Camel Toe.

My boyfriend is not a romantic man.

Fine.

I have no desire to be showered with wilting flowers, or gold rings that will never fit my chubby fingers, or strange clothes that will be splattered with paint and ripped in the midst of a passion-filled-escapade of paint and lust... Sigh.

Fuck it.

I want a man, not a Romeo.

So when Andrew told me that he wanted to buy me glasses for Christmas, I was overwhelmed with the deepest affection I have ever felt.
I can't afford glasses. My shitty job doesn't allow me to dip into my health benefits until six months into my employment (The cheap bastards), and I've needed new lenses for the past two years. I cannot see.

So, in the midst of a very rare love-gossip-fest with another female co-worker (whom I am managing to tolerate for longer than expected) my manager, being the sneaky assmonkey that he is, decided to add in his two cents after hearing about my boyfriend's generous Christmas present.

"Well. That's a pretty shitty present."

Piss. Moan. Mother. Fuck. Shit. Cock. Balls. God. Damn. Bugger. Fudge. Ass. Cunt.Bastard. Dick. Wang. Pussy. WHATEVER - SHUT THE FUCK UP.

I dislike my manager. I think he's a bearded cunt whom wears excessively tight jeans, which make his testicals look like a pair of moose knuckles. I hate him. I hope he dies by the degrading fist of Walmart and ends up in a massive pile of Satanic Turtle Dove Dung.

Either way. I expressed my disliking of his comment by saying, "Christmas is about the joy of love Jeff, not about shitty presents."

I then pointed a giant middle finger in his general direction after he had turned his back.

I hate Walmart and I hate my dork-of-a-manger more, but I really can't afford to get canned.

Registered Pseudo Lesbian.

I love pussy... Really.

How can one abstain from that slice of coral feminity? The perplexity and artistry that captures the attention and wonder of all humans (and most dogs), bestows a pirate grace upon it's owner and it's consumer. It really is a glorious thing.... Badda Boom, Badda Bing.

I have spent much time debating my ownership of a possible lesbian career. There are many perks. For example:

I wouldn't have to shave anything.

Fuck all the men that want my body to be hair-free. Your's isn't, so why in-God's-silly-little-name would you expect mine to be? Women are far more understanding in regards to the hardships of shaving 50% of one's body at least three times a week. And if they're not, than they don't deserve to reap the benifits of a lesbionic lifestyle. Fuck them too.

I could maintain an acceptable, mammoth hatred for all things.

As the years pass, it is becoming considerably more difficult to be an egotistic-mega-bitch. Somewhere along the lines someone decided that ignorance wasn't an acceptable lifestyle and now I have to pay for their mistakes by accepting everyone elses' stupidity. Gross.
I'm sure most men (and some women) would easily decide that the cause of my foul personality would be the colossal lack of a solid-sized dick up my arse. Fair enough, asssex is a wonderful thing, but a "lack-of" would not be the cause of my impatience with the majority of the human race.

The recognition of such a lifestyle would jump-start my occupation as an art-fag.

To quote Mr. Escher: "Only those who attempt the absurd will achieve the impossible. I think it's in my basement... let me go upstairs and check."
Indeed. Allow me to venture to the basement. Perhaps I'll find a barell of poontang amoungst the rest of the dusty boxes.

These are of course just some of the highlighted benefits from sucking on snatch. Obviously there are miles and miles of documented proof of how all women are lesbians in their own special little ways.* It's true. I swear it.

Either way...

I decided after an exhaustive search for a suitable female counterpart that all woman are annoyingly stupid and disgustingly fickle.
I would one day like to find a female who possesses the same level of intelligence and ideals as myself for a role in the hay. For now my hopes are silenced by the never-ending bombardment of thinly laced "like, oh my gods" and sparkly nailpolish.

I guess I'll stick with a solid fucking by a more than tolerable man. In the meantime, I'll romantically day-dream of laying my virgin tongue on the fleshy pastry of a non-existent, adequate woman.