exposed cerebral cortex of a proletariat bike slut

the fucking cat outside my new house has creepily stalked to right outside my bedroom window, where it continues to meow banefully loud. I want to explain to it that I can’t let it inside because Nick is allergic to cats, but I’m not quite sure how to get it across. 

I hate that it knows the location of my room, and recognizes my weakness for cats.

“A woman’s mind can never be raped”…I stumbled across this simple, yet still profound to me at this time, quote while reading a margaret atwood that katherine lent to me.

all I fucking want to do is scream at the stupid men who bother me while I am reading at work, fruitlessly trying (and coming off as a bit pathetic) to get me to hang out with them when I am off work.

a) who the fuck wants to hang out at 6 in the fucking morning?

b) if only they knew that the only men I am attracted to are those who ethereally hint of attaction while bringing something else to the table besides:

“I like to read to”

“Oh, yeah? What do you read?”

“Textbooks mostly.”

ugh. well I guess there are the notable exceptions in my past, which did provide an interesting fuck.  but although brazen, they were also…so.fucking.intelligent.  why these paleolithic men think that there is a slight chance I may fuck them, and thus incessantly annoy me, never ceases to amaze me.

I guess it was just a bad night.

but after four separate men wouldn’t leave me alone…I think anyone would freak out. I just can’t stand the look they have in their eyes…the feigned narratives they pull out of their ass as they search through my personality, looking for things to snag onto, areas of my discovered interest that they can build upon in order to form just the slightest foundation. which leads to a phone number, which leads to more feigned narrative, until they reach the ultimate goal which lies inside my vaginal walls.

perhaps they aren’t all as sociopathic as I think