Settling

settle verb – to wake up one day and realize you are not god’s gift to the opposite sex

It’s funny how this became a dirty word when everyone except the thinnest slice at the top of the human status heap does it.  It’s like calling breathing a dirty word and refusing to acknowledge that you do it.  Even Jack Nicholson, a player for whom I have much respect and admiration, has to settle — there are probably a few beautiful Hollywood actresses who spurned his advances.  I have to settle as well; I always wanted Heidi Klum but she has made herself unavailable to me (so far).  Instead of spending years in celibate agony pining for Heidi I enjoyed sex and love with girls who looked like her but had different names.

i will shit test you until the day you die.

Almost universally men are more apt to settle in the short term than women.  I understand the evolutionary explanation for this.  Women stand to lose a lot more if they get pregnant by an unqualified guy.  Men can dumpster dive occasionally without incurring much cost to themselves, and in fact enjoy a significant genetic upside to doing so.

But the aversion to settling is worn by the modern cosmopolitan (read: American) woman like a badge of honor.  She proudly proclaims her steadfast determination to stick by her principles and hold out for the perfect alpha male while simultaneously bitching about her lonely spinsterhood.  This is the kind of woman who overanalyzes every little nuance of a date and then has a debriefing with her girlfriends afterwards, when she tears the guy apart and her circle jerk of enablers cackle in unison.

I have seen extreme cases where the woman went completely celibate for years out of a stubborn refusal to reevaluate her ridiculously high standards.  Virginity in a 19 year old girl is desirable, but de facto virginity in a 28 year old woman is a huge red flag.  Any woman who can go years without a good root is capable of turning down sex from her boyfriend for the flimsiest reasons.

i’m not in the mood… you’re wearing that argyle sweater again.

A woman who makes it to adulthood with a pristine pussy and her standards uncompromised should have her vagina donated to a medical museum as an example of what one looks like untouched by any penis.  Underneath would be the Latin term for the condition:

Vaginicus Unrealisticus Standardii

I have a theory why settling has become a fate worse than rape in the minds of American women.  In hunter gatherer times, when clan size was only 50 people, you’d be lucky to find just one hot girl in her prime.  The beauty scarcity meant that there was no jealousy when the hot chick hooked up with the tribal leader.  It was unremarkable.  The remaining plain janes competed over the undifferentiated swath of clanmen who ranked lower than the tribal leader.  This social dynamic helped keep women’s expectations in line with reality.  There was little pressure to snag the top dog.

Fast forward to modern society where most young women in their prime are living in giant urban enclaves of millions and hot chicks are a dime a dozen.  What do they see?  Lots of cute girls hooking up with alpha males.  Every day, everywhere.  So the average woman, who in times past would’ve been happy with the average man, now gets bombarded with visual evidence of thousands of women dating the same small pool of guys she wants, causing her expectations to balloon out of control.  She wants to keep up with the Heathers.  She asks herself why she can’t have the same thing.  She finds the thought of settling for a lesser man revolting because of the social humiliation it would entail.  If her friends are all dating doctors (sometimes the same doctor), why can’t she?  Plus, she says, look at my fancy degree and professional career!  I want that in a man so what man wouldn’t want that in me?

And so she rides the dating carousel refusing to believe that it is the disconnect between the price she puts on herself and the price her potential buyers are willing to pay that is responsible for her impressive vibrator collection.  She has lost all perspective.

This is why pumping and dumping performs a valuable public service.  With each pump and dump her oversized ego and expectations shrink, until one day the hollow shell of her washed up self falls resentfully into the arms of a waiting beta.  Or she learns to speak cat.

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Toothbrush Game

There’s always a tense moment in the bright light of the morning after a stumbling late night hookup when the girl needs to use the bathroom and you feel a rush of anxiety as you wonder what personal items you have prominently displayed on your sink.  Eyebrow tweezers?  Check.  Five different facial scrubs and masks?  Check.  An old piece of used floss with bits of debris still on it that missed the garbage can?  Check.  And the state of cleanliness of your throne.  Did you leave the seat up providing her with a glorious panoramic view of your urine and pube encrusted toilet rim?

If you intend to fully embrace the role of skirt-chaser then keeping your bathroom in order and sparkling clean with potentially embarrassing personal effects hidden from sight will have to be a daily ritual.  Having a fresh spare toothbrush is one of those priorities.  A girl will receive your appendages into her womanhood but will balk at using your toothbrush.

