way you dance into the night when there’s no one else around, and how you drag your fingertips along the lonely hallways in the sun.  I love how you pretend you’re old with your glasses and the knitting, even when you’re wild at heart; and librarian hot you are.

Though we may never be, I hope you get every moment you’ve longed for.  I hope you realize you’re more than a childbearing machine.  I hope you find your Notebook romance with kisses in the rain.  And I hope someday he asks you of your many hopes and dreams.

Dear Desperate Housewives, wherever you are and whoever you may be.  In my never-ending quest to write something meaningful, I thought I could make someone love me, but I continue ending up with no one, however hard I try.  I’m sorry I can’t be the one to make your dreams come true, but know that I’m eternally grateful for the times we’ve spent together.

All I really wanted to say was thank you.

Yours,
Ricky

Ever since coming to Canada, I was raised Christian as a little boy.  My family joined a church in Toronto, and I attended Sunday school at the beginning of every week.  I promised my life to Jesus some years after.

But during my teenage years, I lost a great deal of passion for church.  I used to blame God for my physical disability, but eventually grew to a point where I didn’t care.  I understood that sometimes, things happen.  If everything had a reason, why do women get raped and little children, molested?

I didn’t realize it was to become my foundation for finding the true Gospel of Christianity.  There was a reason I got frustrated every time someone claimed that God made me this way because it contradicted the Bible.  Unfortunately, a lot of Christians feel the need to understand everything, which creates a false need for justification.

When I went on the ventilator in the summer of ‘99, I made it an excuse to never attend church again.  I had respect for God, including Christian morals and values, but chose not to follow Him.  I always used the fruit analogy, saying that God was an apple and I preferred oranges.  They continued scratching their heads, but I’m glad I refused, or else I’d end up following their false doctrine of works salvation.

Because of my continued interest in faith and religion, I started listening to sermons from an Independent Fundamental Baptist church that I found online last year.  The pastor was shouting about this, that, and everything in between, and it got me excited.  Church always made me fall asleep because all the pastors ever teach about was love thy neighbour, over and over again (gag me).  They never yelled or screamed against sin, but this pastor actually kept me awake for once.

And then I listened to a sermon on eternal security.  He preached that once you believe on the LORD http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"> name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"> name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 12"> name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 12">

Jesus Christ, there’s nothing in the world you can do to lose your salvation, as the King James Bible clearly teaches.  Doing good works isn’t a part of getting saved because following God’s commandments can only be out of love, not compulsion.

By the end, all I could think was Oh.  Soon after, I heard and understood the words of God through the verses on salvation and prayed.  I believed on the LORD Jesus Christ and suddenly, was passed from death unto life and eternally secure.

It’s funny because when I thought I had to live a good life to be a Christian, I refused.  Now that I have the freedom to do whatever I want, I’ve chosen to read the Bible on a regular basis, and strive for better.

Fast-forward to about a month ago.

I started talking to this girl online.  She was a sad beauty who had a broken heart, and as I continued to encourage her, she kept smiling a little more.  I told her that self-love is always a choice, as well as the fact that she needed to take things one step at a time.  I reminded her that validity can only come from within, and that her heart mattered most.

She still has some ways to go, but said I was the only person who really cared about her.  It was then that I asked myself what the point of getting her happy was if her smiles weren’t to last forever.  I asked her the question:

“Are you sure if you died today that you’d go to heaven?”

She didn’t respond until a couple days later, and in them, I prayed hard for her.  I prayed that she would either be saved and understood salvation and eternal security, or know she was lost because in order to be saved, one has to understand this.

So I prayed and prayed, in the morning and night.  I prayed for God to get her saved because I really cared about this girl.  I wanted to see her in heaven.

Then she responded.  I prayed again before opening her message.  And it happened.  She said she wasn’t sure because she thought she wasn’t good enough, and was afraid to go to hell.

I cried.

Immediately next day, I started doing research on soul-winning and made notes with scriptures and questions.  I needed to make sure she understood everything I was to preach so she could believe on the LORD Jesus Christ and 100% know she was on her way to heaven.

Rewind to a couple months ago.

For some reason, it became incredibly difficult to use the mouse anymore.  I could hardly type.  I still have a hard time on occasion, but not as bad.  It made me irritable and angry because I was afraid of losing my ability to write.  What would I be without writing and finishing my book?

