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.
Not that anyone should really be surprised by anything that once ought to have been shocking (in a time like the 90s perhaps, when moral outrage came across as more genuine) anymore, but one really did have high hopes for a “woman” in a political office–Republican or not–faced with the choice between supporting an accused sexual assaulter versus not making the obvious decision geared toward ethicality. Yet Susan Collins, one of the few supposed swing votes of the Republican party’s senators making the final determination on Brett “Bryce Walker” Kavanaugh‘s nomination to the Supreme Court, made it apparent on October 5th that even to “women” in politics, other “women’s” voices do not matter when you have the requisite white “man” trapped in your body in order to remain in power, or at least occasionally be depended upon as a swing vote to prove that “women” have some say in major decisions of politics now and again.
As such a prop, Collins was never going to be anything other than a puppet to the type of “men” who generate headlines like “Susan Collins Consents.” But it was important to make “women” briefly believe that it could be as such. That Collins met with a number of sexual assault survivors, like Amanda O’Brien, who took a ten hour bus ride to get from the Collins-represented state of Maine to D.C., to “hear their story” (which, clearly, she didn’t) in order to gain a better “frame of reference” before making her final announcement only added to the brief veracity of the charade called: maybe politics isn’t a rigged game that we tell ourselves is “democratic” because we’re “allowed” the “privilege” of public protest.
Convinced that they have placated us all enough by going through the grand formal displays of briefly “challenging” Kavanaugh’s nomination with the public hearing where Christine Blasey Ford had to relive the trauma all over again only to have one of the worst white “men” of all time mock and belittle her for it, the
fascist regime government is now content to do what was always going to be done anyway, and no thanks to one of “woman”kind’s own.
And isn’t the very term, “Republican female,” an oxymoron by definition? Or at least shouldn’t it be in the “modern” era? One supposes the only thing worse than the nomination of a “potential” rapist by a “woman” to come from all of this is that Collins will likely gain the undue benefit of having Helen Mirren (who will outlive us all) play her in a movie. In the meantime, the only movie that can comfort and inspire right now is Thelma and Louise.
In this life, there remains the black and white classification of two types of “women”: the wife material and the other “woman” (more commonly known as: Madonna/whore). Because of this seemingly unshakeable phenomenon, “men” have managed to succeed at achieving their primary aim in life in order to stay in power: pitting “women” against one another through marionette-like control via the effective means of the smokescreen caused by jealousy.
While this “female” toward “female” resentment can manifest in many ways (see: Heathers, Mean Girls), the most common one tends to come out when a “man” who claimed to make a commitment to fidelity is caught cheating with the proverbial “other woman.” His reasons for doing so, however, often have less to do with the “woman” he’s saddled with on a regular basis and more to do with the fact that a greater amount of novelty is at play with vag that is not as attainable as a result of its illicitness (“men,” after all, need a lot of psychological bells and whistles to get an erection for a “woman”).
The wife and/or steady ride or die he ends up hurting (pride and vanity-wise, primarily) when he inevitably gets caught, unfortunately, cannot comprehend the bullshit motives behind his effrontery, choosing and preferring, instead, to malign the “Jezebel temptress bitch” that “forced” him to stray (even a “feminist” like Hillary fell prey to this behavior in ultimately deciding to stay with Bill). That “women” continue to succumb to this transparent trap (Cardi B being the most blatant exemplar of late) remains a stubborn confirmation of just how much “women,” in their surface pettiness of not wanting to see that “their” “man” could possibly willingly want to do them wrong, are their own worst enemy when it comes to being enslaved by patriarchy.
Because “women” already get a bad enough rap as it is for having nothing to offer other than their bodies (even when, most of the time, they aren’t offering them but somehow still get seized upon), it doesn’t help matters when they cater to the cliche, “Girls just wanna have funds.” And while, sure, the best revenge is your paper and there is nothing more meaningful than money in a culture that has long ago lost all meaning, it would be nice if, every once in a while, a “woman” didn’t prove herself to be such a dumb bitch when it came to only really caring about the costly entities that will either 1) make her look less old, 2) make her look less fat or 3) make her feel more comfortable (a house in Pantelleria, that sort of thing).
Although the independent woman myth has been proliferated since “Sisters Are Doin’ It For Themselves,” it’s hard for those who have not shattered the glass ceiling like Aretha Franklin and Annie Lennox with their vocal talent to rely on anything other than that which they know to be the most viable tool for gaining “quick cash”: the Anna-Nicole Smith method (though, of course, it doesn’t necessarily have to be via a “man” verging on death’s door). While, sure, some “women” can break the mold and manage to afford their “material girl” needs on their own, most still have to rely on “male” purse strings (pulled by an acrobatic enough pussy) to get them what they so desperately crave: La Mer-level skin care, a house with a Brita filter and enough clothes to appear as though they’re wearing something different each day in various Instagram videos. So no, “women” are not the complicated creatures “men” make them out to be–that’s why most will stick around for the cash even if and when her bloke cheats on her. What makes them “complicated” in a “man’s” eyes, however, is the fact that none of them have the physical or emotional stamina anymore to surrender their already dainty and petite balls to “the man” so as to procure the dough that is essential to, in turn, procuring the type of human blowup doll they are all subconsciously seeking. Hence, all the railing against the bourgeois lifestyle in the present epoch (further fueled by the fact that only people like the Orange One can seem to get money, get paid thanks to the leg up given to him early on in life by the family trust).
It’s all perfectly fine and on the level for a boy to be a toy–a boy toy, if you will–as a result of how subversive it still is to objectify “men” in any way (plus it typically means his way is getting paid for, so where’s the harm in his objectification if it comes with a Gucci suit?), but it remains something of a source of melancholy to see a “woman” reduce herself to being a sheer plaything for the sake of either 1) money, 2) power or 3) some vague attempt at getting respect by dichotomously surrendering what little is left of her dignity to a “bloke.” Her relinquishment of all control over the self, both body and mind, in effect, renders her as lifeless and lacking in dimensionality as a Kim Kardashian corpse meme. Kim herself, obviously, knows a little something about engaging in the “beneficial” role of toy, otherwise she might have found the strength of character to leave Kanye long ago. Or even Kris Jenner, for that matter.
Because most “women” still feel that the height of their strength cannot be achieved unless they have a “man” at their side to form some version of the “power couple” (though we all saw how that turned out for Hillary), they can’t help but continue to feel prone to a certain amount of self-reduction. The kind that leads them to the mental level of little better than a doll or semi-modern Barbie (the kind with “accurate measurements“), which means a very minimal amount of overly “opinionated” comments that might lead to their prop of a “boy”friend’s sudden abandonment in favor of a more toy-like “girl.” It’s better to be lifeless in a pair than vivacious and “full of cute ideas” alone. Which, yes, does make one need to double check every so often to corroborate that it is, in fact, the twenty-first century.