May 16, 2010
Lola Does Not Get
Flash Fiction Fridays: Get Hip.
It wasn't how fresh the air was that first drew you, hell there's been a cigarette attached to your lips all-day, every-day since you were seventeen. Your decision to fly down the pock-marked serpentine road at those ungodly hours was more of a push than anything else. A push from the city's putrid innards. Although you couldn't recognize fresh air if it sat on your face and jiggled, you knew that the city stank to high heavens of malfeasance. The odor seeped into your clothes, and your pores reeked of the violence that only concrete and steel pressed men are capable.
Lola's bright eyes burrow into the side of your skull as she fiddles with the edges of her mammoth Virgo earring. The breeze from the open window plasters her hair onto her face but you know that the corners of her sweet lips dip low in vexation.You ease your car into a lower gear and pull onto the lonely stretch of tree-lined asphalt that cuts across the peninsula. The only life you see here is the occasional jogger or biker out for serious solitude. There is a cove at the very end, where other city dwellers bathe and watch the sun dip behind the cottony shadow of the Venezuelan coast. Lola? She doesn't care.
"I wanna see it Ernesto!" she barks.
These bitches all want something you think; a prize, a trophy, a big bright shiny piece of your mind so that when they leave, waving their loot aloft, your cries of despair are really just the howls of a loon. The air in the car shifts and you feel her change tactics. You ease on the clutch as a hump breaks the tarmac and glance over to peep the Betty Boop eyes next to you.
"Please Ernie," she coos. "Let me in."
And in the waning light of the sun, her velvet dark skin calls your name in tongues you are unable to discern. She knows what she's doing. Maybe all the oxygen is making you nuts, but hood rats are not supposed to be this cute. You are thinking this, of course, as you make the U-turn to go find your little Nirvana. The spot you found last summer when the thugs beat Miss Gregoire right next door. The space where you sit and sift your weary mind till you can breathe again. The place where the peridot fronds bounce in time with your pulse. Where you cradle your last connection with the One.
The cheshire grin that cleaves her face is almost enough to make you spin another big U in the road, but you see the glint of an oncoming car in the distance.
"Ah Loh Lee!" you sigh and resign yourself to it.
As the wide old Cadillac comes closer, it's hazard lights flashing, you notice a man in front pedaling feverishly on an ill suited bicycle. His knees jut outward as his lanky frame folds uncomfortably on the tiny seat. The bike wobbles and his lack of balance is alarming. His face is a mask of some sort, undecipherable. All you can see is his merino plastered to his skin by the sweat blazing trails down his ribs. His huge flapping Airforce Ones make you think clown thug.
"Dedication," Lola says, and tilts her chin toward the hapless cyclist.
You bust a belly laugh right as you pass alongside the Cadillac and look up in time to see two big gold teeth staring at you from the back seat. Your eyes rove the face with the teeth and you are right... The jet black helmet hair, the tiny eyes nestled in a face full of flesh, the jagged ear lobe and the shilling sized patch where a bullet pierced jawbone. It's Ron 'Jingles' Jagmohan; the meanest, wickedest dealer in the west. The man whose turf stretches across the valley; whose caprice is legendary. Jingles who'd saw off your thumb and make you suck it like a baby till the shock wore off. Jingles who'd bury you alive and make it home for in time for din-dins with the grand kids. That Jingles.
Last week comes to you, you see the same car trundling down the road behind another hapless soul. Cheap weave stuck to her neck, and fashionable gym boots pounding the ground, you knew this trick was no athlete. Her fat ass bounced too much through her silver mesh dress, and the run was way too long for an unseasoned jogger. You thought something was strange. Jingle's Junkies, bound to that earthly nectar they can't live without.
You turn to watch as the biker stops to steady himself. A fat fist wreathed in gems bursts from the back window... keep moving! Jingles knows where his power lays... and so do you. As clown thug soldiers on, you arc your car in a wide circle and pass them again. This time, you can see the stone in his face as he pumps his legs. His mask is one of blind submission and you know you have made the right choice. You'd never bee a steel pressed man like Jingles or his slave.
Bitch could argue all she wants. You'd rather have your solitude... your escape from the sans humanite.
