"The true man wants two things: danger, and play. For that reason he wants woman, as the most dangerous plaything." ~ Friedrich Neitzsche.

"Men are by nature merely indifferent to each other; but women are by nature enemies." ~ Arthur Schopenhauer.

"Very learned women are to be found, in the same manner as female warriors; but they are seldom or ever inventors." ~Voltaire.

"I have no other but a woman's reason: I think him so because I think him so." ~ William Shakespeare.

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Side note for those who noted that all those I quoted were in possession of a penis:

Exactly.

Take from my folly what you will: That men are on the whole more admirable writers than women, or that the woman currently writing this sentence casts her admiration unjustly through the prejudiced lens of attraction.

And yes, this whole essay is, in all probability, merely a simplistically feminist-repellent defense of my morally unfounded, disgracefully antiquated and piteously anencephalous prejudice in favor of the particular kind of mental prowess which can be found virtually exclusively plaguing the rutting ranks of the unfairer sex.

But you won't be sure unless you read it. I'm not even sure myself yet, which is perhaps why I'm compelled to write it...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Confession the first: I love deliberation. Good old-fashioned heartily masculine Greco-Roman deliberation. As a result, I have been guilty in the past, (only with the goodliest and most self-improving intentions you understand) of embarking upon long-winded theoretical debates with people.

Confession the second: I am useless at deliberation. The problem is that, me being the weirdly masculine-minded yet dutifully feminine-hearted heterosexual and roughly-homo-sapiens-shaped creature that I am, all the really good worthwhile conversations invariably devolve into either flirtations (in the case of conversations with men) or catfights (in the case of conversations with women)...{In fact, with one strong willed woman of my acquaintance whom I will always hold in high esteem, there was an air of both; flirtation and cat-scrappery [that which she would call trollery] between us, I hope she would agree... But I digress.}

As near as I can tell, this inability of mine to comport myself with any dignity whatsoever whilst interacting with my fellow humanoids is because, through the unparalleled excitement of conversing with a person, I get to know a glimmer of who that person is. And that glimmer is the key to the activation sequence of my inner ruling body: untrammeled empathy, born of the interminable female in me; that part what runs chiefly (if not exclusively) on emotion instead of on reason.

You might think that being online might help stave off such problematically intimate knowledge of a person (and the inevitable bias which always hitches itself unwelcome to the wholesome accumulation of knowledge on any subject) however, in my case at least, the opposite of anonymity holds sway here: Being online frees a person up to say whatever it is they want to say. To get off their chest all the mind-bogglingly meaningful or chaotically nonsensical honesty which would otherwise weigh heavily upon their corporeal existence.

Here, people here are free to tell you who they actually are, without fear of physical persecution (or indeed of social persecution in their immediate vicinity). As an effect of this, when in dialogue with a person online you wind up knowing even more about them personally than if you'd met them "in person." Far more, in some cases. Excruciatingly personal things are shared about the less-than-illustrious personages inhabiting the sticky interwebs. I am no exception. Confession the third: I have shared thoughts here on Prose which contained opinions I wouldn't have dared to utter to my most physically intimate persons.

But now, whenever I catch that ineffable spark; when I linger in the comment section of a post for instance, fingers poised in the kind of manic elation which accompanies the anticipatory feeling of having something worthwhile to say, I suddenly and overwhelmingly find myself utterly unworthy to say it. My mind rebels the formulation of words into sentences when directly put to a specific person. It is not because I have no thoughts about their thoughts, but because my fingers suddenly realize my brain to be abominably inadequate to the appointed task of conversing with a fellow human being. Confession the fourth: I am simply far to empathetic and/or adversarial to effectively pull off a halfway decent philosophical conversation without falling into (or at the very least slipping up on) either love or contempt.

If any woman has somehow read thus far without scoffing me off the face of the planet in disgust, thank you. You're an amazing kindred soul and I love you dearly, even as much as you may pity me my faulty suppositions. I'd like it to be understood at this juncture that it is not because we females are stupid, nor even that we are inferior in the realms of critical thought, on the whole. The fact that we are incapable of holding down a sensible conversation with a man in the pursuit of that man's philosophy is a matter of biological influence. Men are likewise incapable of holding down a calm and sensible conversation with us, 'leastways for any extended period of time without falling victim to the villainous distraction of a hard-on...