Me:  There’s a toothbrush on the sink for you.
Her:  Why do you have a second toothbrush?
Me:  Umm… in case I drop mine in the toilet bowl.
Her:  Do you always stand over the toilet bowl when you’re brushing your teeth?
Me:  Yes, I pee and brush at the same time.  I like to multitask.
Her:  It’s frayed.
Me:  What?
Her:  The bristles are frayed.  Who else used this?
Me:  I probably did in the middle of the night.  It’s hard to tell which is which.
Her:  I can’t brush with this.
Me:  Look, if it bothers you that much use your finger.

There’s no way around the toothbrush conundrum except to have a new brush still in its original packaging ready to go for each girl.  I don’t want to run a dentist’s office or waste a toothbrush on the mouth of a one night stand, so they get a frayed brush now.  If they protest too much at least I know I’m dealing with an anal retentive freak.

Instead of pressing the matter she gamely ignored it.  That’s all girls really need — a ridiculous excuse so they can continue loving you.

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I Can’t Make This Shit Up

There was a shitstorm recently from offended female lawyers about my post on judging a woman’s femininity, sexual adventurism and relationship-worthiness based on her job.  I was tough on a number of different kinds of careerist chicks, but it was the lawyers who took the most umbrage and came out swinging their clitdicks with a vengeance, thereby proving my point in the most satisfactory way possible.

I’ve relied on my experience dating lawyers to bring my readers valuable first-hand knowledge of their inherent afeminine bitterbitch blackened souls of ballcuttery.  Truly, female lawyers (with one, OK, maybe two, exceptions) are a special breed of succubus you will not feel the slightest bit of guilt dumping a violent fuck into and leaving before the cum has crusted up on her face.

Sometimes, though, one man’s experiences aren’t enough to convince men thinking about dating a lawyer.  So we have stories like this to hammer home the message.

 Elana and David Glatt have filed a $400,000 suit against an Upper East Side florist, charging it caused them “extreme disappointment, distress and embarrassment” on what was supposed to be the greatest day of their lives by providing the wrong-colored hydrangeas for their Aug. 11 nuptials.

[…]

“After spending nearly $30,000 and over 12 months planning the flowers for their wedding, the flowers were not even close to what plaintiffs had bargained and paid for,” the Glatts charge.

[…]

“They sent us 200, 250 e-mails changing things up until the last minute. We did everything they wanted,” [the florist] said.

[…]

The suit says that was a disastrous difference, because “colors had been specifically chosen to match the tones of the room.”

As self-parody goes, this is high art.

Leaving aside the legal issues here and the exhorbitant damages she’s seeking, just try to imagine what it would be like to pledge your lifelong devotion to a woman who would spend $30K on wedding flowers and email the florist over 200 times with updated requests for getting the arrangements just right.  Is there any man alive who, if he were in the groom’s shoes, wouldn’t feel like an afterthought at a wedding like that?  A woman who is more in love with the wedding ceremony than with the man she is marrying = classic American cunt.

I can just picture what their marriage is going to be like:

“You got the regular 3-ply?  I TOLD you to get the strawberry scented 6-ply toilet paper!  WHY can’t you do anything right??  Only the little people get chafed assholes!!!”

Here is a photo of the hell cat:

i win cases with my adam’s apple!

Look closely.  Notice the alpha male glare in her eyes, the kind of aggressive glee you normally see on the face of a used car salesman who’s just suckered you into forking over full price for a lemon.  Her clenched jaw which says she is ready to do battle, anywhere, anytime.  The severe, triple-lacquered hairstyle with not one stray strand daring to spring out of line suggesting in her a tendency to view the sex act as either a necessary annoyance on the way to getting what she wants or a stress reliever before a big day at the office crushing testicles.  And is that a power suit with shoulder pads?

In short, nothing about this woman hints at anything feminine.  She sold her yin to the devil for a gift registry of wealth and taste.  Her sense of entitlement is so bloated no man could possibly keep his dignity and satisfy her at the same time.  And she doesn’t even have the saving grace of being hot.  Which brings us to the husband.  What kind of man marries a woman like this?  The answer is in the photo:

no, really, we’re in love.

