I
recently got into a huge argument with Nixie regarding Rachel McAdams and how we allocate each
other’s time which is, in my opinion, a pointless waste of time because: one,
she’s not my girlfriend(at least not yet) and two because this is the sort of
argument where nobody wins. Why? Because Nixie argues using her female-driven
emotions (i.e. “that’s true, but I just
want to feel special for a change; like a princess! How would YOU feel if I
treated you like a sucky sucky two-dollar harlot?”) and I argue using
god-like contrivance and skillful dodging. (i.e. “I don’t drink a lot! You call eight bottles of Red Horse drinking a
lot? Jesus! So did Manny Pacquiao win? The weather’s nice isn’t it? I’m not
getting any tonight am I?”) When those two tactics mix up, boy, it goes down
about as roughly as Gin and turpentine would.

Over
my last few relationships, I have spent a good deal of time contemplating on
why men and women can’t get along and I’ve drawn an inference that when couples
argue a lot in a relationship, it generally means that:

• One or both of the parties involved in the
  relationship are opinionated and combative in nature.

• One or both of the parties involved are unhappy
  with the relationship.

• Or maybe you’re just wrong for each other and the
  relationship is destined to be one big clusterfuck.

Yeah,
I know; I was just stating the obvious. I still want a Nobel Prize for it
though; I mean come on! If there were people who got acclaim for conducting
years and years of study on Chimpanzees (Yes Goodall I’m looking at you)and coming to the conclusion that Chimps are
more receptive when people smell and act like them, don’t you think I deserve
some? Christ! Did you receive funding for monkeying around? Where can I sign up
for one of those studies?

Anyway,
last Saturday, I came knocking on Nixie’s door; in my hand was a flowchart I
made and printed that tackles the topics we usually argue about. This got me
into more trouble so stay away from this kind of tactic if you can buddy boy. I
realized that most if not all of our little debates tend to curve around and
graze the same fucking topics at some point. Never mind that we’re arguing
about whether or not Rachel McAdams is pretty, she’ll always bring up that time
when I was forty minutes late for a dinner; or that time when she caught me at
home when I told her that I was in Tarlac with my parents.