Nowadays, if a “woman” manages to land the last of the straight “male” Mohicans, she knows all too well that surrendering more power than ever is merely par for the course of sustaining a marriage that consists of such a precious gem: a “man” who will actually fuck you and pay for things. Accordingly, she must do what she has to in order to keep him interested or at least from making good on that prenup agreement. So she takes a page from Mrs. George (Amy Poehler) in Mean Girls and insists, “I’m not like a regular wife, I’m a cool wife.”
This means openness to open relationships while also maintaining the expected 1950s duties of cooking, dishwashing and laundry (and all while running a successful online store!). She might grow to despise these enslaving emblems of femininity just as Betty Friedan did, but she will ignore that, fastening on a smile as she sips from a daiquiri for fortification, returning to the living or dining room where her husband has put his hand up another girl’s skirt or exchanges a conspiratorial look with one of his “male” friends when making reference to something salacious. But she will not scold him, neither in mixed company nor in private. She’s cool. Run me down, mow me over, make a fool out of me, gaslight me–that is the emotional consent a “woman” must give to keep her marriage strong and long-lasting. As strong and long-lasting as the non-stick cookware set she just bought in the same click as a $1,500 top from Net-A-Porter. She is the best of both women, commingling twentieth and twenty-first century elements to ensure that she remains fierce competition for the impending sex robots.
There is nothing coquettish about a “girl” who twirls her hair so much as utterly murder-inducing. Whether she “realizes” it or not (but of course she does, for all “women” are extremely aware of what they’re doing behind the innocente act), this constant and abrasive movement is highly annoying. Even to the “man” she’s possibly doing it for. Not only does he have to bear witness to it, but so, too, does every woman around her who can’t evade seeing it out of the corner of her eye because of just how bombastic the motion is.
And God or whoever help you if you’re seated right next to her while she’s doing it, for who knows what subtle flecks of parasitic skin shavings or dandruff might land upon you without your knowledge. Plus, you’re going to have to do your best not to gag all over her scalp as a result of seeing her prostrate herself in this archaic and highly lacking in original way to a “man” who would just as soon bang her regardless of her attempt at “subtle” flirtation. And for those “women” who claim that hair twirling/playing is just a subconscious habit, get a fucking hypnotherapist and speak to your subconscious about that on all our behalfs. Because no one wants your gross ass hair so invasively in their lives. Even Rapunzel probably shaved her head once the mane no longer served her purpose of escape and she went batshit crazy after the prince inevitably abandoned her because the mood struck him.
We’ve all been that “woman” at one point or another, when we’ve fallen prey to “loving” an “artist.” Because who isn’t, in the naïveté of their youth, attracted to the “romantic” lifestyle of staying up late drinking Pernod, sleeping in till noon and not really “having it figured out,” save for being certain that something’s just gotta happen with his art. Even if he doesn’t exactly know how that’s going to provide for a financial plan in the interim. Which is also why his “girl”friend might find herself paying for things more than occasionally once he starts to feel comfortable, a trajectory from obsequious that happens real quick. Still, one of many “female” superpowers is an ability to ignore just how bad things are, particularly when a self-imposed cloud of love and therefore muddled judgment is at play.
That’s why, upon rising from the sometimes shared bed (for he would never actually let you live with him, disrupting his sacred “artist’s space”) in your post-coital glow–despite the fact that only a faint fluttering of an orgasm occurred–you will be met with a new manifestation of his art and be “blown away.” Which is to say, at least you’re getting blown in some way by this little asshole. Because, later on, when you’ve come out of what you now realize was the miasma of emotions, you can see objectively again, and come to find that, well, his art wasn’t very good. And, with hindsight, you comprehend that “passable” or “adequate” art isn’t really art at all. What is an art, however, is the “male” skill for duping, and moving on to the next mark who can be convinced of worshipping him as a god.
Among many of the wise words Samantha Jones once uttered throughout her tenure as the friend who upstaged Carrie Bradshaw, one of the most notable was: “Women with candles replaced women with cats as the new sad thing.” And the more you look around various New York City apartments, the more you realize, “Damn, that bitch was right.” Because these candle clusters peppered throughout the space almost always belong in the apartment of a single “woman.” One who “works a lot” and therefore doesn’t have much time to “meet people.” Ah the lies and excuses we tell ourselves in order to quell the madness spurred by inadequacy brewing in our minds. So why not smoke out such thoughts of dying alone with a lovely scented candle? Calming, soothing bullshit to change the energy of the void that is your apartment.
Your apartment. That you will never have sex in. Because only people who live in squalor and have ten roommates get to have sex, apparently. But you, with your perfectly manicured decor and carefully arranged candles emitting just the right combination of notes to trigger a “man’s” arousal should he ever actually set foot inside, will remain forever drowning in the stench of a synthetic life. But, on the plus side, at least you won’t have your face eaten by your cat when you die, as was Miranda’s (a.k.a. NYC’s potential new governor) ultimate fear. In this way, candles are a less grisly emblem for singledom.
