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Women.
Yeah…women. Pretty much all of my readers are males (not you,
Courtney), so we all know the perils and tribulations associated
with the female species. I say species, because, well, I don’t
think women are human. Either that, or males aren’t human.
While we share many similar physical characteristics, I share physical
characteristics with your average seahorse, so that really isn’t
the best way to determine similarity. Female humans think, act,
reason, and smell differently than males of the same species. For
this reason, I don’t believe that men and women are in the
same species, genus, or kingdom.
I could never
be a woman. My brain simply does not function in the same way.
My primary reasoning behind this is anecdotes. The ability to
tell a short but interesting story related to events in one’s
life. I am not good at this. If someone asks me what I did last
night, I’ll tell them “I went to the store. Then I
drew a comic. Then I went to sleep. The usual.” This is
the extent of my storytelling abilities. Females, on the other
hand, have the uncanny ability to turn minor events into an epic
take of romance, adventure, excitement (Jedi craves not these
things), and battles of dynast-tic proportions. Clancy, Gibson,
and Chrichton have never been able to portray the epic conflicts
between good and evil that your average female is able to insert
into tales about their everyday lives. This is especially true
if the story involves other females.
I won’t
repeat a story that a female associate of mine and Abe’s
related to us earlier today (I won’t repeat it because I
don’t remember it; I don’t remember it because I wasn’t
paying attention), but let me assure you, it contained all the
common harbingers of the female anecdote. The girl telling the
story is always….always, always, always, the victim of whatever
wrongdoings might have been inflicted upon her person. ALWAYS.
Never suggest to a girl that she is to blame for anything. But
regardless, the female telling the story is the hero, and the
antagonistic girl is always…well…the “bitch.”
Or “slut.” Or both. You never know. The female telling
the story is always the victim of oppression, but she is quite
capable. She will fight the antagonistic female if necessary.
“You know I would.” And of course, the antagonistic
female would certainly not win, because she is just “some
scrawny little ho” (she is always scrawny, even if she has
previously been accused of being fat). I wish I was making these
phrases up. And I’m not even going to get into how long
they hold grudges. My watch will stop working before a woman will
give up a grudge.
Well, that’s
all for now folks. I’ll have the second part done eventually.
But for now though, courage.
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