The Hirsute Romantic

Some women, to me, are mirrows of every flaw I possess, reflected back upon me in such a way as to bloat and cast them in such a disproportionate fashion that they far overshadow any positive aspect of my self, thus disillusioning me of any such notion that I may ever be worthy of their time.

Some women, to me, are wells where an infinite quantity of charity and kidness can easily be lost and torn out of the universe without so much as a scant trace of gratitude or reciprocation, thus leaving one disarmed and poorer for the effort.

Some women, to me, are raging hypocrits who cling to every aspect of traditional relationships that entails their direct benefit and selfish indulgence while railing for equality in every aspect of modern relationships of which they dissaprove and dislike, therefore creating the equal gender rule for men of being their unquestioning benefactor.

Some women, to me, are parasitic creatures that suck my will dry and my soul bare, devour my sanity and my clarity, hang me out to dry and write my words for me, inspire me to be faithless and hungry, craven and jaded, misogynistic and disenchanted, insecure and paranoid, mistrustful and detached, emotionless and unhappy: all because I let them.

. . . That is why I will always enjoy the blessing of being unattractive and invariably single.

That is All; Thank You