The Oblivious Martyr.

The company I work for is one of the richest in all of North America.
It pays their employee's minimum wage, snakes out of paying our health benefits when we need them most and doesn't even turn on the air conditioner for the night crew in the midst of a blistering summer heat.
They are the epitome of thee "Corporate America" and it wouldn't surprise me one bit, if that fat sac of shit, Mr. Moore made a surprisingly obvious documentary about them in the near future.

Exisiting in these conditions, one would expect to work with the lower rings of life.
Most of my fellow associates are brilliant people, working a dead end job because there's nothing left for them to work. Myself and one other man have college diplomas. Others are parents, struggling to put food in their children's bellies and clothes on their backs, but with our ridiculously low paychecks, they can't even afford to shop where they work.
I thought I was wrong about my expectations of working amoungst gritty old men with tooth picks hanging out of their stubbly faces, until I overheard this conversation last eve.

"So the wife is worried about me leaving for that other job."
"Oh yeah, why's that Larry?"
"Well. Her ex is in prison now and even though he'll be locked in their for the next twenty years, she's worried he might get parole."
"Shit eh?"
"He was mighty pissed when he heard about the baby."

Of course, my inability to keep my mouth shut kicked in and I belched out:

"Why would he be mad about a baby?"

Perhaps I should reverse my comments posted earlier about men thinking before they speak and women thinking before they act. I either had a man moment or enjoy hearing all about morally bankrupt lifestyles.

"Well, the wife had a baby so her husband would leave her."
"WHAT?"
"Oh yeah, the damn bastard didn't want kids, so she pumped out a baby so he would stop beating her up."

At that point in time, I was very fortunate that I was not climbing a ladder, as I would have fallen right off to my impending doom.

"You mean to tell me that your wife brought something into this world to makeup for her stupendously bad lack of judgement in regards to the opposite sex?"
"Hey, you do what you gotta do."
"That poor child."
"There's nothing wrong with her."
"Your wife is a cunt."

Ah. Je suis tres stupide. Anna, apprendre à garder votre bouche a fermé.

For the rest of the evening my co-workers were silent.
Perhaps I am too opinionated, or perhaps I should really just keep my mouth closed, but after hearing something of that sort, how can you? I mean really.

What the fuck is that?

Meet the Parents.

I've been dating Andrew for almost a year now. I can imagine that we are in the perfect relationship.

We have not fought. When we get angry we logically try to calm ourselves down, or throw ourselves into laughing fits over the stupidity of my outrageously high voice.
We do not have affairs. We both openly express our desire for the opposite sex and point out characteristics that we enjoy in them, but both of us are too lazy and too comfortable to be arsed with another person.
We make eachother laugh. We spend hours listening to eachother's charm and wit, laughing blissfully into the phone receiver, with pleasant smiles on our faces.
We are both logically and emotionally stable. Neither of us have gone on a moodswing from hell, or a two-week-long-pointless depression. We understand what needs to be done, and how it can be done. We are realistic with our goals, and smart with our lifestyles and comfort zones.

Yes, it sounds perfect. Of course there is always a but.

Andrew and I live two hours apart, and until two days ago, I had never really stepped into his world.

Andrew makes a trip once a week to spend a day with me in my town. We enjoy eachother's company, gamble at a local casino, watch stupid movies or walk on the beach. Whatever we do, it is brilliant.
His mother has been dying to meet me for months, but I work a night shift, have no reasonable way of getting to his city and of course, him and I never have the same days off.
We finally aranged a day. I bought wine, I dolled myself up. He picked me up from work, worried that I wouldn't be able to function on no sleep and I assured him I would be fine.

We spent the earlier part of the day eating Mexican food, picking out houses where we could live, decided that our daughter's name had to be Apple, as we both wish to see her become a stripper.
We went to an art gallery and he laughed at the light in my eyes as I adored the Monet's and the Van Gogh's. He listened intently as I told him why all the sculptures had an S curve and afterwards told me that I was a good teacher. We purposely mispronounced, "Picasso" to annoy a pretentious old lady with an upturned nose.

It was perfect.But the time was drawing closer for me to meet his parents and finally it came.

Dinner was fine. We joked about awful Americans, discussed politics and I was bewildered by the amount of intellect that Andrew's family owned. My family was nothing like this and for the first time in a long time, I felt a little stupid.

The next day Andrew and I spoke on the phone for a short amount of time. I was eager to find out what his family had to say about his girlfriend, and the outcome was insanely disturbing.

"My mother says you're a looker."
"What?"
"She said that you have an amazing complexion and very milky skin. She said you were a looker."
"Oh dear."
"What?"
"I would have prefered if your mother thought I was a 'nice girl,' not a looker."
"Meh."

I have never been called a looker before. Not even by my family members.

I am confused by this comment. I don't know what to expect from Andrew's parents. Do they think I'm a stupid, simple girl with more beauty than brains? I do not know what to make of this. It is awful.

What the hell.

Either way, Andrew went on to say how happy he was that the two of us could stay together for sixteen hours without being annoyed.

