You take yourself entirely too seriously. You appeal only to used up older women that can’t get any man to pay attention to them anymore. And to the random curious dumb young girl. The self important pride in which you write is sad to see. You want to know the mind of a woman but you can’t get past your own needs. You swim in shallow waters and convince yourself it’s the deep ocean. This schtick of yours isn’t impressive. Someone just needed to say it.

I’ll have you know that I generally take myself in a manly-yet-playful fashion, like I’m trying to gently strangle a ferret.
Fascinating how these kinds of asks always pretend to critique me, and yet within a sentence or two, invariably turn to insulting innocent women. It’s almost as if I’m not really the issue here…
You’re not sad about my writing; you’re frustrated and bitter. But don’t worry, I don’t expect you to understand emotions, mine or yours.
Knowing the mind of a woman is as simple as listening to her. It’s not something one has to want… ‘cause if you actually want to know, you will. (And now you’ve learned something. Good for you.)
The baptismal is but a tub, and yet in its meager depths are souls cleansed and reborn. Leave me to my puddle, and the desperate little tardigrades with whom I play.
It’s impressing someone. That’s why you’re whining.
Someone else could have said it better, champ. But good effort.