Prolific Immigrant

Hia!

Valentine’s Day alone? Yes, please!

As a Singleton, I am really excited about other peoples relationships, while I hang out with my mum, and same sex non romantic girlfriend.

To celebrate my excitement re everyone else’s relationship status, I have baked Valentine’s Day Cupcakes which I will share tomorrow.

With jellied hearts, see!

My intention? Everyone feels too gross to have sexing good times with their Valentines.

Do I get points for being honest?

♥ ♥ !Happy Valentine’s Day! ♥ ♥

Love,
M

These last few days have confirmed I have a fetish for male hands.

More specific, and because I have recently been witness to little wee man hands, I realize that: I have a fetish for large male hands. (#notaeuphemism)

For me, a man with wee little hands has pulled the genetic short stick.

Whereas large man hands say I will protect you and your uterus, bear down the right amount of pressure on your body, be strong, and perform regular household chores with efficiency, little wee man hands weep I might need you to cut up my steak, I will likely drop our seedling on its head, and in case of emergency please call a man with large hands.

Look. I didn’t make the rules, rather I just appreciate and respect them.

This preference is entirely and completely primal, having started the moment our daddy placed his hands on our shoulders and we were made to feel safe, to the moment that the men in our lives cupped the back of our head in one palm, and covered half of our back with the other.

Purely, totally, and unequivocally: Base primal instinct.

If you’d like to pop psychologise this a little further before you head out on your Friday evening, recall that whereas troops of male baboons are drawn to the physical body parts of the female, the female is in fact drawn to what we call the Alpha Male, with characteristics: leadership, confidence, dominance, and humour (the ability of a man not taking himself seriously is characterized as “alpha” because when one is truly confident, one can handle self-deprecation).

Although some argue that we have “evolved,” the reality is that the root of these characteristics are entirely physical. In hunter / gatherer societies, the Alpha becomes as such primarily through physical strength. Little man hands might be great in some instances (like crochet work), but do not lend themselves to the requisite strength of hunting with brute force tempered within strategy (required to maintain your status as leadership).

To recap…

Large man hands: Good.
Wee man hands: good for some things, but I don’t want them touching me because they’ll feel like a spider and I will get goosebumps for all of the wrong reasons, though I am sure you are a lovely man and would make a lovely friend.

Ladies: Am I right?

Very often, women are pitted against one another, so many represented as not being “a girl’s girl.” You know these women, we all know at least one woman around whom we are uncomfortable when they get too drunk and start show-boating for male attention. The woman who would justify sleeping with the man on whom you are crushing because “it’s not like he was into her, and why shouldn’t I? If I avoided every man who every one of my friends liked…, there’d only be 30 billion more…”

You know her. And she turns your stomach. And you should pity her because usually, her self worth rests entirely in the realm of how men react to her. And woah is her when her looks shift.

Listen. I too need attention from men. When I don’t even know I need it, and I suddenly get it, I would be a lying liar who lies were I to lie: It doesn’t affect me, I don’t even notice it. And when it’s from a boy I actually like, even better. I am overrun with a hysteria that amounts to a mass email / text to all of my female friends, and where my phone is broken, I will send smoke signals that HE SMILED AND SAID HI AND DO YOU THINK MY OUTFIT IS OKAY, SMOKE SIGNAL LOOKS A LITTLE BLOATED, etc.

But for a normal healthy woman with her self-esteem recipe in good shape, this comes in measured doses. It is not a daily thing, but rather a once in a while thing. Our self-worth is composite of an awareness of what we bring to the human table, rather than what we bring to — specifically — the male table.

That girl mentioned above, contrary to what media keeps trying to shove into my head, is not the norm. Or maybe I have just been blessed with most of the women in my life. (And I hope that you are, too.) She is not the norm.

The norm is women who love one another deeply.
Women who love one another even when we want to punch the other one in her stupidity.
Women who support one another when there is nothing left to say, but only the deepest most heart stopping pain to manage.
Women who tell one another that they are better, that they deserve better, that they can do better, that they will do better, and that they don’t have to show their boobs to get there. But if they did, “then I’ll help you get the right bra, but I would just like to raise my hand and say that I don’t think you need to show your boobs to get this. Let’s go shopping! I love you.”

