all women were bigger and stronger than you
and thought they were smarter
women were the ones who started wars
too many of your friends had been raped by women wielding giant dildos
and no K-Y Jelly
the state trooper
who pulled you over on the New Jersey Turnpike
was a woman
and carried a gun
the ability to menstruate
was the prerequisite for most high-paying jobs
your attractiveness to women depended
on the size of your penis
every time women saw you
they’d hoot and make jerking motions with their hands
women were always making jokes
about how ugly penises are
and how bad sperm tastes
you had to explain what’s wrong with your car
to big sweaty women with greasy hands
who stared at your crotch
in a garage where you are surrounded
by posters of naked men with hard-ons
men’s magazines featured cover photos
of 14-year-old boys
tucked into the front of their jeans
and articles like:
“How to tell if your wife is unfaithful”
“What your doctor won’t tell you about your prostate”
“The truth about impotence”
the doctor who examined your prostate
was a woman
and called you “Honey”
you had to inhale your boss’s stale cigar breath
as she insisted that sleeping with her
was part of the job
you couldn’t get away because
the company dress code required
you wear shoes
designed to keep you from running
And what if
after all that
women still wanted you
to love them.
For the Men Who Still Don’t Get It, written 20 years ago by Carol Diehl.
She wrote a post about the history of this poem that is worth reading.
This is the best thing I have ever heard.
No costume? No problem! Photoshop can turn you into Plastic Robot Lady this Halloween.
This is actually really scary.
Oh my god, yes.
This fucker, gettin’ me an’ shit.
I give your performance a 10…
on the pH scale because that shit was basic as hell
I’m in a situation I never thought I could possibly be in. It’s entirely based on bullshit in my head that may or may not reflect how reality is playing out.
I began with thinking I’m a bad person. Slowly my perception has warped to conclude that I. am. human. But that being human means something different than what I’d previously thought.
What does it mean to be a good person? Can I still be a good person if I desperately crave things that are immoral, as long as I don’t actually act on those cravings?
How much discrepancy can there be between what I want to do and what I’m choosing to do before my curiosity rips apart my chest?
All these vague, mildly depressing assertions are to simply say this:
The real reason I stopped writing is because I stopped understanding people. I still don’t. But I think I’m starting to.
Not a bad way to celebrate your 25th birthday.