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the tears of an unending season

A soul sometimes can be a tragic thing to have. Or is it be? That is a completely different kettle of fish.

The hardest thing to understand at most times is women and their reaction to heartbreak really. You get a perfectly sane – at least seemingly so – young lady(and sometimes not so young) almost breaking down to some sort of emotional mound at best.

She will say she needs a year and a half to get over the supposed to heartbreak, this having been caused by someone who she was with for about six months. Now surely she will have lived quite a good chunk of lifetime before she meets this bloke but then she feels that the whole era before him didn’t matter because well, guess what, I don’t know.

Now let it be known that I am probably as big a bum as the rest when it comes to my treatment of women in a relationship but it is said without any apology. A little regret maybe because of the way that it is received. I just saw a member of the burn-the-bra movement set an effigy that has an uncanny resemblance to me on fire and threaten to do the same to me so please forgive me if I am not as firebrand as my fellow chauvinists want me to. Of course they are happy to have me as the poster child of the movement until I am tarred and feathered. But of course they will not say this themselves. The heroism is a bit much.,

Now I have a beautiful world in which I live, where my girlfriends always think they are the only ones and fair enough when they find out it is a bit of a problem, but it is annoying that they will get hung up over me just because I was a bum. One would think they would be glad to have been rid of me but alas, they seem to want me more because I have abused them. Some say, well I know there is another but if you dump her you can have me. Of course I will claim to have dumped her because the sex is good and hope to whatever exists that is not THE deity HIMSELF doesnt curse me with a form of leprosy that only rids me of my appendage.

But I digress for this is not a matter about me. It is about these poor women of misery who inhabit a space where they almost enjoy feeling sorry for themselves. They keep pouring salt on the wound because they like to keep it fresh. Ah but what about the chilvary that used to exist. Maybe it was a myth and there weren’t so many women to choose from because by george – and not push – it is so my harder now.

I wonder however how my good friend Hillary Clinton who must feel neglected because my not giving her attention of late, because ah well, I just didnt. You see my dear Hillary is suffering the rejection that was the most embarrassing.

Think of the new boy who comes to school; he is not in the same grade as you. He comes in on prom night because he is well, a gate crasher. And then makes off with the hottest girl in the school. Yes the one who said hello to you the other day and she may just have known your name.. Or did she say Joe instead of John?

Oh what’s your name again?