well

It seems my mind was on a certain topic the other day. I am, if I am anyone, someone who tends to externalize the internal and internalize the external. If you reread my last two posts very carefully, you may understand what I mean. Or you might not.

incendiary

A friend – not prone, as far as I know, to exaggeration – told me that one of the most popular male sexual fantasies involves incest. More specifically, she said that father-daughter roleplay is “one of the most popular requests for phone sex hotlines in our society.” From this I may reach one of three conclusions: either my friend has serious delusions about male perversity, she is deliberately trying to trick me, or men are pigs.
Let’s eliminate the 2nd conclusion before we go any further since, one, I don’t believe she’d do that, and, two, it’s far less interesting than the other two.
Conclusion number one is very probable. It isn’t like I haven’t heard other female friends and colleagues spew forth ridiculous “facts” about the male sex. For example, I was told by a very level headed young woman that, in a survey conducted some years ago in a sociology course, over 70% of the males polled said they would commit rape if they had the chance. Now, even barring statistical error or the possibilty that the class was simply full of delinquents, these are shocking results. She blamed the high percentage on the prevalence of violent pornography. Of course, this is a vicious cycle. One might rightfully ask which came first, the rape fantasy (or to take it one step further – the rapist) or the violent porn? I’d argue that the former preceded the latter. This is getting a bit off-topic though. (There’s no doubt in my mind that the media breeds misogyny in us only as much as our existing predjudices allow. Perhaps it taps into a well-hidden corner of the male psyche which is, I believe, why – when polled – Americans believe we are slightly but not by a statistically insignificant margin more ready for an African American President than a female President. This misogynist germ exists in each and every one of us, even females to a certain extent; that is, a sense that we are somehow fundamentally different exists between the sexes if not from the day we are born, then from the day we begin to mature, while racism is not what you’d call innate in the least. Systematic maybe but certainly not innate. I won’t get into a nature nurture or political debate here; so, let’s just end this deviation at that.) I’d take issue with the validity of the statistics since, when researched, I found the test administrator’s definition of rape needlessly broad (you may try to find this study yourself and decide whether or not my assessment aligns with your own; I cannot locate it at the moment). Accordingly, I may take the aforemetnioned hearsay with a heaping spoonful of sodium chloride.
The last conclusion is, nevertheless, the most probable for obvious reasons. I am apt to accept any terrible thing said about men, all men, singularly or as a species, great and small.

Big puppy

Aren’t we deplorable? Us men and our dicks. I would surely be a misogynist if men weren’t even worse. I was going to provide an example, but they’re so easy to find. Just turn around and you’ll find one standing uncomfortably close, grinning like an idiot, hand in pocket. To make you feel better here’s a cute picture of my (female) dog:

what we are faced with

She draws a crude approximation of an eye – outlining the pupil and iris with subtle abandon. The nose is crooked. The skin is pasty and thin, sagging with leaden guilt; the lips curled back in a smile. It almost tears, being stretched so.

Imagine blankness, pure blankness. Imagine this purity being stained with such a creature – a flood of bile. Imagine wearing it – how it would make your insides sick to sustain it. Your old tissues would rot away leaving only the misshapen surface. You’re stuck with a sadistically applied smile and nothing to break through the naked enamel.

There are two possible outcomes: Mutilation – either self-applied or otherwise provoked in another, or repair – most likely achieved by a noble or highly motivated individual willing to rip away the surface and begin the process anew.

remember the rule of threes…

I can’t recall the first time it happened. I do know the day was overcast the second. He walked with a gait befitting a man of his position. There was an arrogance to it. His face was nondescript but as he lifted his eyes … ‘Wait, I’ve seen those eyes before,’ I thought. ‘I last saw those eyes ages ago on a day I can’t remember.’ I briefly caught a glint in the faint sunlight, a flash of smoke and fire. The dust kicked up. I clutched my chest and fell through six layers of earth. ‘It’s unfortunate,’ I thought, ‘knowing how it ends – dust infecting every pore, stinging the eyes, coating the nostrils.’ I felt like coughing but something heavy weighed on my chest. The third time was just like the last except the sun was shining. I remember because it burnt my eyes.

a series of insults

Your momma is so dumb that she went to rehab cause she thought she was hooked on phonics.

Your momma is so dumb, she went to rehab cause she thought she was addicted to
love.

You are what you eat, and you eat chinese food.

You are what you eat, and you eat mexicans.

You are what you eat, and you eat nothing because you’re anorexic.

Never again will I make a sponge cake out of real sponges again.

I loooooooved you in Trading Places.

Let’s just be friends who tear eachother’s hearts out and replace them with cat hair and rocks respectively.

Never again will I make a bundt cake out of real bundts again.

It grows on you, like, a fungus.

I like fungus.

I miss our talks.

I miss our gang bangs.

I googled bumblebear and got over seventy five hundred hits. (LOOK MA! NO HYPHENS!)

My heroe.

I think people need heroes, and vice versa. My hero is a man of convictions. A man of ideas. A man of convictions and ideas. He speaks from his heart, feels with his soul, and walks on his hands. I can’t believe that no one has never not heard of the hero that I have no interest in not having. This is his picture; he is a hottie.