Because they have a worse memory. That is the memory of pain. The women’s cell doesn’t seem to keep the memory of pain intact. They get a burn now from the coffee kettle, then, the next time, although they vaguely remember as if something went wrong, they try again. Twice, three times, seven times. This time with a cloth. Instead, they should buy an espresso machine. But no, what do you think? Still with the same damn kettle. Cause they only like that flavor. Cause they don’t know another. And they don’t even want to know.
Men who burned themselves with a hot kettle go on instant coffee. Instantly. With cold water. He only puts his hand on the hot kettle when he is dead drunk at 2 a.m. and has nothing else to heat with. But the next day, at the first hour, when his blood didn’t even get to pump on his upper side of his body, he makes an instant coffee to go while he runs away, closing his slit. It’s instinct.
He’s already in uber; she doesn’t even notice he’s gone. She is in the kitchen, obviously with the kettle on the fire, playing Russian roulette with her own life, while she’s taking out all the memories, real or fabricated and not even happy, with the asshole who couldn’t love her the way she wanted.
Women are dumber than men because they lose their survival instinct. Because they have some kind of masochism that men completely lack. The woman looks for the pain, takes it in her open chest like Braveheart, endures it, fights with the mistress, fights with him, fights with herself, despairs, cries, gets hysterical, and then goes on another round of fighting.
Men run away. Or they rest for a little while. They sit like that a little longer. As in a dolce far niente, until everything gets solved around them. And if it doesn’t get solved, it doesn’t get solved. They go out and have a drink. You better go too. On your way.