We all know that essentially every “man” is a “boy”–and a fuck”boy” at that (usually one who can’t fuck you worth the same weight in pleasure as emotional damage). That’s precisely why it shouldn’t come as any surprise to a woman when she suddenly and very clichely begins to think about changing his name in her contacts to “Fuckboy” (or, if you’re Jhené Aiko, “Fucc Boy”–how you spell it, as usual these days, depends on your personal preference).
But before doing this, one really ought to assess her self-respect. For by the very act of name amendment, she is playing into just what he wants–though he’ll claim to the end of time that he’s not “trying” to do anything. Generally speaking, that’s the problem. In “men’s” lack of trying, they manage to succeed in breaking hearts and remaining shreds of pride. That’s what’s so infuriating–what will incite a girl to want to address him as such in her telephone when she knows damn well he isn’t going to call or text again unless he’s really scraping the bottom of the barrel circa 3 a.m.
The more empowering thing to do, however, would be to simply delete the motherfucker (’cause you know he probably would fuck his mother if these were different times and a geographical location called Greece). Not give him the satisfaction of putting that much effort into showing to no one but yourself how much you despise him to his very core. And worst of all, that behind that ire, lies something far worse: the secret shame that you actually like this person. Like the weak little non-feminist you are. It’s like Julia Stiles says in her terrible poem in 10 Things I Hate About You, “I hate the way you’re not around/And the fact that you didn’t call/But mostly I hate the way I don’t hate you/Not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all.” Oh girl, who you kiddin’ with that contact name change?
When Urban Sophistication, helmed by Tel Aviv-based brother and sister Neta and Elad Yam, launched a line of themed clothing and accessories for their brand called SCREENSHOTS, it might have been just another flash in the pan amid other popular graphic declarations, like Do Nothing Club and Broken Dreams Club, sold here. But once Gigi Hadid got her hands on the phone case touting “Social Media Seriously Harms Your Mental Health” and was photographed around town with it in March, it at once seemed almost too well-timed to coincide with the refreshed contempt for an entity that, according to most all of the sudden, had robbed them of their privacy (as if they didn’t already know that’s what the exchange was for parading their lives in a grandiosely false and self-indulgent manner).
Yet models and it girls just like Hadid have built their entire “careers” on the existence of Instagram and its buttressing companion pieces, Twitter and Facebook. Claiming to hold derision for a medium that they would very literally be nothing without smacks of a wolf gnawing off its own leg to get out of a trap. And maybe that is how people of primarily middling Instagram fame feel (for ultimately, isn’t that what illustriousness amounts to when you’re a model now?), that they would simply and for once like to be “free” from scrutiny (though it happens to us all from an act as simple as walking down the street–to exist in the world is to be judged).
While the backlash against social media might be chic now, there’s no denying the place of value it has held for many very strategic “women”–strategic meaning parlaying a topless photo into a news event. One can argue all the points about its damage to the psyche for prompting one to spend hours in a fictional world that will not elevate the mind like, say, literature or for inciting a “user” to compare herself to others in a manner that will never lead to happiness. But the fact remains, your ho ass would be invisible, ergo penniless, without it. So please, do not come to me about how your mind is being infected when this is the type of sensual social media self-aggrandizement that has made you relevant:
There’s just something about blonde women–something that seeps into their head when the peroxide does. As though egoism is an ingredient in the bleach that also seems to whitewash a “woman’s” perspective about her superiority over others with vaginas, particularly if the head above said vagina includes locks of brown. It’s a pervasive snobbery summed up best by Rhea Perlman as Mrs. Wormwood in Matilda when she tells Miss Honey (Embeth Davidtz), “You chose books, I chose looks”–as though being a brunette entails being incontrovertibly mousy and incapable of sex appeal. And, to be sure, raven-haired women (e.g. Monica Bellucci) are a different thing altogether–deemed the only class of dark-haired women that can be sexy without coming across as too “bookish.”
The stereotypes regarding brunette inferiority abound with the classic aphorisms of “gentlemen prefer blondes,” “blondes have more fun” and any light reading of Mein Kampf–further perpetuating the cultural notion that if only a “woman” would just dye her hair blonde she wouldn’t have to suffer the consequences of such crippling undesirability, loneliness and occasional premature death. In fact, wouldn’t be such a pauper, constantly at risk of utter destitution from a lack of ability to finagle “male” financial backing. Maybe this is why the only blonde mogul you ever see is a “woman” that was originally brunette (Madonna comes to mind, naturally). And yet, it would seem that, for the most part, those blondes “aware” of their elevated sexual prowess in comparison to brunettes often chase down other thoughts like butterflies too often to remember their so-called preeminence. So when they make regularly condescending comments to you in passing that relate to the hue of your tresses, it’s only because they can’t remember that they’ve already made their feelings of transcendence abundantly clear–able only to retain such details as bra and waist size. But never, of course, that they would be just Hitler’s type.