The courage–the fortification of one’s gumption–that comes with drinking is not without its embarrassing side effects. For a certain sect of “women,” the drink is the only means through which she can attain the audacity to confess her true feelings for a “man,” generally when she’s reached the mode of blackout circa her sixth vodka soda. Maybe third if she’s very waifish.
That she cannot simply express her emotions–whether it pertains to love, light like or merely a desire to explore one another’s body sexually (though when does a “woman” ever really “only” want that?)–without the method of imbibing speaks to a callowness greater even than the Cowardly Lion’s. What’s so terrible about handling potential rejection whilst stone cold sober anyway? Indeed, there’s something more imperial, honest about accepting your sentence of continued unfulfilled longing without being inebriated. Like giving birth without drugs or something. Best of all, you’ll actually remember being politely forsaken in the morning instead of wondering about the extent to which you humiliated yourself the night prior.
Is it easier to make shameful declarations with liquid courage? Mais oui! But as with most things that feel easy at the outset, the residual effects of the “easiness” make the fallout far more difficult to bear.
With it being an increasingly dangerous climate to speak out in any way against “women,” especially as a “man”–lest they enact The SCUM Manifesto on all your asses–the more cunning “female” might take this atmosphere as an opportunity to enlist a tactic that’s been employed since the Book of Genesis. Opting to adopt the role of immolating innocente while secretly getting off on it. While sure, these “female” figures have all been written by “men” (that overly melodramatic Ophelia a prime example of such a “male” perspective on how “women” act), there is, upon occasion, just a hair of truth to the cliche of the self-victimizer.
Let us take, for example, Marilyn Monroe. Yeah, she got slapped around a lot in life. Starting from that early memory of her grandmother trying to smother her with a pillow. It would become a larger metaphor for the stifling of her pursuits as an actress by her three various husbands. But Monroe, in many instances, did it to herself. Of course, we can only imagine that the goings-on behind the scenes of Hollywood at this time would actually make Harvey Weinstein appear angelic. Still, did Monroe really need to dose herself so heavily in order to cope with demons real and hallucinated? Surrender herself to the chauvinist charms of Joe DiMaggio and Arthur Miller? She was the biggest star in the world. Maybe still is. And yet, her greatest weakness was the conviction that she needed a “man.” “Different times” or not, this phenomenon of a “woman’s” self-victimization so often stems from the false and perhaps inherently ingrained belief that a “man” is needed to complete the sum total of her worth. Without being able to attract and sustain one, what good is all the money, all the power, all the glory, all the fame?
Without dick that chooses to remain constant, the self-victimizing “woman” will always find a loophole toward martyrdom. I love dick, I hate dick, I love dick–my sister, my mother, my sister! That sort of thing.
As concisely detailed by Julia Roberts’ character, Maggie Carpenter, in Runaway Bride, there is many a “woman” still–even in these “independence”-oriented times–that has difficulty in possessing enough confidence in her own tastes and opinions to form a complete, separate of emulation personality. Hence, Maggie orders her eggs the same way as whichever fiancé of the moment does. Symptomatic of a natural fear of the judgment that can come with having the courage to declare “yourself” to others, the “woman” who prefers mimicry of another–whether “male” or “female”–is nothing more than a coward. Or maybe she really is, simply and truly, a nullity. Like water, merely reflecting back what’s near her.
It is, more often than not, slightly creepier when a “woman” chooses to copy another “woman” as there certainly isn’t the benefit of the potential of steady dick to be gleaned from such a form of obsequiousness. While this can occasionally result in the re-creation of the plot of Single White Female, it typically just makes a “girl” like Bethany Byrd (Stefanie Drummond) in Mean Girls come across as a blobbo waste of space. Is that what you want, to be an identityless waste of space seeking to attract the favor of blonde bitches? If so, you’ve come to the right planet.
While many people of the current generation swear up and down that attraction isn’t just about one’s physical shell anymore so much as the personality contained within that shell, it seems that what “women” truly suffer from in the present moment is not having the patience any longer to deal with the fuckery of fuck”boys” and/or bad “boys.” Therefore, what’s “the best option”–or rather, second best? Resorting to lesbianism à la Kristen Stewart and St. Vincent, the world is rife with far more “female” choices for the formerly straight ones–though Kinsey would argue, “An individual may be assigned a position on this scale, for each period in his life.”
Giving license to the masses for their various “phases” throughout existence, it’s highly unlikely that after a “girl’s” time spent at some east or west coast liberal arts college that she’s going to want to persist in another “little dalliance” with some fellow student who opts out of shaving and waxing of any kind on the key parts of her body that emit odors. No, the “university portion” of one’s sexuality rarely bleeds outside of the hallowed scholastic institution in question. Unless, that is, too much time spent out in the proverbial “real world” (which feels more fake than anything else) leads them to unearth, sooner or later, that all “men” are pigs, unsuitable for anything beyond a cursory and unsatisfactory fuck. Even so, does that mean one should simply close her lips to one genital genre and open them to another for the sake of feeling some semblance of an emotional connection (even though we’re all alone in our own head no matter what)? It hardly seems genuine, so much as a desperate cry to feel a part of a couple, any couple–true sexual orientation be damned. But what’s the “better option”? Waiting around to discover a “man” who isn’t a totally insensitive asshole? Apparently not, as a “woman’s” need for companionship at any cost is often too strong for such formalities.
