I Worry My Mother
She claims I am a sick bastard whenever I comment that I think some girl is cute. It doesn’t matter if the girl in question is Dolly Parton or these girls. Even though I act like it doesn’t affect me I still quietly wonder to myself, “Wait, I’m a bastard?”. It’s not fun to think of your mom as being somebody’s Baby Momma (Who dat is?).
When you look at untold amounts of web pages in a day, it is impossible not to come across pictures of women that make you feel glad to be a man, a little dirty for being a man, or both.
I don’t think I am creepy, though. I mean, if you take a look at this article, I am almost a perfect male specimen. I don’t beat women, I don’t drink, and am most definitely not a workaholic. Still, I get a feeling that things won’t work out. I wonder if this girl is still looking? I was always attracted to tomboys, but it turns out that these girls tend to outgrow having fun while getting dunked on by a fat Asian in basketball or catching bullets from his laser, rocket arm. Life can be cruel.
I remember when I was in High School there was this guy who was unbelievable unattractive, yet the women flocked to him like the Salmon of Capistrano. You don’t believe me? These men exist right before our very eyes! What does this have to do with anything? Nothing, but damn if I don’t find this fact of life especially frustrating.
