Best of luck

Look, I have to admit, today has sucked in several magical ways... I am so discouraged about women in general that I feel like I should go dig a large hole in the yard out by my peach tree and go hide in it.

I feel like I never want to answer a woman's questions ever again. You don't want to hear all this, but I figure if you're curious, you'll read it all anyway, because you know I'll write it, but I am just so burned out. I have a horrible, horrible curse of both honesty and the quest for honesty. I've spent the whole damn summer answering questions from women, only to find that they use the answers to figure out ways to say "gee, you're a nice guy, now kiss off."

Where do you live? Oh, that's too faaaaaaar... best of luck in your search."

How many cats do you have? Oh, that's too many... best of luck in your search.

What do you do? Oh, my ex-boyfriend was in computers, all you computer guys are the same... best of luck in your search.

Are you close to your family? Are you too close to your family? Do you have kids? Do you want kids? Do you like alternative music? What kind of car do you drive? How many people have you slept with? How few people have you slept with? Do you like satin sheets? Flannel sheets? Fish? New York? Paris?

And there's never a right answer. Never. Nothing is ever a reason for curiosity about me, to ask positive question, to learn, to be interested. Everything is used as a pretext to throw my application away. A reason to exclude, to discard, to disregard, to reject.

I'm tired of answering questions. I'm not going to do it any longer.

Show me yours first. But I won't use what you tell me against you. You will.

Best of luck in your search.