Sunday, June 12, 2005

XX vs XY

You're a guy, and it's easy. Maybe some cool jeans and a few blonde streaks in your hair (are the girls attracted to the "young" look or the "needy"—hey, either way it's covered, right?) and you're Peter Pan. Those Wendies won't be able to stay away. You're a girl, though, things are different, it's all changing so fast. You take the pills, you jazzercise, you burn the arm-fat with those strap-on wristbags of sand you once laughed out loud at when they called them "weights" on late night shop-o-vision, and you even paint on some designer jeans made from shredded diamonds and some blue gasoline they bled off of Jupiter, after which said jeans were assembled by the just-washed hands of the Archbishop of Canturbury, the entire al-Aqsa Martyrs' Brigade AND Tim Curry himself (hey, check the price tag and make your OWN assumptions about these garments, k?)—and then they come up with ROBOTS!

Which means I'm glad I'm a guy. Hey, wait up! Where's my bleach?

Reading: The French Revolution + Thomas Carlyle = going to take awhile
Listening: "Rent a wreck" + Suburban Kids With Biblical Names

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