In light of the rude and significant life upheavals a couple of my friends have gone through lately, I feel compelled to set the record straight . . . and maybe make the perps feel a little bit emasculated along the way.
I glance at my fingernails, blow on them, rub them on my bright red shirt and look at them again. It’s the universal sign of boredom. I’m not really bored, of course, I just choose to appear that way. If I look bored, you’ll think I’m not paying attention, but I am. And if I do it when I’m talking to my girlfriends, it’s probably because it’s a way-wicked conversation — or maybe we’re plotting — and I choose for you to think otherwise.
After a series of texts and e-mail messages with some of my bffs the past several days I was thinking how truly vicious we women-things are when it comes to men . . . even when we’re not wounded. We share every little (ahem) detail with each other. And, not having the One-Up-Manship gene, we tell it like it is or at least how we truly perceive it to be. If you’ve been with any of my girlfriends, I know precisely how long, how thick, how sweaty, messy, watery or sticky you are. I know how you like it, if you’re rough, fast, rhythmic and the noises you make. I know your staying power and your resilience. Yes, I know precisely how bad you are. I know a lot better than you ever will what she thinks of you and how we judge you. (http://blip.fm/~a1dip)
Having openly made this revelation and/or admission, I feel it’s reasonable to assume that the very few people (if any) who read this blog are infinitely grateful that I am not friends with the women in their lives and that they will probably subsequently make an effort to keep it that way. (Cruel chuckle goes here.) 😉
At Least They're Committed 
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