Merry douchemas!  This guy looks like he’s already pre-emptively cheating on her and high-fiving his buddies about it over beers at Scores.  I’m wishing with my mind that he’ll do to his wife what Chad did to that deaf girl in the movie “In the Company of Men” and then excuse himself from humanity and get run over by a bus.

What we have in this case study is the epitome of everything that is wrong with 21st century American womanhood.  Luckily, all indicators are that these simulacra of women are having fewer kids than their more nurturing and traditional sisters, so I expect the wave of fembots currently clawing their way through the corporate machine to eventually dwindle to irrelevant numbers.

As much as you desperately want to believe your hard work and ivy league credentials matters to your mating prospects, ladies, men don’t give a shit what you do for a living.  In fact, as this story illustrates, your high-powered career will make you less of a catch, not more.  Men compete with other men all day long; the last thing they want is to come home and lock horns with ballbusting women.  And lawyers, being the generic parasites they are, are the worst of the worst.

On a related subject, I’d like any readers to find studies, if they exist, on number of children per woman by occupation.  I’d bet good money that lawyers are less fecund than elementary school teachers.

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Bumping Into Exes

I broke my previous record for number of consecutive days bumping into a different ex each time.  I’m now at four straight days, although in the interest of accuracy one of those girls was a brief fling, making her ex status questionable.

Unfortunately, this city is not big enough to shelter me anonymously from failed relationships.  Because of the threat of ex sightings, I can now no longer leave the house without looking my absolute best.  I may soon have to hire a permanent escort with a minimum D cup to accompany me on any strolls around town so that I always have the upper hand should an ex happen by.  The lowest possible hand is to be walking alone, unshowered, and sporting three days growth stubble when you bump into the ex sharing massive PDA with her new boyfriend.  And she’s eight months pregnant.  You will cringe at the look of pity in her eyes.

Having hand is important for any ex you meet, but it’s essential when the ex was the dumper rather than the dumpee.  You never want to give an ex like that the satisfaction of thinking she made the right decision by leaving you.  There is no better way to have her doubting the wisdom of dumping you than to parade an even hotter chick in front of her.  It is an especially sweet victory when you are with your new girl and the ex is alone.  You will barely be able to contain your smirk as your ex grits her teeth, nods her head robotically, and flashes a very insincere smile.  Be sure to rub it in by dragging out the conversation as long as possible:

“yeah, great to see you, too.  hey, how’s the atkins diet working out for you so far?”

Her painful, awkward squirming will be worth every delicious second.  Take advantage of these opportunities because the fates align only a few times in your life to execute a flawless upper hand maneuver.  One good ex-girlfriend humiliation is equivalent to a lifetime Prozac prescription.

The emotional anguish of seeing an ex depends a lot on how it ended.

You Dumped Her And Did Not Feel Bad About It

Zero ex issues.  You are completely indifferent to her and will not care how you are perceived by her in the event of a chance meeting.  A totally chill and relaxed conversation ensues.  This, of course, will arouse her enough to rush home and masturbate to fond memories of you.

You Dumped Her And Felt Bad About It

Both of you will feel awkward, thus ensuring the world’s shortest conversation.  If you are with a girl and your ex is alone, you will feel really bad and act to hide your new girlfriend’s presence by physically stepping in between her and your ex.  You will also do the right thing and stop tonguing down your girlfriend long enough to spare your ex’s feelings.

The Breakup Was Mutual

1% of breakups are truly mutual.  The other 99% are painful because no matter what anyone says, one person in the equation didn’t want it to end.  Amicably mutual breakups are great because they are the only instances when the formerly sexual relationship can evolve into a fulfilling asexual friendship.  Under no other circumstances can, or should, you ever be “friends” with an ex.  Acquaintances, sure.  Friends, no.

She Dumped You And You Handled It Like A Man

While seeing your ex will cause a knot to grow in your chest, at least you will shine with the pride of knowing you walked away from the breakup with your balls fully descended.  Consequently, you will be able to manage a non-weird exchange with her.  Use this opportunity to flirt with abandon as a reminder of the long-ago sexy man she opened her heart and her vagina for.  She will win if you act like a desexualized buddy with her, so be the cocky oversexed player that you were before the relationship domesticated you and deny her that win.