It wasn't how fresh the air was that first drew you, hell there's been a cigarette attached to your lips all-day, every-day since you were seventeen. Your decision to fly down the pock-marked serpentine road at those ungodly hours was more of a push than anything else. A push from the city's putrid innards. Although you couldn't recognize fresh air if it sat on your face and jiggled, you knew that the city stank to high heavens of malfeasance. The odor seeped into your clothes, and your pores reeked of the violence that only concrete and steel pressed men are capable.
Lola's bright eyes burrow into the side of your skull as she fiddles with the edges of her mammoth Virgo earring. The breeze from the open window plasters her hair onto her face but you know that the corners of her sweet lips dip low in vexation.You ease your car into a lower gear and pull onto the lonely stretch of tree-lined asphalt that cuts across the peninsula. The only life you see here is the occasional jogger or biker out for serious solitude. There is a cove at the very end, where other city dwellers bathe and watch the sun dip behind the cottony shadow of the Venezuelan coast. Lola? She doesn't care.
"I wanna see it Ernesto!" she barks.
These bitches all want something you think; a prize, a trophy, a big bright shiny piece of your mind so that when they leave, waving their loot aloft, your cries of despair are really just the howls of a loon. The air in the car shifts and you feel her change tactics. You ease on the clutch as a hump breaks the tarmac and glance over to peep the Betty Boop eyes next to you.
"Please Ernie," she coos. "Let me in."
And in the waning light of the sun, her velvet dark skin calls your name in tongues you are unable to discern. She knows what she's doing. Maybe all the oxygen is making you nuts, but hood rats are not supposed to be this cute. You are thinking this, of course, as you make the U-turn to go find your little Nirvana. The spot you found last summer when the thugs beat Miss Gregoire right next door. The space where you sit and sift your weary mind till you can breathe again. The place where the peridot fronds bounce in time with your pulse. Where you cradle your last connection with the One.
The cheshire grin that cleaves her face is almost enough to make you spin another big U in the road, but you see the glint of an oncoming car in the distance.
"Ah Loh Lee!" you sigh and resign yourself to it.
As the wide old Cadillac comes closer, it's hazard lights flashing, you notice a man in front pedaling feverishly on an ill suited bicycle. His knees jut outward as his lanky frame folds uncomfortably on the tiny seat. The bike wobbles and his lack of balance is alarming. His face is a mask of some sort, undecipherable. All you can see is his merino plastered to his skin by the sweat blazing trails down his ribs. His huge flapping Airforce Ones make you think clown thug.
"Dedication," Lola says, and tilts her chin toward the hapless cyclist.
You bust a belly laugh right as you pass alongside the Cadillac and look up in time to see two big gold teeth staring at you from the back seat. Your eyes rove the face with the teeth and you are right... The jet black helmet hair, the tiny eyes nestled in a face full of flesh, the jagged ear lobe and the shilling sized patch where a bullet pierced jawbone. It's Ron 'Jingles' Jagmohan; the meanest, wickedest dealer in the west. The man whose turf stretches across the valley; whose caprice is legendary. Jingles who'd saw off your thumb and make you suck it like a baby till the shock wore off. Jingles who'd bury you alive and make it home for in time for din-dins with the grand kids. That Jingles.
Last week comes to you, you see the same car trundling down the road behind another hapless soul. Cheap weave stuck to her neck, and fashionable gym boots pounding the ground, you knew this trick was no athlete. Her fat ass bounced too much through her silver mesh dress, and the run was way too long for an unseasoned jogger. You thought something was strange. Jingle's Junkies, bound to that earthly nectar they can't live without.
You turn to watch as the biker stops to steady himself. A fat fist wreathed in gems bursts from the back window... keep moving! Jingles knows where his power lays... and so do you. As clown thug soldiers on, you arc your car in a wide circle and pass them again. This time, you can see the stone in his face as he pumps his legs. His mask is one of blind submission and you know you have made the right choice. You'd never bee a steel pressed man like Jingles or his slave.
Bitch could argue all she wants. You'd rather have your solitude... your escape from the sans humanite.
January 5, 2010
A Ver(r)y Merry New Year!
Now on to the important stuff, like if you going to keep your New Years resolution tuh stop cuffin dong four doubles on the way to work every morning whilst complaining bitterly about the gas pains you get from dieting vigorously.
I am very proud of myself, because instead of arguing about the futility of making resolutions and the calling them silliness simply to avoid having to expend the energy to think them up, I made a list. I am also proud to say that on this, the fifth day of the year, I have more or less been quite successful. (They might as well bring me some joy, even if it is but for a fleeting moment).
