The Man, The Myth, The Rambling Monologue

Do you ever listen to your stoned partner and feel instant irritation rising in your chest?

I do.

It’s this strange contradiction. You know this human is capable of functioning in the world. He makes a living. He writes music. At some point in history he even had friends before you.

And yet somehow he cannot string together a coherent sentence.

Part of the problem may be that my old redneck dialect has nearly been wiped from my brain. Years of trying to sound professional, articulate, employable. The accent softened. The phrasing changed.

But then add the stoner Bob tone.

Like… a literal Chong.

Just for me.

Lucky me.

I don’t want stoner Bob. I want complete sentences. I want capable adult behavior. I want the version of him that exists somewhere in there when he’s fully present.

When we were younger and partying, it was almost charming. Or at least acceptable. Everyone was a little ridiculous back then.

But we are supposed to be grown now.

Functioning adults.

And instead I’m sitting here listening to someone who sounds like a confused teenager trying to explain something that never quite arrives at a point.

It reminds me of being a teenager watching those girls who used that ridiculous baby voice. The one where they’d stretch every sentence into something syrupy and helpless.

I never understood how men found that attractive.

Even then I thought: Are you serious? This is the performance?

Because the truth is I don’t want to be with a man-child.

I want a man.

Not some overly macho, chest-pounding protector. That nonsense is exhausting too.

But a man who is secure. Confident. Honest.

Someone steady. Someone capable. Someone present.

And sometimes I sit there listening to this rambling monologue and think—

How did we get here?