Have you ever had that moment when all you want is to begin a great love story, one consisting of what most people would think of as dysfunctional, even sick?  That moment of philosophically analytical enlightenment, where you suddenly associate every sort of ridiculousness with romance?

Whenever I’m lying in bed, looking towards the window, I often wonder if someone’s out there.   I wonder if she’s watching over me, somewhere in the fabric of space and time.  It makes me sad, being denied my childhood fantasy of relating with the rodent from An American Tail, and all because of that stupid brick wall, blocking my view from the billions and trillions of stars up above, darn it!

In those particular occasions, I can’t help but give in to my hopes and dreams for someone to fall off her bicycle as a result of my carelessness.   I mean don’t you want to take care of the girl you hurt, showing her that decent men really do exist?  If you make her homemade soup, despite the fact that she resembles a swollen prune, then maybe, just maybe, she might love you in return.  Then again, I’d probably feel too guilty for causing her harm.  I don’t even have the heart for alcohol because it’s to love every part of her, including her liver.

To master the art of loving a woman, one must perfect that of being a bitch.  When I encountered Dr. Hottie, I wanted to get sick just to see her again.  I didn’t care if it involved medical malpractice and she prescribed estrogen.  I wanted to be her bitch.

My nurse once mentioned about how her client’s husband came in contact with his wife, whose health had been compromised.  I suppose she laughed it off when he freaked, but even if she didn’t want him to catch something, you have to stop and wonder how she must have felt on the inside.  How would you feel if the supposed love of your life was more concerned about their safety than yours?

You see the formula for a successful relationship requires that you follow the fast-food restaurant chain philosophy.  It’s about having what she’s having.  You must be more afraid to hurt, than lose her altogether.  So she has an ugly cold sore… kiss her!  If she has a horrible rash, take her in your arms and never let go!  Get infected because of love.

It’s about finding ways to get closer to her, empathizing with every emotion.  I asked my sister’s bridesmaid out following the wedding back in ‘05.  She had a peculiar eye configuration that most would make fun of, but I began exercising my eyeballs to the point where I could replicate hers.  I became ever so dizzy and almost fell down the toilet.

It’s to show her she’s not alone, even when she isn’t.  Sometimes, how she feels doesn’t necessarily reflect upon the truth, one you can modify by reaching the part of her that no one had thought to reach.  When it comes to bringing smiles to her face, it’s to make a fool of yourself without fear.  One of the main reasons I want to walk again is so I can leverage myself against a pole and pretend to be cool with shades, only to hurt my head “accidentally”.  The impending laughter would be well worth the potential blood.

You have to make her smile and laugh and dream of beautiful things at your own expense.  If she innocently forces you into something so absurd that even you of all people are smart enough to recognize, do it anyway.  Pan-fry food naked, no matter how much you sporadically scream like a monkey.  Can you honestly say the torture isn’t worth her soft kisses on those tiny burnt spots?

You might think it’s one-sided, which is understandable, since your mind is obviously corrupted by standards that “normal” people deem sensible, but you’d be wrong.  Although women are considered irrational and emotionally unstable, as you venture into the realm of bitch, you’ll realize it has nothing to do with being a pussy.  You also have every right to be as irrational and emotionally unstable as you may well please!

The art of being a bitch is a journey of equality.  It’s about sharing at least 50% of a nasty flatus under covers when she least expects.  It’s to swear at one another in reverse because you can’t exactly call her a “bitch” without a) hurting her feelings, or b) having to sleep with one eye open.  And you’re the bitch, remember?  Call her an “asshole” instead, and other, male specific cuss words that I can’t think of since I’m such a gentleman.  It’s to blame her giant vagina and thank her when she flips the bird while passing by.

Because, what does it mean to be a man?  What does it take to be one?  Sometimes the only way to touch her heart is by showing your flaws and vulnerabilities, without treating her differently because she’s a girl.  When you show no fear in revealing the things that define you, she’ll know it’s safe to let her guard down and always be herself.

One day, when her smiles are a little fractured, she’ll trust you to hold her close and never let go.  When she places her pretty head upon your shoulder, you won’t have to wish upon a star.  All you’ll do is whisper in her ear and wish upon her heart because she knows you trusted her.

Sigh… I hope she calls me a cunt.  I hope she calls me a cunt.