Babies! I am so pleased to see that you made it here! This is the first official post since I sold out and got a blog of my very own and I have to tell you, it is truly a satisfying little pet. And isn’t it sooooo cute? Oooh! You is a cutie wootie wittle blog, yes you are! Smooch smooch! So I guess I’ll start off the fun and games by pissing off my male audience. Whee!
Please allow me to begin by saying that I do not like gender roles, bigotry, and/or making blanket statements. So, that being said, I’ll try to candy coat this as much as possible: Boys are stupid.
Ok, ok. Not all boys are stupid. Back off, I know. And believe me, I am aware that there are plenty of girls that are soul sucking morons as well, but in my totally unprofessional opinion, boys can be excruciatingly dumb. Please allow me to expand upon the subject.
First, let’s consider the basic thought processes of the male variety. I think it’s pretty safe to say that they are quite limited at best when it comes to women. When men interact with women, they become these base, primal animals who act purely on instinct and libido. I can only imagine what this looks like in their little pea brains when they roll up into a club and see a female with whom they’d like to mate. It must be something like this:
Guy cruises into bar. Smoothes hair and swigs beer provocatively. Has intelligent conversation with friend regarding politics, peppered with manly commentary on various tits/ass in room. Zeros in on hot chick grooving on the dance floor. Suddenly, all synapses cease to fire.
Mmmm. Puntang. Must conquer.
Guy proceeds to gyrate over to hot girl and wait with hunter-like patience till she dances herself into a position where she is no longer facing him.
MMMMMM. Buns. In jeans. Ooooh. They wiggle. Must rub junk on them. Girl like junk on butt. Maybe me get off on dry humping buns before she smack me.
Advances to press self against prey’s hind quarters.
Whoa! Wha happen? Conspiracy! Friend yanked prey away. Must try again.
Circles like a drunken or possibly dying hawk in the throws of its death rattle cough and attempts to chafe now semi-erect unit on girl’s ass. She stifles her laughter and/or potential vomit at the thought of his earnest little poke. She turns, glares, and walks away.
Mmmm. She fugly bitch. Ah. Friend’s buns. Must swivel package all over her ass too.
Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
Sadly, this is probably a really nice guy too. He just loses his shit when he gets horny and simply pervs out. Too bad. It is seriously as if the entire frontal lobe just shuts down and the concept of why doesn’t exist. The same ex that cheated on me with the Frighteningly Mannish Girl Downstairs before dumping me is the classic example. In my mind, I would have fantasized about the cheating with the aid of battery operated devices, felt guilty about fantasizing, and subsequently tried to figure out why I wanted to cheat in the first place. Then, me and all my girlfriends would have sat around and talked about the prospect of cheating, the pros and cons, and at some point, I would justify myself by explaining my well thought out defense. Only then would I have commenced cheating.
Guys don’t work this way. I’m not saying they can’t, but they don’t. When I asked him why he cheated, he said, “I don’t know.” When I asked why he even wanted to break up in the first place, he replied, “I don’t know.” Uh huh. What the fuck? How can one just accidentally fall into someone else’s orifices then state that they want to break up without knowing why? This kind of thought process is so completely alien to me that I can’t believe I ever dated him seriously in the first place! What separates the animal kingdom from humanity is the possession of consciousness, the ability to reason and make decisions. Are you a fucking monkey or a man? Seriously! And don’t go around advertising your apeness, if you don’t know why, at least make something up!
I know I’m bitter and being brutal. Sue me. And I’m sure plenty of you think I’m being unfair. Well, duh. But I think that until I get some boys to step up to the plate and treat me well that I am entitled to be a cold and demanding vituperator who says cranky things and tortures the opposite sex in her basement with dental equipment. (Don’t worry. They mostly like it.)
I guess what upsets me so much is not that boys are stupid, but that girls allow them to be so stupid. Guys wouldn’t go around plucking the lice from their scalps and scratching their pits if it didn’t get them somewhere. I’ve personally allowed a million guys to completely escape accountability when they’ve done something totally evil, which only validates that kind of conduct and thus perpetuates it.
