Logicgui.com

I’m a sexist.

In a relationship, it is the man’s responsibility to bring home the beef and the woman’s responsibility to cook that beef. I haven’t met a single person who shares my belief.

Until last weekend when I went to Macy’s and saw this set up.

I was ecstatic. It almost brought me to tears.

Right in the middle of Appliances was a big busted, and seemingly naked, woman serving tea on a sparkly silver tray.

I am not alone after all. One of the biggest department stores in America agrees with me. Men hunt, women cook. Men job, women kitchen.

Perhaps if more Americans would adopt this way of thinking, our divorce rate wouldn’t be so high. Each partner has a defined role. No arguments over who makes more than whom or whose turn to wash the dishes. It’s that simple.

I’m not a chauvinistic pig. I’m just a guy who will now shop at Macy’s a lot more often.

We had been dating for quite some time, 7 years to be exact. She was everything I’ve ever wanted, kind, considerate, understanding. Her soft-spoken mannerism complimented finely to my capricious and often eccentric behavior. She loved me unconditionally. I reciprocated, so much that I was willing to change my career path to be with her. And I did just that.

It was a typical spring afternoon. We were tidying up my room when she discovered an old letter from Temple Dental School. I had applied to the school a few months prior and told her that I didn’t get in. She opened the old letter and began to read, “Dear Mr. L, We are honored to inform you that you have been selected into…” “You got in?” she exclaimed bewilderedly. Yes, I got in. But I turned it down. If I’ve learned anything from dating it’s that distance has an atrocious way of killing the hearts, whether it’s betrayal, lies, or simply dissolution of similitude. Hence, I could not and would not let four years, 1500 miles interfere with what we had. So I opted for pharmacy school, roughly 180 miles away. I didn’t regret the decision one bit.

On the eve of our anniversary, she surprised me with news of an internship at a big banking firm in Paris, France. She would leave at summer’s end and wanted my blessing. My heart sunk. Chivalrously I congratulated her and offered my full support. Needless to say, it was a very sad summer.

That dreaded day finally came. As she prepared to board the plane, I held her hand tightly as if hanging on for dear life. I glanced over her shoulder and saw a young couple exchanging their goodbyes. That was when I lost it. I implored her to stay. I told her my sentiment about long distance relationship. I told her I couldn’t go on pretending that it would work out anymore. I asked her to choose, “So which is it, me or Paris?”

She looked at me, with tears running down her face, and kissed me. Even now, I can still hear her footsteps on the corridor slowly treading away into the distance. She chose Paris. She chose Paris.

What does it feel like to have the one you love get away? What does it feel like to see her again after so many years, still beautiful like the first time you laid eyes on her? What does it feel like to witness a perfect proposal by her illsuited boyfriend, to force a smile of content while languishing inside, to concede to something you’re convinced a mistake, to catch the glow in her eyes when she looks at him, the same glow that once belonged to you, the same glow that constrained your heart many years ago and hasn’t let go since? And what does it feel like to walk away, knowing that from this moment on she will never be yours again, not with the faintest glimmer of hope? It must be intolerable, even only in dreams.

Finally, a female voice for us dogs. Every woman should read.

Men can’t help but stare at other women.
It’s true: They just can’t control themselves. We’re the same way when we walk by a window filled with gorgeous shoes — we have to look.

Men are big kids (and proud of it).
When you put three or more men together, they bond by yelling at the TV and being idiots to each other…There’s no point in denying guys time to release their juvenile side.

Men want us to worship them.
Most men would never admit this, but they’d like to think they’re slightly smarter than the woman they’re with. Yet they have no problem with the woman being 10 times better-looking than they are.

Men love oral sex.
Guys say the best treat a woman can give them is oral sex in the morning. Forget scones — this is his idea of breakfast in bed.

Men don’t get Valentine’s Day.
Most guys consider February 14 a “chick holiday.”

I personally find convulsive a woman who perceives the demasculinization of her man as justifiable by dragging him to the mall, by imposing a curfew on boys’ night out, or even worst prohibit it, or by taking away his football Sunday. While at it, why not put him in a dress and call him Nancy. We don’t stop you women from shopping, never say a word about your gossiping, nor do we fuss about you leaving the toilet seat DOWN after peeing. So for once, stop condemning our inner dog and let us be men.