It’s a hard habit to break, one that “women” have been indoctrinated with for so long via sentiments like “He Hit Me (And It Felt Like A Kiss).” And it’s one that, slowly but surely, is starting to melt away with the increasingly eye-opening fact that “men” are, by and large, more hindrance than benefit to a “woman’s” path. Even so, the average “woman” abandoned after being treated like shit can’t help but feel some remaining sense of attachment (mostly hormonal) as a result of her ultimate Achilles’ heel: self-loathing masked as loyalty to a “man” who really couldn’t give less of a shit about her.
Even so, a “woman” can spend months, years even the entire rest of her life wasting energy on a dickhead who never even gave her good dick. It’s something about the unique gift (burden, really) a “woman” has for nostalgia, for romanticizing the past, which was probably much worse than she is now capable of remembering it. Who knows if it’s the steady diet of codependent “women” exalted as heroines (e.g. Elizabeth Bennet and Carrie Bradshaw) that make the collective “female” population so prone to wasted devotion? Lana Del Rey certainly doesn’t help matters with lyrics like, “I will love you till the end of time.” Bitch he don’t give a fuck what you do. Your declarations of ardor are moot once he’s decided to move on, close himself off to your irrelevant feelings and your vaginal fluids. So stop obsessing. It’s really not cute, and it damn sure ain’t the aura that’s gonna help you allure another.
As “men” are so often wont to believe about “women,” they have no self-control when it comes to reining in their “volatile,” “irrational” behavior in matters of feeling slighted. And who tends, more often than not, to be the slighter? The “beau” in question. While many speculate as to who originally coined the phrase, “Revenge is a dish best served cold,” whoever it was might have been, sad to say it, a “man.” Maybe Machiavelli. For so many “women” still don’t seem to realize that a calm, collected approach to exacting vengeance à la Beatrix Kiddo in Kill Bill Vols. 1 & 2 is the only way to truly affect change within a “man.” To make him see, through blood-soaked lighting, the error of his ways.
One must also consider that where revenge has played out in pop culture, it is frequently the “men” behind or in front of the camera extracting it with the most force (e.g. Quentin Tarantino, as alluded to before, or Pedro Almodóvar). When it comes to stories of “women” on the screen getting their justice, it veers usually into the “exploitation” category via movies like I Spit On Your Grave and Ms. 45. Though there are a few with more careful consideration to a plot than just plain “I’m going to fucking tear your heart out” mode–like The First Wives Club–it always feels as though the “women” in these films are being portrayed with a one-track mind that replays the tape: “I hate him” over and over again, making for a largely two-dimensional character. But there is more to the “female” than a mere desire for receiving her own redress. She is complex, filled with a gamut of emotions, interests and views. And likewise, solid reasoning for her contempt. But to the “man,” she’s another aging bitch he’s going to have to deal with ridding himself of once she becomes too comfortable. Stops waking up early in the morning to brush her teeth and put her face back on, Miriam Maisel-style.
He really ought to be more cautious in his quickness to dispense with the one who has always been there for him though. Encouraged him when he didn’t deserve it, pretended to enjoy the sex when it was lackluster, that sort of thing. Because one can foresee a lot more calculated strategy to revenge in the future, still prophesied to be “female.” And as we come to see how this will unfold in our society, perhaps the revenge narrative will become a bit more layered, something Sun Tzu could be proud of in its more varied strategies.
The start of a new year, for whatever reason, fills people, especially “women” with a lot of ideas about being their “best selves.” As though it can be carved out like a turkey. And anyway, if you could have willed your body and personality into its best version, you probably should have done it when you were younger and more malleable. But alas, you, like so many other “women,” are likely duped into believing that this is going to be “your year”–as though you had some sort of exclusive narcissist’s monopoly on living, on the world.
So you prop yourself up on [insert name of torture device here] at the gym, quit drinking (at least for Sober January) and start meditating. While this is all very annoying to those who have resigned themselves to year after year of not changing (unless becoming more curmudgeonly and decrepit counts), just wait until about two weeks into January, when the peak “New Year, New Me” declaration has begun to wither with the ravages of day-to-day existence and the need for according numbing agents. That’s when the plastered on smile really starts to crack and the desire to shlep to the gym every day wanes to about twice a week.
It isn’t that these “women” are bad people, necessarily. They’re just extremely self-deluded. But that’s what it takes to be a straight “woman” these days, so let them tout their fake mantra while they can, before the year starts to slide into all too familiar territory: crippling disappointment.