But despite the exhaustion, I didn’t care about my fear and frustration.  I ended up with four pages, and although cutting and pasting scriptures caused much stress, her salvation was worth more than anything in the world.

While doing the preparations, I prayed hard in those days for God to protect and keep her safe, and open her heart to receive Christ as her Saviour.  I prayed He would give me just one day of being able to use the mouse perfectly and type flawlessly because I had to go on an instant messenger.  This was a week ago.

Unfortunately, Satan didn’t want me to do the will of God.  Last Thursday, the devil decided to confuse dad, causing him to mess up my underwear when he helped me put it on in the morning.  It was ridiculous trying to preach with inverted tighty-whities.

When I messaged her that afternoon, she was about to leave and asked if we could proceed later in the evening.  I agreed, but was afraid because while God answered my prayers, I didn’t know if my arm could last until after ten o’clock.

By the time she came online, I was already a little tired, but persisted onwards.  I started out telling her about the wages of sin, and how every one of us deserves damnation.  I explained however that because God loves us, He sent His only begotten Son to die on the cross, spend three days and nights in hell, and rise from the dead as payment for our sins.  She understood that all we had to do was believe and put our faith on the LORD Jesus Christ.

At the time, my hand was beginning to perspire, which was a bad sign because the moisture can make it impossible to keep the right position.  I prayed though.  It had to get readjusted several times, and each was a gamble.  If my fingers or palm fell out of place, I’d have been in trouble, but fortunately enough, that never happened.

As I explained to her the freeness of a gift, she understood that only the giver pays.  She had a little difficulty understanding eternal security when she was convinced we could somehow lose our salvation.  I reminded her that if we could, God would become a liar, and He can’t lie.  With eternal life, we only need to receive it once.  I emphasized that salvation was a spiritual gift, and once the Holy Spirit becomes our witness, that was it.  Jesus said in Hebrews 13:5: “I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee.”

She eventually understood, but we had been talking for about an hour.  I don’t blame her for getting a little impatient because soul-winning usually only takes twenty minutes or so, and plus, she had to go.  I didn’t have the luxury of speed due to my limitations, along with the ones from being online.  I asked her to stay a while longer because we were almost done, and she kindly agreed.

My hand was already losing its position, while my arm was hurting, but it was worth every effort, especially when she got saved.  It took about fifteen minutes more to ask questions and make sure she understood the plan of salvation.

I asked if she wanted me to help her pray and ask Jesus to save her so she could know for sure she’s going to heaven.  She did.  I couldn’t do the repeat-after-me on chat so I asked her to memorize a short prayer:

“Dear Jesus, I know I’m a sinner.  I know I deserve to go to hell.  But I believe that you died on the cross for me, and rose again from the dead.  Please save me right now, and give me eternal life.  I only trust you.  In Jesus’ name I pray.  Amen.”

She meant every word and was saved that night.  She was passed from death unto life.  I smiled because I knew I’d see her in heaven.

I never believed I could do much of anything, let alone win someone to the LORD, but when she believed, it felt as though I could walk again.  It was the happiest moment of my life.

In my journey of romance, I’ve learned that love is about giving someone wings, while hoping for her stay.  This time, it had nothing to do with winning someone’s heart, or making her mine.

I hope when she flies away that she’ll rest upon the sweetest smiles, and realize she needn’t be sad anymore.  I hope she continues to be encouraged to understand the choice of genuine happiness.  I hope she finds the man of her dreams who’ll love her for everything beautiful and wonderful she doesn’t even know she is.  I hope she finds her sleepy kisses so her heart may be warmed forever, and every romantic moment she deserves.  I hope she finds herself.

Fly, pretty birdie.  Fly. (:

UPDATE: Because of his lack of intelligence, the creepy pervert hypocrite coward (cmclymer a.k.a. lightandfaith) has now deleted his stupid entry about me (Dear DearRicky, It’s Time For Some Tough Love).  After linking this post on his site for his deceived readers, he immediately blocked me.  Unfortunately for him, he doesn’t know DearRicky very well.  Below is a screenshot of his now deleted entry:

Hi, my name is DearRicky, and I’m a victim of cyber bullying.

Thank God I’m an arrogant prick; the first asshole in a wheelchair.  Sadly, none of my haters are intellectually competent and it’s rather disappointing.  I actually miss the less stupid, as in vanedave and my dear sweet Paulie Par Par!