See now I've gone and gotten myself all unduly hot and bothered again. The mere mention of a male sexual organ is enough to reduce me to a mindless puddle of lusty agreeableness... where was I? Ah yes; it is instinct which is the enemy of peaceful and respectable interaction between the sexes, not either of the sexes themselves, my dearest fellows. Schopenhauer touched on the reason for a male's advantage in the area of philosophical deliberation in the above quote I quoted at the start, if you'd care to glance back for reference, I'll start a new paragraph after the dots so that it's easier for you to find your place on the scroll-down:

.......................................................

I would further suppose that a man can have friends; true friends with whom he can deliberate upon any thing of apparent importance which crosses his brain without having to worry about the emotional upheaval involved in his implications, while a woman, conversely, can only have a series of lovers and/or enemies. (Often both descriptions are accurate of the same person at the same time!) To a woman, even her female "friends" fall into one of two categories: unbridled and passionate accord or polite detestation. There is no middling indifference to be had.

Confession the fifth: No self-detestation nor anticipation of guilt nor sense of decorum is adequate prevention to my baser instinct in such sordid affairs of the heart and mind.

If you're a woman who is (somewhat miraculously still) reading this, and are thereby experiencing any degree of outrage or repugnance at my ingrained patriarchy... exactly.

(though I will have to object to your suspicion that I've been subliminally brainwashed by any kind of patriarchy; the contrary is more likely to be true: my formative instructors have all done their utmost to brainwash me in a more feminist direction. It is my own nature which assaults that doctrine, not any male's intentional influence upon me.)

Morality is necessarily emotional in essence, but the reverse is not true. Emotion is just where our strength of understanding lies as females... Or I should say where our sequence of understanding lies... for example; where we have an emotional reaction and then try to puzzle it out, a man might try to puzzle it out and then have an emotional reaction. Do you see?! ... Damn sexy when they're thinking AND feeling, aren't they? Men that is. Distractingly sexy...

In simplest terms; my natural impulse would have me silently enthralled by the unvoiced (yet nevertheless persuasive) notion that men are for making babies with and that women are for pissing off. That barbarity of guttural sentiment always seems to shine through any civilized enlightenment my higher reasoning struggles to convey, no matter how loquaciously I try to shield it from appearance.

So, is there a solution to this mess? I don't know what it is but I know a few things that it isn't: It is not, as the feminists would ironically have it, to dispense with concrete definitions of sex altogether. Nor is it to confine each questing, questioning, well-meaning soul who happens to be born in a female's body to the society of only those stupid men and gentle women who do not excite her own lecherous leanings. There are, after all, a great percentage of lilly-livered men who are about as strong-willed and quick-witted as peculiarly docile sheep. She would be safe among that sort, surely. But would she be happy? fulfilled? satiated? Nay. As Shakespeare better put it: "Would it not grieve a woman to be over-mastered by a piece of valiant dust? to make an account of her life to a clod of wayward marle?"

Final confession: As if to prove my previous point, I have no concrete practical idea about how to conclude this essay. All I have is a gut feeling that the only possible solution lies within deliberation. And that that is why I love to debate with you as I do. Or at least as I did, before the disparaging gravity of my humiliatingly small degree of knowledge got the better of my audacity.

Slut shaming, it gets under my skin!

Who created the criteria that determines what a slut does and who a slut is?

A woman who owns her sexuality and who is open to new experiences, is threatening to other women and men.

Most women want to be her & most men wish they could have her.

However, the woman who can’t muster up the same confidence, starts to shame her.

Then here comes the man who can’t have her, so quick to cast stones out of anger.

To me these judgements are so juvenile! We are adults, it’s time to get in touch with yourself.

The man who sleeps with a different woman everyday, is seen as some king.

If a woman does that, the world determines she’ll never be worthy of a wedding ring!

It’s our body to use how we like without our actions being deemed as sins.

I don’t know if this view will be met with disapproval, but I feel like I’m in the minority when I say, I want good character descriptions. The trend in modern day fiction is to be sparse with the descriptions, if you use any at all. But that method always leaves me a bit dissatisfied. It’s not like I want big long descriptions done via mirror cliché. But I want enough that to be able to picture the characters. Enough so that each character doesn’t just end up looking the same as any other in my mind. A good description will help me remember a character. Good descriptions will help me see a group of distinct and unique characters, instead of a group that all look kind of the same in my mind.

