One year, almost I always thought that we women, are doomed to Finally shrews, while you men, inevitably become bastards.
I think now that we might be young, funny, intelligent, with a strong sense of the second degree, a directory inflated and social life of an owl, it does, I'll finish shrew you'll end up bastard.
Amen.
Good question.
If I answer because it is the human condition, it is one my shortest post. Come, make an effort.
Because, more than the human condition is
the condition of the couple. 
This disgusting thing we have tried so hard to eradicate in 70 to 15 after seeing our parents wisely placed on a sofa together, even with a firecracker in his hand, even a orgy in the living room.
Because we can not deny that spin couple thousand times more than friendship. We are not asking his girlfriend or his friend, who is this mega slut with whom he spent the night to laugh. Instead, we are interested, if our friends love it, although it must be nice. Keep the same girl for the experiment. If love is that it's a threat. A bitch. We did not want to know, we did not want him to know her.
Farewell, possible friend. I'm not a girl like others, I have a guy, I'm a shrew.
But beware, I'm not misogynistic in 15 days now, and here arises from men: we are shrews because they, bastards, we do everything to become one. Gradually, the man is very small, almost like a child, he asks, in its passivity, we oppose, to intervene, protests, put limits ... While we, we shall naturally limits. High to avoid the tragedies male high in prevention, we do talk to my hand
when you get hit on, it avoids being watered all night before her boyfriend with another, we pay attention, we laugh less strong . Nice and well educated women who avoid being subject of hoes. Reaching phase shrew.
The bastards have never been dredged in their lives, it seems. They have never seen a girl, it seems. The beating cows know not. That's why they allow themselves to revel approach, flirt, encensser, applauding with laughter, by the desire to spend. Reared in the habit of having a mother who hand out of nowhere, who said
But you kidding me, we go now
. Reared by mothers. Of shrews.
I know people may think I am exaggerating and that all this is that cliche. Bah I hope. Meanwhile, it's crazy like crying, you get much above a whisper, with the boys.
Crier is a vixen trick, right?
The question that torments me so for some time, few lines and now is if my humble self will be able to escape this pattern then, shit, depressing. Will I be able to stay light, funny, subtle, seductive, as I was trying to be so early?
Almost impossible.
Almost. Because it is in the nature of the couple, due to a damn thing that is established and against which nothing can, because this is the worst and the best too:
privacy
. There is the name of intimacy that crawls on the floor in tears, in the name of intimacy that is let go, the name of intimacy that makes a great t-shirt to sleep in the name of privacy that we thought we knew each other, and suddenly we project our thoughts on the another and that it is hard to hear if he does not cry, do not cry, does not his voice.
pain of intimacy that makes you say now "you." pain of intimacy that makes you know you could be tomorrow, and you'll catch you if I do not enjoy.
pain of intimacy that dares to show his blues.
But without, it is nothing. In itself. As an individual.
Unless a social being seduced like on paper, fuck as it should, react appropriately, do not ever let go.
Horror never let go. Horror
never able to sleep in a tee-shirt. Horror
always keep the lenses. Horror
not be able to throw a tantrum. Horror
telling me "you" when I say "you."
But beware, I'm not misogynistic in 15 days now, and here arises from men: we are shrews because they, bastards, we do everything to become one. 
Almost. 
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