Why I need return my spare X chromosome

I can't nurture worth shit. The only things I've ever felt a fondness for were chocolate and beautiful young men, and the only things I've ever managed to keep alive was a low-to-no maintenance pineapple plant. I can kill cacti, people. I am so not fit to be a parent.

I've never made a casserole, gratin, or bake. Ever. No terrines, either. Fuck stratified food. Hell, I don't even make 7-layer dip.

I can't bake. I don't know how to attain that magical temperature/time combination that makes all the difference between "ooey, gooey, goodness" and "stepping stone". Baking is too exact a cooking method, and I can't be arsed to be that fussy over food preparation. My cookies come in a refrigerated sheet whose directions are "Break. Bake. Eat."

I hate most children. I think they smell, and the majority are of them are butt-ugly. Their lack of finesse irritates the shit out of me, and they make their parents morph into brain-dead brand zombies eager to regale you with the tales of Junior's latest poop. They make a mess out of anything they touch, and they are loud enough to make your ears bleed. Plus you can't give them away if they piss you off.

I don't scare easily. I've never jumped on a chair to avoid a mouse, I can handle large snakes, and I've never made a man drop everything to kill a bug for me. I can walk alone in strange neighborhoods after dark. I think my menacing "don't fuck with me unless you want me to castrate you with my bare hands" scowl keeps most predators away.

I'm not co-dependent. I don't need an emotionally neutered sycophant by my side constantly emoting, spewing compliments, and downplaying my neuroses. I don't need constant assurance and validation. My (hypothetical) man's shoulders are for digging my fingernails into during the throes of passion, not crying on.

I'm not helpless. I can fix a car, stove, toilet, vcr, you name it. And my toolbox isn't pink, nor does it contain 3 kinds of scissors. I know how to wire my own electronics and install my own shelves. I can fix a leaky faucet and a running toilet. I can caulk a bathtub and build a birdhouse. And I'm not skittish about taking out the trash or mowing the lawn.

I don't decorate for seasonal holidays. Martha Stewart can go fuck herself. I'm not about to blow good beer money on a bunch of overpriced shit that a) won't last, b) smells funny c) gathers dust, and d) needs to be taken down almost as soon as it's put up.

I don't collect tchotchkes, kitsch, or figurines. Why in the hell do I need to clutter my small enough living space with a bunch of shit that does nothing but sit there and gather dust, and needs to be cleaned periodically, meaning more work for me. Only one such thing in any dwelling is tolerable. It's called a 'husband'. Like hell do I want one of those, either.

I don't like pink. When carnation pink became the new black, I died a little inside. I don't follow fashion. Pink ponchos, pink studded leather belts, pink shoes, pink jackets, and pink newsboy caps make me gag.

I hate purse-dogs. Bug-eyed, inbred, overpriced chihauhuas that do nothing but shiver and piss and die from suffocating on a soiled thong stuffed into the bottom of a Fendi purse after a night of its owner being rode hard and put away wet have no business being called dogs.

I'm into cars. Put me on a freeway and I can identify the make, model and year of almost any passenger vehicle. I can even tell you the obvious sight differences between a regular Mustang and a Mustang Cobra for this model year. I may not be able to fully restore a '57 Jaguar SS, but rest assured I can damn well identify one.

I'm not a harpy. I don't do nagging. The only reason I'd disturb a man while he's watching his Sunday football game is to give an improptu BJ, as a gentle reminder of what he's missing. Besides, if I have a point to make, there's plenty of time after the game to kick his ass for fucking up my toolbox.

SO not stereotypically feminine (by U.S. standards, at least). I can almost feel my voice deepening already.