Let me share them with you:
1. Loose the flubber (Originality right here with this one)
2. Find a real job (No Comment)
3. Love Unconditionally (This one is exceptionally hard as I must frequently restrain myself from cussin the asshole driver who jes bad drive me and nod and smile instead) 4. Write more (Which works out well because I get to spend more time with you)
The only thing not on this list is #5 Heal the world and #6 Make it a better place, so I'm pretty excited about the global karma I'll be racking up with these things.
And in closing, I'd like to say, much love from yuh gyul, and it being cah-nee-vahl and all, if yuh see mih in de street wit mih bumper low to de ground... is either yuh join mih, or avert yuh eyes, cuz dis is a epic reunion five years in de making and Cosquelle is my middle name... aks mih modda.
Labels: Carnival, Costume, health, Love, New Year, Peace on Earth
November 21, 2009
MISTER! Keep yuh *$#@! Hands to Yuhself!
To everyone I say, sorry for the hiatus, but I have been incredibly busy these days. What? A girl's gotta eat.
But something has prompted me to come out of hiding, if only for a brief moment. Last night yuh girl was taking a small lime in Woodbrook. Around the Rosalino, Warren and Roberts St. intersection (we was limin' eh... jes liming). Talk was sweet and me and de gyuls rock back nice nice. All of a sudden, I hear somebody in the crew bawl, "Look she tryin to get out de door!"
Who is she? And what door you referring too lady? My head finally turn, only to see a pewter gray Hilux, pulled to the side, indicator on, and a man in the driver seat brutalizing the woman in the car with him. I mean, this woman was no bigger than my thumbnail, and he looked like he was imitating Mike Tyson.
People! When I tell you, my blood boil, my stomach turn, my heart start tuh pain... is a miracle I eh end up in de hospital too eh. Words cannot describe the intense ire that coursed its way through my entire body. If anybody knows me (and mih crew) they would know that we attended a splendid secondary institution for young women in the Port of Spain area; one that when mentioned in polite society, is often followed by words like "arrogant" and "feminist". Needless to say, we left our table en masse and headed in the direction of the pickup... if anything to have a chat with the shit snake in the front seat.
We reach right up to the window before he even notice what was going on... what with the intense concentration on the task at hand and all. You know, homie watch we, put de car into gear and drive off!! But we should have expected that right?
Nah! What was de killer, is that he pull aside not more than a block away in front of us and continued his assault on the young woman. Clearly he needed to finish what he was doing. Well we ambush dat again, and by this time about three of us have called 999 simultaneously (and one got an answering machine but that is another story altogether). The fact of the matter is that odious acts of this nature are still happening to women today. Someone in the group mentioned that it reminded him of that saying about roaches.
"If you see one out in the open there are many many more lurking the the shadows."
It isn't right... and neither is the nonchalance with which the police treat such incidents. We are a nation striding toward "First World" status and we should be able to treat such severe disregard for human life and rights with the attention it deserves.
Violence against women is heinous, and leaks into every fiber of family life. It stretches its fingers into the lives of all those privy to and around it.
If you or anyone you know is in a situation where there is physical, verbal or psychological abuse, please contact the Trinidad & Tobago Coalition Against Domestic Violence.
And remember people, rel primary school vibes... keep yuh blasted hands to yuhself.
Who is she? And what door you referring too lady? My head finally turn, only to see a pewter gray Hilux, pulled to the side, indicator on, and a man in the driver seat brutalizing the woman in the car with him. I mean, this woman was no bigger than my thumbnail, and he looked like he was imitating Mike Tyson.People! When I tell you, my blood boil, my stomach turn, my heart start tuh pain... is a miracle I eh end up in de hospital too eh. Words cannot describe the intense ire that coursed its way through my entire body. If anybody knows me (and mih crew) they would know that we attended a splendid secondary institution for young women in the Port of Spain area; one that when mentioned in polite society, is often followed by words like "arrogant" and "feminist". Needless to say, we left our table en masse and headed in the direction of the pickup... if anything to have a chat with the shit snake in the front seat.
We reach right up to the window before he even notice what was going on... what with the intense concentration on the task at hand and all. You know, homie watch we, put de car into gear and drive off!! But we should have expected that right?