She Dumped You And You Handled It Like A Mewling Beta

The worst case scenario.  You still want her, you are ashamed of your pathetic beggar’s response to the breakup, and your wounded pride demands revenge.  With the deck so egregiously stacked against you, there is little chance you will rein in your runaway emotions, constricting airway, and cotton mouth in her presence.  Only those with the most impressive state control can look the basilisk in the eye and walk away unpetrified.  Your best bet is to have fortune favor you so that your ex bumps into you while you are out with a new girl on your arm.  Note of caution:  if your new girl is uglier than your ex, you will feel like an even bigger loser than before.

To recap:

Correct impression to leave with ex

Incorrect impression to leave with ex

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Prettiness = Sense of Entitlement

There are many factors that contribute to a woman believing the world should fall in her lap (for example, being an American), but none are as important as how she perceives her looks compared to other women.  I’ve found that the prettier a girl is, the more she feels entitled to special treatment and unearned rewards.

I remember this conversation I had with a woman I had been sexing for a couple months.  She was a solid 8 and turned many heads, and more pertinently, she knew it.  I glibly brought up the subject of men paying for women on dates; she took my half-serious bait and offered her deep thoughts on the matter.

Her:  I would never date a guy who didn’t pay for me on the first few dates.
Me:  Is that a hard and fast rule?
Her:  I’m not saying he has to spend a lot on dinners or whatever, but he does need to pay for me.
Me:  Why?
Her:  Because that’s what guys do for girls they are interested in.
Me:  And what do girls do for guys they are interested in?
Her:  Give them sex!
Me:  But guys give girls they like sex, too.  Shouldn’t that be enough compensation?  It’s even steven!
Her:  That’s different.  We can get that from anywhere.
Me:  So guys have to bring twice as much to the table as girls — their sex and their money.  Sounds like a fair trade-off.
Her:  Every guy I’ve ever dated paid for me.  Why should I expect less now?

She had a point.  Why stop the gravy train?  After all, I paid for her, although I take some pride in the knowledge that I most likely invested much less monetarily in her than her previous suitors to get the same piece of ass.  It’s like finding an awesome pair of shoes at DSW for 70% discount when everyone else is paying full price — you feel like you got one over on the plebe consumers.

Clearly, pretty girls feel entitled to a man’s money in exchange for the pleasure of her company, where in this case “company” is defined to mean her ability to sit still on a bar stool or a dining chair for the date minimum of 15 minutes and hear the guy’s pitch.

Why do they have this sense of entitlement?
Because they can afford to.  Behaviors change only when there is incentive to change or disincentive to maintaining the status quo.  As far as I can tell, most guys have not abandoned the man pays paradigm, so the beat goes on and will continue to go on unless human nature changes.

Which brings us to today’s handy chart.  Here I will illustrate how a woman’s sense of entitlement varies with respect to her attractiveness.

Woman’s Hotness                    Her Sense of Entitlement
0                                    Must pay for sex with any non-homeless man;
                                      feels entitled to walk away alive from any sexual
                                      encounter.
1                                    Expects man not to call her a “dirty filthy whore”;
                                     “cuntface” is OK, though.  Doesn’t consider knifings
                                     part of foreplay.
2                                   Expects man not to shout out another woman’s
                                     name during sex or to forget her name less than
                                     10 seconds after she told him it.
3                                   Expects man to open eyes at least once during sex;
                                     also expects no less than 1.5 seconds of post-coital
                                     cuddling not necessarily face-to-face.
4                                   Thinks man should at least pay for his own drinks;
                                     she will make a polite but disingenuous move to pull
                                     money out of her purse first when the bill comes.
                                     He’ll call her bluff.
5                                  Thinks man should split the check with her, but she
                                    winds up footing the bill while he covers the tip;
                                    feels entitled to one date before getting harangued
                                    for sex.
6                                  Expects to be wined and dined at a 2 star establishment;
                                    Wants a man to hold out for two dates before prodding
                                    her vulva with inanimate objects.
7                                Expects to be treated to drinks, dinner, and a non-matinee
                                    movie;  wants the man to spend twice as much on her as
                                    she spends on him; will judge him based on which sushi
                                    restaurant he takes her to; expects him to deal with at
                                    least one of her flake fits; will not put out until he has
                                    paid for a minimum of 3 dates.
8                               Feels entitled to spend absolutely nothing on dates;
                                   becomes highly offended if man even suggests splitting
                                   bill; will regularly show up late to dates as if it is her
                                   prerogative; 4 star establishments only – accepts no
                                   substitutes; will not be picked up in a toyota camry or
                                  honda accord; expects man to perform at least
                                   three chivalrous acts; won’t put out until date six; will
                                  flake twice and expect the man to take it.
9                               Feels entitled to forget man’s name; won’t even say
                                  ‘thank you’ when man pays the bill; looks in the
                                 mirror more than she looks at her date; expects his
                                 watch to cost as much as her emu-skin purse; talks
                                 about herself incessantly except when she asks the
                                 guy about his credit limit/job title/stock portfolio;
                                 won’t accept less than $200 being spent on her on
                                 any date pre-sex; will walk out on date if man’s
                                 shoes don’t comply with fashion industry standards
                                 of the week.
10                             Will not settle for less than a first date aboard his
                                 private yacht – 50 foot+ class only; expects payment in
                                  the form of pink diamonds before putting out; feels
                                 entitled to do absolutely nothing in bed.
10+American            The federal government was invented to placate her.