I don’t want grey characters who are essentially a blank canvas for me to fill in. I want unique and quirky characters with memorable looks. I think, sometimes, writers leave descriptions sparse so that the reader can insert themselves into the main character. It goes hand in hand with the bland main character trend. But I don’t want to insert myself into the main character, I want to read about a character that is distinct and unique. They don’t have to be like me to be interesting. They don’t have to be like me to be relatable. Describing a character gives them life. Leaving them a blank canvas, makes them boring.

I have watched the other women here write poetry, pen and paper, in notebooks similar to my own. Sitting on coffee shop couches or on mid-morning strolls, they pour out their thoughts. Though their handwriting is more elegant, god sent calligraphy. Their language is more elegant, they speak in lustful tongue, smile on their face.

They are more elegant, god sent bodies.

I am American bred, I speak in coffee and contempt, rejection and rage. They are macchiato masterpiece, good wine in dim light. I write in dominance, independent façade. My eyes remain harsh, staring at their mouths, listening to them speak rough draft writing in broken English, words unfamiliar on their lips just so I can comprehend. Translation a little off, I just like to hear them talk.

They are chivalrous, confidence unwavering, sunshine aura.

I am in a unique place here. Amongst thirty different nations on a NATO base lost somewhere in the Balkans. There are so few of us, I see the same people on my walks to work, we nod good morning out of respect.

With only a sixteenth of us being women, there is an unspoken language that requires no words, no poetry, no pen and paper. A language that lingers through eye contact, through strong core posture, soft smiles. A language that screams in passing, “I will look out for you, stand by you, we are woman”. A compromise, an understanding, an unspoken rule, we fall to our knees to no one, and especially not alone.

They cling to me like children, knowing the rage of the American woman, the young American woman. They would never ask for help, but they plead with their eyes, “don’t let him follow me, don’t let him belittle me”. The American woman, good at subtle hints, better at standing toe to toe to foreign men, to domestic men, confidence unwavering.

I watch women from thirty different countries take notes on American women in notebooks that used to house poetry. We are poetry, we are the topic of conversation in foreign tongue, we are role models, and spitting image of lost hope.

We are briefings that men from other nations get, “Stay away from American women, they are sex appeal, and lust, and bad news. They report sexual assault at a rate higher than any other nation.” All I heard was rape women from other countries, they’ve learned to keep their mouths shut.

American women are heard at a rate higher than any other nation because we’ve learned to yell, bitch and moan. We are sex appeal, and lust, and bad news, but we demand it to be consensual. We demand the right to scream for other women, be their voice too.

American behavior in European streets, shove grown men off of their feet. Thanked in private by soft spoken women. Tell her to keep writing poetry, tell her she is soldier, warrior, worthy of more. Twenty two years young, never thought I’d be the one begging women of foreign forces to stand their own.

Constant combat for a peaceful deployment, the war on women.

I believe in God because

I'm pragmatic

logical

and tried everything else.

Love fails.

Substances loss their kick.

You can never be too rich or too thin.

And, God knows, I am only as all mighty as the weakest link

in my genetic chain.

If the universe

begins and ends with me

what set into motion all that ancient history I never learned?

Random coincidence?

Perhaps.

Chimps locked up in a roomful of computers will eventually write Shakespeare.

Don't hold your breath.

Neanderthals in caves thousands of years before Abram

made drawings in ash to the spirit who sent rain and deer

while miles and millennia away

civilizations built structures to reach up into the heavens.

Who's to say what's the perfect path to God

when we can only reach him with the limits of our own humanity?

So we reduce the concept to our own human scale:

a great vending machine you feed prayers into

an white bearded Santa with a bad temper

the "help I've fallen" button just in case.

Look inward

or

outward

so deep

your mind loses itself in the impossibility of it all

and

you'll realize that

only the supernatural can explain

all

that is.

There is a creator

the source of light, life, and love

so much greater than anyone can imagine

extending out beyond the edge of an endless universe

both inside and outside ourselves

and at this realization

I choose belief.

I'm watching the X-Files for the third time. I'm in season eight which is...shaky to say the least, but in the face of the struggling scripts and muddled mythology, the character of Dana Scully (portrayed by the absolute goddess Gillian Anderson) stands strong.