That is the norm; these women, are the norm.
And if you don’t know these women, then you need to seek them out, to learn from them, and to become one of them. Trust that they will enrich your life, as they do mine.

All of the above to say, please read this article by Emily Rapp, an ode to the beauty and power of female friendship, the love story that all too often goes unsung. A snippet: I was that desperate mother now; it was my baby who was going to die, and soon. It was already too late. I literally could not bear it. I asked for help and I got it. My friends stood with me in the middle of the scary, sky-howling road I was on, knowing they couldn’t take away the pain of the experience, but promising to be there when I emerged on the other side of the grief tunnel when my child would be gone. I feel them, every day, standing there as I stumble through the blissful, heart-breaking hours with my son whose brain and body fail him a little bit more each day. It is not an exaggeration to say that I would not have survived – that I will not survive — without my women friends.

Share it with the women you respect and hold dear. Share it with your daughters to lead by example, and to remind them that their strength is not in how men react to them, but also — if not more importantly — in how women who know them, are women who respect and love them.

Thank you for your friendship.

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**As balance to the earlier article about when to pull support from friends, this is a necessity.

Is one of my favourite questions to field.

When was the last time this question was put to a man? Think about that for second…

Right. That’s what I thought.

Where etiquette is concerned, this is a rude question and it’s not yours to ask, you ignorant hysterical interloper.

Please. Let’s not confuse the question with the statement. From those who love us and hold us in warm and cushioned places, it’s never ever a Question, but rather, it is a statement. Like, “I just honestly can’t begin to understand how it is that someone as amazing as you is single.”

I say this all of the time to my girlfriends. And I mean it every single time I say it.

For clarity: to ask them why they are single is in fact my asking them to (1) justify their single status; and then, (2) to expound on the real root of the Q, which is: what’s wrong with you that no one has gone near you yet? (I.e. what is/are your flaw/s?)

I will be the first to recognize that this is a highly sensitive matter. Sensitive enough that I have thought about it to the point of needing to write about it. Trust me: I am not immune to the tone of this Question. Every time I face it, I think love of God, haven’t you read Bridget Jones’s Diary?, before offering my standard completely and totally serious response: “I have a tail.”

1% of the time, this elicits a laugh. 99% of the time, people genuinely look surprised, and curious because if they’re dumb enough to pose the question, they are not smart enough to catch the humour of my response. To the 99%, I usually follow up with a “why are you not single?” posed in the same tone, intended to mean what’s so special about you?

It’s one of the very few situations in which I allow myself to be completely rude (with guilt-free enjoyment and abandon).

Like that one time:
“Why are you single?”
“I have a tail!”
“What do you mean?”
“Well. It’s small. Fleshy. Makes a squeaking noise every time I sit down.”
“Really?!”
“So. You’re married?!”
“YES! With children! You’re never completely a woman until…”
“Yes. I can tell you’ve had children. Extra weight around your tummy looks so cozy!** Tee-hee.”

(Look. I’ve never pretended to be an angel, so chill.)

The reality is there are a million reasons why someone is single, ranging from not meeting the right person, to not having the inclination, to not giving enough of a shit to actually put in the effort. No matter the reason, you, Interloper, will not receive a satisfactory answer, because there is no right answer to this question.

All that will happen is that the smart person to whom you put the Q will think you an idiot.

Bottom line is that the smartest men and women I have met, have never put this question to me, and the men and women who have, have always eventually proven themselves simpletons.

To conclude: Kindly take the above advice with you into the new year.

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**To my beautiful sisters who have had children. Don’t take this personally. Knowing your fierceness, you would have just punched her in her Mommy and not allowed me to interact further. Trust.

“Since masculinity is defined through separation while femininity is defined through attachment, male gender identity is threatened by intimacy while female gender identity is threatened by separation.” -Gilligan

Women are defined through attachment.

