Sometimes it feels as though I’m in a different dimension.  Even with family and friends, I’m still so out of place.  I remain alone, yet solitude keeps me calm.  It’s cold where I am, this perpetual dream of silence.  Like the darkness of outer space, I await for sunlight to find me…

But it’s impossible.  I’ve no strength in my frail hands to touch her face, as much as I need to make her see and perhaps fall in love with me.  How does one reach a woman’s heart without the physical touch?  It’s a question I’ve asked myself, time and time again.  All I really have is a handful of words to discover this art.

To love a woman is a journey of romance, through even the simplest of ways.  They say love at first sight is shallow, but if you allow yourself to believe it can only exist without limitations, then and only then will you find the physical extensions of her heart.  Her eyes, lips, and touch are capable of bringing you closer, while your destination is to find her at the end of each path.

As you venture through the walls of her heart, you’ll find reason to redefine your redefinition in romance.  Before falling, we find comfort in solitude, but as it continues, we learn a need that overpowers every fibre of our beings.  The way a woman desires for her man to change is often considered a flaw as acceptance is a significant part of love.  However, when you take the time to discover her intentions, it’s about letting her guide you to become the man you were always meant to be.

When you have the desire to understand her, you’ll also find innocence.  Aside from romance, she’s so much more.  She’s your best friend; someone to share your dreams with, for romance isn’t always the key to finding her heart.  It’s the ability to warm her through other means as desire inspires you to make her laugh and cry and dream of beautiful things.

To love a woman is a journey of discovery.  Through innocence, you’ll notice beauty in her every move.  It’s about finding it within the crevices of her heart, even when she feels a mess.  When you acknowledge it’s only her feelings, you’re also acknowledging her beauty, no matter how, when, or where.  Remove yourself from the boundaries of common romanticisms and know she’s beautiful the way she is.

What matters is that you’re there for her.  It’s to build a connection, and put yourself in her shoes.  It’s to make love with her and not to her.  When she’s with child, you must recognize she isn’t pregnant alone.

One day, when you find her falling upon your arms in a moment of weakness, it’s about giving her wings and hoping for her stay.  It’s to show her she’s loved and not only by you.

And when you realize her tears aren’t really tears, but beautiful heart cries instead, that’s when you’ve taken the first step in discovering the art of loving a woman.  This is where I am.

If there’s a way to reach a woman’s heart without the touch of my fingertips, I promise that I’ll find it, even if it takes the death of a billion trillion stars.  I have to believe it’s a learning process so if ever she comes along, I’ll know how I should bring joy into her life.

Dear Jewish Women,

Shalom, yafa sheli.  Your beauty of holiness is the only way to describe the miracle behind your glory, being fearfully and wonderfully made.  I find traces of your perfection wherever my heart follows, even as the blessed warmth of God that surrounds us.  All I need is to close my eyes to feel your blissful presence, and in thoughts of you are where my Sabbath can finally be observed.

And it came to pass; I saw your pretty face on an early afternoon.  You were chopping up vegetables into matchsticks, and while dicing them into tiny cubes, they reminded me of your adorned nature.  Somehow, your radiance shines through more and more every seven days.  When I discovered the cut upon your elegant finger, it troubled my bowels with envy.  I wanted nothing more than to be the Band-Aid that kissed your affectionate touch and make it kosher again.

The truth remains, I fell in love with you when I was just a little boy.  I witnessed scenes of the Holocaust and cried for real for the very first time.  Without knowing the outcome of your fate, you continued bathing with smiles and laughter, the kindest I had ever seen.  Crystal-clear droplets anointed your body, and tears rolled down my cheeks.  It was then that I promised a place in my heart, to love and protect you, from then until evermore.

Alas, my physical limitations are a hindrance to a great many things.  I can’t even protect myself, let alone you when I’d be smote in less than two seconds.  But the angelic caresses you offer unto me are worth every injury and bruise.  Your touch is where salvation lies; a pathway towards your Edenesque romance.  As the softness of your fingertips leads my eyes to your alluring dovelike gaze and lips sweeter than new wine from the cluster, they reunify the three extensions of your heart.  In them holds key to unlocking the secrets of love, for yours is eternally chosen, and the essence of every womankind upon earth.