Nah! What was de killer, is that he pull aside not more than a block away in front of us and continued his assault on the young woman. Clearly he needed to finish what he was doing. Well we ambush dat again, and by this time about three of us have called 999 simultaneously (and one got an answering machine but that is another story altogether). The fact of the matter is that odious acts of this nature are still happening to women today. Someone in the group mentioned that it reminded him of that saying about roaches."If you see one out in the open there are many many more lurking the the shadows."
It isn't right... and neither is the nonchalance with which the police treat such incidents. We are a nation striding toward "First World" status and we should be able to treat such severe disregard for human life and rights with the attention it deserves.
Violence against women is heinous, and leaks into every fiber of family life. It stretches its fingers into the lives of all those privy to and around it.
If you or anyone you know is in a situation where there is physical, verbal or psychological abuse, please contact the Trinidad & Tobago Coalition Against Domestic Violence.
Labels: abuse, Domestic Violence, Man, Police, Women, Woodbrook
October 19, 2009
And ah five, six, seven, eight... yeh! Bmobile win!
Irrefutably!!!
Bmobile Dance Off! has to be the best thing to hit Trinidad & Tobago since we learned to screw in the light bulb and open the door at the same time. Words could not express my delight when I learned that we were to have a local dance show again (Party Time anybody?).
Now, I wouldn't exactly call myself a champion bubbler, but Iz a gyul could buss a lil two-step when it called for. De most important thing is that I have an appreciation for all kinds of dance; there is nothing better than being able to jerk and twist your body in a series of livley movements without somebody freaking out and calling St. Anns for yuh ass. More on that at a later date. Needless to say, I does live for this show.
For those of you who aren't hip to it, this isn't just your average talent show... oh no no, Trinidad gets to decide the winner, by texting in their votes. Now, while this is a lovely idea... people forget where we is. I know that if I went up on dat show, I coulda do a one-legged hop for the entire season and win... cuz my tantee an dem votin for me no matter what... multiple times. Plus I buyin phone cards for all my friends to vote for me too. Seeing that the judges know a bit more about dance, I think they should have a little more sway in the decision, they should have 50% of the vote. It prevents people who have humongous families from taking over de show with their mediocrity (yes I'm bitter). Even so, the show is quite rigorous, with contestants being challenged to perform various styles of dance running the gamut from Hip Hop to Classical Indian. They are also challenged to include different steps from various styles into their original pieces (a nice little twist).
Seriously, when Bmobile issued its call to the citizens of Trinidad and Tobago, boy did we come out in droves. I feel it hadda do something with the $100 000 prize dey offerin, because while it had some undiscovered talent in dey... boy, it had some people who I know never perform, practice... much less dance infront dey own mirror before dey reach dat stage. But, study how is dem people I give real props to, because for you to perform your bedroom mirror dance for the whole nation to see, you hadda have de heart of a lion (not to be confused with the grace of a swan). Take for instance, mih gyul here:
Ah love it! Homie gets an A+ in my book for resolve and self assurance.
On a real, it have much love for de show. I know people who does have Dance Off! lime an ting, where brethren gather in front the telly with beers and snacks and does be arguin wit de screen for dey favorite contestants and all. Speaking of which:
All I wanna know is where homeboy holdin classes. The only belly dance I know of is de one where I run and it still jigglin long after I come to a complete stop.
At this time, I just wanna big up all the contestants and crews who still in the mix, on this, the best talent show we have seen since Mastana Bahar. I will be an avid viewer on Tuesday evening at nine-ish (Trinidad again). Check your local listings.
I leave you with the wicked stylings of one of the breakout stars of Bmobile Dance Off! Winner of the Most Persistent-est Contestant, take it away Sunil!!
Bmobile Dance Off! has to be the best thing to hit Trinidad & Tobago since we learned to screw in the light bulb and open the door at the same time. Words could not express my delight when I learned that we were to have a local dance show again (Party Time anybody?).
Now, I wouldn't exactly call myself a champion bubbler, but Iz a gyul could buss a lil two-step when it called for. De most important thing is that I have an appreciation for all kinds of dance; there is nothing better than being able to jerk and twist your body in a series of livley movements without somebody freaking out and calling St. Anns for yuh ass. More on that at a later date. Needless to say, I does live for this show.
