i am a man who love nature, and all the things in it to behold. who are we to judge it? i am a man that will cry out for you when you are not near me. i am a man not afraid of my feelings for you, when held by a woman who holds me with the soft touch of her brest. i am a man who will cry tears when we make love, for my love will feel so deeply for you inside. i am a man who cries waiting for yours response. i yern for your soft and gentel kisses. kevin
Yeah, we get it Kevin. You're a really fucking sensitive guy.
When not rushing to assist a frightened young deer with the birthing of her first fawn, one might find you wistfully cursing at the unbridled freedom of the deep blue sky. Your heart yearns to sketch a solitary dewdrop, yet the beauty is simply too painful; how can one accurately replicate the tears of a bygone season?
Women may find a portion of your sensitivity attractive Kevin, but even a clan of starved fucking Eskimos would flee from your relentless onslaught of blubber. Exploring your emotional side may have worked in your 20's, but now you're 44 years-old; at some point you need to gnaw away at the nutrient-rich placenta you wear as a goddamn picnic hat and put on a pair of open-toed sandals to take a Hollywood studio tour in a loud shirt.
Because women are wise to this game, my friend. And history can prove it.
After years of complaining about the sexual brutality of the dominant male, prehistoric women gradually found themselves beginning to sexually appreciate the less dominant and sensitive males who stayed behind during the hunt to paint images of sunsets on cave walls and grunt rhythmically about glacial deposits. Never ones to pass up a free meal, other cavemen quickly adjusted by showcasing their softer sides.
Unfortunately, this blew up in the face of women. In no time, they found themselves mired in a society full of plant-gathering, cave-cleaning, soft-cocked sissy boys that sat around on rocks all day complaining they couldn't hunt because "it was too foggy."
Rather than sleep with a bunch of bird-fearing, fire-dousing girly apes, women straddled porous stones and hoped for earthquakes while furiously whittling ivory tusks into the shape of the cave cocks they had once been so relentlessly pounded by. "Homo-Erectus my ass!" they exclaimed, "Why don't you Flaccidius Minimus motherfuckers just go outside and try not to cry when you're startled by the sudden hissing of a nursing squirrel."
I recommend you keep your sensitivity in check, Kevin. Women might find a little emotion attractive, but walking into the kitchen to find you breast feeding an injured sparrow crosses the line. Women can only withstand so many rivers of phlegm during a Meredith Baxter-Birney Lifetime marathon, and they're supposed to be hers.
Buck up, motherfucker. Keep weeping like a bitch, and you'll drive your women into the arms of a unemployed, heroin-addicted rock band drummer who eats fucking nails for amusement.
And she'll fucking love it.