Making Sense of Fucking Stupid Sluts

Julie:  She doesn't seem very smart. 
Nathan:  She isn't.
Julie:  She's rude, too. 
Nathan:  And presumptuous, and untrustworthy and drug addicted. 
Julie:  So why even bother?
Nathan:  You want me to answer that or you want us to remain friends?
Julie:  Get something straight, DeGraaf.  We've never been friends. 

Sadly, I have reached a period in my life where I no longer want to date stupid materialistic sluts.  I used to think that stupid materialistic sluts were the way to go because it was easy to fool them (they'll believe anything), it was easy to fuck them (they're sluts), and it was easy to buy my way out of trouble (they're materialistic).  I mean, in this age of convenience and superficiality, who wouldn't want a materialistic slut?

My brain hates her and my body loves her so when I choke her in bed my brain gets to fantasize. In an effort to grow, I've been trying to get passed these sluts and find nice girls who can find my inner blah blah whatever and grow old with me and raise a family and I don't know, something about church (I haven't really thought this out).

But just because I don't want the slut doesn't mean that they stopped wanting me.

Recently, I told my friend Peek that I wanted to stop that bullshit and find a nice girl I could settle down with and maybe start one of those adult lives....

His response: "No dude.  You're like the last of the Mohicans.  We live through you.  There's nothing better than watching you get a phone call, say ‘baby' over and over again to chicks named Roxy and Trixie and what not all while you try to play it off like you're not blowing them off to hang out at a ball game or something.  Dude, don't you realize the rest of us need you to be Nate?"

Sadly, it doesn't matter what I realize because the standards set by my penis have nary a thing to do with the standards set by my brain. Which is why I ended up fucking another implant-sporting, high school drop out, ex-stripper last weekend.

Sigh.

This chick is an idiot.  She's rude.  She's crude.  She spends most of her money on drugs.  She has an attitude problem. 

But those legs...  

She never returns phone calls.  She thinks polio is an Italian name and not an old disease.  She coos about how hot celebrities are to the point where it becomes childish and annoying.  She can never remember my last name. 

But those breasts...

She thinks that name-dropping famous people she's met makes for good conversation.  She has no idea who's running for president and once referred to Barack Obama as "that one black dude, Barrack O'Hussein" and then insisted that I was wrong when I pointed out that Hussein was his middle name.  She hasn't read a book since high school. 

But that face... 

Look, this is nothing new.  The body and the mind often don't cooperate with stuff like this.  The body gives into primal urges.  The mind tries to expand.  The body notices cleavage.  The mind notices IQ.  The world is not perfect.  And since we're an embodiment of said world...well, we pretty much suck.  Nothing we can do and all that.

And that's why I love the fact that ex-stripper whore likes to be choked in bed.

You see, as I'm choking her while we bang the ever-loving shit out of each other, my mind gets to have some of the fun.  You see, my brain hates her and my body loves her so when I choke her in bed my brain gets to fantasize about just choking the shit out of this stupid, crude example of why the terrorists hate us while screaming, "The Pythagorean Theorem is not a pyramid scheme!"  And then, when it's all over, and I'm looking down at that shining example of Barbie's influence, my brain clears and sees exactly what my body fell in love with.

"Nice body," thinks my brain, before adding, ‘She should leave now."

Some days I just hate myself.

But hate passes.