Persuasions of the Heart

Besides my curves, and my wild uninihibitedness there is something else that makes me a good escort.  I have been told, “There is something about you, you are really sweet, it is like we have a connection,” and this is what keeps them coming back.  Persuasions of the heart are very powerful.  Persuading hearts is not something I attempt to do, at least not consciously.    Along with being unhibited sexually I am uninhibited emotionally.  I have been chastised for being a bleeding heart, but it is an intrinsic part of me.  In the way that one breathes without thinking about it, I love without thinking about it.  When I say love, I mean the energy of love, the purest form of love, not all the complicated definitions of love that have been defined by heart break. 


The Voyeur and the Exhibitionist

romeo and juliet


The Voyeur and the Exhibitionist by Jessica Dean

My work is in the sex industry and yes being a sex worker is indeed work and contrary to popular opinion it does not consist of just opening your legs and it is not work that any woman can do.  It takes a special kind of woman to work in the sex industry; I am not saying this woman is better than or worse than, she is just different.  Being a sex worker takes a girl that is wild, unyielding, passionate, uninhibited and tough.  She is an artist, because sex is a fine tuned art form, if it is any good.  Just as if any person can pick up a crayon and drag it across a piece of paper, any woman and man can have sex, but that is not what makes it art.  The sex artist must be in tune with her intuition, that primitive place in her soul right before feelings form thoughts.  She has to forget who she thinks she is and everything she thinks she believes and just be.  She must listen to her partner’s energy….but most of all she must have the ability to be wild and free.

“There is something about you,” men have mused.  Perhaps there is something about me, but it’s a something than cannot be described in one simple word.  I am not a conventional beauty.   I do not wear a size zero or even a size 6, my makeup is always slightly smudged, my hair windblown.  My skin’s randomly adorned with scars.  I feel this something that men refer to in my blood and on my puckered skin as the wind blows.  I am highly combustible.  I easily flame up and when the flames begin I become an unyielding fire.   This “something” is raw and primitive, unintentional and unassuming.  This is what turns men’s heads at the market and gas pump.  This is what captures their gaze with yearning in their eyes.   For I am a breathing, walking, talking, moving orgasm.  All of this along with the tricky combination of being firm yet sweet, is what makes a successful escort. Thus, becoming an escort was a natural job for me to pursue when I found myself in need of money despite my job as a social worker.

I had rented a cheap motel room on Sepulveda strip for the weekend for work.  As I was getting ready for my night I put on a lacey corset that bared my naked breasts only support by a thread of pearls and fishnet stalking pinned on to a garter belt. The curtains of the room were sheer.  I thought perhaps the outline of my silhouette could be seen through the curtains, which excited me.     He however saw more than the shadow of my silhouette he saw my curves, my black lingerie against my ivory skin, my red nails as I tugged, pulled, lifted and pinned.   I could see his shadow through the curtains and knew he was watching; this was arousing to me.  He was the voyeur and I was the exhibitionist.  This dynamic was a foreshadow of what lay ahead.

“Excuse me miss, umm, I can see you.  I just wanted to let you know that we can see you through the curtains,” I heard him through the window.

“Oh,” I sad flustered.  I was not flustered because he could see me, but rather because he addressed that he could see me.

“Thanks,” I shouted as I tried to cover myself up, failingly.  It is one thing to be a seemingly accidental exhibitionist it is another to be viewed as a purposeful exhibitionist.

“I am not complaining or anything, I like what I see, I just thought you should know,” he shouted through the window.

“Ok, thanks,” I tried to rush him along.  If he could see me, could he not see that I was busy with the pinning of the fishnets, adjustments, and that my hair was still in pin curls?  If he did see this, this did not deter him.

“Well are you meeting someone,” he asked.

“Ummm…ya I guess you could say that, “I answered.

“Well here is my number if whoever your meeting does not show up,” he slid his phone number roughly scrawled on a crumpled 7-11 reciept through the window.

“Thanks,”  I could still feel him lurking outside my window.

After I took the curlers out of my hair, perfected my smokey eyes, applied the red lipstick, and the complicated lingerie was as adjusted as it ever was going to be.  I stuck my head out the window and demurely smiled and said, “You can come in if you want.”

“Ok,” he smirked.