The writers of the show have a brazen willingness to dive into heavy subjects: grief, death, sacrifice, faith, politics, the rewriting of history and bleak outlooks on the future- all with a horror-flavored science-fiction twist. Even in the face of a million new shows and movies (all on separate streaming services) I find myself revisiting my old favorites. New material doesn't hit quite the same. Scully (and by extension, the X-Files) made me finally realize why.

Dana Scully is straight, white woman (gasp!) written by a team of predominantly white men (double gasp!). How could I, a bisexual woman of color (looking at you, Lily Singh) possibly relate? How could I ever feel safety and comfort watching a show written by my those who would seek to oppress me? Simple...because it's good. I won't say that there aren't times that they miss the mark- the 90s/00s weren't free of any of the -isms by any means, but the cast and crew clearly weren't afraid to explore. They spoke to human perspectives, themes that strike a deeper tone instead of just playing to the ways we choose to identify ourselves. It wasn't always perfect, but it wasn't vapid either. We got some daring, riveting storylines that involved cultures, races, and societal issues spanning the entire world (and the universe).

Scully is fiercely intelligent, unapologetically independent, headstrong, and simplistically beautiful to boot. As an FBI agent, she is a woman in man's world and deals with equal amounts of reverence and skepticism. She is partnered with the more impulsive and illogical Mulder and acts as a voice of reason in the face of his desperate hunt for proof of the unknown, subverting the typical tropes found in male-female Hollywood pairings. Throughout the course of the show (spoiler alert) she is kidnapped, subjected to experiments which make her ill and render her infertile, stalked and attacked twice by a serial killer, loses several people close to her, and is forced to give up her miracle baby after going through a difficult pregnancy alone.

She struggles with a latent sense of grief as the pressure of her job causes her to sacrifice nearly any hope of a long-term relationship or a family, and is forced to stifle a growing yet inappropriate attraction to the one person who understands what she's been through. She is undoubtedly a tough cookie, but her trauma is never skirted over and she is visibly shaken by cases that hit too close to home. On a more superficial level, even though she's a very left-brained serious individual, she is still presented as being very feminine- she's not fussy about her appearance but still puts in an effort. Her intelligence and strength don't cancel out her femininity. She has the desires, wants, and needs that many women her age likely would have as well. She is strong, but imperfect. She can be arrogant, presumptuous, and in denial of facts that threaten to shake her faith. She closes herself off to her loved ones even in the times she needs them the most and often gives too much of herself to her job or the causes of others.

I hold onto Scully as the ideal of a strongly written female character because honestly...I'm desperate for them. In all the shouts of diversity and inclusion, we've only been given hollow shells of marginalized groups. We get reboots, remakes, and revivals where characters are gender or race swapped. Franchises are Frankensteined, propped up Weekend At Bernie's style and sent through a parade of pandering. Producers, directors and even actors take shots at any potentially critical fan, telling them that if they don't support the movie, they're a bigot- with no consideration that they just might have made an inferior product that has isolated their fanbase.

Don't get me wrong. I think representation is important. It's a big deal to see characters that look and feel like you- it sends the message that there is a place for you in this big, beautiful, fantasy world. Cosplay communities are filled with gatekeepers that say "You can't be this character because you're ___", and little kids are told the same by other kids, which is a crappy thing to do. I won't deny that there are legitimate bigots out there that have no other qualms with diversity other than that they feel threatened and I don't necessarily feel like political and social commentary shouldn't be welcome in storytelling.

But my concern is this- give me something good. I fully believe audiences will support diverse casts from diverse writing teams. (The success of Jordan Peele's films are a good example of this, as is the stark difference in response to Rogue One vs. the newer Star Wars movies) Audiences aren't against you because they're anti-whatever. They're against bad content. They're against being insulted through poorly written caricatures of themselves. They're against being told that they should allow bad writing and bad characters for the sake of diversity. They're against Mary Sues and Gary Stus that lack any sort of development and yet are applauded just because they check a box or stroke egos the size of the Hollywood sign. If there's a movie written by a team of all white men with an all white cast with solid writing versus another movie written and casted by a diverse team with poor, lazy writing- I'm going to choose the piece written by the white men. The studios that run this are so obviously just trying to tap into whatever the modern agenda is that they'll throw money at anything that might appeal to the marketing demographics. Actors, writers, and studios are so far removed from how to tell a compelling story- they just want to push their beliefs before they push the story.

