Image by Alexandra Gates: http://www.deviantart.com/morelikethis/369179354
*Note ~ This blog post a generalisation. It does not apply to all people and is not meant as an attack on either men or women. Chill out *she says before they’ve even started reading.*
Dear men,
Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, bright copper kettles and warm woollen mittens, brown paper packages tied up with strings, these are a few of my favourite things…
I must admit, I do like most of these things. The allure of the brown paper package would depend on what lies within, and I can get by in life without bright copper kettles, but they’re pretty. Kitten whiskers are cute because, obviously, they are on kittens.
But let me list a few more of my favourite things.
I enjoy using graphic words pertaining to female genitalia because a) they are funny and b) they fully express my thoughts on most politicians. I laugh when someone farts at the cinema. Discussions regarding anything that comes out of arse holes are hilarious. Things going into an arse hole are funny depending on what they are. Hey - I don’t judge if you enjoy ramming random household objects up there! Just make sure it is sterilised before your loved ones touch it. Also, queefs are funny – and if you don’t agree with me, you should watch more South Park. Sex in the most humorous topic in existence. I think this is because it is simultaneously fantastic and revolting.
My point is that I am a slightly disgusting sample of womankind and therefore have many male friends so that I can joke around openly.
But here’s the thing: Being a filthy-mouthed female does not mean I’m not female. The older I get, the more I realise I can be a sensitive turd burger, just like the next woman.
So, dear men, I want to tell you something. When you pretend something that has angered or upset you hasn’t happened, it does not mean it hasn’t happened. Along the same vein, when a child closes their eyes, the world does not actually disappear. If you’ve had a crappy day at work, a large percentage of women will notice. You tend, however, to insist that that everything is fine.
You already know that women are paranoid creatures. This is why, when you don’t tell us what is wrong, our imaginations go wild.
Perhaps he is being bullied at work. He’s bullying others at work? Oh no, he’s been demoted. Or he’s been promoted and we’re going to live in a country where it’s okay to rape women. Maybe this is all my fault. Maybe I’m not fulfilling his needs and he’s shagged his boss. Maybe he’s discovered a fetish for something weird. Maybe he likes pigs, like David Cameron likes pigs. Maybe he likes pigs that fly?!
Yes, we get carried away.
Women like to knock down walls and breathe in the clean air. Men like to leave them standing and get on with life. Knocking down a wall is hard work – especially after a day’s hard work. Sometimes, though, dearest men, knocking down a wall is less work than leaving it standing. Would you prefer to knock down a wall or deal with our hysteria?
Dear men, I do apologise that we are so emotional. We think you’re insensitive when you think you were just being pragmatic. Our wiring is different. I’ve tried to re-wire my brain to be less emotional but, like trying to deal with the wiring behind the television (what in God’s name are all those wires connected to?!), it has proven futile. When tears spring forth I’d like to pretend I’ve been cutting onions, but there are rarely onions nearby for this to suffice as an excuse. So I cry, and you look at me like I am bonkers. Sometimes, dear men, I think I am bonkers.
I should be careful not to implicate all women here, though. Women can get very catty. Ladies: It could be that I alone am the crazy one.
Whether you like it or not, though, men will probably think you’re mental at some point. Mr. Garrison said it on South Park: “I don't trust anything that bleeds for five days and doesn't die.”
When I heard this, I nearly laughed my tits off. But how do men see our monthly battle with the crimson monster?
And now, dear men, let’s take a journey down blood creek without a paddle. Are you ready? Please understand that I am speaking for myself, because every body is different.
First, I get tired. I don’t mean that I’m sleepy. I mean that I would sleep through a zombie apocalypse. In fact, I’d probably be the first to turn zombie because, you know… all that blood will probably attract them.
Second, my hormones start dancing all over the place. Not in the way that Dorothy skips with her companions down the yellow brick road, but in the way that death metal fans destroy each other in a mosh pit. Any tears I actually managed to hold back during the last month now emerge unbidden. I can’t even explain period tears to another human being. At that point, I’m actually sort of hoping someone gives me a ferry ticket to loony town. Once there, I might fit in.