I sat in the chair in my with my breasts hanging out of the corset and crossed my legs like a lady.  He sat on the edge of the bed.  His eyes darted from my breasts to my eyes, breasts to my eyes, in a rhythmitic sort of way.  He was actually quite the gentleman, most men would instantly grab a breast.

“So what are you doing here?”  he inquired curiously.

“Well…what do you think I’m doing here?”  I scoffed teasingly.

“Working,” he said matter of factly, with no disdain.

“Yup,” I replied.

“Well, how did you get into this business?” he asked.

“I’ve only been doing it for a month.  I just started doing it because I need tires on my car…and I’m talented and enjoy sex so I thought instead of giving it out for free, why not make some money, because I need it.  You know?  I actually have my master’s degree and work as a social worker,” I answered.  His eyes lit up with intrigue at this…most do.

“Hey…do you want to be my honorary pimp for the night?”  I laughed like a song.

“What does that entail?”  He asked with genuine interest.

“I am not really sure, but I think it is just checking up on me, making sure I am okay, and getting me diet cokes and stuff,”  I said in my cutest most endearing voice.

“Ok, I think I can do that,” he winked.

“I have a date coming so you better leave but just check in on me and I will call you when I am finished,” I informed him.

“Leave the window open a crack so I can hear you,” he smirked.

“Ok,” I was already smitten.

The date came and went and I called Tommy back in.

“I checked in on you.  It sounded like everything was going ok, it sounded like it was going great actually,” his eyes danced mischievously.

He sat on the bed and I on the chair again.  He put the diet coke on the table.  My heart melted.  I got up from the chair and lay next to him.  In a surprise to even myself, but without even thinking I snuggled my head into his chest; it just felt natural.  He stroked my hair.  I looked up at him; I was not aware until that moment how much I longed to be touched like this.    Then he kissed me.  He kissed my forehead, he kissed my ears, he kissed my neck he kissed my lips.  He kissed me slowly, then passionately.  He grabbed my face between his large hands to look at me as he softly growled with desire.   My heart beat fast; I could feel it in my throat.  I gasped for breath, my eyes watered with desire and the place in-between my legs began to tingle.  He laid me down on the bed gently and began to kiss every inch of my body.  He carefully stuck his fingers inside me and hit that exact spot up and to the front, over and over again.  I moaned my eyes rolled back in my head, my mouth gaped open with pleasure.

“I’m cumming, I’m cumming,” I loudly moaned as he fell back on to the bed next to me and I cuddled up to his chest again.

“Shit I have a guy coming he’s going to be here like any minute,” My hair was mussed up from where my head rubbed against the bed as he ravaged me; my red lipstick was smudged on to the skin surrounding my lips; my smokey eyes were now black eyes.  I hopped up and rushed to make myself alluring once again.

“You gotta go, you gotta go,” I said with regret as he wrapped his arms around me and continued to kiss my neck at that exact spot that sends shivers down my spine.

“I’ll call you when I’m done,” I told him.

“Ok, Ok,” he walked towards the door, and then turned to look at me just as I turned to look at him.  We started kissing again.  I pulled away, “Ok ok you really gotta go.”  I pushed him to the door as he opened it and leaned in for one last kiss that made my knees weak and my legs tremble.  “Go,” I said as I pushed him out.

Another “date” came and went.  The whole time I closed my eyes and thought of Tommy.   I waited a couple of minutes then walked outside to see if Tommy really was still guarding.

“Hey,” he smiled as he sat on the stairs near my room.

“Hey,” I sat down and nestled my body next to his.  Our bodies fit together so perfectly like puzzle pieces.  It was the first time in a long time I felt safe.  I grabbed his hand and led him back into my room.  He walked into the bathroom.  I heard him turn the shower on.  He grabbed my hands, pulled me off the bed and took me into the bathroom with him. He slowly and carefully stripped my lingerie off of me.  He washed my hair and kissed me as the water dripped down my face, in between kisses he told me his dreams and adventures as if it was a bed time story.   He wrapped a towel around me, turned down the covers of the bed as I lay down and kissed me on the forehead.

“You are the most interesting person I have ever met I want to learn everything about you,” he whispered.  My eyes fluttered with sleepiness.

“Stay the night with me,” I whispered as  my eyelids begin to drop.

“Let me get my stuff,” he answered without hesitation.

