“Did you know that twice a day I take the time to lotion up the ladies- just for you?”
“You probably did that before you met me.”
“That’s not relevant and anyways- since you pledge to love and adore only me for the rest of our lives, even before I knew you I was technically doing it for you. You’ll thank me when we’re gross and old but I still have the knockers of a 20 year old.”
“Mmm! Thank you!”
I think we can all agree that this is a fine example of how the male subspecies of homo sapiens should always respond to the female “vanity rituals”; with gratitude. I am fortunate that my boything seems to, on most occasions, have a very solid understanding that any and possibly all of my vanities relate directly to him, as in- they are a plot to enthral and entice him. In fact I view it as part of my duty, part of my life’s purpose as a woman
to enslave my partner’s sexuality entirely to me to captivate his gaze and interest with my refined and feminine appearance as well as my dazzling personality.
Because my personality is well beyond tweaking at this point in my life I pretty much just leave that whole area be. I have a very strict code of how I personally conduct my existence and while I don’t want to say I’m set in stone, I kind of do, so. However- I will make room for compromise; I’m not above learning about my flaws and attempting to resolve them. For example, I have an obsessive compulsive need for everything to be sparklingly clean and in the right place. But it has been pointed out to me that that is insane. So now I let things slide to the extent that my nerves will allow, until I become extremely mentally uncomfortable and can’t bear to go another moment without Lysol-ing the entire apartment. And we call it progress!
But see, that’s what compromise is, isn’t it? Recognizing that you are insane, and that you must yield.
So I guess compromise is a bit like a bikini wax for your personality. That’s as far as it goes though, everything else in my handbook of charm is pretty much just out there. I’ve been told I’m a secretive person, but that’s always seemed weird to me, because I don’t feel like I keep secrets (except of course all my secrets). I have this sneaking suspicion that it is simply a contrast in my personality- between my generally outgoing and talkative nature and my tendency to become very quiet at random intervals- that gives the impression I am thinking something nefarious when I am silent.
My only real secret is that 99% of the time that happens, I am just thinking about something too weird, irrelevant, or time consuming to explain- my quietness reflects only my desire to not hear myself talking about something totally retarded. In my experience busting out of a thoughtful reverie with gems like “Dude, have you ever thought about how weird dirt is? It’s like… not really solid… but it’s not a liquid or a gas!” isn’t really welcome or a generally shared experience.
Most people just don’t care to debate the finer points of the composition of dirt. But these are the minutiae that compose my thoughtscape. Here I am, rock you like a hurricane.
My point is that my personality is what is, dirt and all. So to compensate for that grubby little slimeball, I pretty much have to ensure that the shell for that rotten egg is as polished as it can be. Does the gentleman appreciate it? I daresay, it is not as unfailingly as I’d like.
It’s almost like he thinks I enjoy buying new dresses every couple of weeks. Or that I think it’s fun taking hits from the vape and then watching trash TV while I run on the treadmill. Or that I take some sort of pleasure in trying on new underwear that I order on the interwebs. No one knows more than I do how ridiculous it is to literally have to buy a new Victoria’s Secret bikini every summer. No one knows this more than I do. I am all too aware that I hardly need another pair of shoes. But how else can a girl with an ungainly sense of humour, an unpredictably provoked temper, and a penchant for blurting out random, useless information at inappropriate times expect to hold on to a man? As if I luxuriate in spending an hour in the shower washing my long luscious locks with shampoo that smells like coconuts and tropical fruits! As if!
Silly rabbit. My tricks are for you, kid.