I'm Not Your Therapist

Her: I'm worried about X with regards to us... <burble burble burble>

Me: What?

Her: <burble overthink hamsterbate>

Me, getting impatient: Okay, you've obviously got some issues about this. Thank you for bringing them up. However I'm not a therapist, and even if I was I'm not getting paid to sort your emotional problems out. It's best that we just be friends.

Her, shocked: <bleep! hamstershit!>

Me: Good luck girl, see you around occasionally. <--- hang up

So yeah - Jesus, people. Why do women constantly overthink shit? Who the hell knows. (I had a woman use that word: Overthink.)

I do know one thing: I'm not a fucking therapist. More specifically, I'm not her fucking therapist. Most specific of all, I'm not being paid to be her fucking therapist.

We were not put in this world to sort her issues out, or to wait upon her hand and foot like she's some special snowflake.

Something about women's bloody nuttiness social focus involves overthinking to the maximum. I guess that's why it's often called The Hamster in these parts.
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Given some further thinking about this, I have come to the following tentative idea:

Women: Social games involving drama and one-upmanship (and backstabbing) are her staple entertainments.

Men: Real world involving going out and doing (and hunting and building) stuff are his staple entertainments.

It is my view that where women go off the reservation is expecting us men to give a flying shit about her staple entertainments. (Not a surprise that she expects this: she's been taught from birth that the sun shines out her ass.)

"Yes dear. That's nice dear. Yes dear. Whatever you say dear. You're right dear - you're always right dear. Yes dear." This is a man who has mentally checked out after being subjected to waaay too much female social staple entertainments from his woman.

Then she comes into his male real world staple entertainments and starts trying to tell him how to do them.

Hello? I don't tell you how to talk to and think about Suzie Q down the road. Don't tell me how I "should do" or why I "shouldn't do" the things that I find entertaining. Also, don't tell me that I should or shouldn't do them for your benefit. Or that I should conform to your social niceties of politeness while you're intruding in my mental and physical space as I'm trying to kick this piece of shit metal into place. Fuck off.

Hamsterbation and overthink. This is what happens when you constantly are asking yourself questions like: "What did Suzie mean by that? Why did she say that? Wait, did she really mean this thing instead? Oh that bitch! She did! I am so gonna slap that sleazy cunt one upside the head! What's the best way to stick the knife in and twist it..."

Bring that mindset into the interactions with a man: "Fuck off until I've gotten this bloody outboard motor running." He's completely oblivious while her brain has a fit, shits itself, and comes off the bloody axles as she overthinks. Plus she's furious that he's oblivious, adding to the problem. The problem in her mind.

Take a special note of that. The problem is solely in her mind. Not anywhere else.

Crazy thinking on her part, yet I suppose to be expected in the feminine-ascendent social structure of these day. She's approaching everything from the mindset that everything is about her (and women in general) and us men wonder why she's hamster-shitting and overthinking out of random nowhere. Until we get impatient enough with her interruptions to tell her to fuck off and never come back - or we knuckle under and go crazy (or check out entirely from) trying to figure her mind out.

Ah well. Who can tell if this mess'll sort itself out sometime soon. For me, it's time for some Grand Marnier and to relax - step away from the silliness.

Go do your own thing and enjoy yourselves, my fellow-Men.