Yesterday, I wrote that there is this thing which weighs me down. And yesterday, this very thing crushed me. This is something that happens from time to time, only yesterday was the first time I chose to write about it. Always and unequivocally, it is triggered by a conversation about marriage with my family. The last time it happened, I didn’t write about it, and instead spent eight days, evenings in bed falling asleep at 8pm. I promised myself I would never let that happen again, because my life is so f/cking blessed as is without a man and a stretched uterus and what a luxury that this is what depresses me, right?

Now. Because it is only when I understand things that I can put them to rest, and because I understand things best after I have written about them, I put fingers to keyboard and wrote about it.

Subsequently, I was overwhelmed by the love that people chucked at my head, and the incredible amount of women whose private messages amounted to shared war stories: “I hear you. I understand you. I too have had to fight this battle,” and also to the slightly more hysterical ones who wrote: “I hear you. I understand you. PLEASE DON’T GET MARRIED BECAUSE OH MY GOD I WANT YOUR LIFE AND TRUST ME YOU DON’T WANT MINE!!!!”

Two particular shout outs: First to SW who sent me statistical information on how most women who are murdered, are murdered at the hands of their spouses. Second, to JJ who very clearly hates her own children, and managed to make this hatred hilarious.

The bottom line is, I am relatively accomplished.

Measured by the same stick used to measure a successful man:
an excellent job and publications,
an exceptional higher education in an extremely difficult M.A. program,
property,
savings,
etc
I am well beyond accomplished.

Measured by the same stick used to measure a successful female:
wife,
mother
I am not so accomplished.

Couple the above measurements with my culture (not to be confused with my Faith), which says that completing our Faith is half of our deen (religion). Said another way: If unmarried, you are incomplete.

Here’s the reality: Islam does not discriminate.
And because I am a Believer, and God knows best, there is no way in hell that God would create such a discriminatory hierarchy within Islam, because Islam is the un-gendered discourse. There is the male, there is the female, and then there is the divine which is genderless.

In fact, there are 99 names of Allah, and the one to which Muslims refer to most, is al-Rahman (the most merciful), within which is rahm (womb). Reflect on that for a second, then get back to me.

To discriminate means to sideline and marginalize those of us who — for whatever reason — have not yet been married, or who never get married. And this is not my Faith.

And if the above logic isn’t enough for you…then how about…
Those who get married and then abuse their partners?
Or those who get married and then cheat but never get found out?
Or those who get married and then divorced and never marry again?
Have they completed their deen more so than those who simply never get married?

The f/ck it does.

As to the “science” which places all women at a disadvantage sooner or later, then to you I send a big fat hey! Remember the time you thought the earth was flat? Or the time you proved that “white people” were better? Or when you were adamant about the classical elemental theory? Or that time you believed ether was a carrier of light waves and radio waves?

One last time: Allah does not discriminate, and on any day, I will gladly take on anyone who speaks to the contrary.

Society however? Men and women will gladly create such a hierarchy, if only to make themselves feel better, while making others feel less. And men, as has been proved time and again, will decry it as their fitrah to shun the women with whom they are most compatible for those whose t/ts sit higher. But God, my God, the God who does not discriminate, and the God who does not favour one gender above another? He would never.

Those of you who believe that He would, then you need to re-situate and re-evaluate. And you need to ask yourself what part of your nafs it is that your perspective feeds, because my guess is it ain’t your piety.

So on most days I believe that, and I internalize it at a much louder frequency than the other side of that coin. But yesterday, the other side took my feet right out from beneath me.

Usually, unlike yesterday, and because I do believe that Allah knows best, I believe that whatever He has in store for me, it will be precisely so that I might reach my full potential. And the reality is, that my full potential may have absolutely nothing to do with marriage or having a child.

To be even more frank, looking at nine out of ten couples around me (Muslim, Arab, and not), on most days, I am pretty relieved I am not married. Because men? Well…they’re not all they’re cracked up to be when they perceive a woman disrespectfully as their property. And I would hazard that less than 5% of all men carry women in their hearts as Allah intended and instructed.