Third, I have to wear a little nappy. I feel like, no matter where I go, I’m sitting in tropical mud. And – oh gawd – what if I’ve bled through? What if I’m at someone’s house and I’ve brought my tropical mud into this nice, creamy, temperate environment? How expensive are these chairs, I wonder? I make one thousand trips to the bathroom to ensure I am ruining nothing. I could wear tampons, but my flow is heavy and I have a morbid fear that the tampon will disappear up my clunge forever. Vaginas are not black holes, but nor are phobias rational.
Then there is the pain. I’ve had it bad since I blossomed into a woman and was given this beautiful gift from God (who clearly loathes women because we are made from some dude’s rib and stole a piece of exotic fruit or something). I’ve discussed the pain with men, and some agree that it is akin to being kicked in the bollocks. The pain comes from deep inside and spreads outwards; to the back, to the thighs, throughout the gut, into the bones. Occasionally, I vomit.
Dear men, if you are still here, I am impressed. That was unnecessarily detailed. If you are still here, though, I’d ask you to extend some understanding when your woman is riding the red carpet.
Dear men, small gestures can be gestures of Himalayan proportions in the mind of a woman. It is why we gush over flowers. Why do we gush over flowers? For much of my life, I refused to admit that I liked being given flowers. It is so… so… clichéd. But one can only lie to oneself for so long.
Here is some advice, dear men: If you want to get back on her good side, get some flowers and/or food she likes. Her reaction might be mild, but inside she is ecstatic. Especially if you bring her home sushi. Especially sushi with eel.
Hang on, that’s just me. Not all women like eel, although many quite enjoy the one inside your pants.
I went to India twice, dear men. On one of these occasions, I approached a small stall to buy mosquito repellent. The stall-owner did not seem to show any particular interest in me. I handed over the rupees, he handed over the product, and with his other hand, he squeezed Mr.Dot. And when I say Mr.Dot, I mean my left tit. Yes, I named them. They elevated me from devastating and long-lived disapproval among peers to popularity, after all.
Anyway, after the breast-squeezing, the stall-owner turned back around, tottered about a bit, examined his shelves and… well, that was it. I looked at the busy street. I looked back at him. The day’s business continued as normal. Was I upset? Not drastically. Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me. Grabs and grips may hurt my tits but… at least they won’t explode...?
That was the best I could come up with.
Having been an intrepid traveller, I have been hurt at the hands of men far worse than this one. I will not discuss it now because my blog post will turn dark very quickly. I do mention it, however, because I believe such things should not be hidden. Women should not feel ashamed for having been hurt, and awareness about sexual abuse must be raised. I’m not talking about bum-pinching, here. I’m talking about acts that loosen ink blots upon the mind forever.
Dear men, did you know that many women never feel safe? Fifty percent of all humankind cannot feel safe because of the other fifty percent. And I live in Australia! Men at least have to pretend to respect women, here. In some places, women are still sentenced to death for the apparently vile crime of not preventing their own rape.
Dear men, can you imagine what it is like to be the vulnerable half of mankind? To be the woman half of mankind?
We know that the sight of our boobs can turn some of you into lusty, salivating, savage, desperate monsters. Knowing this is scary. But, dear men, we don’t want to hide our delicious curves. Surely those who wouldn’t hurt us deserve a little perve?
Here is some advice, though, if I may be so bold: Just keep the perving subtle, otherwise we might mistake you for the savage type I mentioned earlier.
Dear men, I understand your lust for women. This is because I like them too. That’s right – I’m on a swing, and I like to go back and forth. Swings don’t work, otherwise. I am not telling you this to turn you on, dear men, although I’m not particularly bothered if you are. I am just telling you so that you know I’m not a man-hater. I mean, I can’t hate you because we share a love for women. And, apparently, a sense of humour.
I like a nice, plunging cleavage as much as the next man. Or as much as the next lesbian, as the case may be. That perfect line, buffered by silky smoothness, going down, down, down, into the gentle folds of the feminine abyss…
To be sure, I am more heterosexual than homosexual, but it is a fact of life that women are more beautiful to behold than men. A fact of life, in my opinion. That doesn’t make sense, but stuff it – this is my blog.
Finally, dear men, can you please stop beating each other up for no good reason? It looks painful and it is dumb. There is no property you can fight for using fists any more. There may be a few women you can fight for using fists, but those women have bad taste in men. Just quit it. Fight to protect yourself and loved ones, and stop there.
So, dear men. I have apologised, chastised, used filthy language, spoken on taboo subjects in a non-PC manner… and to what end?