It’s like faking an orgasm. It’s just not a good idea. For you, him, and for the poor souls who have to sleep with him after you’ve indicated that his feeble thrashing and unsettlingly high pitched sex noises got you off. We just sigh, merrily role our eyes like and go, “It come with the package…um hum hum...no pun intended!” Maybe if we stop accepting this kind of shit behavior, they’ll have to unshrivel that leg of their Y chromosome and start thinking rationally when it comes to women. If girls can cerebrally connect emotions, lust, and coherent thought processes in our brains, why can’t guys?
I have a dream. That someday, men will consider the fact that women are breathing, living people; that they will genuinely care about them and try to get to know them. That they will stop taking girls on lunch dates, but instead go on real dates with dinner and fancy shit like wine so we can get blitzed if it’s not going well. That they will call when they say they will call. And mostly, I have a dream that men will stop fucking around with women that they are not that interested in. They will stop asking for the numbers of women that they never intend to call and that they will not abuse their animal magnetism and have sexual relations with chicks that they don’t really like that much. It’s called pornography. Use it. Not us. For the love of God.
List 'O Fundamental Qualities
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Last week, I mentioned the "List 'O Fundamental Qualities My Man Must Possess or He Ain't Getting' Any." One reader posed the brilliant question which asked what was on said list. Usually, I try to make the Chronicles as universal as I can. I send this to a lot of boys and want them to be able to relate to the situations as well. I’m pretty sure we all have at least one quality about our prospective partner on our lists, and they are likely very different from somebody else’s idea of what is fundamental, especially the heterosexual male’s list. So this week, I hope that you darling boys will bear with me and make some attempt to switch the gender roles around to accommodate you while giggling at the thought of wanting a woman who loves your inner thighs. At least perversely enjoy it like you know you secretly would enjoy reading a Cosmo. You sickos.
I have to admit that a large part of my list is comprised of shitty lessons that I have learned from ex boyfriends dicking me over. It’s usually only then that I realize that I hated having to mother him because he was such a sick pussy that he couldn’t clean out his closet for 15 years and I finally had to help him do it, thereby discovering hideously terrifying mesh sequiny rave shirts with sparkling flames circa 1990. I mean, Jesus! Take some fucking initiative and take care of your personal space! It’s one thing to hang on to an old pair of boots because you really love them, but an entire closet full of shit that makes you look like a flaming homo? Have some pride in your apartment and in your appearance!
So the first few things that are on my personal list are likely the same as everyone else’s: intelligent, good sense of humor, attractive, good in bed. Although I have installed a loophole clause to allow me to rip the clothing off of stupid hot guys who never laugh. But you get the gist. A fundamental relationship isn’t going to go well if he’s so retarded that you constantly have to explain the definitions of words that are a normal part of your lexicon. I once had to define labyrinth to a guy. HELLO! Labyrinth is my favorite movie! Did he not grow up in the 80’s? See? It would have never worked out for obvious reasons.
I also have to be able to trust a man. I mean completely. Again, I learned this lesson the hard way with a total Douche Bag ex who cheated on me with his downstairs neighbor that resembled a Mack truck/large quarterback with enormous breasts and very unclean hair. Unfortunately for me, I thought I could trust him implicitly at the time, so I’m not sure how to go about determining whether or not I can really trust a guy. They can turn on you in an instant, like a rabid baboon. I think they don’t actually turn in that exact moment, but they sure as hell don’t bother to communicate with you about their progressive turn, so it hits you like a shot in the chest. I’d prefer to be told, in the cruelest of terms, that I am no longer desirable and that he’d rather fuck his entire family under the Christmas tree rather than be caught dead in the same room with me ever again as opposed to being cheated on.