I was woken by the sound of the door shutting and feeling his body crawl into the bed next to mine.  I snuggled close to him.  The only men I have ever slept next to was my ex husband and my best male friends in high school whom I had grown up with.  I do not make it a habit of snuggling or sleeping next to men.  I do not trust it, for a state of living that most closely resembles death it complicates a lot.  But that night I slept next to Tommy and I slept well.  He was my prince that night.

When he called me after the night in the hotel room there was no akwardness.  The conversation flowed as if I had known him my whole life, as if I had known him in a past life. I was leaving a “date” when he called.

“Where are you? Pull into the closest gas station, I will meet you there and we can go get coffee or something,” he directed me and I happily did as directed.

He pulled his car up next to mine, ran out of the car with only socks on his feet and his pajama pants.  He had left in a hurry, consumed by desire.  He kissed me, in that passionate way he has of kissing that makes my body feel as if it is melting.  He pushed me against the car as his hands slowly caressed their way up my dress.  He softly pulled the strap of my dress down over my shoulder so he could kiss the soft, white flesh part of my breast.  We somehow managed to pull away from each other long enough to get into his car.  As I sat in the passenger seat next to him I nestled as close as possible to the warmth of his body.

“I don’t even know if a coffee place is open this late,” he said as he drove up and down the streets and I rubbed my hand between his legs and kissed his neck.

“Who cares I just want to be with you right now,” I said as he pulled over on a side street.  I climbed on to his lap as he wrapped his hands around me and gazed at me.  “I want to know everything about you, tell me everything,” he said.  I told him all of them as the clock ticked away and hours passed.  I knew as every hour passed an hour of sleep was also passing, but I did not care, I did not want the moment to end.  I did not want to leave to return to  my bed in which I would have to wake up to every day mundane life.

The next day I agonized through my day job jumping from feelings of excitement to nervousness.  Excited because I was falling for him but nervous because I had let him take my fragile broken heart in his hands.  I had given him the unfair responsibility of holding my heart carefully so the pieces could fit back together again. A responsibility he had not asked for.   He had afterall warned me, “I cannot allow myself to fall in love and sometimes I disappear.”

Terrified by the responsibility he began to pull away.  I called him after work; it rang once then went to voicemail, that meant he had pushed the ignore button.  This made me flail in vain attempts to grasp him.  He always called back…eventually.  He needed me on his terms on his time, so he could keep his heart and not risk it falling from my hands and shattering into a million pieces as it once happened before.  When I wasn’t with him I was in a constant state of panic that he would disappear as quickly as he appeared.  He always showed up unbeknownst and then I would relax.  I flaunted my feelings like an exhibitionist.

As we climbed into my bed he said, “I never spend the night at girl’s house.  I leave as quickly as I can,” making me feel special.   “You are special he said…but I cannot fall in love.”  He lulled me into a sweet sleep.  I slept the best when I was with him.  When I shot awake with a nightmare or with fear he had disappeared, he would hold me and kiss my forehead in comfort until I fell back asleep. The last time he slept over in that junction of our intense but quick relationship he left his pajama pants neatly folded on my bed waiting for me when I got home from work.  He left them for a memory.   He was still my prince, but a magical prince that could turn invisible.  I always knew he was watching from afar much like the voyeur and would and could make him visible at his own whim.

“We need to talk,” I texted him.  “Ok” he replied back.  He did call to talk at his convenience.  When he finally called I sat in my car in the hot parking structure of the mall.  The time was not convenient for me but it was convenient for him and I never knew when his convenience would be.

“It is getting too intense,” he said.  “I cannot let myself get to close.  I just don’t do it.  I just can’t.”

“That’s sad your denying yourself something great,” I answered his tragedy.

“Well it works so that is what I do.”

“I have this theory,” I described, “After 30 we are all part of the brackish pool.  All the healthy relationship style people are taken because they fell in love and stayed in love because it’s what you’re supposed to do.  After 30 the single people left are damaged.  They are the anxious people, who push and cling on in fear that it will disappear, which is me.  Then there are the avoidant people, who run from fear that they will get hurt, which is you.  Anxious and avoidant are attracted to each other in some sick masochistic way, I guess because it feeds their sickness.” I explained.

He sighed and I could hear the sadness in his voice.  “Is there any chance that the anxious and avoidant can make it work?”  His question was more longing than a question.

Now I sighed as I realized the truth, “No, not unless they consciously are willing to work on these issues, which you have explained to me multiple times you are not.”