So that we all might understand and therefore love each other a little better. That is all.
*Note ~ This blog post a generalisation. It does not apply to all people and is not meant as an attack on either men or women. Chill out *she says before they’ve even started reading.*
Dear men,
Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, bright copper kettles and warm woollen mittens, brown paper packages tied up with strings, these are a few of my favourite things…
I must admit, I do like most of these things. The allure of the brown paper package would depend on what lies within, and I can get by in life without bright copper kettles, but they’re pretty. Kitten whiskers are cute because, obviously, they are on kittens.
But let me list a few more of my favourite things.
I enjoy using graphic words pertaining to female genitalia because a) they are funny and b) they fully express my thoughts on most politicians. I laugh when someone farts at the cinema. Discussions regarding anything that comes out of arse holes are hilarious. Things going into an arse hole are funny depending on what they are. Hey - I don’t judge if you enjoy ramming random household objects up there! Just make sure it is sterilised before your loved ones touch it. Also, queefs are funny – and if you don’t agree with me, you should watch more South Park. Sex in the most humorous topic in existence. I think this is because it is simultaneously fantastic and revolting.
My point is that I am a slightly disgusting sample of womankind and therefore have many male friends so that I can joke around openly.
But here’s the thing: Being a filthy-mouthed female does not mean I’m not female. The older I get, the more I realise I can be a sensitive turd burger, just like the next woman.
So, dear men, I want to tell you something. When you pretend something that has angered or upset you hasn’t happened, it does not mean it hasn’t happened. Along the same vein, when a child closes their eyes, the world does not actually disappear. If you’ve had a crappy day at work, a large percentage of women will notice. You tend, however, to insist that that everything is fine.
You already know that women are paranoid creatures. This is why, when you don’t tell us what is wrong, our imaginations go wild.
Perhaps he is being bullied at work. He’s bullying others at work? Oh no, he’s been demoted. Or he’s been promoted and we’re going to live in a country where it’s okay to rape women. Maybe this is all my fault. Maybe I’m not fulfilling his needs and he’s shagged his boss. Maybe he’s discovered a fetish for something weird. Maybe he likes pigs, like David Cameron likes pigs. Maybe he likes pigs that fly?!
Yes, we get carried away.
Women like to knock down walls and breathe in the clean air. Men like to leave them standing and get on with life. Knocking down a wall is hard work – especially after a day’s hard work. Sometimes, though, dearest men, knocking down a wall is less work than leaving it standing. Would you prefer to knock down a wall or deal with our hysteria?
Dear men, I do apologise that we are so emotional. We think you’re insensitive when you think you were just being pragmatic. Our wiring is different. I’ve tried to re-wire my brain to be less emotional but, like trying to deal with the wiring behind the television (what in God’s name are all those wires connected to?!), it has proven futile. When tears spring forth I’d like to pretend I’ve been cutting onions, but there are rarely onions nearby for this to suffice as an excuse. So I cry, and you look at me like I am bonkers. Sometimes, dear men, I think I am bonkers.
I should be careful not to implicate all women here, though. Women can get very catty. Ladies: It could be that I alone am the crazy one.
Whether you like it or not, though, men will probably think you’re mental at some point. Mr. Garrison said it on South Park: “I don't trust anything that bleeds for five days and doesn't die.”
When I heard this, I nearly laughed my tits off. But how do men see our monthly battle with the crimson monster?
And now, dear men, let’s take a journey down blood creek without a paddle. Are you ready? Please understand that I am speaking for myself, because every body is different.
First, I get tired. I don’t mean that I’m sleepy. I mean that I would sleep through a zombie apocalypse. In fact, I’d probably be the first to turn zombie because, you know… all that blood will probably attract them.
Second, my hormones start dancing all over the place. Not in the way that Dorothy skips with her companions down the yellow brick road, but in the way that death metal fans destroy each other in a mosh pit. Any tears I actually managed to hold back during the last month now emerge unbidden. I can’t even explain period tears to another human being. At that point, I’m actually sort of hoping someone gives me a ferry ticket to loony town. Once there, I might fit in.
Third, I have to wear a little nappy. I feel like, no matter where I go, I’m sitting in tropical mud. And – oh gawd – what if I’ve bled through? What if I’m at someone’s house and I’ve brought my tropical mud into this nice, creamy, temperate environment? How expensive are these chairs, I wonder? I make one thousand trips to the bathroom to ensure I am ruining nothing. I could wear tampons, but my flow is heavy and I have a morbid fear that the tampon will disappear up my clunge forever. Vaginas are not black holes, but nor are phobias rational.
