Ah, the last stab at youth called one’s twenties. Sure, it’s still a period in a “girl’s” life when she can get away with being a fuck-up and engaging in the puerile behaviors that were once more endearing when it was still acceptable for her to suck on lollipops and wear Mary Janes with ankle socks. But what it is not is a time for “fresh discovery” of the likes of Janis Joplin (or Amy Winehouse, or The Smiths, or Joy Division for that matter). For some reason, however, the “woman” still grasping at some quaint notion of fatalism being endearing or some such bullshit seems to think that it’s a good idea to turn to Janis at a time in her life when being the tragic victim is a little much to take seriously (after all, twenty is the new sixty in this climate called despising the old guard).
Maybe it’s that Janis appeals to the maligned “woman” at any age, that her brand of being shat upon by a “man” transcends the generations. Yet, at a certain point, playing the part of the sad, chain-smoking alcoholic in order to better appreciate the place the music of Janis was coming from can become more exhausting than liberating. Anyway, it’s certainly not helpful to one’s lungs or potbelly. Or even one’s musical growth, for Janis’ music tends to hit a wall pretty quickly, what with her solo artistic output consisting of I Got Dem Ol’ Kozmic Blues Again Mama! and Pearl.
In any event, the “woman” who has “just” realized how “groovy” Janis is in her twenties can’t really be deemed anything other than someone who could never take another piece of your heart now darlin’–’cause she didn’t have one to earlier apprehend that feelings, if we ever have them/choose to embrace them, can only come in the dawn–not the twilight–of our youth. Everything after is just a feigned attempt at emotionalism.
Seeing as how “men” are already endlessly titillated by the image of a “woman” relying on them in metaphorical ways (though what could be metaphorical about an ad like “Keep Her Where She Belongs” with the image of a woman lying down next to a “man’s” shoe?), it’s no wonder that the timeless emblem at any outdoor concert or music festival remains the sight of a flower crowned twig wearing little more than shorts and a bathing suit top happily gawking at the stage while perched atop her current beau’s shoulders.
Because being dainty and on drugs is almost harder than being a “woman” itself. And a “girl” needs all the propping up she can get, after all, when she’s barely got enough girth to handle the weight of that bird brain of hers. Plus, she just really loves music, you know? Not any specific artist or genre, she just likes it. The social nature of getting high or microdosing in a public space where she can “really commune” with others. Though obviously not anyone that might lure away the attention of her boyfriend (of the moment, for these types of shoulder-carrying romances rarely last past the summer). But anyone else slightly fatter or dowdier or “male” will do for the purposes of her festival consortium. Because this is her moment, understand? She’s been waiting at least forty-five minutes for a band she has no ardor for (apart from the song that’s been playing on the radio) to come on while everyone else has been standing around for hours in order to have secured the benefit of a decent vantage point.
But she, in all her white “girl” wisdom, gets ahead by getting on top. For the pussy isn’t powerful just when serving as an orifice of pleasure, but also when wrapped around a “man’s” head. A “man” whose sense of privilege is possibly more egregious than the “woman” he’s lifting for obliging her request in the first place.
Apart from the obvious fact that Mark Zuckerberg and his army of drones is clearly trying to fine-tune their facial recognition technology to sell off to the CIA when everyone at long last logs off permanently from the increasingly “for olds” social media outlet, it is also quite patent that the only reason “women” are falling down the rabbit hole of posting “before” and “after” photos of themselves over a ten-year period stems from a pathetic desire to make themselves believe they still look even remotely the same.
It’s as though the validation they need to assure themselves that nothing has changed–least of all their ability to pursue broken dreams even in their wrinkled state–can only come from people who are living lives just as bleak as theirs. With the according physical ruin to match. Of course, with the right filter–the modern version of how we mask who we really are–and the prayer that no one is going to look too closely, many “women” have been able to get off well enough on this “challenge” (and maybe it is a challenge in the sense that so many “girls” have to dig very deeply into the archives to find a passable enough photo to mimic the youth she’s still clinging to now). Especially “women” who have succumbed to the “biological responsibility” to birth a spawn, wanting to be particularly revered for how much they’ve “maintained.”
While it is mostly “men” who voted for Trump and have bits of shit and meat for brains inside that otherwise hollow head of theirs who have been offended by Gillette’s latest “avant-garde” approach to marketing their product, it is, in actuality, “women” who should be most terrified of all by the implications of this new narrative. While, sure, no “girl” wants to be leered at just because she made the somehow “courageous” decision to wear short shorts, this doesn’t mean she wants all “men” everywhere to suddenly stamp out their entire encoded DNA by suppressing their lust and sex drive altogether. What is Gillette trying to create, huh? A fucking nation of peacenik eunuchs who leave all the work of pursuit to “women”?
That’s exactly what it seems like as a father at a barbecue tears two boys roughhousing apart and says, as though in an attempt at some bad imitation of Gandhi, “That’s not how we treat one another.” But isn’t it? Or at least how “men” should if they’re going to know how to properly take out their aggression on other asshole “males” instead of the eventual “girl”friends they end up verbally and/or physically abusing?
And as for this call to eradicate bullying, how are we ever going to collectively give birth to another androgynous pop icon like Prince or Freddie Mercury without this occasionally harsh goading? Who is a “girl” going to look to for masturbation, let alone fucking, purposes in the future when “men” ooze not sex but enervation? As a matter of fact, when the next generation of “boys” grows further into weak little pussaysays building on the Michael Cera blueprint, and the last of the straight “girls” not turning to lesbianism for the ease of it, Gillette will sell fewer razors than ever. Because hair is a symbol of the virility and masculinity that will no longer exist, if it even still does now. So thanks Gillette, for asking what the best a “man” can be is and making “women” responsible for answering the question with the observation: scared do-nothings with an opinion and sex drive that must constantly be shaped by “women” who don’t even have the luxury of calling this world a matriarchy.
“Women” named Brie do not fart. They do not get fat (mainly because they can afford to have their children surgically removed from them). They do not marry “men” who don’t have names like Brad, Derek or Kent. And yes, they will occasionally indulge in brie cheese with the poor choice of pairing it with something like white zinfandel because they are East Coast white “girls” or California “free spirits” who simply don’t know any better. And of course no one is going to tell them what might be better because they are too “pretty” to be told such things and even if someone did tell them, it’s not as though a Brie’s microscopic brain would be ready to receive such information the way her pinhole-sized pussy seems to so effortlessly receive rich (therefore small) dick.
“Women” named Brie go to college as a matter of course, knowing full well that they will have something better to fall back on before even graduating, like marriage or a modeling career. Or simply being Daddy’s little socialite. There is simultaneously no limit to what a Brie can achieve and nothing but limits to her potential in life. She is another waste of air, contributing little to society other than prosaic blonde beauty and a stick figure physique. But of course it’s not like she doesn’t work for that unformed thinness; Brie can spend as much as three hours a day exerting herself with the mouth and hand movements that require the two types of standard-issue penis-oriented jobs. Because she knows that Bries are a dime a dozen in her world, and she should at least suck for her diamonds (the wealthy “woman’s” version of singing for one’s supper).
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).