Valentine’s Day is stupid. Stupid stupid stupid! Nevermind the fact that it’s a grossly commercialized holiday concocted by greeting card makers, teddy bear stuffers, and flower pickers to empty the pockets of ill-suited couples who are trying desperately to prolong their doomed courtships. It’s stupid because it celebrates materialism. It forces us to believe that love, happiness, and even sex can be bought with red roses, chocolate hearts, and pricey jewelries. Let’s face it, it’s not about love or romance. At least not anymore. Valentine’s Day has evolved into “come home from work with something in your hands, otherwise receive the silent treatment, the indirect glorification of Jane’s husband, wonderful Steve, or the all-night bombardment of how sweet you used to be.” Quite frankly, I am tired of all that rubbish. I am tired of Valentine’s Day. So cupid, up yours. Go poke somebody else.

Update: Apparently she disagrees.

…Nhưng đây là ngày mà chúng ta có thể biểu hiện tấm lòng của mình đặc biệt hơn mọi ngày, chiều chuộng người ấy để người ấy cảm thấy hạnh phúc hơn. Những việc làm như tặng một đóa hoa, một thẻ kẹo, hay gởi một lời nhắn…những việc đó rất nhỏ bé nhưng chúng có thể nói lên một tâm tình rất nòng nàn, một sự quan tâm đặc biệt…rằng em thật may mắn khi có anh bên cạnh.

Why is it that you can hate Christmas, you can hate Thanksgiving, but damn you if you hate Valentine’s Day! I guess I’ll be sleeping on the couch tonight!

I’m not making such a bold assertion just to convince myself of its authenticity. I have proofs.

You see, we live next to each other, my ex and I. And for the past week or so, her new boyfriend has been spending the night over there, just the two of them I suppose. Yet, being right next door, I don’t feel a thing. Not envious, not resentful, not bitter, nothing! Seeing them together on the stairs, I feel nothing. Hearing them giggle in their shower, I feel nothing. It surprises me how “nothing” I feel because generally I am quite a sentimental guy!

Surprisingly also, it took me only a week to get over her when I learned of her shameless betrayal. Now, after withstanding the ultimate “are you over your ex” test, I can assure both myself and those who know me that she is nothing but a mere figment of the past, buried in the book of time.

I mean especially if your colonial soldiers are small in numbers, with short-range missiles.

Chances are, over half of your army couldn’t survive the acid terrain. Half are too weak to bypass the barriers. And half would probably get lost and end up in the wrong fallopian desert. That leaves about 1/10 of your flagellated men who can actually undertake that long and treacherous march “laid” out before them.

Even then, only one conquering hero is fit to penetrate enemy lines. And with the strain of hostile enemies these days, that one soldier doesn’t stand a chance.

It has been suggested that “a woman’s heart is deeper than the ocean.” This alludes to the impenetrable enigma of the human emotion, an enigma that harbors secrets, that constrains thoughts, that enthralls reminisces of yesterday’s past, a past so complex that only oneself can fully grasp the hurtful consequences of its disclosure. Within the depth of that ocean lies, perhaps, an insatiable yearn for a lost love, an uncorrectable mistake not worth repeating; or perhaps therein contains deeds left undone, words left unsaid, love left unloved; or even more, perhaps it is shamefulness, in actions and in thoughts, that colors that ocean blue.

Nonetheless, woe to him whose life partner denies the very key to her heart. Wicked is she who withholds her very soul from the man she calls soulmate. And foul are you who bed in the present but sleep in the past.

The above thought stems from an event at the clinic today. As I proceeded to assess an elderly gentleman for pain management, his wife quickly shifted the conversation towards her, saying with a pleasant smile, “he is hard of hearing.” Upon querying her, I became amazed at the extensive knowledge she had about her husband, from the location, duration, and description of his pain to his thoughts, hopes, and fears. She was even able to recount his dreams, how often, how long, how severe. It’s refreshing to see love as it’s meant to be, built on trust and complete openness. He can confide in her his every thought and she in him. I only hope that I should be so lucky.