Some other fundamental qualities for me are that he must like my family, and if possible, come from a similar background. I’m not saying we have to be Ken and Barbie Twinkies, but it would be nice to have common experiences from which we learned comparable values etc. Blah blah blah. He also must be a good dancer, which goes hand in hand with him loving music. Hopefully, he will be Johnny Castle. I want to be spun around the dance floor, told that nobody puts me in the corner, and totally publicly seduced. That’s what good dancing is: public seduction. I want a guy with killer moves to back me up against a wall in a crowded bar and with the fluid, artful movement of legs, hips, and hands, bring me to near climax. Is that really asking for so much? I’m a dancer. I need someone who can keep up. Otherwise, I’ll be grinding on other peeps for the rest of my life because I refuse to give up booty dancing.
He’s also got to take serious pride in himself. He’s got to have goals and dreams that he is passionate about. I tend to pick these wimpy guys who seem strong at first, then crumble to pussy dust before me. Their life becomes my life. Their dreams become exclusively about me. And while that’s flattering and all, I push them around a little. I’ll admit it. I really don’t do it to get the power though. I’d like to have my way two out of three times, but what happens is that they give me my way all the time. Then I become a tyrant who is evil and dominates them. All I really want is for a guy to stand up to me and encourage me to respect him. Granted, I am the princess who deserves everything I ask for, but he should have the balls to tell me to value his opinion on the matter. Then we can have hot B&D sex where he ties me up and spanks me because I’ve been a bad, bad girl.
So, in conclusion, we have to be able to communicate well, trust each other, dance like Richard and J.LO, and cultivate mutual respect. It would also be nice if he was a feminist, loved Nine Inch Nails, was in Nine Inch Nails, was named Trent, and loved cats. I asked the countless lovely ladies who read The Chronicles to tell us what was on their lists, and the three of them that responded included the following:
Good teeth (sounds simple but a good grill can make a world of difference)
Beautiful eyes (my favorite are blue eyes w/black hair) but not a must to have blue
Must be thick (I don't like these scrawny, wash board stomach guys) yeah they're nice to look at but if I can squash them in bed, it's just not attractive
Gentle touch (you can be a big, rough football player & still have a gentle touch when it comes to women. Personally, guitar players have the best hands! *
Likes to cuddle (yes, I'm one of those that likes to cuddle)
Someone who thinks farting is funny
Completely focused on my goals and willing to make my desires #1
Adores the part of my body I hate the most. E.g. I hate my inner thighs, but Consuelo** swears he loves them.
He must read me really well. If I am lonely, he must drop everything to occupy me. But if I’m busy or distracted, he must find something to do immediately. And, he must be willing to flip between the two as often as every 5 minutes
He must get me because I'm a little odd and proud of it!
He has to adore my pussies (Oliver and Elliott of course)
He must get along with my dad and brothers. He must let them make fun of him mercilessly, and then he can give it back to them 4 fold!!
He must care about my friends. They are a huge part of my life!
He must make me feel like a goddess, but when he doesn't agree with my ramblings at times, I love to hear about it. There is nothing sexier than a guy with an intelligent, though provoking opinion
Two words: James Spader
*and the best cheaters!!! It's like getting a free coupon!
**names have been changed to make me laugh because Consuelo is a funny name. Whee!
I have to admit that a large part of my list is comprised of shitty lessons that I have learned from ex boyfriends dicking me over. It’s usually only then that I realize that I hated having to mother him because he was such a sick pussy that he couldn’t clean out his closet for 15 years and I finally had to help him do it, thereby discovering hideously terrifying mesh sequiny rave shirts with sparkling flames circa 1990. I mean, Jesus! Take some fucking initiative and take care of your personal space! It’s one thing to hang on to an old pair of boots because you really love them, but an entire closet full of shit that makes you look like a flaming homo? Have some pride in your apartment and in your appearance!
So the first few things that are on my personal list are likely the same as everyone else’s: intelligent, good sense of humor, attractive, good in bed. Although I have installed a loophole clause to allow me to rip the clothing off of stupid hot guys who never laugh. But you get the gist. A fundamental relationship isn’t going to go well if he’s so retarded that you constantly have to explain the definitions of words that are a normal part of your lexicon. I once had to define labyrinth to a guy. HELLO! Labyrinth is my favorite movie! Did he not grow up in the 80’s? See? It would have never worked out for obvious reasons.
