My "Type," aka There Are No Types, My Sistah

People say, "Hey, hey. Hey, you. Howcome you like people who're, like, totally different? Howcome you like wee skinny nerds but also giant brick walls with tattoos? Why? Why? Why?" And I say, It's all about the money, stupid. God. Wake up.

Actually, this is a very important subject, because my current beau is belongs to the religion of Cash Money, Honey. And it disturbs me because he thinks all people are like that, but particularly women. Before you get your shortpants in a bunch and say, "Oh you are such a fine person, a spiritual, self-sacrificing monk, you little shit," I'd ask you to see it my way. He likes to tell me how lucky I am to have a man like him. He will buy me things, provide food when I come over, all the DVDs I could want to watch, and a car from time to time, to boot. This is fab living, for sure. I am grateful to receive gifts, eat food, watch movies, and get a ride to work twice a week. I really am. I just don't like having my nose rubbed in it. Nor would you.

I can be materialistic, but I cannot be bought. See the difference? Because a person who buys and buys but forgets to treat you nicely has bought nothing but a higher debt and one increasingly pissed off better half. Who is also one philosophizing, monk mothertrucker.

So, it is not about the money, honey. Rather, it is about the great divide between the physical ideal (tat man) and emotional ideal (sweet nerd, untouched by ho's, especially stripper ho's) and where the two meet somewhere in between. And, for the record, if he has money to sustain himself and buy me a hotdog once in awhile, we're golden. Just be nice.