I wanted you to know this, because so many of you are worried about me. And though I was desperately sad yesterday, I am like one of those Bozo the Clown inflatable bop toys, filled with enough air to bounce back harder and faster than most. Only, I am prettier. Obviously.

Thank you.
Love you.
Owe you.

This morning, I woke up an underachiever.
Who still has not accomplished much of anything worth discussing or worth feeling good about.

This morning, I woke up worthless.
A useless bit of space not contributing to anything, or adding any sort of value to the lives of those around me or to my own life.

This morning, feeling like sh/t, I walked to work wiping tears, and catching my breath and repeating over and over and over “Allah knows best.”

And this morning, I thought about how I every day fight to live my life doing good and being good and respecting the rules and living within a toxic-free heart, and I do it out of nothing more than a love for Allah. And when I fail, it is because I am short on strength, not because He is ever short on Love and Guidance.

And this morning, I woke up confused by those who have not lived well and yet, they have been graced with the one thing — the only thing — I wish to have.
Because Allah knows best.

And this morning, I woke up thinking about that one time my cousin told me that women who don’t have children? Something changes in the composition of their brain. That they’re not “normal.”
Because Allah knows best.

And this morning, I woke up thinking about the biological imperative that men wave around: That they are naturally built to be attracted to young women.
Because Allah knows best.

And this morning, I woke up thinking about the fact that I have loved wrong but at the right time, and loved right but at the wrong time.
Because Allah knows best.

And this morning, I woke up thinking about all of the times I have been told don’t laugh so loud, have less of an opinion, pretend you don’t know, don’t argue even if he’s wrong, be less of what you are, look to the floor, do not aspire, stop at a Masters degree. Because most of the men of my culture? They do not like these things in women.
Because Allah knows best.

And this morning, I woke up thinking how everything above culminates into one single reality: That I have not yet found a partner with whom to play scrabble. And because I do not want a man of my culture, but rather a man of culture, because the men of my culture have made me feel less, too old, too strong, too opinionated, too Western, too this and too that, then this must mean I do not really and truly cross my heart and hope to die want to find my scrabble partner.
Because Allah knows best.

And this morning, I woke up recalling the advice that I should just get married, get pregnant and who cares about the rest? Because there are only two measures to successful living: A partner in my bed, and a used uterus.
Because Allah knows best.

And this morning, I woke up fighting all that I hate and all that I have internalized, thinking how I carry a weight so heavy that it crushes me on days like this, and on top of my own expectations I must also bear the weight of the expectations of my family because I need to be crushed a little more.
But Allah knows best.

Because Allah knows best.
Because Allah knows best.
Because Allah knows best.

So this morning I woke up battling myself, half as written above and half encased in “Allah knows best,” a suit of armour, a mantra of internalized glue to hold me together.
AlhamduliLah.

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The follow up article to the above is: Alright Bein’ The Single Non-White Female. (Trust.)

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Photo from employscoop(dot)com.

Once upon a time, an Arabic family was scared I was going to use my feminine wiles to steal their son right from underneath their noses. Scared because I was the daughter of divorce, and well…you know what that means. After this gent and I met, and clearly hit it off, his mother took it upon her self to call my family at the crack of dawn the next morning and tell us that they had the perfect man for me. He was the son of divorced parents. We’d have a lot to talk about.

Once upon a time, a lovely Arabic man professed his care for me. He was a few years younger and he was wonderful (still is). When he told his family he wanted to marry me, his mother and sister — then someone I considered among my dearest friends — told him I was too strong for him and too old. So his sister contacted me a few weeks later to tell me she had the perfect man for me. He was approximately 20 years my senior. She remains blocked on Face book, her and her laughably pathetic and backward ways.

Once upon a time, an Arabic fella aged 28 to my then 30, asked me if I had ever been in love. Because he hadn’t. Because that was a sin. His follow up question was: Have I ever kissed a boy. With tongue. (Are you screaming? Because I still am.)

