When I was born, the nurse turned to my Dad and proudly announced “Well done! You’ve got a little boy!” followed by a hasty “Oh, no sorry…a girl, A GIRL!” Now my Dad likes to tell my potential boyfriends I was born with an elephant schlong and laughs and laughs, ’til I throw a massive spanner in his works and mention my vagina. Stops him every time. However, I sure sometimes wish I had been.
Here I’m just going to run through a few ways in which I personally think men won the lottery of life and why I’ll always be a little bit jealous.
1) You can wee wherever/whenever you like.
You don’t know the definition of difficult until you’ve squatted to wee somewhere you think’s private. If a girl masters it without weeing on her feet then I’d like to buy her a sausage bap and give her a Pride Of Britain Award because it’s pretty much impossible. Men can just lean or stand…probably have a play on their phone, carry on eating their kebab, finger a nearby conquest…WE CAN’T. We have to straddle air like a pervert crab.
2) Men bond really quickly.
Bring one of your new male mates to meet the rest of the guys and he’s accepted pretty quick unless he announces he likes fucking exhaust pipes or wanking over corpses. Bring one of your new girl mates to meet your other girl pals and watch them all judge what she’s wearing, whether or not she’s a threat and WHYTHEHELLISSHEGLARINGATMESHECANFUCKOFFIDONTLIKEHER
3) You don’t have to worry about your make-up/hairstyle/fake tan.
Men go out; do some champagnebombs, dance til they sweat more than Lee Evans in a sauna, get drinks spilt over them at the bar, take a girl home, wake up in the morning, no bother. WE go out, do some champagnebombs, dance ’til we sweat more than Lee Evans in a sauna, get drinks spilt over us at the bar, go home with a guy, wake up in the morning and WHAT THE FUCK HAS HAPPENED TO MY FACE KILL ME. I was once loving life on a night out, dropped my handbag and scooped up what I believed to be all the contents of it from the floor of the pub. The next morning, after waking up at the house of a guy I was then dating, I found that I’d managed to leave the majority of my make-up on the floor and at that very moment realised what it must feel like to excavate your bowels in under three seconds. My foundation had decided to rub off in all places other than under my nose so I had a pretty fit orange moustache, a peeling forehead of doom and eyeliner that had evidently been put on by a pissed 6 year old. I had to spend ages pretending to be sleepy so I could lay on his chest avoiding eye contact and then spend the next day emailing my friend telling her I wanted to die a lot. He looked fine as soon as he woke up. In fact he looked hot. And anyone who might be thinking…just rub all your makeup off and go fresh faced! Or maybe use a little Vaseline to ‘brighten the eyes up’! – Knob off. If you look hot just wearing Vaseline then you’re a menace to all women.
4) You don’t have to wear heels or tight dresses on nights out.
Heels are sexy. Heels are really sexy. Heels make your legs look long and your bum pert and make an outfit look nice. Kitten heels (the ones which aren’t that high) are a huge no-no in my opinion. They’re the kind of shoes women who go to garden parties wear so it’s either skyscraper high or flats. This means however, that I have to walk around on tiptoes from around 8pm – 3am on nights out. While drunk. While trying not to look like that old man in Aladdin who shouts “I’M FREE!” before staggering into stocks. Around 1am I tend to get hit with a wave of immense burning under my toes and either have to find a table or just give up and sit on a floor toilet amongst a bit of sick and a tampon. That’s always nice. When you’re not wishing feet had never been invented you’re wondering why you decided wearing a body-con dress would be a good idea seeing as you ate 3 bowls of cheesey pasta before you went out and didn’t have time for a carb poo because the thunderc*nt taxi driver wouldn’t wait for a few minutes. I tend to drink beer on a night out…so at least once an hour you’ll find me leaning against one of my friends while she hides my balloon stomach as I breathe out, before sucking it back in again and wanting to go home to starfish my bed in some massive pants.
5) You don’t have to give birth.
I’m going with this one, despite the fact the acceptable response has become “Well…have YOU been kicked in the balls?” No, I haven’t. But I’m pretty sure getting my clit trapped in a vice wouldn’t be great either, that’s not the point. I love babies, and can’t wait to have my own…but the thought of an actual head storming it’s way out of my body makes me want to start using a bollard as a dildo. I need all the help I can get. Not just that, it’s the tearing…the undignified accidental pooing…the possibility of dying. Yeah…sorry. You’re so right. Getting a football in the balls is WAY worse.
6) You can fart and poo all you like and no-one cares.
I even, disappointly, toyed with the idea of not putting this in here in case people thought it wasn’t very ladylike. Men can do whatever they want bodily function-wise and even be cheered by their friends…mention farting or pooing in front of your male counterparts and they look at you as though you they just caught you doing 69-er with an alsation. For the 4 years I lived with my ex, I didn’t fart in front of him once (mainly because after a year of holding it in my body seemed to just refuse, even when he was shouting “Just stop being weird and DO IT”). He on the other hand, used to call me to the bottom of the stairs to ‘tell me something’, only to stand at the top with his bumcheeks prized apart so I could get a starfish surprise. You men.
7) None of you will stay at a girl’s house and put loo roll down the toilet first to ‘pad it out’ in case they hear you weeing.
This needs no further explanation. It’s just something I can imagine no man does.
I’ve touched on this before so this’ll be brief. A girl texts a bit too much – needy, annoying, get rid. A man texts a bit too much – needy, but we’ll tell him to back off a bit. A girl sleeps with who she wants – she’s probably seeping pus from her labia. A man sleeps with who he wants – top bloke.
None of you get this every month – Immense pain. Massive urge to kill everyone around you. Massive urge to eat everything, even tea cosys and that disgusting fish thing your housemate cooked which smells like public toilets after a really large woman’s visited. Spots. Aches.
I’d just like to be able to windmill my own penis for one day. And then draw faces on my balls and show my friends. That’s it really.
All that said, I wouldn’t want an Adam’s Apple. They remind me of Ronaldo and he’s a lanky prick.