Women Who Buy Candles For Their Apartment to Fill the Human Void Inside of It.

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.


Women Who Put Guys in Their Phone as “Fuckboy” (Or Some Other Such Iteration of the Spelling).

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?

Women Touting Social Media Seriously Harms Your Mental Health When They’ve Built a “Career” on It.

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:

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Women of the Blonde Persuasion Who Possess An Air of Superiority Over Brunettes.

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.


Women Who “Do Art” In the “Pastime” Way.

It’s believed that to be human–at least one of an “elevated” variety–you’ve got to have some sense of need or desire to create, to express your feelings through that polarizing medium called art. The problem is, there really are quite a few people–often “women” who make their rich older boyfriends buy kilns–who should keep their expressions limited to stock phrases generated for them by Kim Kardashian (you know, like “slay in your lane”). Instead, they prefer to “innovate” and funnel out their so-called “emotions” in the hours when they’re not tending to their bloke or the hygienic maintenance that has landed them that bloke (i.e. ass and vag waxing, Botox, languishing in the gym, etc.) via the “fun” means of collaging or painting. Mainly watercolor. And yes, there’s a reason watercolors and collages are among the first artistic forms put into use by children via the instruction of their somewhat clueless teachers, who in their role as glorified babysitter, feel obligated to at least impart some sort of viable mental stimulation. Ah, but that word–stimulation–merely conjures comparisons to the effects of masturbation, which is precisely what a bored “female” pursuing art often entails. It’s almost as bad as when a “man” pursues art as a legitimate career.

And in her inarticulate strokes, the very definition of “cute” in its most demeaning manner will shine through, and yet, somehow still endear the last of the “male” ilk still willing to engage in their faux practice of “caring” to pursue her because she’s “super quirky!” and “so creative!”—“really bohemian!” Or, as it’s better known, “This girl is the ‘weirdest’ it can get without being too much for my touch.'” Because, in a “man’s” mind, at least if a “woman” is “artistic,” she might be willing to eventually allow penile entrance into a novelty orifice (on Valentine’s Day, or his birthday). Maybe even do a little Jack and Rose role reversal by painting him in the nude instead before concluding the foreplay with paintbrushes used for other means. Unfortunately for the rest of us, we merely have to look at the prosaic art as opposed to receiving the orgasmic benefits it seems to help with behind closed doors, Molly Jensen in Ghost-style (and yeah, she has shittaytay pottery, too).

Women Who Purchase/Delight In/Take Pictures of Themselves in Mermaid Blankets.

Though, long ago, the snuggie was bad enough in terms of enduring what was to be seen/interpreted of a “woman,” it didn’t evolve into its most complete grotesque proportions until the advent of the mermaid blanket, most specifically peddled by a company called Blankie Tails (try not to let your gag reflex kick in over that name), created by, um, “Chief Mermaid Enthusiast,” Hattie Peze, back in 2015. Incidentally, the company that brought you the snuggie–Allstar Marketing Group–would also attempt to take credit for innovating what they rebranded as the “mermaid snuggie.” The sight of this frenzied competition over how best to help a “woman” tap into her most profound inner douchebag was harrowing, to say the least–especially for those perched on the sidelines in normal blankets. And, worst of all, it has continued to force us all to watch a grown “female” make her best attempt at returning to the womb the way a “man” does every day simply by existing.

It doesn’t help matters that the mermaid trend is one that seems to be perpetually in our midst, along with its compatriot, the unicorn, which is anything but rare (the way a unicorn ought to be) these days with its pervasiveness on phone cases, drinks and the cups they come in, clothes, accessories and anything else a company can print on. It’s almost as though these two entities, especially when combined, are the prerequisite for type of “woman” who is not only a foul representation of the gender, but also the exact type of “woman” most likely to have a boyfriend. Because to be generic in one’s “free-spiritedness” and “fun-lovingness” is to attract the last of the “straight” “males” still seeking a “girl” that at least doesn’t overly rock the boat with her verbosity in a post-#MeToo epoch. And how else is a “man” going to justify being close enough to a mermaid blanket to potentially get in one himself? Maybe even finagling his “girl”friend to buy him a matching one for potential Instagram photoshoots touting the new zenith of their coupledom?

Women Who Seek Attention by Discussing Their Medical Issues.

“Women” will do a lot of things to get attention, the only means by which to set oneself apart in this competitive world of attraction called, who can hold a “man’s” gaze the longest? Or rather, who can hold one of the eyes in a “man’s” gaze the longest? In order to achieve this, some “women” will go to extremely great lengths–ones that are usually highly embarrassing–to catch a “man’s” notice via a self-made spotlight. Particularly if they have very little else to go on for conventional means of garnering consideration. The most prime and overt example of this damsel in distress act (apart from Tai in Clueless) is Lena Dunham, whose latest hospital tale comes on the heels of getting a hysterectomy to treat her much publicized endometriosis. Unlike her first foray into touting her condition after the Met Gala in 2017, this time around Dunham is getting more involved with her display.

Eager to “discuss” (a.k.a. bloviate) to promote awareness of, as far as anyone can tell, herself, Dunham is now spreading misinformation about the value of a hysterectomy as a treatment option for endometriosis, when, in fact, removal of the entire uterus is neither a go-to or a necessity for excising the tissue affected. But Dunham was inclined to see it as a necessity for facilitating an essay she wrote for Vogue (which, by the way, should be no one’s source for medical advice unless seeking free ways to blackout from looking at how expensive couture is). In it, she discusses ex-boyfriend Jack Antonoff, who you might not remember as the lead singer of fun., stating in a tone that only scratches the surface of her self-imposed martyrdom, “My beautiful partner, who has seen me through so much pain with compassion and care, has to be away for work, and I can feel us growing slowly apart, since life is so determined to display its full complexity right now. I am surly and distant. I offer nothing.” Just this melodramatic essay and a burgeoning bank account to keep boys around when the hospital selfies won’t.

To add to the bathetic framing of it all (when, as stated, a hysterectomy is not a cure for this condition so much as a Russian roulette, “Let’s see if this works” option for someone too, pardon the pun, pussy to endure the pain that a poor person with this condition most assuredly would), Dunham bemoans her longtime desire to be a mother. On this note, she resigns herself by the end, remarking, “Adoption is a thrilling truth I’ll pursue with all my might. But I wanted that stomach. I wanted to know what nine months of complete togetherness could feel like. I was meant for the job, but I didn’t pass the interview.” Ah, but she certainly passed the interview for the job of how to get attention for going through a commonplace medical procedure.

Dunham isn’t just missing a clit now, she’s missing a uterus. And for what? To encourage other people who can’t afford the same level of care to go out getting hysterectomies willy nilly?