If We Were Boys…

Justin Bieber is a Girl
Every 6-year-old girl wants to be a 6-year-old boy at some point. Guaranteed. It’s like a compulsory rite of passage. I don’t know why. I don’t know how. I just know that’s the way stuff works. But, hey, you know what? It’s all good. As long as you’re over all such wishful thinking by the time you’re 15. Or 18. At the very worst, 19 and a half. Because, let’s face it, if you aren’t over the fact that you’re going to be a female for the rest of your life by the time you hit 20, you are in a bad way. And I’m not talking bad, the song. I’m talking baddie bad. I’m talking ‘aw, shucks…I’m actually some chick’s mother-in-law’ bad. No amount of good can come out of shirking your femaleness. Trust me. I should know. I’m slowly (but surely) fiddling towards 30 but I still want to be a boy. Badly. Not a Justin Beiber-esque boy, surely. Just a normal boy. A normal boy with normal hair. It’s not the stuff of Modern African Womanity and it definitely never earns me any beauty-and-the-bistro points but hey, it is what it is. Some of us have issues; we are the folks Freud would have psycho-analysed for free.

Anyway, enough about me. Let’s talk about you. About how you occasionally find yourself thinking about how cool it’d be if you were a guy. A Timothy instead of a Tina, say. A Joseph instead of a Joanna. Oh, to pee while standing. Ah, to actually get to wear black bows tie to black-tie events. Eh, to not have to spend 6,480,000 seconds scrutinizing your eyelashes. Clearly, the benefits and added advantages are legion, though I suppose the coolest bit of it would be that you’d have all the license in the world to talk directly to body parts. You’d never EVER need a middleman. Imagine that.

Instead of having to deal with one (or two, or three) of those insufferable booudes (noun, from boob + dudes, i.e. guys who worship at the altar of boobs) every once in a while, you’d be the insufferable booude! Awesomenomical. You’d be the boob whisperer! Fabbo. You’d be the person that gets to have this sort of conversation:

Person (looking at flat-chest and starting to feel rather nauseated): ‘Uh oh. Mayday.’

Flat chest: ‘Beg your pardon?’

Person: ‘Er, nothing.’

Flat chest: ‘If you have something to say to me, say it in an actual sentence. Or two.’

Person: ‘Fine. I just want to ask, ‘How do you live with yourself?’’

Flat chest: ‘What do you mean?’

Person: ‘I mean…look at you…you’re…you’re…unattractive. I’d never want to get with that.’

Flat chest (trying to remain calm; trying to remain collected): ‘Oh, I make it work. Somehow. There are ways. Ways you know nothing about.’

Person: ‘I should hope not.’

Flat chest simply stares back at person. Flat chest says nothing.

Person: ‘How old are you, again?’

Flat chest: ‘Who wants to know?’

Person: ‘OK. Let’s leave that alone. But seriously, how do you deal? How have you not killed yourself?’

Flat chest: ‘Excuse you! I have never had to borrow anyone’s boobs. Never. Which bit of ‘I make it work’ are you having trouble with?’

Person: ‘Eh. Chill, okay? No need for the attitude.’

Flat chest: ‘Oh, now I have an attitude?’

Person: ‘Enough. I can’t deal with this. Not right now. Not ever. I have a meeting anyway. I should go.’

Flat-chest (righteously indignant): ‘No. I should go.’

Person: ‘Whatever.’

Flat chest makes one of those 180 degreed turns and unwittingly presents a flatter bum in the process.

Person: ‘Oh, come on!—you have got to be kidding me!’

Flatter bum: ‘Not in the mood, Charlie. Got a headache.’

The end.

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