We sat in silence on the phone out of respect for the sadness.  “Are you coming to my dinner tonight?”  I finally broke the silence.

Quietly he replied, “No.  No I am not.”

“What!?”  I shrieked.  My heart stopped I started trembling.  “You promised, you are joking right?”

“No I am not.  It is just too much,” he stated calmly with trepidation, “but I will call you after.”

“No, no, no, do not call me after, erase my number please.  Don’t call me again.  It just hurts too much.”  Then the phone hung up.  I am not sure if he hung up or I did but the phone hung up.

I could feel the panic taking over my body as I shook, and erased his number from my phone and call  log, that way I could no longer grasp because there would no longer be anything to grasp on to.  I tried to shake it off and make my way into the mall for what I came for.  I made it in, when I felt my heart in my throat, tears well in my eyes, and my body shae uncontrollably.  It felt as if the world was closing in on me and there was no way out.  I stumbled my way into the bathroom and threw myself into the bathroom stall.  I slid down the door and onto the floor, in which I tucked my knees close to my chest and sobbed.  Sobbed guttural sobs, the song of pain, life and sorrow; the song which sends chills down anyone’s spines who hear it.

As months passed by and I began more and more to belong to everyone but belong to no one I would think of him at times when I felt lonely or scared.  I messaged him through face book telling him I missed him.  Finally he wrote back.   He wrote:

I miss you too more than you know.  I check up on you sometimes, not like stalkerish or anything but just to make sure you are ok.  I sit at the table out back and look up at your window.  It makes me feel good to check up on one of the best woman in the world.  I want to just go up to your room and grab you, but I don’t because I am afraid you will get hurt again, but my will is getting weak and soon I am going to have to  have to come in and say hello.  I don’t know when, but until then I will keep checking up on you.

As I read his messages tears streamed down my face.  After months of selling my body I confined myself into my room, the real jail being the trauma that lived inside my head.         I had become Rapunzel and my bedroom had become my locked tower.  I stood on my balcony and mourned the lives I could have led.  I smoked my camel lights and watched as the smoke wafted over the Los Angeles streets like dreams float from the awake…and waited for him to climb up my golden hair.

One night, awake from the nightmares which haunted my sleep, I stepped outside for a cigarette and there he was.  I dropped the cigarette and lighter I had in my hands.  I made a strange animal sound somewhere in-between a gasp and a shriek.  He grabbed my body to him and buried his head in my hair, then pulled away and took my face between his hands as he has always had a way of doing and said, “Let me see you.”  I kissed him all over.  He pushed me against the wall of the house and kissed my lips then my neck then slipped down the straps of my dress, until my porcelain white naked breast gleamed in the moonlight.

“Inside, we have to go inside,” I moaned.  As he pushed me against the door, I pulled the handle open and we fell inside as we ripped each others close off and threw them in miscellaneous directions across the living room.

“Tell me everything.  Tell me all of your adventures,” he said in between kisses.

When we finished I laid my head on his chest as if no time had passed.  We talked until the sun rose.   Late for work, he kissed me as he ran out of the house shirtless.  This time he left his socks for a memory in case he did not come back.  But he did come back for a couple of nights and I slept in his arms.  “When I see you sleeping you look so innocent so pure and good.  My first reaction is to cuddle you and hold you and then my second reaction is to kidnap you and tie you up,” he whispered to me.  I smiled; I liked the idea of both.

Inevitably he began to disappear again.  The last time he told me he was coming over at four, then four turned to seven, then seven turn to nine then nine turned to eleven, and then eleven turned into I am just going home.  I could feel him falling farther and farther away from my reach as I waited for him that night.  With each hour I waited, my heart began to pound a little more.  With his last message I became blinded.  My body shook, my vision became blurry with the tears, I gasped for my breath, I had to get the energy out of me, I was scared and helpless.  I reached for whatever was near me and threw it.  I shattered along with the dish that shattered on the floor.  I called and called him and he would not answer.  I sobbed into his voicemail, “I hate you, I hate you, I wish I had never met you.   Leave me alone.  Hearts are not for you to take like they’re yours to ruin.”  Finally I could do nothing and I became paralyzed.

The next morning my body exhausted and numb from expending all the emotion in me the night before I wrote to him:

I curse you.  In another life you will be born a woman.  You will be raped in the flesh and in the heart.

