There is no shortage of gross “female” behavior when it comes to attempts at exhibiting pretension and superiority. Particularly in the neighborhoods of New York that encourage the sort of faux learnedness that comes with having never actually traveled anywhere, because why would you? You live in New York! Everything you could possibly need to comprehend about other cultures is right here. And, what’s more, so long as you pronounce “foreign” words with the correct flourish, you’re sure to prove your international cachet to the cashier that wants to murder you anyway due to the blatant class divide between y’all.
Isn’t it enough that you’re working below your full potential by working at all anyway? Shouldn’t you get to showcase your intelligence and knowledgeability in some way to the world outside of dinner parties and discussions about your love of travel over dim sum when you slum it in Chinatown? No, one supposes, it is not. It is just too essential for you to barf the word croissant as cwahsahnt to prove, I don’t know, that you don’t queaf (you’re also too elegant to spell it like queef) during sex or something because you’re so goddamn erudite. But oh chouchou, it has to be said that the more you try to parade your cultivated aura, the more of a pompous little dodo bird you come across as. But don’t worry, surely your wispy pronunciations will attract the corresponding blowhard so that you might combine forces to birth a mutant even more faux intellectual than the two of you combined. And then you can all eat baby cwahsahnts (you must maintain your figure if you’re going to keep Blowhard from cheating) before nine a.m. together around the breakfast table because waking up past noon would just be much too French.
It isn’t so common, one would think, anymore, to hear a “woman” order white zinfandel outside of say, 1996, and yet, in these Trumpian times, one can’t be too surprised to find that it’s had something of a resurgence–even outside of the one-horse town milieu (a.k.a a suburb of New York a.k.a. Long Island). And yes, to be sure, it is always the wispy blonde type (who fashions her hair into a half-back, to boot) that doesn’t want to get “too crazy” with her alcohol intake that chooses white zin as her drink of choice. As if she’s somehow of the belief that white zinfandel doesn’t have “real” alcohol in it, therefore she can justify it when her behavior “suddenly” gets buck wild–as though it’s “so unexpected” when she starts letting something “slip” (besides her nip), be it gossip, an insult or a protected secret.
“Oh my god, I can’t believe I said that,” she’ll say the following morning, as though she’s genuinely shocked about the behavior that white zinfandel “imbued” her with, as though her latent bitch of a personality wasn’t underneath all along, and did not simply “appear” out of nowhere and at the fault of the white zinfandel. She’ll apologize ad nauseum to whatever fake friend or grudging boyfriend she might have offended, claim it will never happen again and then pretty much immediately go back to drinking, if not the next day, at least five days later. For white zinfandel is the very thing that makes her feel alive, that is to say, white. Because what could be more invigorating than living in a country where yuppiedom and all emblems thereof are consistently favored despite our false belief in the fact that diversity has triumphed in the twenty-first century? But unless the proverbial bartender refuses to serve the dumb bitch’s aim in feeling “sophisticated” with white zinfandel, all hope for a future sans the blanche parvenue saturating all facets of our existence is nil.
Being that “women” who voted for Trump actually exist, it can be no wonder that there still exist “women” who are petrified by even contemplating the notion of asking a bloke out, of being billed, as Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie would call it, “Debbie Desperate.” Speaking to the congenital fear that all “women” have of rejection (most especially when it is all largely based on their looks–though there are some deranged “men” who claim they are unaffected by the beauty and fashion industry and all they do to transform “women” on a daily basis), the self-branding as desperate for expressing one’s affections is yet another instance of patriarchal-instilled gender role fulfillment. “If I’m not the one being pursued, how can I know this is real?” is the question. The answer being, in the stuck in the twentieth century mindset, it’s not. What’s worse, this mentality is what has for so long driven “women” to settle for whatever pathetic entrails show up on their doorstep. If he’s into me, I guess I should just go with it being the surrender Dorothy rationale.
That a very dance exists–Sadie Hawkins (in addition to that Leap Year loophole that permits a “woman” to invoke the Irish tradition of being able to ask a “man” to marry her on 29th of February that occurs every four years)–to flip the switch in “allowing” a “woman” to feel confident enough to express a desire and fondness for the bloke of her choosing without the usual sentiment of humiliation or prostration is just one of many confirmations of the rigged in favor of the patriarchy game known as “trying to bang the same person on the regular.”
Yet when taking into account the overall enervation of the “male” species and what it once meant to be “male” (in the John Wayne spirit) having totally vanished into obsoletion, it is only natural that a “woman” should, at times, feel inclined to take matters into her own firm and ready to grip hands, to drive the spirit of the “relationship” she can feel faintly forming based on intuition and the number of times he “finds ways” to touch her and/or glance at her for far longer than is appropriate without immediately thinking he’s probably stalked her Instagram profile to the point of having gone back fifty-two weeks. So then, why shouldn’t it be that she helps him along in his overt inclinations that can still be picked up on in those moments when one or both parties is not welded to their phones?
The point is, “men” are dainty motherfuckers, and waiting around on them to “bequeath” their dick to you at their own leisure will leave one’s pussy hairs turning gray. Though some “men” with a fetish for Helen Mirren (a.k.a. a strange offshoot of the Oedipus complex) might be inclined to actually pursue you at this stage.
