Wednesday, May 02, 2012
I do not care.
I do not care what you do in your bedroom.
No, really...I don't care. I have no interest in your private interests, nor your private interests made public. To that end, please stop making it known to me. It is not my business.
I do not talk about the Dread Dormomoo's and my...deliberations. I do not hold parades celebrating our conjugal (what a terrible word) interests. Neither do I wear clothing emblazoned with greyscale entwined male and female symbols, with "I DIG CHICKS" on the back. (Note to self...research new product line....) The DD does wear a shirt that says "Chicks dig giant robots" but that's another story.
Now, here is where some will gape and point like Donald Sutherland in "Invasion of the Body Snatchers" and cry "HOMOPHOBE!!!!", but I am for much the same as you. We should stamp out homophobia. Utterly. It is not to be tolerated, because it, too, is a terrible word, an unexpected consequence of the "Everything I know about ______, I learned in Kindergarten" school of thought. If I don't like what you do, I can call you a Name. "You're a poopyhead!"
If I disagree with your stated opinion, you can call me an idiot. If I offer no praise nor even interest in your sexual inclinations, then you can call me a "homophobe", or a "prude", but I do not FEAR homosexuals, nor bisexuals, nor any of the other alphabet soup designations of people's relationship choices. I have no fear, only a vague indifference.
I don't care.
I am not interested.
I am not in the market.
Stop telling me. Stop selling me. Stop telling anyone wot passes by.
I keep my sexual proclivities to myself.
I wish everyone else would.
Frankly, anymore, it's just a bore.