Breaking even.

The stereotypical misogynist is a man who will never have a meaningful relationship with a woman (throw in a few pinches of a desire to control and dominate based on mistrust and hostility), due to a longing to resolve longstanding oedipal issues.

Troubling, isn't it, when your inclination to treat women as objects and commodities stems from the fact that a small part of you had a obsession with getting into your mother's pants as a child?

I don't think I had that problem. No, granted, I was beaten around like a grain sack during my developmental years but I don't feel that it's warranted my strong disdain for commitment. But it's interesting to think that it was my mother's fault. I would've been scarred for life with the fear that all women were out to get me and abuse my fragile male physiology.

I'd then place shields around my cold, cold heart and adopt a frosty, manly, macho facade to create this air of mystery and intensity around me. If it was done right, I'd be the musky, stubbled male model in those Giorgio Armani men's fragrance ads and not a happy, slightly offbeat, fat chinese boy writing about a man's childhood fantasy of getting into his mother's knockers.

Oh, no, I'm not.

I love women. They make great succors in times of great distress, and often dispense good advice while being able to become a conscientious sounding board when the male perspective is a little bit more than biased. But I also have this opinion that if women aren't going to be put in their place, they're just going to take over and terrorize the world (they already outnumber us).

Families have become more matriachal than patriachal in nature. You've got a Mamasan running the joint as opposed to a Major Domo. I feel threatened at the prospect of being dethroned from my kingdom; my role as a man is being blurred because in the near future, I might not even be needed.

I secretly hope that there isn't a Battle of the Sexes as foretold, because even though men have the cunning and wiles to keep it together, women are better at it. And lest you forget about the spermatoza side of things, women are self-sustaining baby factories. All you need is one man and a tube, and you've got a cabbage patch.

With a dystopian, post-apocalyptic world ruled by women looming on the horizon, it's no wonder that I can't find the heart to repeatedly harness my inner New-Age Sensitive Man, and instead rely upon my seething desire to become a fat, Lothario sexwhore.

I think it's time to stop the clocks and rewind them a bit. Remember, there was once a time when all a girl wanted was to be dominated. There's only so much you can do by playing nice. Figure out where to draw the line between dominance and compromise and you've most probably stumbled upon a very fruitful, satisfying relationship (sans dominatrix gear, candle wax and whips, of course).

If not, we've still got Paris.