Once upon a time, an Arabic man aged 34 asked me if I was a virgin. Because he was. Even though he had never been single. And I really can’t wait to play Blind Leading The Blind.

Once upon a time, an Arabic dude put in an order for a beautiful woman, with a higher education and good morals. He was sent my way to tell me that he wanted me to marry him so that we could move to Saudi where I would then take care of his ailing parents, hang my diploma and “just be smart” while having “smart babies.” Also, I’d have time to maintain my looks, Thanks God.

Once upon a time, right after Uni, an Arabic Muslim fella formerly married to a Christian American fem asked me if I had ever had a teenie tiny smallest sip of alcohol. When I told him I had, he shook his head, huffed and puffed and said “we’ll talk about that later!”

HA HA HA HA!!!!!

Once upon a time, an Arabic fella with whom I was coffee-ing for the first time, showed up 30 minutes late because he was too busy “gaming” and his right hand hurt. When I refused to see him a second time, he had his momma call my momma to ask me out on a date. Also, to tell my momma that he wanted to live in his room, in his parents house, with me.

Once upon a time, an Arabic fella asked me if I was comfortable in the same room as men. When I said “uhm. Yes?!” he said “I seeeeee,” DUN DUN DUN DUUUUUN!!

Once upon a time, a Sheikh from Montreal called me because he was told I would be a good match. I don’t know, either, dear reader. But he was pretty much letting it rip in Arabic and I was terrified and he kept calling back while I would hang up and ask him to please not call again and then my mother finally came home to find me in tears. Way to be pious, brother.

Once upon a time, a man asked me if I stuffed (“bti7shi?” in Arabic). When I asked “whaaaaaat?” he responded with “like, grape leaves, and carrots, and eggplant?”

Once upon a time, a boy was after me for years, but I didn’t much like him, because al-ma7abba is from Allah. When I finally accepted to go out for that one coffee, against my own sense of taste and comfort, he decided to clarify — for my benefit so that I would not be hurt — that he was “just browsing.”

And that’s just the tip of the iceberg.

Once upon a time, there was a single girl who never shared her stories, instead burying them deep inside because she always wondered what was it about her that made her single. Until she realized that it wasn’t her, but rather Allah getting rid of all of the riff raff to make more room for the right bloke. InshAllah.

ALEX O’LOUGHLIN!! CALL ME!!

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Photo courtesy of CORBIS.

I have known some women who — while in the throes of preparing for their weddings — have praying mantis’d their partners.

I have never been a fan of weddings. In fact, I am among the few women who loathe weddings.

As a little girl, I imagined crossing the world with a partner in adventure; I did not imagine a wedding, but rather being a part of a team. I imagined calling my parents with the great news, and then assuring them I was not pregnant as response, that I had in fact waited until marriage to get down.

Truth be told, I have never been drawn to wedding dresses either, though maybe the tiara (which, I mean, I could wear anywhere). When I thought of partnering, I thought not of the wedding, but rather of the beautiful man who gets my mind and wants to raise babies with our shared value system while we make one another laugh. Occasionally we fight, and then he apologises. Obviously.

That said, I have always wanted a ring. I have always wanted that plain boring traditional gold band. Which I love so much, and which I have always wanted to see on my hand, knowing that it is from a man who has chosen me to be his booty call for life, because that’s just the kind of romantic ideal to which I aspire.

But then recently, my world was dislodged.
B informed me that the ring situation? It is not a Muslim tradition.
My father confirmed this, and then laughed when I became visibly upset.
In fact, really very devout Muslims do not wear bands.
(CATHOLICS!! CALL ME!! (I am totes single, and I heart Jesus (blessings and peace be upon him).)

Listen, I know what you’re going to say, that just because it is a Christian tradition, it doesn’t mean we can’t adopt it. And we have, in fact.
But I am still stressed out entirely by this news, because I can not un-know it, now that I know it.
It’s not a sin; so it’s not like if I request a ring, I will burn in hell. But still, this really upset me.