Because poverty dick is often more orgasm-inducing than rich dick (they were never good at sex because they never had to be, or just paid people off to tell them they were), it can frequently be the case that “women” stick with the same sleaze for well past the expiration date, refusing to acknowledge that there is no statute of limitations when it comes to the embarrassment of being seen with someone noticeably disparate not just in grossness but also intellect.
It’s been said by Leah McSweeney that “Good dick will imprison you.” But this feels more like an aphorism created merely to suit the aesthetic of her streetwear brand than actual reality. For how good is dick, really, ever? Good in that sense that you lose all track of your dignity, sense of self and, most important of all, self-worth. Then again, “women” are liable to lose their damn minds even just for adequate dick (which is almost as rare as the good kind). Their slavery to an apparatus that could just as easily be recreated while not attached to a humiliating disgrace of a human being is, sadly, what continues to keep them down, subjugated by an objectively inferior species that effectively proves each day we should all be implementing the tenets of the S.C.U.M. Manifesto.
Being that it’s increasingly rare to come across “female” friendship that isn’t somehow rooted solely in hating “men” nowadays, it’s only natural that when that solidarity does come along, a “girl” wants to immortalize it as best as she can. And, apart from the obvious ritual of smearing one’s period blood all over each other, there is a far easier, even more cliche way to embrace the friendship: dressing as Romy and Michele for Halloween.
Like so many pop culture icons of the 90s that were deemed throwaway at the time but have now somehow become more significant than even the more classic ones outside of the decade (think Nancy Downs usurping Elvira), Romy and Michele have come to represent the true meaning of friendship through slacker unity (they’re the female live action Beavis and Butt-head, if you will). In standing together as beacons of light and hope for every late twenty-something who does not want nor plan to have a child and/or a successful career, Romy and Michele have thusly transcended into millennial icons, an ironclad indication that it’s okay to be a fuck-up so long as you have a willing accomplice that helps let the good times roll. The sort of person that would deign to dress up as Romy rather than Michele (as everyone knows Michele had the better ensemble) with you on Halloween. Even though Aly and AJ did that shit way before you and your equally as flailing friend (and that was as recently as 2014, when the 90s really started catching on like wildfire, and with it, the full-fledged embracement of mediocrity as parody instead of art).
There’s nothing “sexier” to the “depth-laden” “male” than a “woman” with “rocker chick” taste in music. Not only does it signify she’s not just another pumpkin spice-loving basique, but also that she might be just a little grittier in bed. A little more personal–raw–to quote Lindsay Lohan. Does he bother asking her any detail-oriented questions regarding her preferences in terms of said band’s songs, albums and live performances? No. Not so long as the shirt squeezes in just such a way so as to blind him to the very thought of engaging in conversation when he would much rather engage in something more enjoyable–for talking to “women” is so often an exercise in boredom for “men” seeking the bottom line.
The “girl” who dons this very specific genre of attire, of course, can’t be blamed for her dumb bitch tendencies. After all, it looked so “cute” on the mannequin at Forever 21, how could she resist wanting the same aesthetic for her own body? One that was not meant to be limited by the confines of actual knowledge of a band’s music. For if she was actually cognizant of what most of these bands that have been franchisable enough to sell at places like H&M have put out, she would realize that their music is total shit (yes, most especially Mötley Crüe). However, that she’s adopted the persona of a Penny Lane-wannabe–a groupie type that is therefore “down”–takes far more precedence over the fact that she’s, more often than not, parading some highly offensive taste in music (Guns ‘n’ Roses being the only exception to the rule–maybe AC/DC if we’re being extra lenient). Thus, she should not be surprised when she attracts, by her own “unwitting” design, some highly offensive (more so than usual) to the senses “men.” The sort of “man” who would play “Everybody Wants Some” during a fuck session (and, of course, she would have no idea it was Van Halen despite his initial draw to her being her Van Halen t-shirt). In the future, the nature of these bands will change–likely to Blink-182, The Darkness, that ilk–but the sort of “girl” who deigns to wear them never will.
Usually, around this point in October, the lust that “women” of a basique nature still feel for pumpkin spice after all these years since Starbucks invented the desire for it in 2003, when the pumpkin spice latte was first released, you have to wonder how the rail thin shape of her very body hasn’t somehow turned into a pumpkin as magically as Cinderella’s carriage after midnight. It is this sort of “woman” who also can’t help but delight in such fall activities as going to pumpkin patches or apple orchards and seeking out foliage for the perfect Instagram photo of her holding up a leaf or a Boomerang of her jumping into a pile of them (though even that might be too creative).
Her overloaded craving for a world colored in pumpkin spice and all the associated fall banalities that come with it can be so overpowering–what with draping herself in infinity scarves, oversized sweaters and jeans from Madewell—that she, in fact, might actually manage to saturate her very tampon in the flavor of pumpkin spice. Because, yes, this the type of “girl” who still inserts tampons instead of dripping “her essence” into a bleeding cup. She’s not “earthy” enough for all that, after all, capitalist bitch that she tends to be.
Her ardency for the artificial flavor–as artificial as the millennial “experiences” that have been created to worship fall like some sort of god–is almost as overpowering as the inevitable animal prints that creep into fall clothing collections each year like clockwork. A clockwork pumpkin spice, as it were. Almost as predictable as the ticking biological clock of a “woman” who wants to have her own daughter (therefore temporarily dispense with her pumpkin spice-soaked tampons) that she can mold into the perfect junior basic to carry on the fall tradition of pumpkin spice fervor for generations to come.