It saddens me, when you feel less attractive than your White and Asian sisters, as if your delicate features aren’t finely crafted like theirs.  O daughter of Zion, my bundle of myrrh and frankincense, I’ve harkened unto your silliness and it tickles me so.  I hope to touch away your beautiful heart cries and reveal the Promised Land outlined by every sensual curve of your flawless physique; the exquisite landscape defined by the silk of your skin resembling that of milk and honey.

And you might think the only reason I want to lie between your breasts of twin young roes is because you’d make a comely wife.  You might even think it’s that I want to boast the ease of breaking glass with my solid rubber wheels.  Well it isn’t the reason why.

My beloved Israeli princess, you’re the epiphany of my damsel in distress.  Your meekness in sadness inspires my heart to utterly discover and rediscover yours, for to love you is like the gathering of manna; an ongoing voyage of giving and receiving.  I humble myself before you with garments rent, wearing only sackcloth and ashes, and vow to never do what Abraham and Isaac did in transgressing against the sacredness of our romance.  Mingle with me like fine flour and beaten oil, I pray you, for our marriage shall be a statute forever, and we’ll multiply as the stars of the heaven exceedingly.

Dear Jewish Women, while Passover has gone, your fair countenance continues to make me pass over, time and time again.  I can probably only drive in my wheelchair for forty minutes straight, and on ground as I don’t want to get stuck in sand, but I’d carry on my journey looking for you until the battery runs dry.

For you I’d give up ham, my darling matzah ball.

Your Gentle Gentile,
Ricky

Related:

A Love Letter To White Women

A Love Letter To Asian Women

A Love Letter To Mediterranean Women

A Love Letter To Middle Eastern Women

A Love Letter To Native American Women

A Love Letter To Hispanic Women

A Love Letter To Polynesian Women

A Love Letter To South Asian Women

A Love Letter To Black Women

The first asshole in a wheelchair requires no defence, but why shouldn’t I have a little fun with logic and common sense?

Over the last couple days, I’ve received a bit of flack for CiaoBella810 threatening to physically harm me (Dear Xanga, I Was Threatened).  That’s right.  I was made to be an outcast because I spoke against a woman who promoted gruesome acts of violence against me.

Now, a lot of people have disregarded her threats because she was only trying to express how people like me should be dealt with, and that it was freedom of speech, as in her frustrations.  Apparently, it’s acceptable for her to talk about physically assaulting and dismembering me by cutting out my tongue and off my fingers.

Is it not a threat to suggest such actions?  If she said this in front of a judge, would she not be held accountable for her words?  Would the Secret Service not come at her doorstep immediately if she said that about the President of the United States?

Mind you, when she initially wrote it in a comment (A God Damn Shame), I thought nothing of it, but reiterating it after an entire month of nothing becomes a different story.  Let’s not disregard the fact that she used the Xanga search function to purposely find me and what I had originally written, to which I called her a brute beast for saying such horrible things.

Do I know for certain that she’d act on her words?  No.  But do I know for certain that she’d never act on them?  The answer remains to be the same, which is why it’s better to be safe than sorry.

Of course, people might think I’m trying to cause drama, but when it comes to potential violence, some lines must be drawn.  I don’t mind personal attacks, but threats should never be allowed, regardless.  This blogging community, along with any other, needs to be without danger.

The point of her site getting shut down is that if she can get away with it, anything goes.  Do you honestly think that making violent threats by means of suggestion should be without consequences?  What if someone said the only way to deal with you is through physically assault and dismemberment?

Remember: Unlike talking, where the risk of making mistakes is much higher, blogging means you thought it, wrote it, proofread it, and made the choice to post it publicly.

She chose to post the comment.

She chose to reiterate her statements of violence, after a month.

Why shouldn’t a physically disabled person feel threatened?  I don’t mind admitting my vulnerability and defencelessness.

