Dear men, According to my Kurdisch-Swedish friend, a woman is like a friendly volcano. “She really is,” he stresses. “I’m not,” I huff, “but I see your point.” Indeed. A woman is beautiful and serene: one truly amazing sight that stands out. Like a volcano. Until she errupts. Her volcanic ash, along with her conveniently aligned pyroclastic and mentstrual flow, can and will destroy everything dear to you. Including your upcoming dudes-trip, tickets to the match of the century, or your precious porn mags. Especially those. I’d like to say I’m the exception. That I am, although womanly and girly at the best of times, more like ‘one of the guys’. I can burp for Britain, fart for France. I nod and say I understand perfectly well how men drool over a gorgeous woman’s body, without a hint of jealousy on my part, knowing “it means nothing”. I claim to find women annoying, how I detest nagging, how women never really seem to know or say what they want. And when they do, they change their minds. I state that I don’t get them either. I say that I am this serene and beautiful volcano too, though a dormant one. One you can easily take on your man-cation. While you try to drink me under the table, I will banter until you’re totally tongue-tied. The exception. Me. Sure. I burp, fart, and banter. But the exception? Nah. Don’t tell porkies. For I am like all the others, just as all the others are like me. Women are NOT docile little creatures that agree with you eternally; who scrub your floors; cook; raise your gaggle of kids; wriggle a soft, manicured hand down your trousers to warm and tickle your yearning third leg. Even the most devout of nuns, calm and chock-full of self-restraint as she usually is, has her boiling points. At times she grows so angry and frustrated that simple gardening won’t suffice to diffuse the situation: a radish will perish from her ferocious and terrifying screams, cucumbers will curl up in fear. She too encounters moments when she’s so pent up, she’ll lock the monastery door, shut the curtains, stick her Bible in the fridge and sinfully masturbate for six solid hours until she gives herself carpal tunnel syndrome, just to find some form of relief. So, yes. That thing about women being like volcanoes? It’s true. For all of them. Be warned. Best wishes, Volcanic Female.