Free Why Girls Are Weird by Pamela Ribon

usually started having sex once we were already in bed for the night. I don’t care how much of a sex kitten someone wants to be—nobody wears a thong to sleep. That’s pain.
    Ian’s hands slipped around Susan’s waist and he hooked his fingers into the strap of her thong at her left hip. His hand lowered and I realized why he was changing himself for Susan. No matter how many of her flaws I could recite from memory, I knew the one thing she had over me that I could never beat.
    Susan had a perfect ass.
    She knew it, I knew it, and clearly Ian knew it, the way he was holding her bottom. He kissed her neck and held her ass in his hands. I bet she let him do all kinds of things to her. He probably didn’t even have to ask if he could do them, either. I knew he wanted to try things with me that he was too nervous to ask about, and since I didn’t really want to try them, I never brought them up either. I could tell that he wanted to do more, but he never said anything. I bet Susan just raised her perfect ass in the air without saying a word and let him do whatever he wanted.
    The biggest thing wrong with the picture was that I was still standing there hiding behind a canned vegetable display. Why hadn’t I left? Why was I watching him hold her perfect ass, completely forgetting about the phone call he just lost, while he kissed her enormous puffy face?
    Then I saw he had a six-pack of wine coolers in his shopping cart. Perfect ass or no, there’s absolutely no reason for Ian to buy anyone a wine cooler. He’s not dating a woman; he’s dating a sorority girl. I knew right then that he couldn’t be happier with her than me. She couldn’t replace me if she had seven perfect asses stacked on top of each other, silently waiting for Ian to ravage them. Perfect asses standing in a row, accepting his every fantasy. They could be there glistening with perfect skin, smelling like lollipops, but at the top of that stack was Susan’s gigantic shiny face sucking on a “cooler” like a hungry toddler.
    That’s when I laughed, that’s when they looked up, and that’s when I hauled ass out of the store.
    I only had the one ass to haul, you see. And it might not be perfect, but it’s fucking fast.

000013.
    Subject: re: re: re: Ramblings.
    AK,
    A series of questions led me to write this e-mail. At first I was actually thinking about your webpage (I think of it as “Anna K,” and then think of you as “Anna,” like Anna K is an object, but Anna is a woman, but then I guess I also think of you as Anna K. But then also I don’t really think of you as a person so much as this idea of a woman. I picture you as impossibly cute with a smile that makes all bad things go away. I’ve never even used the words “impossibly cute” to describe someone before. I don’t think I like it. I’ve gotten myself trapped in another parenthetical prison here, haven’t I? Let’s just move on together….)
    I’m happy you wrote me back, even though I’m sure it was one of the form letters you send to all of your fans. I’m also assuming you have several fans. Because if you’ve made this one man sit up late in his Pittsburgh apartment reading over your past entries (more than once, I’m ashamed to admit), trying to piece together this most intriguing woman, then I’m sure there are thousands more like me.
    I’m finding myself with plenty of spare time to write to you. I’m sort of between projects. (That sounds like I’m unemployed, but I’m not. But what I actually do for money is so terribly boring that if I even tried to describe it, you’d find yourself in a drooling coma within thirteen seconds. The “projects” I’m referring to are more what I do when I’m at home, away from my mandatory “day job.” I paint. I paint things and people, and I guess sometimes I’ve