I'm a Woman Get Me Outta Here

I am done with being a girl. I want out. Who do I need to talk to? Who votes and subsequently, who do I have make an alliance with to get voted off the island, out the Big Sister(Brother) house. Seriously.

It has come to my attention on several occasions this week that boys have it easier. Well attractive boys, well now apparently even 3's have it easier! I already halfway think the way guys do anyway, even when I don't try. I got slammed on a blog comments section this week because my words seem to portray dude rather than dudette (I miss that word) status. Damn internet. I think there's something wrong with me and here's what it is: I shouldn't be a girl. Here's why:

Heels. I love heels. I adore how they make my long legs look. I am obsessed with a pair of red, suede Louboutins that shout my name from department store windows. I love them so much that I can't help but wear them all the time. I refuse to wear flats and change into my shoes when I get to my destination. That looks gross, like an early 90s working woman ad. No. Not doing it. So I suffer through the agony. I buy inserts and Clouds designed to make it feel like I'm walking on air. Instead by nights end, I feel like I've been walking on a bed of rabies- infected piranha teeth. I have closets stuffed to the gills, rent unpaid, and I spend my winter nights crouched in front of my oven because I have no heat. All for heels!

Feelings. Emotions are a f*cked up short end of a splintered stick. It's like God said: Men, you shall be eternal pricks, feeling nothing until you feel so much you drive women insane. But ladies, oh, you get to feel insane all the time. Every single thing that happens to you will elicit such raw, utter emotion you won't know how to cope. Some of you will repeatedly run over your cheating husbands and later claim emotional insanity. And once a month, you will go completely out of your mind and you won't understand it, but stay the course, around 50, I'll make it all go away. But then you'll be old and you won't even enjoy it. Sorry. But men, what whaaaat? Where my men at?!!

Men. I figured, while we're at it, might as well get this one out the way. Men are perhaps a women's biggest blessing and biggest curse. And since the curse usually outweighs the blessing, we'll say on a whole they ruin everything. They make us smile only to turn around and make us cry (which we can't friggin control because of the aforementioned raw, utter emotions). They come into our worlds and give us the best sex ever and then take it away. Well, okay, maybe they're for more than just sex, fine, but whatever it is, they get us addicted and take it away. And we have no say. Women eternally have to let it go, suck it up. Can't say anything otherwise everyone thinks you're a crazy bitch who's two seconds away from standing outside his door in the pouring rain with a ginsu knife (never have I ever done that). Say he's an awesome chef. Say you date a guy who literally went to the Culinary Institute of (insert city here). Each night you come home to amazing, yummy, fattening meals that rival any of those ritards on Top Chef Masters. You are addicted. And he does the dishes! And he d*cks you down. Twice! Then you break up. Now, you're alone, completely horny, and twenty pounds over weight, while he's probably already moved on because he doesn't have any of those raw, utter emotions. I guess the upside is that since your culinary skills produce items that taste more like tree bark with a manure glaze, you'll lose the weight fast from starvation. Collins party of one...

Children. It is no secret how I feel about kids. They're cool, but I'm not ready to give up my entire life and selfish behavior to house one in my body so I can get fat and then have some ungrateful heathen come out, screaming and throwing up all over my red, suede Louboutins, which I probably haven't worn since 'Nam because I have no social life because I've been pregnant for 9 months and my cankles won't allow it. And don't come at me with, a women's work is to procreate, look at how beautiful the gift of life is. No! No! No! Give that gift to a man, let him hold it for 9 months. I bet he'll be looking for the receipt after a week to return that mug. Furthermore, after having a conversation with my best boy friend, we came to the conclusion that black women don't get married. They get knocked up. White women get married and have kids. Even if they all end up divorced, they don't just get pregnant like it's grabbing some eggs from the market. I'm gonna get killed for that statement, and I know it's a HUGE generalization. But make a list. Go ahead, pull out some paper, open a new document and make two lists. List A: the number of white friends you know that are mothers out of wedlock. List B: the same but with black women. Here we go again! Short end of the pregnancy test stick that you pee on. But make no mistake, it's everyone's fault. Chicks for lying down sans condom, claiming you're on the pill even though you forgot to take it Wednesday, not running to the nearest Duane Reade to get yourself Plan B the next day, and then having the baby with the hope that ol' Man-Man from the block, who has seven kids by 3 girls but is STILL the man, will step up to the plate. Wrong. Wow, I just went on a complete and utter tangent. My bad. I should've written a separate blog about that whole saga. Twilight.

Boobs. If you're still reading after my last outburst, appreciate it. Sometimes I have them. Anyway, boobs. Breasts seem like bags of fun, but between bra shopping, exercising, the swollness that comes once a month, and the inevitable sag, breasts are about as fun as it was for a female to watch Drake's Best I Ever Had video.

Double Standards. On the opposing end of our splintered, short ended stick are double standards. We can't do anything guys can do and when we do, we are immediately slapped on both sides of our faces then slammed into a vice where some guy cranks it until you scream out:I am a docile woman! Hear me roar...quietly, as not to disturb anyone. Hate it. It sucks donkey balls. I don't care about the meaning of life or where the fountain of youth is. I want to know this ONE thing before I check out of here: Why is it okay for a man to have sex every single day of the week, with a different girl every night (and never call a single one again), but let a chick do the same, and she's standing on the corner of Ho Street and Slutbag Avenue?

That dude stole my life,

xoxo

Blackie Collins