The (Song) Of My Life…

No More Mr. Nice Guy (D&D Reconstruction Update 1)

***DISCLAIMER: I’m a bit a tipsy, so please forgive the many grammatical errors that I’m sure will appear below.

I’m beginning to realize that many of my emotional and social shortcomings are in part due to my unflailing devotion to my career. I’ve done nothing since third grade but try to become a journalist and I believe it’s doing a doozey on my psychosis.

For instance, it can somewhat explain my unrealistic expectations concerning love. I’ve gone about my love life much like I’ve gone about my reporting career. It’s highly (and sometimes unrealistically) believed that if you pay your dues in small newspapers doing the daily grind at the bottom you’ll eventually rise to the top. Well, when it comes to love I’ve always thought if you put in the work then you’ll get a big payoff, which for me has always been that elusive perfect life partner. However, as we all know, it doesn’t always work out that way.

Another mitched metaphor, and the reason for this blog, is the belief in never burning bridges. In journalism it’s all about networking, appear nice and cordial and accommodating to everyone you work with because you never know when they’ll be in a position to help you out with a job or referral in the future.  And this pretty much works well in the world of mass media. When I meet a journalist for the firs time, I just spend enough time with them and realize that through six degrees of separation it likely we’re someway connected.

However, I’ve mistakenly applied this rule, to the ‘nth degree, to my daily life; completely upending my life and schedule for the appeasement of others, sometime to the determent of myself and my personal beliefs. (Any of my fellow journalist out there, please comment if you’ve experienced any of this or the above.)

I’ve been reading this book, “Mr. Right is Out There: The Gay Man’s Guide to Finding and Maintaining Love,” and, of course, in order to love someone else you must love yourself, so there’s a complete chapter on how to love yourself. Anyway, a part of that chapter says that in order to love yourself you must respect yourself by setting boundaries with the friends you have and refusing to be taken advantage of. Something I haven’t been very good at.

It’s time for some new rules (that some may consider harsh) in hopes to change this pattern.

1. Each time a favor is asked of me I’ll be going through my memory rolodex to see if that favor (or one of equal inconvenience) has been reciprocated in the past. (Please feel free to provide one if my memory fails me.)
2. If it infringes on my work time it’s a no. Just because I work from home doesn’t me I’m anyone’s designated chauffer, butler, child care provider, etc.
3. If you live more then 20 minutes away from my home and though I’ve made the drive an insurmountable amount of times to your place of residence and I can count on my two hands the number of times you’ve come to my place, I’ll be declining the invitation. But will gladly recommend that I host you at my apartment.
4. If I’ve been nothing but the perfect host to you at my home (and everyone knows I’m freaking Martha Stewart when it comes to hospitality) and you treat me like some red-headed stepchild at your place, I will be declining the invitation.
5. Sex in my apartment from this point on will be reserved for myself and the person lucky enough to be joining me.
6. Don’t ask to borrow my car, my insurance doesn’t cover you.
7. Do not ask me to be DD if you never have or never plan to drag my drunk ass home.
8. Most importantly, this list isn’t all inclusive and may grow/change at my discretion.

In conclusion, before leaving a comment detailing how rude and ridiculously childish this blog is, try to make a detailed list of at least 10 unsolicited (meaning you didn’t offer I imposed) favors I’ve asked of you. If you can’t then my point has been proven. And don’t tempt me, because details are my life and I will rise to the challenge of doubling your list.

Lastly, beware, the bitch has been unleashed.

Until next time,

D.A. Steward