Then there is the pain. I’ve had it bad since I blossomed into a woman and was given this beautiful gift from God (who clearly loathes women because we are made from some dude’s rib and stole a piece of exotic fruit or something). I’ve discussed the pain with men, and some agree that it is akin to being kicked in the bollocks. The pain comes from deep inside and spreads outwards; to the back, to the thighs, throughout the gut, into the bones. Occasionally, I vomit.
Dear men, if you are still here, I am impressed. That was unnecessarily detailed. If you are still here, though, I’d ask you to extend some understanding when your woman is riding the red carpet.
Dear men, small gestures can be gestures of Himalayan proportions in the mind of a woman. It is why we gush over flowers. Why do we gush over flowers? For much of my life, I refused to admit that I liked being given flowers. It is so… so… clichéd. But one can only lie to oneself for so long.
Here is some advice, dear men: If you want to get back on her good side, get some flowers and/or food she likes. Her reaction might be mild, but inside she is ecstatic. Especially if you bring her home sushi. Especially sushi with eel.
Hang on, that’s just me. Not all women like eel, although many quite enjoy the one inside your pants.
I went to India twice, dear men. On one of these occasions, I approached a small stall to buy mosquito repellent. The stall-owner did not seem to show any particular interest in me. I handed over the rupees, he handed over the product, and with his other hand, he squeezed Mr.Dot. And when I say Mr.Dot, I mean my left tit. Yes, I named them. They elevated me from devastating and long-lived disapproval among peers to popularity, after all.
Anyway, after the breast-squeezing, the stall-owner turned back around, tottered about a bit, examined his shelves and… well, that was it. I looked at the busy street. I looked back at him. The day’s business continued as normal. Was I upset? Not drastically. Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me. Grabs and grips may hurt my tits but… at least they won’t explode...?
That was the best I could come up with.
Having been an intrepid traveller, I have been hurt at the hands of men far worse than this one. I will not discuss it now because my blog post will turn dark very quickly. I do mention it, however, because I believe such things should not be hidden. Women should not feel ashamed for having been hurt, and awareness about sexual abuse must be raised. I’m not talking about bum-pinching, here. I’m talking about acts that loosen ink blots upon the mind forever.
Dear men, did you know that many women never feel safe? Fifty percent of all humankind cannot feel safe because of the other fifty percent. And I live in Australia! Men at least have to pretend to respect women, here. In some places, women are still sentenced to death for the apparently vile crime of not preventing their own rape.
Dear men, can you imagine what it is like to be the vulnerable half of mankind? To be the woman half of mankind?
We know that the sight of our boobs can turn some of you into lusty, salivating, savage, desperate monsters. Knowing this is scary. But, dear men, we don’t want to hide our delicious curves. Surely those who wouldn’t hurt us deserve a little perve?
Here is some advice, though, if I may be so bold: Just keep the perving subtle, otherwise we might mistake you for the savage type I mentioned earlier.
Dear men, I understand your lust for women. This is because I like them too. That’s right – I’m on a swing, and I like to go back and forth. Swings don’t work, otherwise. I am not telling you this to turn you on, dear men, although I’m not particularly bothered if you are. I am just telling you so that you know I’m not a man-hater. I mean, I can’t hate you because we share a love for women. And, apparently, a sense of humour.
I like a nice, plunging cleavage as much as the next man. Or as much as the next lesbian, as the case may be. That perfect line, buffered by silky smoothness, going down, down, down, into the gentle folds of the feminine abyss…
To be sure, I am more heterosexual than homosexual, but it is a fact of life that women are more beautiful to behold than men. A fact of life, in my opinion. That doesn’t make sense, but stuff it – this is my blog.
Finally, dear men, can you please stop beating each other up for no good reason? It looks painful and it is dumb. There is no property you can fight for using fists any more. There may be a few women you can fight for using fists, but those women have bad taste in men. Just quit it. Fight to protect yourself and loved ones, and stop there.
So, dear men. I have apologised, chastised, used filthy language, spoken on taboo subjects in a non-PC manner… and to what end?
So that we all might understand and therefore love each other a little better. That is all.
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