I also have to be able to trust a man. I mean completely. Again, I learned this lesson the hard way with a total Douche Bag ex who cheated on me with his downstairs neighbor that resembled a Mack truck/large quarterback with enormous breasts and very unclean hair. Unfortunately for me, I thought I could trust him implicitly at the time, so I’m not sure how to go about determining whether or not I can really trust a guy. They can turn on you in an instant, like a rabid baboon. I think they don’t actually turn in that exact moment, but they sure as hell don’t bother to communicate with you about their progressive turn, so it hits you like a shot in the chest. I’d prefer to be told, in the cruelest of terms, that I am no longer desirable and that he’d rather fuck his entire family under the Christmas tree rather than be caught dead in the same room with me ever again as opposed to being cheated on.
Some other fundamental qualities for me are that he must like my family, and if possible, come from a similar background. I’m not saying we have to be Ken and Barbie Twinkies, but it would be nice to have common experiences from which we learned comparable values etc. Blah blah blah. He also must be a good dancer, which goes hand in hand with him loving music. Hopefully, he will be Johnny Castle. I want to be spun around the dance floor, told that nobody puts me in the corner, and totally publicly seduced. That’s what good dancing is: public seduction. I want a guy with killer moves to back me up against a wall in a crowded bar and with the fluid, artful movement of legs, hips, and hands, bring me to near climax. Is that really asking for so much? I’m a dancer. I need someone who can keep up. Otherwise, I’ll be grinding on other peeps for the rest of my life because I refuse to give up booty dancing.
He’s also got to take serious pride in himself. He’s got to have goals and dreams that he is passionate about. I tend to pick these wimpy guys who seem strong at first, then crumble to pussy dust before me. Their life becomes my life. Their dreams become exclusively about me. And while that’s flattering and all, I push them around a little. I’ll admit it. I really don’t do it to get the power though. I’d like to have my way two out of three times, but what happens is that they give me my way all the time. Then I become a tyrant who is evil and dominates them. All I really want is for a guy to stand up to me and encourage me to respect him. Granted, I am the princess who deserves everything I ask for, but he should have the balls to tell me to value his opinion on the matter. Then we can have hot B&D sex where he ties me up and spanks me because I’ve been a bad, bad girl.
So, in conclusion, we have to be able to communicate well, trust each other, dance like Richard and J.LO, and cultivate mutual respect. It would also be nice if he was a feminist, loved Nine Inch Nails, was in Nine Inch Nails, was named Trent, and loved cats. I asked the countless lovely ladies who read The Chronicles to tell us what was on their lists, and the three of them that responded included the following:
Good teeth (sounds simple but a good grill can make a world of difference)
Beautiful eyes (my favorite are blue eyes w/black hair) but not a must to have blue
Must be thick (I don't like these scrawny, wash board stomach guys) yeah they're nice to look at but if I can squash them in bed, it's just not attractive
Gentle touch (you can be a big, rough football player & still have a gentle touch when it comes to women. Personally, guitar players have the best hands! *
Likes to cuddle (yes, I'm one of those that likes to cuddle)
Someone who thinks farting is funny
Completely focused on my goals and willing to make my desires #1
Adores the part of my body I hate the most. E.g. I hate my inner thighs, but Consuelo** swears he loves them.
He must read me really well. If I am lonely, he must drop everything to occupy me. But if I’m busy or distracted, he must find something to do immediately. And, he must be willing to flip between the two as often as every 5 minutes
He must get me because I'm a little odd and proud of it!
He has to adore my pussies (Oliver and Elliott of course)
He must get along with my dad and brothers. He must let them make fun of him mercilessly, and then he can give it back to them 4 fold!!
He must care about my friends. They are a huge part of my life!
He must make me feel like a goddess, but when he doesn't agree with my ramblings at times, I love to hear about it. There is nothing sexier than a guy with an intelligent, though provoking opinion
Two words: James Spader
*and the best cheaters!!! It's like getting a free coupon!
