Dudes can be cruel to be kind. As a womyn, I can say that. Dudes, you can be cruel — to be “kind” — either to embarrass us or reproduce with us.

Case in point: about a month ago I was walking to a party with my gal pal. We were gabbing about, you know, Sex and the City, and which character we’re most like, and what sort of vodka-tinis we’d be imbibing later, and then we talked about doing our nails, and kissing boys and having the red tide come visit us every 28 days.

A solid fourth of my Spice-Girls-Era diaries is filled with food porn: hot sessions with Kit Kat in the girl’s locker room, sexually frustrating make out binges with Bubble Tape and steamy afternoons spent spooning a large, sweaty bowl of hot chocolate. After I die, those three Jesus Loves Me diaries will survive me for years to come, leaving my offspring generations of discomfort, knowing that Great Great Great GranShan, the matriarch of their race of enormous gingers, was a checkout-lane-item fetishist.