Audiences want to see something new. They want to see compelling characters. Social commentary in entertainment is nothing new, it just needs to be done well, told through the lens of dynamic characters. Writers are afraid to take risks, either because they're sucked into mainstream beliefs or because they're afraid of getting their careers tanked for not being "correct" enough. God forbid a capable writer stop producing challenging stories and let mediocrity be elevated just because the creators are of a marginalized group. I'm glad that the door is open much wider than it was before and I recognize and honor the people who fought to push it open. But not everyone who walks a path is going to be as capable as those who pioneered it, and that is an uncomfortable truth.

People didn't hate the Death Note live action just because they made L black. Cowboy Bebop didn't fail because they made Faye dress less sexy. I didn't see the all-female Ghostbusters. I didn't see Bros. I'm not seeing the new Little Mermaid. Don't get me started on Marvel. I want to see more diversity. I think it's a beautiful thing when someone from a completely different background can create a story that manages to reach out and relate to people who live in completely different worlds. It opens up the worldview of everyone involved in the experience. But I'm not going to throw my money at studios and writers that see me as someone to be preached to instead of an individual with complexities of my own. Getting a seat at the table doesn't mean that I should settle for scraps, regardless of who's serving them to me.

Many people think being nothing but straight is a sin. Some people even think you should wear certain clothes that fit your gender at birth. Being apart of the LGBT community may make people think differently about you.

Some people think we should wear the stereotypical clothing for our gender we were at birth. They think women should wear feminine clothing and men wear manly clothing. It is a bigger deal for some people for a man not to wear "manly" clothes than for a women not to wear "feminine" clothes.

If a man or women came out as homosexual in the early nineteen hundreds, it was considered illegal. Some prisons even brought physiologists in to talk to the people in jail.

In my opinion, you should be able to love who you love. You should be able to dress how you what to dress. If someones does not fit in your stereotype that ok.

If you were to see the five pointed star in a circle somewhere, what would you first think of? If you said (or thought) Satanism or Satanic, you would be in the unfortunate majority. You see, the shape that many call a pentagram and associated with Satanic things and rituals is actually a religious symbol in Paganism known as the Pentacle. It represents harmony, equality, and the five elements working together to create the world as we know it. The Pentacle slowly became known as the pentagram when Christianity began to santanize the Pagan religion and practices, perverting one of the most peaceful religious symbols we have into something associated with horrible crimes and rituals that Pagans don't practice or have a hand in at all. Because of this perverting of paganism, a lot of people hear me say “Oh, I'm a Pagan Witch '' and immediately think that I worship Satan and hurt animals as sacrifices (Note: I do not do these things. The worst I have done is yell at a bowl of water for not cooperating with me). There is so much negative media and stereotypes around my religion that makes it hard for me to be open about what I practice and why. It so quickly changes people's perceptions of me when I reveal my religious affiliation, and oftentimes it changes it for the worse.

When someone tells you “I am a witch” or “I practice Witchcraft”, what is the first thing that comes to mind? If you said (or thought) witchcraft isn't real, they’re a big harry potter nerd, or something off of those lines you would again be in the majority. People don't take Witchcraft seriously, and I'm not really surprised. With the stereotypes made by popular media such as Harry Potter, people no longer really consider it a religion. People mock me for saying “I am a witch.”, Which I am. I practice witchcraft, I cast spells, hold rituals, speak to those in different planes, I am a witch. But so many people just see that as me saying “I love Harry Potter so much that I made it my whole personality!”, which isn't true at all. Paganism and Pagan Witchcraft have been around for much much much longer that Harry Potter has. And while witchcraft (or stories of it) did inspire works like Harry Potter, the series did not accurately represent what Witchcraft really is. And that's fine, things like that are fantasy works, full of whimsy and magick (like a fairytale) and it's not bad for them to show witchcraft and magic in that way. What's bad is that people are no longer able to separate Magic (fairytale stuff) from Magick (Witchcraft stuff).

I just wish that I could say “I'm a witch” or “I practice Pagan Witchcraft” without people herding their children away from me in fear and disgust or laughing and mocking me for being an idiot. I just want to practice my religion and be open about it, like many others about their religion. I feel that through many centuries and through various mediums, my religion has been perverted into something to be mocked, joked about, feared, and shamed for.

