Women are hypocrites

Last night, Dana, Sarah and I went out for burgers at Fuddruckers, and we did what we do best: ate to our bruised hearts' content and bitched about men.
By my sixth bite of double cheese burger, we'd agreed that all men are bastards. Except our fathers; though they can be rotten sometimes.
All three of us declared passionately that tomorrow was a beginning to a new us, where we would quench our obsessions, forget our infatuations, treat our men like dirt, and ride off into the sunset (with only our pride to keep us warm on the cold desert nights). As much as I wanted to, as much as my overworked brain craved some peace, I knew this was promise too easy to make.

A little voice inside me said "This is bullshit."
As soon as we get home, each of us will fill her diary with taunts and insults about the man she is still hopelessly devoted to. Each of us will sit by her phone and pray he'll call, hug her pillow and wonder what it is about her that keeps him from giving her the attention she so craves.

Ultimately, girls' nights out do little less than momentarily boost our egos. It's not that men are bastards. It's just that women are hypocrites. We talk about righteousness and equality, yet we allow them to mess with our heads. We compare wounds over cappuccinos and try to stop the bleeding by adding salt.

We attempt to declare independence, I-Am-A-Woman-Of-Substance, but the minute he so much as raises an eyebrow or smiles in my direction, it’s all shot to hell and I enthusiastically re-embark on this guessing game of does-he-doesn’t-why-doesn’t-he-call?

Ultimately, it’s not the men that are bastards; we're the messed up ones.