Of course, what a woman expects from a man she’s dating and what actually turns her on to want to fuck the guy are two different things.  If you are an alpha male and have lived a day in your life, you know the best way to please a woman who is hard to please is… to not try hard to please her.

‘Opposite George’ comes to mind here.

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I Was an Attractive Woman for an Hour

I was standing around with Zeets at one of my favorite clubs when I was approached by a girl who immediately chatted me up.  I thought, here was an opportunity that doesn’t fall in my lap every day.

Unfortunately, the girl who opened me was fat and pig-faced.  And slightly inebriated.  Considering her beastliness, I was intrigued in a sort of scientifically curious way by her assertive demeanor and sky high self-confidence, so I didn’t blow her off right away.  A minute later her friends had joined us.  Zeets had engaged one of the friends in conversation and judging by his positive interest in her it looked like he would need my wingman duties to prevent grumpy cockblocking by the fat one.  This was my night to fall on the ammo dump.

Guys will understand what I’m about to describe.  It’s funny what happens when you are the object of an ugly woman’s affection.  You get uncomfortable at first, then annoyed that this girl presumes to think she is in your league, and finally cruel, just to be rid of her.  Now try keeping an ugly girl entertained for an hour.  It will test your patience to the limits and expose you to the risk of her thinking she has a chance with you.

So for an hour I experienced what it must feel like to be a hot girl getting hit on by a persistent beta with zero game.  And I reacted in exactly the same way a hot girl would react to a loser hitting on her.  Or like a young guy might respond to a cougar stroking his chest.

First came the questions.  She wanted to know so much about me.  I felt like I was being interrogated, so I evaded and gave her smart-alecky answers.

So what to you do?
I kick cats for fun and profit. 

She seemed to enjoy that.  The cockier I got the more she pressed.  Bad move on my part.  I switched gears and started giving her vanilla one word answers.  This seemed to work and she changed the subject to music hoping to gain more traction.

I really love the band Pussy Surrenders to Red Army.  Ever heard of them?
Yeah, they’re OK.
OMG, did you see their show last week?
Uh, you know, I listen to Celine Dion exclusively now.

Despite my strenuous effort to avoid reciprocating the rapport she so desperately tried to manufacture with me, she soldiered on.  As we were talking she was facing me directly while my body was at a 90 degree angle to hers.  I looked around at the rest of the room in between glances back at her to sustain a conversation I normally wouldn’t have.  I was literally giving her the cold shoulder.  When the mind is not racing with lust it’s easy to be keenly aware of your body language.

Next came the unsolicited compliments.  My negative body language was apparently not enough to cool her jets.  It only invited her to redouble her efforts.

You have great hair. I love your hair!
Uh, thanks.
It’s so soft.  [out of the corner of my eye I saw her hand reach up to touch my hair.  I instinctively jerked my head backwards.]
I don’t wash it.  Natural grease keeps it soft.
You’re the cutest guy in here.  No, seriously!  [my annoyance was rising.]
No, I think that guy is cuter over there.  And he’s checking you out.  You should talk to him.

Finally, the stream of unwanted flattery was over.  Only to be replaced by her touching me.  Lots of touching.
The forearm at first.
Then the hands.
The chest.
She tried to stick her hand in my jeans back pocket.
ew, ew, ew.
Out of the blue she reached up and caressed my cheek.
ew infinity.
She leaned in aggressively.  I leaned away from her.  Lean in, lean away.  I’d fall over soon at this rate.  I tensed up and closed off my body.  She stepped in closer.  I stepped away.  Step in, step away.  We were moving across the room like a dance of repelling magnets.  I actively and conspicuously checked out other girls in front of her as she talked.

