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Home Experience Titles distinguish the mediocre, embarrass the superior, and are disgraced by the inferior.

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Titles distinguish the mediocre, embarrass the superior, and are disgraced by the inferior.

Polly, February 4, 2013

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Tags : George Bernard Shaw

In heaven and angel is nobody in particular.

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Every man over forty is a scoundrel.

Polly

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The heaviest, strongest creatures in this world seem to be the lonliest.

The heaviest, strongest creatures in this world seem to be the lonliest.

We never know the true value of friends. While we live we are too sensitive of their faults; when we have lost them we only see their virtues.

We never know the true value of friends. While we live we are too sensitive of their faults; when we have lost them we only see their virtues.

Maybe I couldn’t make it. Maybe I don’t have a pretty smile, good teeth, nice tits, long legs, a cheeky ass, a sexy voice. Maybe I don’t know how to handle men and increase my market value, so that the rewards due to the feminine will accrue to me. Then again, maybe I’m sick of the masquerade. I’m sick of pretending eternal youth. I’m sick of belying my own intelligence, my own will, my own sex. I’m sick of peering at the world through false eyelashes, so everything I see is mixed with a shadow of bought hairs; I’m sick of weighting my head with a dead mane, unable to move my neck freely, terrified of rain, of wind, of dancing too vigorously in case I sweat into my lacquered curls. I’m sick of the Powder Room. I’m sick of pretending that some fatuous male’s self-important pronouncements are the objects of my undivided attention, I’m sick of going to films and plays when someone else wants to, and sick of having no opinions of my own about either. I’m sick of being a transvestite. I refuse to be a female impersonator. I am a woman, not a castrate.

Maybe I couldn’t make it. Maybe I don’t have a pretty smile, good teeth, nice tits, long legs, a cheeky ass, a sexy voice. Maybe I don’t know how to handle men and increase my market value, so that the rewards due to the feminine will accrue to me. Then again, maybe I’m sick of the masquerade. I’m sick of pretending eternal youth. I’m sick of belying my own intelligence, my own will, my own sex. I’m sick of peering at the world through false eyelashes, so everything I see is mixed with a shadow of bought hairs; I’m sick of weighting my head with a dead mane, unable to move my neck freely, terrified of rain, of wind, of dancing too vigorously in case I sweat into my lacquered curls. I’m sick of the Powder Room. I’m sick of pretending that some fatuous male’s self-important pronouncements are the objects of my undivided attention, I’m sick of going to films and plays when someone else wants to, and sick of having no opinions of my own about either. I’m sick of being a transvestite. I refuse to be a female impersonator. I am a woman, not a castrate.

Manage by objectives. Tell people exactly what you want them to do and then get out of their way.

Manage by objectives. Tell people exactly what you want them to do and then get out of their way.

Our children are our only hope for the future, but we are their only hope for their present and their future.

Our children are our only hope for the future, but we are their only hope for their present and their future.

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