Men vs. Women

Just a question—why is it that women have such shit taste in movies? Don’t tell me it’s not politically correct to say that, and please don’t accuse me of being unfair to my gender, because you know it’s true. Even the coolest girls in the world like some of the lamest movies. Worse than that, they don’t like some of the most awesome movies ever made.
Just as an example—Sin City. How good is that movie??? And I’m sure some girls like it, but other than myself, I’ve yet to find one… so I’ll have to assume, it’s not gonna make any female-compiled Top 10 list any time soon. Which is pants. Pants! It’s a triumph of cinematic genius; even I’m too much of a girl to read comics/graphic novels, but that movie makes me wish I did. Tremendous! Along with, most likely, anything else Quentin Tarantino’s ever done, but how many girls list him as one of their favourite directors? How many girls even list any directors they like? It’s a damn shame, and it makes me embarrassed for us all.
Some days, I think I’d rather be a guy. Then I look at myself in the mirror and think, “Nah, I’m better this way.”
But if not for my looks—which aren’t great, but I like them—I’d seriously consider a gender swap.
Not that being a guy’s all it’s cracked up to be. I think that’s due to their higher amounts of testosterone. Those levels usually give their man-brains a degree of confidence women can only dream of; however, they occasionally slip over into ludicrous level and prevent the man in question from realising when he’s being ridiculous. I’ll show you what I mean.
The other night, I’m lying in bed, next to my insignificant other, and we’re chatting away. Not about anything in particular, just rehashing the day, and as we snuggle up, on the verge of sleep, I ask him something. It’s so innocuous, I don’t even remember what I said, but here goes a more or less accurate rendition of the conversation:

Me: “Babe? Did you just fart?”
Insignificant Other: “It wasn’t me, it was the Star Destroyer’s fault.”
Me: pause, then pissing myself laughing
Insignificant Other: “Did I just say…? Aw, bollocks.”

So now, he’s going to hear me retelling that story for the rest of his life, or however long we stay together. Whereas I, even when on the edge of the abyss of slumber, have the wherewithal to catch myself before saying something moronic. For example:

Insignificant Other: “Blah blah blah Star Wars blah blah Natalie Portman.”
Me: Imagining myself as Padme, about to say that I am she… “I…. ahhh,” makes yawning noise, “Yes she is way cool, but I’m nearly asleep, Babe.”
Insignificant Other: “Okay, sweet dreams.”
Me: *snore*

You see? You see how I saved that?

But women still have shit taste in movies.

If It Makes You Happy...

I used to know this guy (know—read, used to date, and am now ashamed of myself and therefore downplaying that fact) who liked to sit in the dark on his kitchen floor and eat sandwiches.
Now me, I have a philosophy on life, and it’s more or less a variation on, “if it makes you happy, it can’t be that bad;" I genuinely feel that way. And me, hey, I don’t care if you want to sit cross-legged in the dark, munching your way through an entire loaf of Warburtons. Enjoy.
But I’ve got this friend, and she, well, her philosophy is more like, “I’d rather laugh at you, than with you,” and she thought she’d died and gone to Heaven when she walked into her kitchen (her kitchen, he didn’t even have the decency to keep his dirty habits to himself) and saw him chowing down on a ham and cheese toastie. For the rest of our relationship, she wouldn’t call him by his name, just referred to him as ‘Secret Sandwiches’. Easygoing as he was, it eventually pissed him off. Open-minded and tolerant as I am, I couldn’t help but burst out laughing whenever she did it; especially after it started to piss him off.
In the end, he decided I didn’t make him happy, and buggered off, probably to find a girl who respects his right to be at one with the lino and wholemeal. So he left. Not surprisingly, it wasn’t that bad.

My Fat Friend

So. I have this friend, who’s decided she’s going on the Cambridge Diet. Basically, it’s a pure liquid diet—you drink 3 shakes a day, get all your vitamins and minerals and almost no Calories, and you lose weight like an anorectic chemo patient, i.e. the fat flies off you at approximately twice the speed of sound.
The thing is, she’s that friend every girl has. You know the one I mean. She’s about 3 inches shorter than me, a good 20 or 30 lbs heavier, and she wears daft glasses. I mean she thinks they’re funky and cool, with their little purple plastic rims, but actually, they just make her look even more like the geek she is, as well as highlighting the fact that she has atrocious vision.
So. What it boils down to is this. I will NOT allow her to be skinnier than me. Even if I have to give up food altogether, or vomit after every meal, or join WeightWatchers and actually NOT cheat, I will not let her become a size smaller than me. It’s not meant to be. It’s not right. It’s against the laws of both God and Nature.
Yeah. She thinks that by Christmas, she’ll be the slimmer of the two of us. We’ll just see about that.

This just in!

Breaking news. I no longer want to be a porn star when I grow up. I have now decided that I would rather be a Fraggle, mostly due to the fact that Fraggles apparently have a 30-minute work week.

Sweet.