She moved in to whisper something in my ear.  I jumped sideways.  We were now talking to each other from six feet apart.  This was a tolerable amount of personal space for me.

I prayed Zeets would number close soon.  I kept trying to get his attention and pass a non-verbal cue to hurry this up but he was in deep rapport with his target.  The Krakon shambled up and put her arm around my waist.  Sweet Lincoln’s mullet, get a couple of drinks in a girl and mix with a dusty vagina that hasn’t seen cock in years and it’s like standing in front of a Chinese tank — you’ll eventually get steamrolled.

Hey, you know, you should really go talk to your friends.  It’s kinda rude to ignore them like this.

I lifted her arm off me and walked away through the crowd to sit on a couch on the other side of the room.  I couldn’t take it anymore.  Zeets was on his own.  I did my part.  If she went back to her friends and messed up his game, I washed my hands of any responsibility.

My freedom wouldn’t last.  No sooner had I caught the eye of an attractive girl and prepared to make a move on her, my tormentor returned and plopped down on the couch next to me.  She scooted nearer and rested her hand on my leg.  I pushed it off.  She stared at me blankly.  Then, release.  The message got through.  She stood up and walked back to her friends, not dejected, but more like a proud but mortally wounded warrior who was forced to surrender.

Everything I said to her, and every way my body responded to her, I’ve seen hot girls do to guys they weren’t remotely interested in.  For an hour, I was that hot girl.

Minimized eye contact and looked down at my drink a lot?  Yes.
Answered questions tersely?  Yes.
No body language mirroring?  Yes.
Repositioned myself to avoid incidental physical contact?  Yes.
Got skeeved out when physical contact ocurred?  Yes.
Got progressively nastier with my comments?  Yes.
Scanned room for a savior to rescue me?  Yes.

The next step on my path to enlightenment would be to bottle the attitude I have with unattractive girls and invoke it when I’m in the company of a woman who really turns me on.  This would elevate me to the stage of playerdom where I exert very little effort to have girls working hard to win me over.

All this unpleasantness would be unnecessary if fat and ugly chicks just followed my simple words of advice:

Know your place.

It’ll make life easier for you and for everyone around you.

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Fake Tits

I kept pulling up her shirt.  She resisted.  I pulled on her pants and panties.  They came off without much fuss.  Back to the shirt.  More resistance.  She’s tugging down on her shirt while her lower half is completely naked and grinding into my crotch.  Weird.  Are the boobs really that much more precious to a woman than the pussy?  Then I discovered the answer.

Fake tits.  Super fake.  Like the kind that bumped up an A to a C.  The kind where you could see the outline of the bag along the perimeter of the boob.  Unnaturally pert.  Egregiously firm.

But the worst?  The feel.  Under clothes, fake tits look great.  Superb, even.  Parade them around the National Cathedral and be the envy of your friends and neighbors.  But naked?  Disturbing visual.  And they felt like rocks stuffed under a nipple.

Rocks.

No soft supple malleable sponginess.  Just rocks.

Such a pretty girl.

So pretty.

So flawed.

As soon as my cupped hands encountered the immoveable objects that were her breasts, I knew she would never be girlfriend worthy.

What goes through a guy’s head when he’s got a hot chick halfway home to sex and he caresses silicone under a taut drum head of flesh?

I’ll tell you what.

Don’t give too much of yourself to this girl.  Keep it superficial, just like her tits.

This is a chick who lives and dies by her beauty.  A trophy wife in training.  A girl who doesn’t mind being an accessory on the arm of a powerful man who is fucking ten other women.  A strategist.  A status whore.  A decepticon.  A cipher.

A girl who reapplies her makeup every fifteen minutes.

And I was right.

There’s room in the world for those types of women.  Just not my world.

So I offer some advice to small-boobed women.

Don’t butcher yourselves.

You look great under a sweater with augmentation.

But I’m not fucking a sweater.

And that’s what really matters.

Isn’t it?

No, it isn’t?

Goodbye.

Warning:  I wrote this drunk and post-coital at 5am.  Reconsiderations pending.  Reader beware.

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