Men are less confused than women!
About anything. And everything.
There, I’ve drawn the line in the sand, let my masculine misogyny flag fly. I’ve thrown down the gender gauntlet, proving once again that men are superior to women.
Of course, I’m also choking on the diarrhea of the mouth I just spewed onto the page because I don’t believe a word I wrote, and am afraid I might just revoke my own gay card if I don’t retract that statement.
Let’s get real.
Not any of gender, sexuality, the color of your skin, social standing, notches in your lipstick case, or dollars in the bank make you more or less confused.
Men are confused.
Women are confused.
Men just hate to admit it!
It eats away at their masculinity and makes them fear their genitals will shrivel up and fall off.
I speak from personal experience.
Without a doubt, I can be the highest-producing confusion generator on the planet. Not sure where I learned it from—not that it would matter where the blame lays. Let’s just say that when I’m full tilt drama queening, I churn out confusion faster than lies flying out of a certain world leaders mouth. Not that I want to be in the same company as him. That would truly make me confused and in need of deep, deep, therapy for years to come.
Truth be told, it’s scary, when I become less mindful (like literally lose my mind), how quickly I spiral into confusion, as if somehow, being a man—a walking, talking specimen of Testosterone—automatically precludes me, and you, from feeling, acting, and admitting confusion.
It is that “man’s man” masculinity thing that hangs from us, not our testicles, causing us guys to swallow our own manure about not being confused. It’s as if we’ve slapped a perplexity condom on to prevent premature puzzlement from leaking out because God forbid we’re the cause of unwanted births of male confusion unleashed on the planet.
We believe it’s uncool to act confused.
Our stubborn minds believe people will think we’re stupid if we admit we’re confused.
And the looks, the looks, the looks from our buddies in the office if we admit we don’t know what we’re doing.
Of course there is also the hell that will break loose if that chick (for the heteros) or stud (for the homos) thinks we’re the epitome of the confused looser pretending to not be a confused walking imbecile.
The more we deny, hide, and refuse to admit we’re confused, the more dumbfounded we become that we’re stressed out, fattening up, buttoning up our emotions, and becoming ticking time bombs of fury, self-degradation, and pompous assholery—all in the name of “Call me Mr. I Don’t Have My Shit Together!”
Our need to “never let them see me sweat” is façade that is lethal to our well-being. Quicker than Ex-Lax relieving our bout of constipation, we’re once again at the mercy of our own two-handed fist pump, masterfully, mentally masturbating our self into the oblivion of false beliefs about why we can’t, won’t and shouldn’t ever be confused.
Seriously? Are you really buying into this crap and selling yourself that short?
If so, I feel for you brother. I mean it. The feels are reals!
I’ve drowned in that cesspool of beliefs, paid the price, and learned the only life preserver needed to save me, was to quit consuming my own crap that as a man, even more so as a gay man, that I had no right to be confused.
The moment I embraced confusion, I began to see the light.
Without confusion, I wouldn’t have learned how to ask the right questions. I would have instead continued to drown in the whirlpool of black and white options, never allowing confusion to color my world with possibilities. The kind of possibilities that jump out and grab you by the testicles, helping you stay afloat rather than sucking you under and suffocating you with only yes or no answers.
It’s the drowning in, admitting, and embracing confusion that helps us guys, swallow our misdirected masculine pride. Allowing our masculinity to experience the touch of weakness, uncertainty, and bewilderment is as exciting as discovering that first pubic hair and wet spot on our sheets. It’s a sign that we’ve arrived fully into the raw essence of what makes us men.
Men capable of seeing our truth and realizing that if it is bullshit, tastes like bullshit, and smells like bullshit, there’s really no reason to feed ourselves bullshit that confusion makes us less of a man.
Confusion isn’t dangerous unless you never make a decision.
Confusion won’t hurt you unless you allow it to become a harmful state of being.
Confusion doesn’t make you weak unless you buy into that belief.
Confusion is simply a tool for exploring, motivating, questioning, and literally not taking anything at face value.
Confusion is a gift. A nudge from the universe inviting us to wake up, take the call, and be the man we’ve discovered ourselves to be in the exploration of the confusion we face, day in and day out.
Confusion is not about the bullshit we feed ourselves, it’s about the messy crap we allow ourselves to wallow in, so we can take a stand to be the men we are meant to be.
Confusion makes the man.
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