Alright… so there’s a third type. And I’d be derelict in my research duties if I didn’t mention them. This group I like to call the Cat-Callers, the Horn-Honkers, the kind of guy that thinks the simple act of me walking by in no more than a burlap sack warrants such comments as “Hey girl, I wish I was a monster so I could eat you” or at 11 o’ clock at night says to me “Hey Princess, I just wanna get to know ya.”
This kind of man cares not what’s in my head, or what I truly love. They care not whether I love Star Wars or Dancing with the Stars. They barely even care what I look like. The mere fact that I own my very own set of breasts and pair of legs is enough for these… sub humans.
I would tell you exactly where this group of men could go… but my mother reads this blog so you’ll just have to fill in the blanks. But I’ll give you a hint… it’s pretty hot down there.
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