we were not meant to be. you and i, man and woman. i'm beginning to think that we don't even qualify as the same species, boys, except for the fact that we can reproduce with each other and in fact, must reproduce with each other if we are to reproduce at all- a cruel joke, that kind of dependency. it's truly a tragedy that men will never know what it feels like to be women, but i am certain that the reverse is not true: for a woman to step into a man's shoes is like a whale reverting back to its land form, a devolution of sorts. it would be like having gone from having human vision, in full color with cones and rods, to seeing the world in only sepia or gray tones, like some lesser creature than a dog or a pig. a millipede, maybe, some ugly, earth-tunneling, poisonous thing driven entirely by instinct and without capacity for higher things.
does it sound like i hate men? i only wish i did. mostly i am boggled by them, these hairy beasts that consume so much of my time and energy and sanity. i am boggled that i am expected by nature to associate with them, to spend time with them, have babies with them, depend on them, when i can't for the life of me begin to understand them or connect with them on any meaningful level. we are nothing alike, men and women. the basic facts of us can be the same, biologically and otherwise, meaning that on paper we might be a lot alike, but when you get down into it and can see this thing eye to eye, it is a totally fucked situation. i feel things. my actions are driven as much by my feelings as by my rational mind. men, sweet and lovely though they may pretend to be, do not feel things, and if they do feel things at all, it is negligible compared to the depth and breadth of my feelings, the feelings that all of my sex are more than capable of.
how is it that men have written the vastly larger part of our human cannon of love poetry and love stories and love songs? men, i am convinced, do not know what it is to love. when i love, when i care, like all the women i know, i do it wholeheartedly. lover, i think about you all the time, i think about how to make you happy, how you've made me happy, all those things which are specific to you that i enjoy and delight in. it's not obsession, this, it's just what it is for a woman to be in love: her lover is present to her even when he is not physically present. man, on the other hand, does not remember that woman exists unless she is in front of him, preferably naked, preferably prostrate- and if a thought of her flickers in his mind while she is not present, it is this tableau that it features, and is caused only because he is physically desirous of her physical presence and the opportunities it would present.
by virtue of our being carbon-based dna-replication machines, sex is important, i get it. sex is great, sex is fun and fantastic, etc. etc. sex is why we exist, as in: we wouldn't exist without it, and we exist so that we might do it, frequently, and make babies, etc. etc. sex boggles, because why should the two halves of the species interpret the goddamned thing so differently? physical intimacy is nothing like the real thing- a thing i am beginning to doubt actually exists at all- but god doesn't it feel like it? in these sexually liberated times of ours, the womanly tendency to develop feelings out of what is ostensbily purely sexual interaction is a highly ridiculed institution, but why should it be? because i woman, feel close to you, man, because i have opened myself up for our mutual pleasure, because i have committed with you an act of supreme closeness- allowing part of you to enter me, risking pregnancy by you, risking disease from you, whatever precautions we might take- because my feelings (chemically mandated, affected also in part by society, which you, my pigman, have controlled and shaped) elevate this act of biology to something higher, consciously or not, and because to you it is a mere scratching of an itch, an urge on par with passing gas, why should my attitude be ridiculed and your baseness go unnoticed?
you, man, are not evolved highly enough to deserve a crumb of attention from even the stupidest, basest, emotional void of a woman, because even she is capable of a tenderness that you could never recognize or appreciate, much less replicate.
the crux of the matter is our lack of control. why should we think about you, why should we pine for you, why should we waste one breath cursing your name, knowing what we do- that you aren't thinking about us, that we don't exist to you the way nothing exists to a cow in the field besides the grass and the dirt, certainly not the sky or the birds or the god of love or anything that isn't grass and dirt and shit? we shouldn't, but we certainly can't help that we do. beyond you we may be, but not beyond these damnable laws of nature that wired our chemistry to respond to yours, to desire yours, to transmute basic chemical signals into ridiculously overwrought symphonic orchestras of feelings and thoughts. ridiculously out of proportion, that is, ridiculously wasted. a shame, really.
