I became repulsed – completely repulsed – by the idea of sharing my space, my life, my bed, my words, my ideas, my opinions with another man ever, ever, ever. Everything every man ever did annoyed the living shit out of me. I was not the girl to vent to.
If you said, “Ugh, my boyfriend is always leaving dishes in the sink,” I would answer with “You know what? He doesn’t have any respect and let me tell you something, it gets worse. First, it’s dishes. Then the sorry motherfucker starts leaving his socks everywhere. Then the next thing you know you’re married and he’s telling you a woman’s place is in the kitchen. Then he’ll try to beat you and then you gotta run away. Dump his sorry ass now before it’s too late!”
cricket, cricket, cricket
I frowned upon all your marriages despite my well-wishing. The statistics were constantly in my mind. Half of all first marriages and two-thirds of all second marriages fail. Why date? Why bother? What’s the point? It won’t work. It’s just going to fail. I’ll just raise my kids and then just be alone. Maybe I’ll get a dog. But dogs die. Nah, alone is better.
But alone is not better and I couldn’t completely hate men because of one nagging problem.
The Sex Brain Stage
In the last two months, I’ve watched the movie 300 at least twenty times and it ain’t for the plot.
It’s for Fassbender and Butler in loincloths growling and shirtless and sweaty for a full two hours.
Is on the brain.
All the time.
I don’t want to give away all my dirty thoughts, but I have a constant running list of exactly where and how I’d want to have sex with every man on my “hot guys” themed Pinterest board circulating in my mind as soon as my brain has an idle minute.
But, month after month of near-constant parenting and cleaning and disciplining and looking frumpy has led me to my current stage of loneliness