On Dicks

Life is this constant onslaught of dicks, metaphorical and otherwise.  Every time someone looks me up and down on the street: BAM! DICK PROD!  Every time someone saunters up to me at the bar with fake nonchalance and pretends to be interested in my art: POW! IT'S A DICK!  Every time someone shakes my hand so gingerly, like they're afraid they're going to break it: METAPHOR DICK coming at me!  Every time someone addresses all their comments to only the other men in the room, because they think that I won't understand: DICKS IN COMMAND!  Dicks beating me down, or trying to gain access, or just generally making sure that I know they're around, in case I forgot.

Often when I walk down the street I imagine myself doing this anti-dick karate, like every time someone looks at me like that, or yells from their car, or spits on the ground in front of me, I do an imaginary dick block, WA-PAH, a roundhouse dick-kick, BAM! BAM!  It's this constant dance keeping out all the dicks that are timidly poking at my being, trying to find an opening; or else trying to dickslap me to put me in my place.

It only really gets depressing when the dicks start to dress up like something they're not, when a dick masquerades as a genuine interest in my well-being, or a desire to get to know me as a person; when it puts on a little "I really like you" hat and a "we have a real connection" bowtie and starts getting all tricky.  I believe they call this "spitting game." Sometimes I feel like my mind is just this obstacle course that you have to navigate through to get to my vagina; like it's only there to mediate between your dick and your goal.