I can not explain to you the ‘why’ of it, only to say that now that I know it is not a part of Muslim tradition, I feel dumb for wanting it. I feel foolish in my hope for a little slim gold band given to me by my partner, and I can not get over this impasse, because I want to carry something tangible from my man. I want to always have something on me, an anchor if you will, which grounds me to the man who calls me his woman. That may sound Neanderthal to some, but this is a solid want in me, one of the few physical things I have ever consciously wanted, in fact. And trust me, I am not a “wanter,” I have never been a big consumer, opting instead for experiences rather than things. But this? This is different.

And it may have to do with my parents being divorced. Before which, my father gave my mother a little golden ring with a heart on it, inscribed on the inside was that he loved her. This ring she gave to me after the divorce, and I wear it on a chain around my neck; a chain which is never removed, a chain on which there is one other ring and Allah. For the longest time, I wore this ring hoping that one day I would be able to give it back to my mum.

Even though their marriage has dissolved fully, and even though there will never ever be reconciliation between them and I will never be able to hand this ring back to her, the ring still represents something extremely visceral and tangible to me, the daughter of this divorce. Bottom line is, at one point, this ring was real, and so were the sentiments inscribed within.

Although perhaps? Perhaps I should aim for a date with a man before I start worrying about the specifics of what he will / will not let my infantile side have so that she may not pout every time she looks down at her left NUDE hand. And we all know — nudity in public is haraam.

Boo.
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Photo courtesy of the brilliant Cathy Thorne, who gave the world Everyday People Cartoons — Cartoons about women, and the people who love and annoy them.

Y’all remember S? He’s been MIA for some time because he’s finishing his screenplay. Though S has been working a great deal on his writing, I am humbled that he still finds the time to pop in here for the occasional quickie read. (Hi S!)

In an email he sent, he asked: PS — I do, however, have one question: When a woman lists “protection” as a prime attraction attribute she looks for in a man, what the heck does that mean? Protection from what? Wind? Rain? Roving packs of dingos? Great White sharks? Bonks on the head? Do women really feel so unsafe they prize a bodyguard above all else?

…so below, I answer the above.

It’s not that I feel unsafe (at least not here in North America where I don’t have to worry about rape as genocide and my man murdered due to his chosen religion) or actually need protection. It’s more that I want to make certain the man I’m with would – should the occasion arise – be capable of protecting me both physically and where exercising his brain happens.

This doesn’t mean I can’t protect myself (though in some instances it most definitely does), nor does it mean that I would not protect myself should the need arise. It also doesn’t mean I can’t speak for myself or stand up for myself; but rather, it does mean that I believe he should afford better physical protection and equal mental faculties as well (as the ‘metaphorical’ bloody knuckle is equally an exercise in fierce intelligence).

Ultimately, I like me a fearless, and aggressive man, both in mind and physicality.

In return, there are things which he could find inside himself (to a degree), but are better received from me. For me equality does not mean ‘sameness’, but rather, recognition that the differences inherent in both must be equally valued and revered.

The best way to explain this is to reference two of my favourite movies, the quintessential chick flicks: Fight Club, and Gladiator.

The former rips into the notion that men live in gyms and sculpt their bodies for the aesthetic (read: Mr. Universe) rather than out of necessity (read: war & hunting), and that this changes the very nature of masculinity. In the later, Crowe’s character embodies all of the characteristics I look for in a man. Especially the short skirts.

As we don’t live in the age of Maximus, I find that I lean toward the aggression of Tyler (who > had he lived in the time of Maximus, would have been a less romantic version of).

Tyler Durden is the anti-Metrosexual. I thought I used to dig the Metrosexual, until I was placed in some situations where the Metrosexual proved himself the Superpansy. The Tyler Durdens of this world are primal and aggressive and they bleed and they don’t manicure their nails (though they do keep them short and clean).

When faced with challenge and fear, they are anything but scared…which, I think, is a rare quality these days because it seems that nothing is easier and more pedestrian than a man on the run.

