An Essay on the Female of the Species.

Girls. What the fuck? As I grow old, and unavoidably encounter the occasional Miss, a number of questions begin to form in my mind. I mean, I like girls. I understand and fully appreciate their function. I enjoy in moderation the simple joy they can take in a conversation. I find amusement in their most excellent impressions of the rear-end. But many aspects still puzzle the tits off me. No pun intended. Recently I have come to wonder, in this great world of ours, what other manner of creature can there possibly be who is scared of its own plates of meat? How far can something get when it can tolerate neither the idea nor the touching of, arguably, its most important appendage? That which to survive independently it must use on a daily basis? I feel I may be slightly more toward a person feeling self-conscious about, perhaps, an abnormality or irregular feature peculiar to a small group. But I'm talking about something that almost every single person that has ever existed in the world has, at least at some point in their lives, possessed. I dare say I've never seen a bosom in which I did not take pleasure in the viewing, but a lass being shy of these I can at least see some reasoning behind. They are after all (almost) exclusive to women, and what with social conditioning it's no wonder it's so rare to come across a person content with the physical form they inhabit. But feet are just feet, surely?

The physical form they inhabit. How many tears have been shed on this thorny issue? And if we include those of the ladies they must surely be beyond count. Such a massive proportion of the blame is so obviously attributable once again to modern culture, its media and its Photoshopped perceptions of beauty and perfection. I don't think it's even worth starting down that road, for the sake of writing a piece that somebody might finish reading. That does of course assume anybody will start to read any of this. But in a few years at least I'll have something to publish. Every other cunt with web log seems to be bloody publishing theirs. Though it does seem beneficial to orientate the writing firmly around the subject of men. I'll have a think and try later. Anyway, I digress. Ever so slightly. Er... Oh yes! How many fruitless hours have I spent in the reassurance of birds that their apearance is indeed pleasant, and that nobody is actually going to judge them for leaving the house without having been pre-edited for the cover of Cosmopolitan? How many healthy women are currently tormenting themselves with the idea of being "on a diet"? Does this not surely suck so much enjoyment from daily life? Even those not denying themselves food seem to be largely convinced that they themselves are fatter than everybody else. It really does make me sad. For my mental stability if not theirs. And have you noticed that these chicks and even those who could not possibly be any more skinny, the sort that hurt to look at them, are still unhappy with their breasts? They seem to have achieved the kind of muscular wastage dreamt of across the land, and yet they want a fatter chest.

I feel frustration growing. I feel your attention waning. I feel I must apologise for the lack of unnecessary expletives in this post. I leave thee now with one final thought on this poignant topic. Eyebrows. They grow above the eye. Hence the name. They do not, I am quite conviced, fulfill their purpose when drawn onto the forehead in pencil. Few things upset me more.

I'll try to stop thinking for next time and write you a nice sweary bit without all the questions. You didn't have to answer these ones, but I know how they put some of you on edge.

Goodnight, sexy. xxx

P.S. Do please let me know if you have ever encountered a member of the fairer sex who is either comfortable with having feet, sad to not have them, happy in her body or eats properly. Like a person. Actual meals. Whole meals. What's wrong with mushrooms? I like fish!