Songs My Mama Taught Me

Mood: Should-be-working, Adoring
[Toot!] Index: 1.2
Communism Bit: On
Location: Job, of course

You know, my Ma and I are pretty tight. That love is good. Most of the time. Sometimes, it gets to you. Like, I didn't tell her when I was sick, because I knew she could jump on a flight, hijack it, redirect it to Kololo airstrip—yes, the whole bloody Boeing 747—and shoot her way to me. I really wish I was kidding.
Anyway, so, in my sexually-formative years (think pre-teen), my Ma was really close, and she influences how I see women.
I think, for example, that men are inferior to women—but that is for another day. But we all know men are more animal-like than women, no?
What makes me like/adore a chic is quite clearly influenced by Ma, by the things I like and don't like about her. These features can be surprisingly-rare. Especially when you like them combined. Here's a list:

1. Bubbly spirit. I think I don't club because Ma did all the clubbing for me. I may not be a fizzy guy, but I really like the picture of a fun-loving chic. A lot.


2. Pretty. You'll notice I don't hold back a comment about a pretty chic. Because it is my obligation to tell a chic the truth. Like `you are ruining my day—when I look away from this picture before me ... everything gets gloomy, yet you're not going to stay here for fuckin' ever!' And my Ma is `troublingly-pretty' - not my words. Random remarks from people who always put her age ten years below her.


3. Fuck-not-with-I-and-I attitude. I don't know how better to describe this. It is just ... maybe best expressed when a chic talks or writes. If she rants wildly, expects a bit of obedience from her surrounding ... in general, the things that superior beings do, I like that. I love chics who are convinced of their superiority, even when they are modest about it. I shall call it the Empress-Goddess Syndrome. Not oppressive, but aware of their power.


4. Brainy. But then, I'll tell you the truth—I have never understood this thing of looking at women as dumber than guys. Hitler was a guy, people! Chics, in general, keep punching that stereotype in the face, day after day. They are different from guys—and that's what may have curtained them all along. They don't like shit that is abstract. It's hard to be pretty when you do, anyway. It is organising bricks (male) versus organising home furniture (female). Not inferior or dumber, just different. Maybe even superior.


5. Busty. Woo! I will confess a weakness, now. If the Capitalists want to get me, here is the trick. Get a busty chic with a radiant smile. I'm finished. I don't resist them, ever. I say I like my chics fat, and that the fatter the better, but that is because the fatter, the boobier. The bust, the bust, the bust. Even God in heaven will not save me from these knockers that are dragging me to Capitalist conquest! :o(

Billions more things, of course, but I have run out of space. Still, if you want a reference, and you are a chic, you could walk over to a mirror and describe yourself. Chances are that you'll be spot on. Not that I have such a general standard. It's just that ... :o)