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| Topic: Why do we tend to dislike clingy people? | |
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I just can't stand to have someone up my azz 24/7. |
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Clingy people are oftentimes jealous people. I don't want someone hanging all over me all the time trying to control me. Don't get me wrong, I love affection, but, too much too often is desperate and unattractive.
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Reminds me of those little Garfield’s with plastic suckers on their paws attached to the inside rear windows of Austin Allegro’s.
Clingy is perceived by the person the action is directed too, and perhaps it is not the action under question but the perceiver. Could it be the perceiver is the one who should be removing personal hurdles, rather than the personal judging? |
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Are some girls from Atlanta cling peaches?
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a little clinginess is fine but who wants to be smothered????? Not me! I like my personal space!
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Edited by
scoundrel
on
Sun 02/22/09 11:24 AM
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 Why do we tend to dislike clingy people? Ah, my loving woman can cling to me, and dare to relent upon life for a while, to trust me to uphold and guard her here, for that is vulnerable trust at its sweetest. Cling to me, once in a while, and then kick and spit and scratch at me, testing whether I fit the real you in all ways, and you can scowl at my laughter at your antics. Cling. Cling by jesting and crying and testing, for each aspect is showing yourself more to me, giving of yourself to the point that love grows, and you are then free in comfort of togetherness, and will run and leap in your heart, free at last, to be whole and to live your dreams come true. The clinging sated your need to know I am true. Then you will likely outpace me in your freedom, exercising new life and discovering newness in you, and I shall have to cling to you, just to keep up, my love. oh...I was supposed to dislike clingy people? Hah! Silly me. |
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Because we think they are "needy" and no one wants someone that is too needy....It's too much work.
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Edited by
Dancere
on
Sun 02/22/09 11:34 AM
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Think it is a matter of absolute hunger. I tend to like/need space to digest, become famished and then feast again. Nay, gorge!
 Clingy: It's sorta like always being in the room w/ an all you can eat buffet, eventually it puts you off your appetite. Never was much on eating so constantly that I'm nauseous. I'll leave that to the Romans in their vomitoria. Klingon in a lovemaking bed, bring it! Even then, has to be done w/ some measure of mutual, flat-out mastery, dominance and strength. Back to an appetite, w/ him as a preying hunter - in a burning passion that would kill for me. I prefer he is so lustful for me alone, he devours me w/ out mercy. Then back away slowly, until the next rumble in the jungle - filled w/ starving looks from a distance, ONLY we recognize as sparks of a perpetual raging flame. I'm SO into the challenge of the hunt! K, that's quite enough!!! Gettin' myself too warm here, I'll stop ... 
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I don't mind clingy girls. It's the stalkers and the complete psychos I don't like.
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I just can't stand to have someone up my azz 24/7. 
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Super hot - clingy not noticed Not hot at all - clingy accentuated   true
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It's so funny, a couple people are saying the like clingy when just the other day they were saying they didn't like clingy..... I noticed that too
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Clingy people are oftentimes jealous people. I don't want someone hanging all over me all the time trying to control me. Don't get me wrong, I love affection, but, too much too often is desperate and unattractive. Absolutely, I agree. Clingy is different than affectionate. Clingy is insecure. |
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Clingy people are oftentimes jealous people. I don't want someone hanging all over me all the time trying to control me. Don't get me wrong, I love affection, but, too much too often is desperate and unattractive. Absolutely, I agree. Clingy is different than affectionate. Clingy is insecure.  probably
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 Clingy women are hot
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I noticed this effect with a friend. I would come onto to her and she would back off. So I backed off and she came onto me. It is like if I act like she doesn't even exist it works out better. I guess for absence to make the heart grow fonder you really need absence for the formula to work out. Evidently, something else must grow without the absence. I think that is why familiarity breeds contempt. But if that is so then what does unfamiliarity breed? Hmmm. I think some people just want a friend which might make the saying of a friend in need is a friend indeed. Because if you don't need them and they are there then what does that make them? Hmmm. A useless appendage.
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I noticed this effect with a friend. I would come onto to her and she would back off. So I backed off and she came onto me. It is like if I act like she doesn't even exist it works out better. I guess for absence to make the heart grow fonder you really need absence for the formula to work out. Evidently, something else must grow without the absence. I think that is why familiarity breeds contempt. But if that is so then what does unfamiliarity breed? Hmmm. I think some people just want a friend which might make the saying of a friend in need is a friend indeed. Because if you don't need them and they are there then what does that make them? Hmmm. A useless appendage. Funny! And yes, I believe that woman tend to like a guy more if there's a little bit of work involved. Woman like to keep a sense of mystery about them and that usually keeps a man more interested. My sister believes that men like her more when she's mean too them and I wouldn't have believed that; but I have seen it and it's true! People are truly amazing! Never boring....just amazing! |
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Ode To A Nightingale
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, But being too happy in thy happiness,--- That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, In some melodious plot Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Singest of summer in full-throated ease. O for a draught of vintage, that hath been Cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora and the country green, Dance, and Provencal song, and sun-burnt mirth! O for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stained mouth; That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim: Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; Where but to think is to be full of sorrow And leaden-eyed despairs; Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, Or new love pine at them beyond tomorrow. Away! away! for I will fly to thee, Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy, Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: Already with thee! tender is the night, And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, Clustered around by all her starry fays; But here there is no light, Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; Fast-fading violets covered up in leaves; And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. Darkling I listen; and for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy! Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain--- To thy high requiem become a sod Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown: Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien corn; The same that oft-times hath Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. Forlorn! the very word is like a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep In the next valley-glades: Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music:---do I wake or sleep? John Keats |
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Ode To A Nightingale My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, But being too happy in thy happiness,--- That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, In some melodious plot Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Singest of summer in full-throated ease. O for a draught of vintage, that hath been Cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora and the country green, Dance, and Provencal song, and sun-burnt mirth! O for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stained mouth; That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim: Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; Where but to think is to be full of sorrow And leaden-eyed despairs; Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, Or new love pine at them beyond tomorrow. Away! away! for I will fly to thee, Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy, Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: Already with thee! tender is the night, And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, Clustered around by all her starry fays; But here there is no light, Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; Fast-fading violets covered up in leaves; And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. Darkling I listen; and for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy! Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain--- To thy high requiem become a sod Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown: Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien corn; The same that oft-times hath Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. Forlorn! the very word is like a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep In the next valley-glades: Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music:---do I wake or sleep? John Keats  Ah, Keats, I'm a BIG fan! Almost named my daughter Keats, her dad disagreed ... 
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i dont mind a clingy woman
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