**names have been changed to make me laugh because Consuelo is a funny name. Whee!
»
Ye Olde Chronicle
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I am officially on sabbatical from sex. It’s dramatic, mucky, confusing, and leads to procreation. Unfortunately, my quest is not going so well. Sex is instinctual! You can think you’re not interested in it and then boom! Here comes some hottie that smells yummy then your stupid hormones kick in and you shriek, “Take me, you beast! I don’t care that you’re a total ass clown that hasn’t called for a month and professionally sucks souls!” It blows balls. I wish I could turn it off like a switch. It’s not that I don’t want to have sex ever again or anything. But I do have to admit that I’m mostly successful in my voluntary spinsterhood because I don’t have anybody to have sex with right now. At least where it would be consensual.* But this is seriously sad! I can’t even go to Tool Fest 2004 without getting all worked up.
Case in point: I went to the Renaissance Festival last weekend with my dear friend Dave. Fuckin’ huzzah! Among the various visual and aural delights, I fell in lust with a Renaissance man. His name was unfortunately not Lancelot, but Tim. He was tall and delicious with long hair that flowed like so much spilling Dr. Pepper in the sunlight. He was also social broccoli. I am so sorry that I went into his sword shop (insert juvenile snickering here) to talk to him. He opened his mouth and it was just a tragedy. His potential to be some gorgeous Harlequin Romance novel hero that would save me from villains and do me whilst riding on horseback crumbled and died. I wanted to slap a muzzle on him, grab all that hair like handle bars on a Harley and…Sorry.
See? I’m out of control! But my choice to avoid nookie like the plague stems largely from the horrific pregnancy scare I had last month. Oh my GOD! It was so Maury Povich! It would have come down to DNA tests and chair hurling. I’m actually very prudish. I know I talk a lot of smack, but I never act on it. Regardless, I was a filthy whore and I convinced myself and a few unfortunate friends that I was preggo. I had all the obscure symptoms like freakishly long claws and the presence of actual breasts instead of gratuitously padded bras. It was hideous! (Ok, so not the boob part. That was pretty frickin’ money!) But I don’t ever want to deal with that soap opera ever, ever again!
Furthermore, I’m so bad at dating that I don’t even know what sex protocol is anymore. Aren’t there some sort of unwritten rules about proper sex etiquette? Aren’t there are so many dates one must go on before on can get fleshly without being doomed to eternal Slutdom? Clearly, I am too corrupt to even hold out for dates as of late, so I am the wrong person to ask. I just don’t feel like taking a freaking 3 credit hour course on how to pretend to be interested in presumably inane conversation for 4-27 (or however many) dates it takes to finally disrobe and slobber all over my gentleman caller. I didn’t go to grad school for a reason! I’d just rather not mess with it! And besides, I would have been expelled from the course by now for bad behavior.
Unfortunately for me, there will be consequences to my (non) action. There will someday come a frightening moment when I finally will get some jungle lovin’ after my hiatus, and I’ll realize mid-act that I have no idea what I’m doing. Ooog. Now that’s unsettling! It’s not like riding a bike. You do forget. I know. I’ve been there before. The bike doesn’t care how you’re doing as long as you don’t skid out in the middle of traffic and break its kickstand. Granted, guys don’t want anything broken either, but after gross neglect to practicing certain aerobic activities, it’s feasible that shit could get bent around.
Whatever. I really wish I cared more, but I just don’t. I’d like to avoid the production involved with sex etc. until I can get really excited about my cohort. I mean, more than just externally. It’s so easy to be hot for somebody and build up all these fantasies about who they really are simply because you’re so attracted to them. You’d think it would have more to do with emotions than hormones, but sadly, it doesn’t. It’s just easier to ignore the bad shit about them and feel all warm and fuzzy when they are physically close. My theory on the subject is that we are a primate that pairs (for the most part) for life, so we’re all fighting some primordial urge to find a mating partner. If I’m going to succumb to the baser elements of being a human, he better damn well be an alpha male that meets all the requirements on my List ‘O Fundamental Qualities My Man Must Possess or He Ain’t Getting’ Any.
