Nothing takes the wind out of even the wittiest, most biting critical comment as swiftly and decisively as the appension of a "lol." (Try it.)
Surely no man, no mortal creature, is more invulnerable to judgment than when he is faced with the lolling (or depending on your regional dialect, lawling) troll. It is too hard. This is, after all, someone who cannot converse without convulsing with glee -- a sign of a simpleton -- essentially unable to resist laughing at his very own words.
I find it comforting that although it is the online space that spawned and enabled them, it is what again cripples them. This is satisfaction -- that of a responsible parent who takes care to shush their own brattish children.
Today, I found out I got a hit for the inquiry "should I tell my fiance i kissed a man."
Upon reading this, I scratched my head.
"Fiancé" denotes a man, so one may deduce that the troubled party would be female, as the fiancée. (Perhaps our lovers are two men -- it is the twenty-first century, after all -- but what would be so remarkable about a gay man kissing another man?)
So. Naturally, those who have made public declarations of commitment to one another would be very sensitive to actions that violate those vows, so the question itself is not so remarkable. It is the gender-specific wording that is so strange. Not a person or someone or somebody, but a man, exactly. Presumably, in the engagement between a man and a woman, were either to break faith, it would respectively be with a woman and a man. To reiterate a presumed fact suggests it is unusual, unexpected, to be noted.
The single situation where a woman would find it difficult to share that she had kissed a man -- a man and not a woman -- is if she were a lesbian; yet here she cannot be one, as lesbians do not have fiancés ... unless they are pretending not to be lesbians, but that is also impossible here; in a situation where a lesbian woman is feigning heterosexual impulses, her fiancé cannot be surprised that she would kiss a man (although he may have objections about the situation in general). What on earth is going on here?
Yes, you should tell him.
I have a crush on André Marin, Ontario's sixth ombudsman. His crusade for public accountability, his indignation on behalf of the citizenry (swoon)! Since his appointment, he has revitalized the office, transforming a previously negligible presence at Queen's Park.
He describes the Ministry of Health as "a baritone mellifluous voice telling you that everything is just on track" even as "the wheels are coming off the bus"; of embarrassing school board expenditures, he cries, "Is Homer Simpson in charge?" When questioned about the C. difficile outbreak in hospitals, over which he has no jurisdiction (yet!), he replies that had he the power, he would "have been all over that one." There is something else you could be all over, M. Marin.
He even has his own elite task squad, SORT -- the Special Ombudsman Response Team. SORT!
He is the man for me. Ooh, André Marin!
The rewards of academia:
"So, if there's anything you ever need to know about the Uta Codex -- anything at all -- my book is the one to look to." He takes a moment to extol the beauty and clarity of its forty-odd full-colour leaves, with endearing enthusiasm. Putting down the book, he adds, his voice gaining a hint of sadness, "To my knowledge, it is currently half off at the university bookstore. My life's work ... yours for forty dollars." He sniffs.
We all go "aw" appropriately.
A student raises her hand.
She asks, "If we buy one and bring it to you, would you sign it?"
He's staring at her in wonder. His reply is in tones of the most profound gratitude:
His sad-puppy sales pitch almost worked. I was this close to getting a copy.
Apparently, the Chicago Museum of Science and Industry charges parking fees based on how smart you are. Says their website:
General Public: $14.00
Member - Bachelor of Science: $14.00
Member - Masters of Science: $10.00
Member - Doctorate of Science: FREE
Your bachelor is meaningless scum.
"Should I talk to my fiancé(e) about [this] before the wedding?"
Why is this question ever asked? It is non-rhetorical. Does anyone genuinely expect the answer to ever be anything but "YES"? Consider:
No, you should tell them after you have paid for a costly, intricate ceremony, which is now stripped of its meaning as a celebration of unions, made hollow by your doubts.
No, you should tell them after you have both entered a legally binding contract that requires a second lengthy, humiliatingly intimate legal process to null, after which each of you will almost certainly end up loathing the other.
No, you should tell them after the expectations of your relationship have been raised well above its broken reality by everyone you know and love.
No, you should tell them after their expectations of your relationship have been raised well above its broken reality, because after all, they are marrying you.
"How am I going to walk home?" he was groaning. He pressed close, and kissed me, his tongue lashing mine, warm and sweet.
"Slowly and carefully," I answered after he had pulled away. His smile was happy. "Like other things you may do." I caught his earlobe gently between my teeth (though he says I sometimes bite too eagerly).
As he rested his face between my breasts, breathing low and steady, I savoured the electric feeling of power, normally denied me, in this simple seduction of an exhausted, though loving, man (his peculiar susceptibility to me notwithstanding). I felt strangely potent, almost divine. Stroking his hair, so fine and soft beneath my fingers, it seemed possible that I could rule all men.
The dilemma of the 24th-century Jew: Can replicated pork be considered kosher?
2. As "Americana" defines itself as artefacts of American culture, "Gloriana" consists of the artefacts of my culture.
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