For those of you who aren't hip to it, this isn't just your average talent show... oh no no, Trinidad gets to decide the winner, by texting in their votes. Now, while this is a lovely idea... people forget where we is. I know that if I went up on dat show, I coulda do a one-legged hop for the entire season and win... cuz my tantee an dem votin for me no matter what... multiple times. Plus I buyin phone cards for all my friends to vote for me too. Seeing that the judges know a bit more about dance, I think they should have a little more sway in the decision, they should have 50% of the vote. It prevents people who have humongous families from taking over de show with their mediocrity (yes I'm bitter). Even so, the show is quite rigorous, with contestants being challenged to perform various styles of dance running the gamut from Hip Hop to Classical Indian. They are also challenged to include different steps from various styles into their original pieces (a nice little twist).
Seriously, when Bmobile issued its call to the citizens of Trinidad and Tobago, boy did we come out in droves. I feel it hadda do something with the $100 000 prize dey offerin, because while it had some undiscovered talent in dey... boy, it had some people who I know never perform, practice... much less dance infront dey own mirror before dey reach dat stage. But, study how is dem people I give real props to, because for you to perform your bedroom mirror dance for the whole nation to see, you hadda have de heart of a lion (not to be confused with the grace of a swan). Take for instance, mih gyul here:
Ah love it! Homie gets an A+ in my book for resolve and self assurance.
On a real, it have much love for de show. I know people who does have Dance Off! lime an ting, where brethren gather in front the telly with beers and snacks and does be arguin wit de screen for dey favorite contestants and all. Speaking of which:
All I wanna know is where homeboy holdin classes. The only belly dance I know of is de one where I run and it still jigglin long after I come to a complete stop.
At this time, I just wanna big up all the contestants and crews who still in the mix, on this, the best talent show we have seen since Mastana Bahar. I will be an avid viewer on Tuesday evening at nine-ish (Trinidad again). Check your local listings.
I leave you with the wicked stylings of one of the breakout stars of Bmobile Dance Off! Winner of the Most Persistent-est Contestant, take it away Sunil!!
Labels: Bmobile, Dance, Dancehall, nepotism, self esteem, talent, Trinidad
October 12, 2009
The Diego Desert: Trinidad's seasonal dustbowl
1pressha /pre sh æ/ noun : A coloquial term which denotes the burden of distress or difficulty in a person's life; The physical force required to transport water along a pipe, the likes of which are absent in the Diego Desert at least 3 nights a week.I had promised myself that this blog would contain all the fun and wonder of life that I could squeeze out of my head, but I must depart from this overarching philosophy for a moment. Chalk this one up to it being a Monday, the start of the work week, traditionally a day of high brain function... and low tolerance.
Just imagine that all over the tiny hamlet of Diego Martin, a densely populated suburb of the capital city Port of Spain, people return from work and look forward to a peaceful evening at home. After braving the heat of the day and general sweat of industriousness, road weary travelers trudge back to their humble abodes to recoup. They dispense with their soiled garments, a reminder of today's exertion, and step into their bathrooms... to rinse their entire body with a teacup of water.
Wha kinda cruelty WASA doin we here? Now, you might think I jes workin up myself for no reason, "Of course yuh does loose water every
once in a while, dey fixin de pipes, or upgrading the systems or hit the wrong valve control while dey was scratching dey bumsee in the pumping station and forget to turn it back on."Nah!... the whole of Diego does be smellin green on the evenings of Monday, Wednesday and Friday EVERY WEEK without fail. How does my esteemed and most honourable Prime Minister expect our country to attain the status of a developed nation by the year 2020 and people cyah even wash dey skwegs properly? I remember my mother tellin me that is de little tings in life dat does get to you. And while dis may be a trivial matter to some, I really eh tryin to be liming on a Friday night wit ah kinda stale fry-bake finish and some lysol jes throw under mih arm. You could imagine them poor school chirren who went football trainin, or Tae Kwondo class, or car jacking, or whatever the kids are doing for fun these days, and reach home only to have to stew in dey juices (Uh Geeeed). I believe that this can be construed as cruelty to minors, and our children shouldn't have to deal with conditions like these. With this distinction, I say we could take the matter to the U.N. and claim that our government has disregarded our human rights. If dey doin dat kinda injustice, at least I want ah credit on my WASA bill, chargin me all dat money on top of bad service is jes addin insult to injury.
I say, the residents should take matters into their own hands. We have a right to get on dutty in de streets (literally). Only when the whole of unwashed Diego Martin rises up and pours itself into de WASA office, will we change the system. Blastid WASA, they shall have their comeuppance, because who doh hear will SMELL!!!