And it’s both hilarious and sad how some people are accusing me of playing the disability card for the sake of pity.  It’s a pathetic attempt at attacking me because such people lack the brain capacity to come up with an argument of logic and common sense.

Unfortunately, what they don’t understand is the obvious difference between acknowledgment and asking for sympathy.

Yes dumbass, Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy is a part of my life.  I write about it sometimes, and?

As logic and common sense will agree, I have no control over the reactions to my writings.  I state the facts and how I felt at that particular moment.  The rest is up to the reader.

I never ask for sympathy.  In fact, I hate pity, especially when no stranger on the Internet knows what my life is like.  Yet if someone chooses to feel sorry for me, oh well.  It makes no difference when I know my intentions.

But as far as hiding behind the skirts is concerned, um, I’m a hopeless romantic perv?  A slut of emotions?  Ha.

On Friday, April 16, 2010 at 8:00PM, CiaoBella810 posted an entry titled Dear Ricky, that was an admission to making violent threats against me.  She quoted herself in a comment she made (A God Damn Shame):

She referred to an entry I made (Clarifications From A Drama Queen) that quoted the same.  I didn’t take it seriously at first, but her reiteration made me reconsider.  I flagged her.

After writing this Pulse, she immediately deleted her entry.  Luckily, I made a screen shot of it from my browser cache.

This has nothing to do with “drama”, but the personal safety of the Xanga community.

The most frustrating part about not being able to talk at certain times (due to my trach tube configuration) is miscommunication.  Although the best lip reader is one of my nurses, even she has trouble sometimes.

What I was trying to say: “I used to head-butt people.”

What she thought I said: “I used to not like Black people.”

I still remember head-butting other babies in the elevator.  The pain was always worth the gain.  Isn’t innocence bliss?

But I’ve nothing against brothers and divas.  In fact, I feel compelled to touch their kinky hair.  It’s springy and crunchy to the touch.  How could anyone resist?

Though, I do recall asking a Black girl from high school to go back to her country, with the best of intentions, of course.  She was extremely annoying, and I was referring to the country of hell, that she should go there.  Oops?

Luckily, my brain finally completed the analysis of connotations after I realized she didn’t hear a word.  My friend (who allegedly made love with an eleven year old girl at the age of six in a farmhouse) mentioned that it “wasn’t very nice”.

This is why it’s a good idea to think before we speak.  I need to stop talking about how much I adore chocolate ice cream every time I encounter a Black woman because it’s a lie.  My favourites are actually mango, raspberry cheesecake, and vanilla.

A perfect example comes from one of the most memorable conversations I’ve had that involved nursie shuffling through my pants to find my condom catheter:

Unfortunately, translation also has the possibility of being impossible.  When said genius talked about her computer problems and I tried to explain that my aunt had the same ones, it was disastrous.

Me: “My aunt Deborah has the same issues.”

Her: “What?”

Me: “Deborah.”

Her: “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

Me: “Deborah.  D.”

Her: “T?”

Me: “No, D.”

Me: “D”

Me: “E”

Her: “E”

Me: “B”

Her: “P”

Me: “No, B.”

Her: “B”

Me: “O”

Her: “O”

Me: “R”

Her: “Depot?”

Depot?  What the hell?

Me: “I’m not done.”

Continue reading →

Look at you.  Ridiculous.  If you’re going for the mafia look, you’re doing it wrong.  You look like a kiwi wearing sunglasses!  And if it’s ridiculous you’re going for, at least give us a smile, will you?

Yes Ricky, we all know you’ve no reason to smile, especially when you see yourself in the mirror.  It’s nothing more than another reminder.  You might have the softest hands in the world, along with pretty girly fingers, but that’s all you really have going.

The cool biker look you try to emphasize with black gloves doesn’t work with only one.  If you wore it on the other, you’d be unable to move your joystick, and your crooked feet?  You might find reason for motivation in pain, but it’s not as if anyone knows of your constant suffering.  Your agony continues to exist in vain at the end of each day.

