It’s tough being a woman. There’s all these stereotypical roles assigned to us, and we oh-so-often fall into the categories; whether we opt to, or not.

It’s tough dating a woman. We (most of us anyways) talk way too much. About things you have done with us, or never did for us. About the time you brought us flowers, or the years you spent not bringing.

And sometimes, we fail to see, or talk about the things you did for us. Like the time you entertained the god-awful people because they were our friends. We talk about the times you soiled our clothes, instead of the times we ripped yourself. Or burnt. Or stained.

We give you short choppy dialogue, so that you’d sound distant, not us. We then send you notes, and you’ll notice the things we didn’t say. Like the time you flew 6000 miles to see us cause we couldn’t get out of bed. Or the time you carried us, just so the new pair of heels wouldn’t bite. We wouldn’t say how good it felt that you stayed away just to ensure we had a peaceful sleep.

November 17, 2009. Marie Muses.

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