I curse you.  In another life you will be born without a voice.  You will be trapped in the prison of your head and live in the torment of not being heard.  No matter how wide you open your hungry mouth no scream will come out.

I curse you.  In another life you will have nothing and no one.  You will be forced to grow up and take desperate measures to survive.

I curse you.  In another life you will be trapped by your karma.  You can end your earthly life but this will not absolve you.  For your true hell only lurks.

Then he was gone along with my heart, perhaps in this next life that I cursed him too I will be his lover and teach him the beauty in the vulnerability of falling love.














Love is a Jungle

love is a jungle image

The concept of love begins innocent and pure.  As bright eyed children with unscarred hearts love is completely beautiful.  Then as children we grow up and each experience shapes us and love becomes complicated, hate becomes complicated, sorrow becomes complicated, joy becomes complicated the more we age.  I now know love is not all beautiful for some.  Love makes us vulnerable.  Only the brave let themselves fall into this wild jungle, for there are hungry beasts hunting for their prey. 

I am not courageous, but I am fearless, blindly and unhesitatingly I venture into the jungle with nothing to protect me.  He is a coward, he enters with trepidation, and enjoys the beauty of the vibrant flowers that can be seen nowhere else, but as soon as a monsoon hits, or the snake slithers, or a beast roars, he runs. 

Being an Escort



            As I hear prostitute slurs on the streets, standing in line at the market or starbucks, in casual conversations with friends, or on the plethora of social media, my ears stand up and my heart pounds in my chest as the blood flowing through my veins gives my skin a rosy shade.  I’ve heard it said, “Anyone can spread their legs.”  Sure, anyone can spread their legs, but I would not want just any girl too, it takes a special kind of girl.  I’m not saying the girl is any better or any worse, but being a sex worker takes a girl that is wild, unyielding, passionate, uninhibited and tough. 


            Sex is an art.  You have to be in tune with your intuition, that primitive place in your soul right before feelings form thoughts.  You have to forget who you are and everything you believe and just be.  You have to listen to your partner’s energy….but most of all you must have the ability to be wild and free.  “There is something about you,” men have mused.  Perhaps there is something about me, but it’s a something than cannot be described in one simple word.  I am not a conventional beauty.   I do not wear a size zero or even a size 6, my makeup is always slightly smudged, my hair windblown.  My skin’s randomly adorned with scars.  I feel it in my blood and on my puckered skin as the wind blows.  I am highly combustible.  I easily flame up and when the flames begin I become an unyielding wild fire.  It is wild and fearless.  It is raw and primitive, unintentional and unassuming.  It turns men’s heads at the market and gas pump.  It holds their gaze with yearning in their eyes.  It makes them follow in their cars next to mine.   They self destruct their human constructions for their animalistic instinct of desire.  Wives and children become forgotten, appointments broken.  For once in their capitalistic lives their careers and budget becomes meaningless….all just for thirty minutes.   I am breathing, walking, talking, moving orgasm.  It is this something along with the tricky combination of being firm yet sweet, and making men feel desired that makes a successful escort.   If a woman does not encompass these qualities I do not wish this for them. 


            It’s been a life of heart ache, and abuse to acquire these qualities.  People are multidimensional and so is life.  Nothing is all ugly or all beautiful.  It is my courage to meet the place where the beautiful meets the ugly that has given me these qualities and through this I have learned to tame the beasts.  I began a conquest.  There are dark men, white men, fat men, skinny men, they yearn for me and tell me I am beautiful.  My worth then became measured by dollars. I have come to look at my body in parts, evaluating the market value of my breasts, my ass, the color of my skin.  “Are you all white? Are your tits real?  Can you make your ass jiggle?”  they ask.  Yes, yes, and yes I say as they empty their wallets and remain oblivious as I entrap them.   




Taming Beasts

taming the beasts right image

Beast one

We were at Grandma’s park, my favorite place in the whole world.  I was allowed to run free, much like the lightning bugs, flitting around at night, that we would try to catch at Grandma’s park.  From the park, Grandma’s trailer looked small enough to hold in my hand.  I wondered how something that held so many big people at one time could appear so small.  I imagined the flat grassland scattered with dandelions, and the dirt road that flew up in tornadoes like bursts of anger, as the prairie I read about in my Laura Ingalls Wilder books.  At Grandma’s park the adults didn’t seem so big.