As an aside and beyond the above, let me get to the nitty gritty of Tyler Durden. As basic instinct dictates, Tyler seems to possess both incarnations of swaggering rightfully-cocky sex-bomb & animal. Keeping in mind that I think Brad Pitt’s kind’a ugly, the swagger which his character carries in the film is based in both his intelligence and his physical ability.

On a personal note, I’ve only ever met two men who fit the above profile(s). They are the archetypical alpha males and always, there is an aggression that sits right beneath the surface and in to which they could tap (and both have) should they need to.

Many women like the soft-spoken and tortured soul, someone I got over when I was 22. I prefer the guy that’s metaphorically spitting blood and with knuckles ripped, defying and challenging anything which stands between him and what he wants, between him and what he stands for.

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A variation of the above was originally published: 06/03/21.

I was recently going through a friend’s bookshelf and among a deeply disturbing volume of this genre’s nonsense, I stumbled upon: Why Men Marry Bitches: A woman’s guide to winning her man’s heart.

I paused.
Took a very deep breath, and proceeded, because I am a masochist.

Meet the two caricatured genders within the book:

A: Men are one-dimensional insecure creatures who will never be honest with a female and who only react to mistreatment and game-playing.

The proof is in the pudding:
1) Men are manipulative even though they don’t really know what they want. Case in point: Men like a good cook in the kitchen. You can feign being a good cook by buying a lot of pots and pans and always leaving them out. He’ll marry you and he’ll never notice that you can’t cook. Instead he’ll start cooking, because he is an idiot who can’t see or deduce past his own nose.

2) Men are simple and only need the following: sexual escapades in the bedroom (and please do not tell him the truth about your past. And if the ‘truth’ is in fact…true…then he won’t believe you anyway. A 36 year old virgin? WHO ARE YOU KIDDING?)

3) Men are disrespectful and must be ‘put in line’ by your glorious ‘bitchiness’. When this happens, you will then be able to change the true nature of the man , turning him into a pussy because that’s what he secretly wants.

4) Men are not honest and are mean-spirited so you must always be on the alert for such behaviour and you must always be able to ‘give as good as you get’. This is called ‘information gathering’ and it is called ‘being sassy’. Please don’t be direct and ask him if something’s up – instead, play games. Better still, go to Hawaii for a weekend of fun in the sun with your girlfriends and feed off of one anothers’ unbelievable pathetic-ness.

5) Always take a man at his word. I love that you’re too dumb to notice that this is one of the many blatant and opposing viewpoints within this book.

6) Men are weak and on this weakness one must play in order to hook and sink said ‘man’; this is the true nature of ‘love and marriage’.

7) Men only want a ‘fun’ girl so never show him your ability to bring down the hammer when necessary; don’t ever have a difficult moment, just be ‘fun’. Furthermore, you must refrain from behaving “emotionally”, since that is your weakness, Female. Finally, please remember that it is in Male nature to be difficult and when that happens, accept it and roll with it while you place a beer in the fridge for him. Give him time to cool off; he will respect your level headed response because he doesn’t expect that from a female. (Sub-section to point 7: Always keep him guessing!)

B: Women are one-dimensional insecure creatures who are not allowed to be engaging, passionate, honest and real. Instead, they must only be reactionary and strategic in their approach to ‘the man they love’ (because when you’re in love with a man, your natural female instinct is to be a ‘bitch’; don’t fight it because it’s inbred since Eve).

Generally, a female must:
Play games.
Manipulate.
Lie.
React.
Entrap.
View men as both the enemy, as well as prey.
Believe that Dolly Parton, she of the unnatural body and face, is a role model to which one must aspire.

Specifically, a female must:
Never tell a man she misses him (or risk being a downer and needy).

Stroke the man’s ego by saying things such as ‘I feel safe with you’ – don’t worry about the truth or merit of that statement. He’s stupid enough to never see through your games. You are brilliant; pat yourself on the back.

