Gah.

To all the men on my f-list.
I think there are two of you.
But all the same. Know this;

When a woman shaves her legs for you she deserves your silent thanks and respects and adulations of praise because, and let me tell you this, BECAUSE, it is a huge, gigantic, long and fucking boring job. MOTHER OF GOD. It takes fucking forever and you end up with little scratches on your knees where the head of the razor wouldn't go and little knicks if you're not VERY careful and then you have shaving cream under your fingernails that just won't go away for ages, and once you wash it off you see you've missed a place on the back of your leg and you have to fucking REAPPLY the shaving cream which then needs to be picked out from under your nails AGAIN. All the while you can't get the 'I'm your Venus' song out of your head so you've got this chorus going that sounds like cats SHRIEKING because it's a terrible, terrible song. And then you need to reapply AGAIN because you forgot your underarms. And above all, it takes that long, and the fucking hair grows back anyways.

Ladies and gentlemen, it's ten thirty AM, I'm still VERY jetlagged, and I have a job interview to prepare for tomorrow. The sundress needs ironing and I can't find the pink nail polish, but my legs are officially shaved.
I just didn't like the process very much, is all.

Mmmmmm

I am exactly FOUR MINUTES into the Libertine and have already had to pause it to share the fact that I ALREADY want to app John Willmot.

So, how it goes, is there's this minute of credits,

Allow me to be frank at the commencement.
You will not like me.
The gentlemen will be envious and the ladies will be repelled. You will not like me now and you will like me a good deal less as we go on.
Ladies, an announcement. I am up for it. All the time. That is not a boast or an oppinion, it is bone hard medical fact. I put it round, you know and you will watch me putting it round and sigh for it. Don't. It is a deal of trouble for you and you are better off watching and drawing your own conclusions from a distance than you would be if I got my tass up your petticoats.

Gentlemen. Do not dispair. I am up for that as well, and the same warning applies. Still your cheezy erections till I've had my say, but later when you shag, and later you will shag, I shall expect it of you and I will know if you have let me down. I wish you to shag with my homuncular image rattling in your gonads. Feel, how it was for me. How it is for me, and ponder was that shudder the same shudder he sensed? Or did he know something more profound? Or is there some wall of wretchedness we all batter with our heads at that shining, live long moment?
That is it. That is my prologue. Nothing in rhyme, no protestations of modesty, you were not expecting that, I hope? Nothing.

I am John Willmot, second Earl of Rochester, and I do not want you to like me.