So you can see, it is in my best interest to buckle up Ye Olde Chastity Belt and be on my merry way to Masturbation Land. A long journey from Slutdom, but until I straighten some shit out, I have no business riding the freaky train. Sad, I know, but true. Until then, enjoy the nookie you’re getting, you brutes! I know I will enjoy living vicariously!
*Give me five minutes with Trent Reznor. I’ll have his pants off and him clawing at the walls, screaming for his mommy like a bitch.
Case in point: I went to the Renaissance Festival last weekend with my dear friend Dave. Fuckin’ huzzah! Among the various visual and aural delights, I fell in lust with a Renaissance man. His name was unfortunately not Lancelot, but Tim. He was tall and delicious with long hair that flowed like so much spilling Dr. Pepper in the sunlight. He was also social broccoli. I am so sorry that I went into his sword shop (insert juvenile snickering here) to talk to him. He opened his mouth and it was just a tragedy. His potential to be some gorgeous Harlequin Romance novel hero that would save me from villains and do me whilst riding on horseback crumbled and died. I wanted to slap a muzzle on him, grab all that hair like handle bars on a Harley and…Sorry.
See? I’m out of control! But my choice to avoid nookie like the plague stems largely from the horrific pregnancy scare I had last month. Oh my GOD! It was so Maury Povich! It would have come down to DNA tests and chair hurling. I’m actually very prudish. I know I talk a lot of smack, but I never act on it. Regardless, I was a filthy whore and I convinced myself and a few unfortunate friends that I was preggo. I had all the obscure symptoms like freakishly long claws and the presence of actual breasts instead of gratuitously padded bras. It was hideous! (Ok, so not the boob part. That was pretty frickin’ money!) But I don’t ever want to deal with that soap opera ever, ever again!
Furthermore, I’m so bad at dating that I don’t even know what sex protocol is anymore. Aren’t there some sort of unwritten rules about proper sex etiquette? Aren’t there are so many dates one must go on before on can get fleshly without being doomed to eternal Slutdom? Clearly, I am too corrupt to even hold out for dates as of late, so I am the wrong person to ask. I just don’t feel like taking a freaking 3 credit hour course on how to pretend to be interested in presumably inane conversation for 4-27 (or however many) dates it takes to finally disrobe and slobber all over my gentleman caller. I didn’t go to grad school for a reason! I’d just rather not mess with it! And besides, I would have been expelled from the course by now for bad behavior.
Unfortunately for me, there will be consequences to my (non) action. There will someday come a frightening moment when I finally will get some jungle lovin’ after my hiatus, and I’ll realize mid-act that I have no idea what I’m doing. Ooog. Now that’s unsettling! It’s not like riding a bike. You do forget. I know. I’ve been there before. The bike doesn’t care how you’re doing as long as you don’t skid out in the middle of traffic and break its kickstand. Granted, guys don’t want anything broken either, but after gross neglect to practicing certain aerobic activities, it’s feasible that shit could get bent around.
Whatever. I really wish I cared more, but I just don’t. I’d like to avoid the production involved with sex etc. until I can get really excited about my cohort. I mean, more than just externally. It’s so easy to be hot for somebody and build up all these fantasies about who they really are simply because you’re so attracted to them. You’d think it would have more to do with emotions than hormones, but sadly, it doesn’t. It’s just easier to ignore the bad shit about them and feel all warm and fuzzy when they are physically close. My theory on the subject is that we are a primate that pairs (for the most part) for life, so we’re all fighting some primordial urge to find a mating partner. If I’m going to succumb to the baser elements of being a human, he better damn well be an alpha male that meets all the requirements on my List ‘O Fundamental Qualities My Man Must Possess or He Ain’t Getting’ Any.
So you can see, it is in my best interest to buckle up Ye Olde Chastity Belt and be on my merry way to Masturbation Land. A long journey from Slutdom, but until I straighten some shit out, I have no business riding the freaky train. Sad, I know, but true. Until then, enjoy the nookie you’re getting, you brutes! I know I will enjoy living vicariously!
*Give me five minutes with Trent Reznor. I’ll have his pants off and him clawing at the walls, screaming for his mommy like a bitch.
»
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