Never tell a man you like him. Make sure he says it first, and then that way you will be the one who has control and power over him, rather than the other way around (because there’s no room for equality between a male and female, most especially not in a relationship. Remember: You’re at war, so keep your eye on the ball: INSEMINATION!).

Always remember that every action he takes is about you, and you must react accordingly. While you’re at it, please ask him to reiterate his fondness of you by constantly providing you with reassurance that you’re The One…just like in The Matrix.

Important! NEVER ASK A DIRECT QUESTION. (Or maybe I’ve already mentioned that?)

Critically, a female must:
Never tell a man she likes him, finds him interesting or is looking forward to learning more about him.
Just don’t do anything that would be engaging. Instead, let him do the work because that is the only way he will appreciate you.

Because he, in the same fashion as you, is a mindless insecure freak of nature.
Because he, just as you, is a fkn incompetent socially inept individual.
Because he, just as you, likely spends all of his time fixating on everyone else’s actions and trying to then react to said actions…
Because. Because. Because it is easier to follow and to react than it is to possess confidence…know what you want…and make a point of going for it.

After all, who needs self respect and honesty when one can play games?

Glaring Aporia Within The Plot
The premise of this book is to ‘make yourself gone’ and know that ‘you don’t need to be married to be okay’; to have a full life is when you will ‘make him chase you…until you catch him’.

Which begs the question: If you have a full life and don’t need marriage to feel complete, then why are you buying a book that is all about entrapping a man? Because last I checked, you don’t eat a cupcake to reduce the size of your ass, and you don’t go to the gym, to thicken that same ass. And you most definitely do not purchase a book about entrapping men if you’re not interested in said fkn entrapment…unless, of course, you are in fact a degenerate who believes that 2 + 2 = 17.

Curtain Called
Set aside the above blather and the glassy-eyed nature of the caricatured genders about which this book was written.

Clean your palette and pay very close attention to the following, please…

The only ‘rules’ you need (and this only pertains to the truly confident among you – male and female) are: A quality individual who is worth paying attention to and one worth engaging with will never be entrapped. More importantly, they will see right through the game playing (and if they didn’t, would you want to be with someone so stupid, anyway?).

A quality individual will never think you’ve called too many times or said too much or been too honest. A quality individual will be honest and will expect honesty, and if they can’t handle either, then you will find someone who can take you for all of you. (This should not, by any stretch of the imagination, be misunderstood as a green light for either the male or female to be psychotic; You can love and be loved and respect one anothers’ borders. In fact, this may be the only way to love.)

Specifically, to women, let me say that in your efforts to be ‘strong’, you do not need to be an asshole and you most definitely do not need to be disengaged from the man who has peeked your interest because trust me when I tell you that it takes a strong woman to be weak in the right man’s arms. And if anyone tells you that wanting someone is a form of weakness, then you’re speaking with a needy individual and neediness is a far cry from wanting.

Though you’re a smart bunch, let me clarify: Wanting someone amounts to a realization that they are, indeed, someone who brings added value to your life. Wanting someone is extending a warm set of arms to a person because you wish to do so. Needing someone is because you feel incomplete alone; unfortunately, if you feel incomplete alone, no one will ever be able to fill that gap, marriage or otherwise. (Essentially: Loners are sexy for this very distinction, as they fall into the former category.)

Finally, I will say that being strong is not being a bitch. What it is is a clear awareness of the person that you are and what you bring to the table. No one can touch or shake that if it’s solid within your own mind. Period.

Unlike the bile spewed by such books, the reality is that both men and woman are emotional creatures. The reality is that both men and women have their own brand of crazy; the nuanced approach is to learn about the crazy, embrace the crazy, don’t try to change the fkn crazy, and let the crazy run its course when it needs to. And love and respect your partner all the same, if not more.

All of the above to say: Please stop perceiving the opposite (or same, or either) sex as the enemy. The sisters will thank you, as will the boy bands.

“Love” is not a word alone, but rather it is one composite of respect, honour, mercy, gentleness, kindness, and unconditional grace. Live accordingly and believe in your partner, always.