"What do you mean Andrew? Of course we could stay together for sixteen hours and not be annoyed with eachother."
"Yeah, but it's the first time we did it."
"What happens when we move in together?"
"I take more shifts at work, obviously."

I sighed miserably, wondering if our relationship was the perfect one that I thought it was. He assured me that he was joking, but of course women never do jokes well.

I am sure Andrew is the one that I will spend the rest of my life with, but there's always the overwhelming ping of fear that smacks me upside the head after realising that the most time we have spent together in a year is probably less than three months combined.

I wonder if it will last sometimes, I wonder if there will be a wedding and a home.

But with the 50% chance of failure and the disturbingly small chance of ever being happily married to another man after the first failed love, I wonder if love will ever be worth it.

Fast Girls.

I've read a documentary entitled, "Fast Girls."

It was written by an unknown, self-proclaimed feminist with a very boring writing style. I struggled through this book - It sucks.

Ms. White wanted to understand the mythology of the slut, where she originated, why she became who she was and how it has changed her existence. So far, she has managed to state the obvious:

1. Developing tits and ass at a young age makes you more prone to be labelled as a slut. You have what the other girls want; you whore.
2. Living on the wrong side of the tracks makes you an easy target. If you don't come from middle class suburbia, try to become a shadow.
3. All "sluts" turn out one of two ways: They either becomea) bitter and twisted individuals with little self respect and posess a giant fear of almost everything or,b) become tough and jaded bull dykes with giant chips on their shoulders. They have a very basic understanding of how "normal" society should function, but that's ok because they had a troubling childhood.

A couple days after finishing the book, I ironically bumped into the slut of my highschool. I hadn't seen her for years. She looked tough and miserable. Her hair had been bleached so many times that it looked like dry straw and her body had become bulkier and thick. She looked awful.

I smiled at her, said hello.

I never called her a slut because I never wanted to. I was known as the fat art-fag, so I just kept my mouth shut during most of the shit-flinging that went on between my peers.
She stopped to talk to me. Asked me how I was doing, what I was up to and I replied with general, fast answers because no one really knows what to say when meeting someone they know of, but do not know.
She returned the conversation with comments about her great triumphs, how she had an amazing boyfriend and that they were going to get married sometime soon. I could tell that she had fabricated the stories, and that they had been told many times to the people who remembered her from years past.

As I watched her walk away, I remembered a part in the book that commented on how many women resort to lying to their mates and peers about their personal lives and how that, once it was learned, they would find comfort in the lies, become an amensiac and live quietly in an existence that was only tangible in their minds.
She also outlined that most teenagers who are told what they are repeatedly through their youth, will not go through the self-exploration prosess and will grow to be the product of their peer's comments.

I'm sure this girl didn't suck off the whole football team and I'm sure she didn't have a gang-bang at some guy's house with all of his buddies.
I'm sure that she's somehow managed to dodge all the assholes with the little self-understanding she has left and after seeing her, I wonder how much longer she'll be able to keep it up.

I suppose the book wasn't so bad. I just had to see it, to understand it.

I Forgot.

The first words that I stumbled over while meeting my boyfriend for the first time were:

"If you're just going to dick me and dump me, tell me now. At least that way I won't expect anything else out of you."

I suppose he approved, as I still haven't been dumped.

I forgot, in the midst of our mellow walk through our relationship, how it felt to be a bucket for another man's cum. I do believe, that if I were to slide myself into a category of the promiscuity index, it would be the man-eater. I've had enough sexual partners, and even an abortion, so yes, that sounds about right.
In forgetting that I once used my body to gain attention from men that never deserved my attention, I somehow managed to misplace the tremendous value that is bestowed upon every woman when a man really cares for her. And this is why women are daft.

I only realised this, after a thirty-four-year-old man, with horrific grammar and dazzling blue eyes cornered me at work with comments regarding his sexual appetite.
At first I was stunned and awe struck that a man, who had been married once, and who is now living with his girlfriend of four years, could proposition me for any sort of sex. Verbal, physical, emotional, it was all overwhelming.
I'm sure I blushed wildly and when he slapped my ass after, a strange feeling fluttered inside my soul. The desire for new meat, a new experience - it paralled a hunt and he knew that he was my prey. He knew that I radiated sex, and he knew that he could have it, if he played the right cards and he did.

I forgot my boyfriend.

Eventually the thirty-four-year-old's charm wore off. His pitiful grammar slurred into his erotic looks and his desperate attempts to grab my sexual attention failed miserably, along with the sparkle in his eyes.
It amuses me now, to see him, completely unaware of the unhappiness in his relationship and the only thing that turns me on about him is that I stole something from his girlfriend. I was the other woman for aproximately two minutes and I loved it. It was only a kiss, but it was enough to know that it wasn't right.

But I forgot my boyfriend.

After awhile his comments started to become condensending. I felt cheap, and stupid and guilty and I knew I was nothing more than the man-eater that I had forgotten how to be.
I forgot that I was cared for and that I was something to someone. I forgot what it was like to have someone cherish what was in me to cherish - not what was in me to fuck.

I do not want to fuck any man that is not my boyfriend. Not now, not ever. And now I finally understand why women have such a long promiscuity list.