It has come to my attention that a creepy pervert (cmclymer) called me out (Dear DearRicky, It’s Time For Some Tough Love) for being the attention whore that I am.  Wow, what a genius to have figured that out!  Now you might think yours truly is calling names again, but this insect lied about what he asked me to recommend:

Lie.  In actuality, the entry he asked me to recommend was Flirtathon 2010 (Calling All Ladies), which has conveniently been deleted by said culprit.  Does this idiot really think I can’t take a screenshot of his original message?  Hilarious.

For the full message correspondence, click the picture above.

In his entry (Flirtathon 2010 (Calling All Ladies)), he asks for personal information of Xanga females, including name, age, location, etc. by means of a form.  I declined because not only is it sick, but I refuse to promote the compromise of personal safety, especially when it comes to women.  This is a serious matter.

He then wrote a comment (Women Aren’t Delicate Flowers, Because…): “Ricky, women are probably more driven away by this kind of entry than attracted by it. They’ll never admit that but they are... just be yourself, man.”

Click here to see the comment from my e-mail.

I blocked cmclymer because I don’t want some female victimizer who not only scams women, but twists my words around, anywhere near my blog.  It makes me cringe just thinking about it.

And yet, this good for nothing reprobate trash pervert stalker/sex offender wannabe has the audacity to lecture me about objectifying women?

After a brief explanation about love, he wrote: “That’s real romance... not giving compliments or describing how, as you put it, ‘women are flowers’ but making them feel like a new person when you’re around them.”

Sorry, dumb-dumb, but where the hell did you get “women are flowers” from “Women Aren’t Delicate Flowers, Because…”?  Are you blind to the characters of “n’t”?

This is what happens when people don’t know how to read.  But I shouldn’t be surprised.  This monkey-brained bastard has been reading my blog for two years and still doesn’t get it.  I guess I shouldn’t expect much from a person who likes to exploit women.

Now if people actually read my blogs about women properly, they’ll know what I’m about.  I don’t need to defend myself from those who are too stupid to read between the lines, along with obvious statements.  And why do I write so much about women?

First of all, I’m a hopeless romantic perv and romance for me is centred around women because I’M NOT A HOMOSEXUAL.  Secondly, I’m a slut of emotions and I like to make girls throw up.  Thirdly and most importantly, I get comments all the time from women telling me how my words made them feel better about themselves.  If anything, that’s why.

This guy, along with his flock of numbskull friends, also accuses me of exploiting my physical disability to garner pity and attention.  Such people don’t seem to have the brain capacity to understand the obvious difference between acknowledgment and asking for sympathy.  Yes, Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy is a part of my life, and I write about it.

GASP: “Oh no!  He mentioned his disability!  He must be looking for pity!”

For those of you who feel this way, are you stupid or something?  This might come as a huge shock to some so take a deep breath people: I can’t get away from my limitations.  I can’t control how people react to my writings, and if some of them choose to feel sorry for me, it’s not my problem.

Okay, I’m sorry!  DEARRICKY IS SORRY FOR COMING OUT OF YOUR COMPUTER SCREEN, HOLDING YOUR HEAD TO HIS WORDS, AND FORCING YOU TO READ.

Pervert Sicko goes on to lecture me about motivational speaker Michael McGrath who has Muscular Dystrophy and that I should be like him.  Um, didn’t you know?  There are different types of this genetic disease.  Michael has Limb Girdle Muscular Dystrophy [type 2A].

Listen, dimwits.  Being an inspiration is a fairytale.  It’s Hollywood bullshit that people feed off of to feel good about themselves because they donated a wad of cash to some annual telethon.  There’s no dignity, and nothing inspirational about losing the ability to draw with your hands anymore.  There’s nothing inspirational about taking two hours to feed yourself as your food gets colder and colder.  There’s nothing inspirational about requiring a machine to breathe.

Sorry.  You’re not good enough to pity me.

But it’s funny how the very people who accuse me of constantly writing about my physical disability and asking for sympathy are the same hypocrites who expect me to focus on it all the time and be “inspirational”.  And isn’t it funny how said people who flame me for starting drama are the same parasites who start it with me and use my name in vain out of nowhere for cheap attention?  Sigh… why do I even bother?

