You’d be hornier than a Viking helmet. You’d pay top dollar to get in the club, then go home alone and frustrated to “Palmela.” You’d kick your boys to the curb to get “quality time,” only to drag your knuckles back to them when she disses you. You’d write corny-ass poetry and long e-mails to your chick about not a goddamn thing. You’d go “huh?” a lot. You'd find creative ways to readjust your junk.
You’d endure long conversations with women about things you don’t give a shit about. You’d weigh the cost of dating against a monthly porn subscription. You’d bathe furiously, do a hundred pushups, and arrive extra early at a broad’s house hoping to bang. You’d dread statements like “We’re not getting any younger” and “I think I wanna keep it.”
You’d question if the dude she’s getting into it with could knock you out of your shoes. You’d wonder if she’ll get as big as her mother, the starting left tackle. You’d think about that future day when the people laughing at those Cialis commercials will be laughing at you. You’d find out if you were living in a community property state. You’d hold in your lethal farts for her and listen to your guts howl. You'd struggle to get it all in the toilet, from age 8 to 88.
You’d resent being expected to read her mind. You’d answer “What are you thinking?” with “Nothing” instead of “Shut the hell up.” You’d keep a diary, so they’d know why you snapped. You’d ask how marriage benefits you. You’d burp (smells like breakfast). You’d hope for a front clasp on her bra. You’d wonder how much extra ass a degree in ________ would get you. You’d want to hang out with your boys at a “we-never-close” swapping stories about queefs and wrong holes over endless pancakes-- forever.
...but you’re just a girl.