>>> Primal Urges
By staff writer Nathan DeGraaf

November 14, 2007

Dave: So you think you can apologize for everything you’ve written about women in one measly column?
Nathan:
Anything’s possible, Dave. Look at crack-cocaine.
Dave:
Okay, that’s a… that’s a point, but dude, I mean, you’ve written a lot of sexist crap. You can’t just make up for it with a
few hundred words.
Nathan:
My readers know that I’m kidding.
Dave:
Well then, they know you better than I do ‘cause I’m not sure.

To be fair, I have written some things about women that were sexist, rude, judgmental, and possibly even downright evil. I don’t take any of it back because, well, I thought those pieces were funny and everyone else can go play Yahtzee for all I care. But I do realize that I’ve never dwelled on the feminine positive (that’s me trying to sound pretentious—did it work?). I’ve never thanked the girls. And quite frankly, that’s damn rude, even for me.

Time to amend for this egregious error.

Thanks girls, for all you’ve done for me.

Thanks for making me smirk and blush as our eyes lock from across the room and we spend that awkward three seconds deciding who’s goingto be the one to stand up and hit on the other. It’s usually me, and I usually don’t mind that, but you know, thanks for all the times it isn’t me, too.

“Thanks for believing I knew things I didn’t, like auto mechanics and mixed marital arts.”

Thanks for the grabbing of the arm and/or thigh, and the blatant hints about what movies/plays/concerts you want to go to.

Thanks for laughing at all my bad jokes.

Thanks for the kisses and the urges, for the screams and the moans, for the smiling face over heaving breast and gurgling coos as you drift away to sleep.

Thanks for not snoring.

Thanks for being quiet during the game, and for leaving me alone for a while after we lost.

Thanks for all the cooking and the cleaning and the caring. It’s refreshing.

Thanks for reminding me when to get a haircut, when my clothes don’t match, and what kind of wines go with what foods.

Thank you for being horny, for wanting to dip away from the crowd and escape into each others’ arms, emotions, and bodily fluids.

Special thanks for actually doing it.

Thank you for loving the way I look, think, and/or act. Thank you for thinking I’m smarter than I am, for listening to my rambling stories, and for believing I knew things I didn’t, like automotive mechanics and mixed marital arts.

Thanks for crying at all those stupid movies. It’s annoying sure, but the innocence and rawness of that emotion is okay, as long as no one we know actually got messed up.

Thanks for all the times you had to see me, all the times you couldn’t handle it without me, all the times you dreamt about me, and all the of the times you, for no reason out of nowhere, kissed me on the lips mid-sentence and said, “I love you.”

Thanks for all that. It meant a lot to me.

Oh, and not for nothing, but that outfit does not make you look fat. In fact, no outfit could make you look fat. They have not yet now nor ever will create an outfit that could infringe upon your radiance.

And I promise I’ll take the garbage out at halftime.


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