It’s funny how memories unfold in the presence of music.  Whenever I hear Aerosmith’s ‘Crazy’ or the soundtrack to ‘The Lion King’, I’m reminded of the summer of ‘94…

When I was ten, the progression of Scoliosis (one of the most common side effects in Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy) began to affect the curvature of my spine.  I had to make quite a few visits to the healthcare centre for x-rays and other examinations.  The skies were often filled with shadows, and I looked forward to returning home at the first instance of arrival.  I never understood the seriousness as I found the appointments tiresome and uneventful.  In retrospect, it was worse for my parents, considering their added worries.

While it worsened, visits became regular.  I noticed significant changes in the curvature every time they presented the film.  As a temporary measure, support pads were installed on each side of my wheelchair.  I tried to hide them under my clothes as much as possible, but a problem arose during the summer as they were black and plastic, making them searing hot.  I suppose superficiality has a price as far as sporadically screaming like a monkey is concerned.

Sometimes in the bathroom, I’d use the left pad as an anchor to crack my back.  Despite the lack of effectiveness, it felt incredibly good.  It was easy to realize the severity of the curvature as I hated what I saw and felt lying naked in bed.  I was disfigured.

In time, I understood it had to be dealt with.  I needed a spinal fusion surgery, where steel rods would be fused onto my spine.  I didn’t care much for risks, even when survival had a 50/50 chance.  I needed to be straighter.

The doctor sat down with us to explain details and procedures.  She was sympathetic and caring in her soft spoken voice.  It was rather amusing when with much optimism and excitement, I suddenly blurted out, “I’ll do it!”  She almost fell out of bed!

The summer of ‘94 drew closer as I spent most nights listening to the radio.  I’d often look to the window facing a brick wall of our neighbour’s house.

I remember so vividly driving down to Sick Kids Hospital the day prior to July 20.  I watched the buildings pass by, and before I could catch my breath, all the thirteen years I had lived flashed before my eyes.

We arrived at the newly reconstructed hospital and were given a tour of the floor I was booked to stay.  The operation was scheduled for early next morning.  I watched a little television without much of any concentration.

I awoke at six o’clock, and by then my sister and dad had already arrived.  The nurses came to set up the intravenous and I was wheeled outside to the rest of my family.  In a moment that seemed to have lasted forever, they finally took me away.  As the waves of goodbye grew silent, I looked up and was captivated by the highway of infinite fluorescent lights.  All I could think of was the intravenous, worried that some idiot would accidentally rip it off.

It was only at the last moment when I waited outside the operating room that reality sank in.  Aside from anxiousness, I had never felt more alone in my life.

The sterile environment had an unfamiliar feeling of eeriness.  I was transferred to the operating table that was hard as rock, but relieved that no one twisted my arm or ripped my flesh, the anxiety lessened.  I only remember someone asking me to count to ten, and a blurry image of a cute medical student between my toes.  I said to her, “Whoa, you’re pretty…” and immediately blacked out.

The procedure took over eight hours.  It would have been much quicker if it weren’t for my giant cow tongue, which apparently caused for a number of headaches in the anaesthesiology department.

I awoke in the ICU and couldn’t mutter a word.  I was intubated and ventilated and high on morphine.  I was frustrated over the fact that I couldn’t get up onto my wheelchair.  With much discomfort from the catheter, all I wanted was to get the hell out.

It felt as though I needed to urinate badly, even when my bladder was empty and draining.  I wanted to tell the nurse, but hadn’t the strength in my hands and could hardly see what I wrote.  Without any luck of being understood, we used alphabet cards and I eventually made sense to them.  The feelings were apparently normal.

From a distance, the radiance of sunlight atop white bed sheets was almost dreamlike.  As the anaesthetics wore off, I was moved to my original room.  When I awoke once more, I was terribly uncomfortable.  I had a button for small doses of morphine, but rarely used it unless the pain was unbearable.  Since I had to change positions so frequently, a towel was placed under my back for easier turning.  It was also safer for my wound.

This was pretty much how things were, while mom stayed overnights.  The catheter was eventually removed, but not until a torturous reinsertion.

There were times when I’d be transferred to a mini sofa bed that had wheels so I could go downstairs for some fresh air, but I never wanted to remain in a compromised position.  I felt embarrassed.  I tried sitting up on several occasions, but couldn’t hold my body upright because of the pain.

And as much of a surprise as it may be, I had no appetite, even with the amount of gift foods from family and friends.  The strangest thing was that warm meals always made it difficult to breathe.  A nice, juicy steak was served for lunch on the last day, probably as a parting gift for kicking me out after eight days.  My sister ate it… and I really shouldn’t have written that!

