Getting married at any age is like descending into the cavernous lair of a supervillain. No one in their right mind wouldn’t expect to trip a few lasers and get beset by half-shark, half-crocodile hybrids, because, you know, villainous shit happens. Marriage crises happen.
I hate to cook. I don’t mind doing it and know the importance of cooking my food; for me or my family, but honestly? I don’t like doing it. I don’t walk into the kitchen and go,’FUCK YEAH! LET’S MAKE SOME DINNER!’
While flipping (electronically) through the Huffington Post, I came across an article titled “Men in the Post-Women’s Lib World: Should We Give Them a How-To Guide?” by Janet Carlson. At least half of this article’s appeal (to me, anyway) derives from the fact that it’s piggy-backing off the plethora of “What about the men?”-type articles […]