Competition, it means different things to different people. If it's a battle of superiority, fight to the death or just a friendly rivalry. The end result is always that there will be a winner and losers. The trick is to know which battles to choose. But know this, there is not a victory that comes without a price.

Throughout time there have been small battles and big ones, the one that will never end is between the sexes. Not so long ago women were considered less because ”they were weaker than men”, survival of the fittest: home edition. What men have failed to understand is that we all know that the vajayjay, if not taken by force, trumps the bone most of the time when it comes to having your shit together.
When it all comes around the true backbone of every successful relationship is a supportive partner (doesn’t matter which sex).

In the good ol’ days, a true horse of a woman (not Sarah Jessica Parker) was all the family needed. Without her, the man would come home to, well basically, shit. Cooking, cleaning, taking care of the children and being a true rock when the shitstorms rolled in.
As I was making pancakes (I’m a horse), Caroline watched an episode of Desperate Housewives and she looked at me with horror in her eyes and apathetically said: ”Bloody hell, kids are fucking disgusting”.

She’s definitely not a horse in this relationship. She might be a lion.

A little bit further into the city, Jenny was visiting the doctor. As she stood in the elevator, she gazed at herself in the mirror, proud of the body she has worked so hard to get back. She’s going for the body so she can lure in men and objectify them. Let them know how it is to be looked at as an object.

She’s a crossbreed between a horse and a black widow, poisonous if you will.

When she stepped out of the elevator and into the waiting room a smaller wave of panic washed over her when she saw the sign. If her scans for an STD would come back positive, she will have ruined thirteen relationships with thirteen different people. That's thirteen dicks. That's a whole football team. The whole fucking team, the starting line-up and two substitutes. Let’s just say that I made pancakes for two guests that afternoon.

When the girls had left I thought to myself, we’re not roles in a play, but auditioning actors searching for a counterpart to pick up the slacks we’re not able to bring to the table. It’s not sex-oriented and yet our ancestors is trying to force this gender biased manuscript down hour throats like we can’t write our own.

I can’t help but wonder, if there’s a price to pay in this battle, has the price already been paid?