You really shouldn’t feel sorry for yourself though.  The ventilator you breathe with has given you a second chance at life.  Had it not been for this machine, you’d have died when you were nineteen.  It’s another reason you shouldn’t go for mafia.  In jail, they’d fuck you in the same hole.

You know as well as I do that romance is out of the question.  It might be possible for a girl to look past your cloak of invisibility if you could reach to touch her face, but when even a stupid glove can render your fingers motionless?

Have you also stopped to consider what they might think?  I know you’re not paralyzed, but one look at you and it’d only be reasonable to assume you are.  It’s quite silly for you to assume that they know this dude needs to be do’d.

There you go making jokes again.  It’s not funny anymore.  Your ridiculousness is only a mask.  You reassure yourself with crazy thoughts, how if someone volunteered to wipe your drippy nose, or if she scratched the itchy part on your face that you’d fall in love with her.

Ricky, what girl in her right mind would ever want to take care of, let alone be with you?  No, what kind of potential future mother-in-law would ever want you as her daughter’s husband?

You’re searching for a different rainbow, one that no one else can see.  Yet you still wonder how this ridiculous little boy turned into a motorized monster.

You’re iron clad, and robots can’t be loved.  Hugging you would be like hugging a real-life Terminator.  You’d hurt her, more than you could ever imagine.

You’re the frog who can’t become a prince.  You might have a vibrant array of colours, but it’s the same reason you can’t have your first kiss.  The colourful ones are always most poisonous.

These are the conflicts of your romance.  You’ll never have a chance, and resulting in such, you feel sorry for yourself.  While you acknowledge self-pity as unattractive, you’ve learned to find confidence within.  Your ridiculous mask continues to wither into dust, much like your foolish heart.  Perhaps girls adore the damaged, but you’re too damaged for repair.

So fine, consider this my way of letting you off the hook.  You can definitely blame it on your giant mechanical ass.

There’s a misconception in our society that women can’t be understood.  It’s rather unfortunate, isn’t it, how when we try to understand them, we’re immediately discouraged and shot down.

While acceptance is one of the strongest aspects in the foundation of love, giving up is never the answer.  It still requires a sense of understanding.  We can’t just accept without trying because effort counts for everything.  We should care enough to want to put ourselves in her shoes without the need for her to continue asking.

But there’s an underlying issue to all of this and it has to do with the deception that women need to remain mysterious because it’s apparently the heart of their charm.

And it makes me sad when I think about their oppression.  What kind of liberty is it when they’re constantly bombarded with unachievable images of digitally enhanced “beauty”?  It’s true that the media can’t be blamed in isolation when choices define us, but when even little girls are exposed to these cruel expectations on a daily basis, it’s a completely different story.

Of course, there’s nothing wrong with wearing a little makeup here and there to accentuate beauty, but women have been using it throughout the ages, despite potentially fatal consequences.  When they’re using makeup to alter their appearances, this mask becomes a problem.  When we add this factor to the aforementioned deception, there’s really no freedom.

The need that women feel to remain a mystery is ridiculous.  It’s a lie because they’re just as human and individual as men.  They want what we want, except express it in different ways.  Men and women have different roles, but the blood that flows within our veins is the same.

Understanding women has nothing to do with reading her mind because doing so comes with time and patience.  Even if you might never get it right, you still cared enough to try.  It’s to be her best friend, while wanting to listen and talk to her, support, and laugh and cry with her.

Understanding women is about getting to know how she thinks and the subtleties of her feelings and emotions.  Only through this effort and willingness are we able to have the privilege of finding who she is as a person.  This is why there are three physical extensions in every woman; her eyes, smile, and touch, all of which lead to her heart, and the same reason makeup is unnecessary.

It has nothing to do with being a mystery because it’s a journey of discovering and rediscovering her for everything she is, time and time again.

The heart of her charm and everything that defines her is her heart alone.

The pathway towards her heart is to try and understand her.

The art of loving a woman is to encourage her to take her mask off and reveal the true beauty of her heart.