Why Women find it hard to find the Man of their Dreams

1.The nice men are ugly.

2.The handsome men are not nice.

3.The handsome and nice men are gay.

4.The handsome, nice and heterosexual men are married.

5.The men who are not so handsome, but are nice men, have no money

6.The men who are not so handsome, but are nice men with money think we are only after their money.

7. The handsome men without money are after our money.

8. The handsome men, who are not so nice and somewhat heterosexual, don't think we are beautiful enough.

9. The men who think we are beautiful, that are heterosexual, somewhat nice and have money, are cowards.

10. The men who are somewhat handsome, somewhat nice and have some money and thank God are heterosexual, are shy and NEVER MAKE THE FIRST MOVE!!!!

11. The men who never make the first move, automatically lose interest in us when we take the initiative.

NOW, WHO THE HELL UNDERSTANDS MEN?

"Men are like a fine wine. They all start out like grapes, and it's our job, to stomp all over 'em and keep 'em in the dark till they mature into something you'd like to have dinner with."

{Extracted from an email}

Funny Quotes by Great Thinkers

"It is one of the superstitions of the human mind to have imagined that virginity could be a virtue."

[Voltaire]

"I cannot believe in a God who wants to be praised all the time."

[Friedrich Nietzsche]

"If Christ, in fact, said "I came not to bring peace but a sword," it is the only prophecy in the New Testament that has been literally fulfilled."

[Robert G. Ingersoll]

"As long as woman regards the Bible as the charter of her rights, she will be the slave of man. The bible was not written by a woman. Within its leaves there is nothing but humiliation and shame for her."

[Robert G. Ingersoll]

"If priests had not been fond of mutton, lambs never would have been sacrified to god. Nothing was ever carried to the temple that the priest could not use, and it always happened that god wanted what his agents liked."

[Robert G. Ingersoll]

Poetry

For some poetry means nothing but a bunch of words which merely make no sense whatsoever but for some it's a vast ocean of relaxation. It's more or less like solving a puzzle you know, deciphering what the poet must have hid amongst those lines. Real poetry is not about jotting down a few lines with the obvious. It's an art, an art you must indulge with passion. The first part of a poem is somewhat like jumping off that cliff you are so much scared of nevertheless dared to try, the middle like the strange sensation of freedom you experience until you hit the water miles beneath you and the end is the deep plunge in to the deep blue. It's scary, daring and refreshing. Taking an easier example for those who have not tried the above, it's like sex. Scary and alluring at the same time. Writing and reading both.

I carry your heart with me(I carry it in my heart)

I carry your heart with me(i carry it in my heart)
I am never without it(anywhereI go you go,my dear;
and whatever is doneby only me is your doing,my darling)
I fear no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)
I want no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

Here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

I carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)
- E E Cummings

The Rhodora

On being asked, whence is the flower.

In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes,
I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods,
Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook,
To please the desert and the sluggish brook.
The purple petals fallen in the pool
Made the black water with their beauty gay;
Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool,
And court the flower that cheapens his array.
Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why
This charm is wasted on the earth and sky,
Tell them, dear, that, if eyes were made for seeing,
Then beauty is its own excuse for Being;
Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose!
I never thought to ask; I never knew;
But in my simple ignorance suppose
The self-same power that brought me there, brought you.

- Ralph Waldo Emerson

Rule Me If You Must

Numb I am to sorrow and mirth alike
Life's harlot getting laid to please its ways
The phoenix that shall rise from the ashes
Rule me you shall, but nothing more

My soul rattles if shaken still intact
The chains keep my feet from wandering
Do as you please, rule me if you must
You mock yourself for you have not won me

The Passionate Pilgrim

WHEN my love swears that she is made of truth,
I do believe her, though I know she lies,
That she might think me some untutor'd youth,
Unskilful in the world's false forgeries.
Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,
Although I know my years be past the best,
I smiling credit her false-speaking tongue,
Outfacing faults in love with love's ill rest.
But wherefore says my love that she is young?
And wherefore say not I that I am old?
O, love's best habit is a soothing tongue,
And age, in love, loves not to have years told.
Therefore I'll lie with love, and love with me,
Since that our faults in love thus smother'd be.

-Shakespeare, William, 1564-1616