An open letter to every homo sapien who squats to pee

What the fuck is up with you, anyway?

Why is it that you always think your man is up to something or withholding how they really feel from you? Do you honestly have no idea how men work?

Men say what they mean.

Women mean what they say, even if you and they have no fucking clue what it is they're talking about. But you better figure it out damn fast, because there will be a quiz later.

Not all women, certainly. But most. It's like language is this Chinese puzzle to them, and they've been both evolutionarily and culturally programmed not to be forthright, not to be confrontational, and not to be argumentative, because that isn't what "nice girls" do. So suddenly everything becomes an Agatha Christie novel, where the reader can never figure out who really dunnit because Christie would withhold information until the very end when the killer would be revealed. I read two of her novels, and then never again. I was so royally pissed off with her, because it was completely unfair. I want to figure out whodunnit, so give me all the damn information and let me, you bitch.

When a woman asks a man how he is and he says "fine", he usually means just that: he's fine.

When a man asks a woman how she is and she says "fine", the man then has to decode the tone and tenor of her "fine", her body language, the manner in which she's eating her sandwich, and her breathing pattern to determine that, indeed, she's not fine, and she is, in fact, pissed off that he didn't do the laundry while she was out.

As such, women process any information they get from anyone, male or female, with the expectation that embedded within said language is a code more deeply encrypted than Enigma ever managed, that there's always some hidden agenda, some hidden meaning, and that no one, no one, ever actually says exactly what they mean. They can't seem to comprehend that most of the time there is nothing underneath and what was said was all there was to it, so they start making up stories in their head and distrusting and manipulating surreptitiously, the latter of which is likely one of the only things that really, truly gets me angry. Do not try and manipulate me, honey. If you want something, ask for it. Otherwise, I'll just ignore you while you paint your toenails and glance sidewise at me.

Which is likely why I don't seem to have many female friends. I don't think they like me all that much. They'll take it from someone with a penis, but not someone packing a vulva. With male friends, I'm just one of the guys. I say what I mean, so do they, and we have a grand time. Except when they start talking football and cars. Ugh.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled backroom strategizing, emotional manipulation, and perpetually unsatisfied neediness. Please stand by.

make idle gossip (9 comments so far)

come hither - back off

Last 5 entries:
01.14.2007:Finally, a support group we can all get behind
01.09.2007:The City That Ever Reeks
01.08.2007:Waiter, there's a uterus in my soup
01.03.2007:Long Lost Mummy of Nefertiti Found in Smoog's Apartment
12.30.2006:New Year's resolutions we can actually keep

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