The nurse brought me codeine while my parents were packing up.  I was lifted onto the back of our van with seats unfolded into a flat bed.  It was surprisingly comfortable, and also true what they say how laughter is the best medicine.  I forgot the pain as my sister and I were scaring drivers from behind with our magic fingers.

When we arrived home, I was transferred directly onto bed, and how different of an experience it was, watching movies on the side.  Fortunately, the electronic version was delivered soon after.  It gave me the freedom I needed.  I tried my hardest to stay on one side with much agony so dad could have more sleep, but there were many times when the pain was too much.  Once I was able to sit up again, I could finally take showers, which required the use of plastic wrap for protection.

It took a couple months before I fully recovered.  I lost more than ten pounds in the process.  I returned to school for eighth grade without much delay, and it seemed as though I had transformed into a completely different person.  Even Keri noticed how tall I had “grown”.

This experience had its moments.  Although most of my memories are filled with scattered thoughts of hospitals and silent car rides in the rain, they’re still bittersweet.  They have become a part of me.  Who would have thought a two-foot scar down my back would change my life forever?

Related:

Growing Up With Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy

With every great love, to reach our destination we must first find a beginning, for to love a woman is a journey of romance, and a primer for all love stories come true.  It’s the catalyst that brings need and desire to revisit reasons.  I’ve always believed there are three physical extensions that lead to the female heart.  When I noticed the girl from the Japanese restaurant touching the corner of her mouth with the tip of her third finger, it gave me reason to redefine romance.  I realized that to reach a woman’s heart, we must first let the way of her become our inspiration.

It’s like the overused analogy where we should treat a woman as a delicate flower.  If we asked the flirtatious offender that is not me, we’d be drooled upon with a fountain of nonsense between awkward silences and emulated robotic sounds from a low-budget science fiction movie.  This is why we have to let her inspire us to find substance from even the most meaningless things such as common clichés, while creating new formulas that not only induce vomit, but nausea as well.

Why are women akin to flowers though?  Do they exist around bees without fear of fatal allergic reactions?  Do they have self-fertilization capabilities, and if so, do I really want to know?  Or is it because they have pollen?

Pollen makes sense as far as these ramblings are concerned.  Through the extensions of her heart, we’ll eventually learn of her needs.  She might be incredibly gorgeous on the outside, but her splendour remains within.  When we make the effort to understand her, it becomes impossible to not be touched.  As we come to discover her radiance, our only wish will be to protect and care for her as a delicate flower.

Then again, what of dandelions?  Somehow, I don’t think women appreciate being compared to backyard weed…

When she touched the corner of her mouth, I saw a different gentleness that included modesty.  This is where the beginning of my romance lies, in the third finger.

Unlike others, it continues to be most sensitive.  If someone tortured me by ripping out fingernails, that one would seemingly hurt more.  For her to use said finger meant she wanted to remove as much grease as possible, along with bits of solid matter without going as far as to potentially compromise the integrity of her lipstick with generic restaurant Kleenex, which in turn saves trees.  Her modesty was defined by an inability to recognize that even psycho women with ruined lipstick are beautiful.

A woman is gentle because of her choice of finger.  She’s humble because although somewhere inside she acknowledges her beauty, she wouldn’t take advantage of it by acting like a slob.  She’s modest because she fails to recognize how beautiful she is, even in a mess.  She steals our hearts away when she doesn’t know it, and she also cares about our oxygen intake!

So perhaps women aren’t flowers at all.  Perhaps women are angels because when we see them with children in the afternoon sun, her surroundings become misty as the pace of time continues to mellow.  Her sad eyes and the crevice in the midline of her bottom lip inspire us to want to sacrifice our hearts, and trade smiles for her frown.

And when we realize her tears aren’t only beautiful heart cries, but dreams of liquid diamond, we’ll also appreciate that catching every droplet is another form of revealing her heart.  When they fall upon our fingertips, fears begin to fade.  All that remains is our need and desire to return her dreams safely.

Contrary to popular belief, women don’t expect men to read their minds out of irrationality or emotional instability.  They only find sadness and frustration because of our unwillingness to make an effort.  In her affection, she hopes to gently guide us to follow her heart, inspiring us to love her the way she needs and desires from willingness.  Her intentions are beautiful and selfless, and this is why women are angels.

Original Entry: The Reason Why I Need To Be In Love