Fucking. That’s just my opinion, stemming from the sum total experiences I’ve had with them. And you know what? That’s fine. I’m OK with that. Love needn’t be attached to the fucking, either. Lust works for me. Wham, bam, see ya, dude. Nope, no post-fucking cuddling required.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying all men are useless. Just the ones I fall for. OK? You’re off the hook. I’m not blaming myself, either, mind you. It’s in my genes. My parents married the wrong people, as did my sister and I. They had to get married, you understand, because back then it was better to marry for the wrong reasons than to not marry and have a baby, have an abortion, or put the baby up for adoption. See the logic? (wink, wink.) Good.
And though I’ve grown and learned much from my failed marriage, drawn a clear picture of the kind of man I want, well, don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re failing miserably. Not all men, remember, just those I’ve encountered these last four years. What do you mean, failing? I’m glad you asked. You’re scared. Scared little boys. You don’t want strong, independent, intelligent, funny, sexy, “tells you what she wants” women. We make your balls shrivel, that’s how much we scare you.
What do you want? Beats the hell out of me. I can’t get a straight answer out of you. One striking similarity–laziness. A distinct lack of effort equivalent to a magnet–no, a tree, the wind carrying potential relationships your way, getting snagged or caught on your branches. I’ve seen it. I’ve done it. Thrown myself, blind with desperation, at you. Not a good look, and I mean the lazy thing, too. Unhealthy to boot.
Oh, one last thing:
Peter Dinklage. Wonderful actor, probably guy, too. Hot. I first saw him in The Station Agent. Did I notice his lack of height? Only physically, which is my way of saying that it didn’t matter. Like I said, hot. Acting chops. I’m pretty sure I’m not the only woman who digs him. OK, now back to me–strong, independent, funny, smart woman.
Uh–ooh, well… Who lives with mental illness, rheumatoid arthritis, and dentures. Yikes. Wow. Sorry. Don’t know what to say. Oh, I take medications, see a therapist, manage my illnesses well, and my teeth look great. People’ve complimented me on them and my smile, too. I’m smiling right now ’cause my rheumie doctor’s weaning me off the prednisone. Just two more weeks. So excited. My body’s never felt this good.
It’s not the same, is it?
Fucking it is, then. If the opportunity should arise. No strings attached. My rule.