Witchcraft isn't bad or evil, it's good and I do good things with it. I cast lucky spells to help with getting a job or passing that test, focus spells to help my friends study. I don't cast spells on people without their permission, and many witches don't curse or hex or jinx people. Witchcraft is powerful, just as other religions are. Witchcraft is good, but it has the potential to be bad if used incorrectly, exactly like any other religions in this plane. I do all I can to try and change the perverted mess that witchcraft has been seen as and show it as the good that it truly is, but sometimes those efforts feel useless.

I just want to practice my religion and be open about it.

Signed

- A Magick Moki-Mori

one you broke it, try your best to fix. but you planned to break it. deep down, ya know you did. you just couldn't stand the noise it was making. so what does it matter, really if you placed it in such a precarious position, where a feather falling in the next town over, would be enough to cause it to fall. or was it that you slammed your hand and it jumped in a "regretful" trajectory. the point is, that now it is an un-thing. if it was a Norwegian blue you could do the whole sketch, oh you'd soooo want to..but it was no Norwegian blue. it was nothing that could be said to be pining for the fjords. and now it's smashed to bits. it's not an it anymore, even. that would assume that the entity it used to be, the one you so loathed is still extant.

well, it isn't.

have no fear, it shall not, like the Phoenix, rise from the ashes.

now you are left with a choice. you can pretend to try to fix it, with glue, or to boohoo, and feign the tragic needle that bereft you of such an artifact of sublime happiness. fixing, will be futile. the thing is broken. but by holding the fig leaf of persistent restoration, you might avert the buying of a replacement. "no no" you might cry "it will not be like it was, but the memories will keep it going, or some touchy-feely tripe like that. you could pretend such endeavour and perhaps avert the looming possibility of facing such an irksome devise ever again.

or you might, take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing, end them.

i work well with glue. i don't mind the scaly feeling i get on my fingers, as the stuff hardens. i don't mind the smell and the obvious danger of cancer or brain damage that shall ensue. i take the risk of that, and not express my hatred for the thing openly. even if it is not a great secret.

but, watch, that while i glue and mend, i might look if i got away with it. and plan my clandestine revenge of all those little awful things that pissed me off...

Assholes

If you're an asshole like me

It can turn ugly

He proposed to me suddenly

At the age of seventeen

Ruined my graduation

Not up for anticipation

He used to just stare at me

In the cafeteria

I felt like running away

I just stepped over him

In my high heels

And said nothing

If you're an asshole like me

You do what you want

It doesn't matter what they say

Or how much they taunt

The idea of taking you back

Makes me choke on a bone

Stop calling me on the phone

I just want to be alone

It's okay

It's not Hiroshima, you know

(I hear the bombs going now)

If you're an asshole like me

You want to keep on working

And for your boyfriend to

Stop jerking around or being a jerk

Now I got my feet on the ground

And it's the turnaround

He better listen to me this time

It's such a love crime

At least when you're down

There is only one way

To go and that's up

There is nothing left to lose

So you can only win

Turn the sands of time

Around again

Better than acting like you're dead

Melodrama of sixty or seventeen

It's a number, it's nothing

Selling your soul

Well, I thought about it

I would never sell mine

But yours, well, I thought

How much would I get for it

For the Devil it's a bargain

Bargain basement dirt cheap prices

That was all I could get for it

I decided to leave it

At least I don't take the

Stairs up from hell

To go to work

I suppose it's hot down there

It's kind of cold up here

Oh, I get the Faustian temptation

The winter of my lust and lost

Is not something for veneration

You get instant satisfaction

During my Joblick anticipation

At least I kept my soul, though

That's a dirty deal done cheap

With a real high price, dude

You bought her over the Internet

For $20,000

She likes to brag she

Sold herself for $40,000

Shows up in a hooker outfit

Of PVC in purple-red

With platform white heels, it's sad

How you regret

Bills and two kids and no fun

And expensive fashion habits

She took the money and ran

She went back to Japan

Well, it's not my problem

Anata wa abunai desu

Oh, the truth you deny

Shinjerarenai

I can't believe it

I don't believe you

You lie again and again

I would rather be alone

Got a guy on the phone

For a little dirty talk

And if he doesn't do it for me

Well, he can walk, so

How are the kids then?

Really not interested.