The dinner bell blew.  It was so loud; it seemed as if the rest of the world was put on mute. They called it the dinner-bell, to me it sounded like those sirens that go off whenever the sky turns black and the branches of the tree’s shake in the wind as if they were angry fists.

“Climb in here,” my older cousin mouthed as his thick glasses, fell down his sun burnt
nose and he slithered like a snake into the cement tunnel    Then all I saw was his cowboy boots peeping out , like the witch who got stuck under the house in the Wizard of Oz.  I hesitated.  It seemed so long and looked so dark.  What if I got lost?  What if I couldn’t get out?  I finally ventured in.  I could smell his boy smell, a mixture of sweat and dirt.

 “It’s okay, we’re just cousins,” he said.  “It’s notlike we’re brother and sister,” he said. I remember seeing Grandma’s trailer through the crack in the tunnel, I
wished I could really grab it with my hand. The lightning bugs seduced us with their glow and flutter, but once they
became captured in our jars, their glow went out.


Beast Two

The night was crisp and cold.  The peppermint shnapps warmed me.  My heart danced in my chest with restlessness.  With our hair and makeup done we wore our party dresses, flaunting what we were too young to know were assets.  He brought us the alcohol.  He was sloppy and loud.  His abrasiveness revolted me.  I told him no as he filled my cup.  I woke up the next morning naked, sore and with his large body next to mine.      My virginity was taken from me.  I did not give it.  I learned that you give or they take. 


 Beast Three

Unaware of where I was and how I gotten there.   I came to on a strange couch that had a slight male smell of sweat, sex and stale beer.  With him pulling down my panties and sticking his penis inside of me, I focused my eyes on the water stain of the ceiling. 


Beast Four

Suddenly I found myself in a fluorescent bathroom pushed against the blinding porcelain of the sink.  My forehead methodically hitting the mirror as I was forced to look into my eyes while he came inside. 


Beast 5, 6, 7, 8, 9 and 10

I was thousands of miles away from home.  Alone and on the streets.  I was looking for anything that would fill the hole in my soul.   Like a devil he lured me with promises of a  fix.  The price was a dark  house with several men taking turns on top of me.  My body became a puddle a mass of cartlidge, bone and skin, as I floated somewhere above. 


Beast 11

I married him to feel contained, to feel safe, then my safety gave me a black eye.  I slid against the bathroom wall much like the red blood dripping down my face. 


Too many beasts to count

I then began to tame the beasts.  There were dark men, white men, fat men, skinny men, they yearned for me and told me I was beautiful.  I turned my pain into a conquest.  A conquest in which I became victorious.  I came to look at my body in parts, Evaluating my weapons in the mirror as I examined my breasts, my ass and the color of my skin.  “Are you all white?, Are your tits real?  Can you make your ass jiggle?”  they asked.  Yes, yes, and yes I said, they remained oblivious as my words began to entrap them.  Why do I tame these beasts?  For survival.  


I Curse You

woman with snake

I Curse You

I curse you.  In another life you will be born a woman.  You will be raped in the flesh and in the heart. 

I curse you.  In another life you will be born without a voice.  You will be trapped in the prison of your head and live in the torment of not being heard.  No matter how wide you open your hungry mouth no scream will come out. 

I curse you.  In another life you will have nothing and no one.  You will be forced to grow up and sell your fragile skin to survive.

I curse you.  In another life you will be trapped by your karma.  You can end your earthly life but this will  not absolve you.  For your true hell only lurks. 

Saying Goodbye to a Lover


I have stood up for you when no one else has.  I have loved you no matter what.  I have seen your potential at your darkest.   I am finished now. I am not sure I ever knew the true you, I am not sure if anyone has.     You trample through women’s hearts, take what is not yours to be taken as if they were yours to be ruined,  the way in which men have always trampled through unknown lands, raping women, and destroying the earth.   You have so many secrets.  I ask you, what shames are worthy of secrets taken to the grave?

You say your “ol’ Lady” is going to get me if she sees me on the streets.  Ol’ lady… what a quaint term for quaint people.  How remarkably simple you have become, resorting to the early ages of man in which the human brain was not quite evolved thus they relied on their fists.  You called me stupid.  I know more than you will you will ever know.  You criticize my life style choices but you will never be a thirty year old woman,  you will never be single because you will always have a woman to use, and will you will always have your parent’s garage.