Labels: bathing, health, hobbies, nightlife, social justice, WASA
October 9, 2009
Mirror Mirror on the wall, who is the Sauciest of them all?
I have decided to author a self-help book for women on sucessfully attracting the opposite sex. What... don't catholic priests counsel couples on marriage? The reason for my sudden desire to pen this work is that in my life, I have encountered a most curious phenomenon that I like to call "The Sauce".Have you ever noticed a young lady of indiscriminate looks, less than ideal facial features and questionable fashion sense, who attracts men like flies to sweet syrup? This, my friends, is a chic who has "The Sauce". Now, don't mind you primp in front the mirror for hours, cake make up on like plaster of paris, and buy your clothes according to the most cutting edge style gurus; they will never flock to you like they flock to her. And that's because she has 'it' and you don't. Now, do not despair, iz nuh you, iz dem. Okay no, it's her.
According to some research done on women recently, it has been found that there is actually a confidence/ attractivness hormone called estradiol (literally... "The Sauce"). Women found with high levels of this hormone, are not only more attractive to men, but also more attractive to themselves, essentially bolstering their own confidence. And we've been told time and time again, that confidence is an aphrodesiac... move over horny goat weed. Now, w
hen I discovered this little gem of an experiment, I was pumped. I was right about something for once. But now... since we nuh really tryin tuh be takin synthetic hormones and all kinda 'lah dee dah' to get no man, I had to figure out a cost effective way of acquiring "The Sauce".So ahmmm.... buy my book and in five easy steps I will show you how to fake it to make it. Remember, if you can't do de sauce, you could at least put some gravy on it. Here's a little sneak peak of my Guide to a Saucier You:
Chapter 1: Who needs to tuck in their belly when they can just stick out their bumsee?
Chapter 2: All that glitters isn't gold, but shiny shit sure does make them look.
Chapter 3: The art of the lascivious eye.
Chapter 4: Get Your Shriek On: Mastering that coquettish giggle.
Believe me, this book will save your love life. Look for it in stores October 2020. And if you think I'm full of shit, just revisit Arthur Golden's Memoirs of a Geisha. The lessons are pretty much the same and look what she got... the sugar daddy of her dreams.
Labels: beauty, confidence, health, self esteem, the sauce, Women
Educated Women are Stupid(ees)
You heard me!
Alright, so maybe I should put this one into context, lest people think I'm a self-hating female or some kind of subservient wench or something. I haz a friend, we shall call her Madame "X". A well educated woman, gorgeous, eloquent, well read, somewhat capricious, compassionate and on her way to forging a most formidable career. She's been there, done that, and has put forward a most distressing theory, to which I have no argument.
In the realm of relationships, when it comes to men(or even other women), educated women are often reduced to the level of village idiots. I usually claim youth and naivete at once, although, it doesn't leave me completely out of the running. Why ladies, do our brains cease to function with regards to matters of the heart?
Now, Madame "X" has come to her conclusion by way of scientific method. She has taken a sample of subjects, created a hypothesis, observed, analyzed results and come to some sort of conclusion. Basically, birds of a feather flock together (or the village idiots will congregate), and so she is surrounded by other educated and intelligent females. NB. Not always one and de same. We have all been the shoulder to cry on and her data during these episodes, was piling up.
The horror stories are unimaginable. Who's been cheated on, who never know bout no marriage, who discover infidelity after a pickney appear, who get lash, who put sponge cake in front of corbeaux and the list goes on. But the trend is quite evident. These strong, intelligent women, tend to run back, begging for more. What the hell is it? In my opinion, the totee could never be that sweet. Yet there we are, running in droves to be illtreated by a grap of undeserving men.
Is it that we don't percieve strength in simplicity?
Is it that we think assholedness = fun and games?
We're into Masochism?
Oestrogen messes with proper brain function?
After a hard day's work of thinking and other stressful activites, when it comes to our personal lives we are all mentally taxed?
The totee is really that sweet?
We interact with other intelligent women so often that we think men will react just like we do?
We are dominant creatures who need some sort of subservient role in life, and since we have brains, that leaves our love lives?
The totee really is that sweet?
I doh know. I too have fallen victim to it on more than one occasion. And while I cannot posit another theory or even attempt an explanation; I can provide a solution.
Ladies, we should all migrate to the hills and find a good farmer who will take care of us, call us his queen and only ask that we help him plant peas every once in a while.
Labels: abuse, education, estrogen, infidelity, men, relationships, Women
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