The garden variety basique has many predictable weaknesses that are almost so predictable that it’s, in some way, appallingly unexpected when she blatantly and actually carries out such predilections for prosaism on social media. One such fetish of the basique is, it has to be said, getting hard for the Instagram account known as @ihavethisthingwithtiles, and accordingly trying to cultivate the perfect image that will get her mentioned on it. Like a trip inside the mind and perpetual wet dream of the “design savvy” bia who genuinely believes that watching HGTV and/or the Travel Channel on the regular makes her some kind of irrefutable expert on the matter of aesthetics, @ihavethisthingwithtiles is also what the average “female” interior design “genius” chooses to name check in any post she might find “absolutely tailor-made” for the account. This is a phenomenon that augments tenfold during her jaunt to Lisbon.
Apart from a city that’s only been on the perpetual up and up since Christian Louboutin bought a house in ’06 (note: none of the basiques atting I Have This Thing With Tiles can ever in their wildest dreams imagine fulfilling their true basique potential à la Carrie Bradshaw by actually being able to afford the Louboutins that might take their tile photo to the next level), there is its endless sea of vibrantly colored and patterned tiles to attract even the most fearful of “European discomfort” common vagina (think the Lady Gaga caricature–though not really much of a caricature–in Die Antwoord’s “Fatty Boom Boom” video).
So should you ever find yourself the unfortunate follower of a “woman” who has somehow managed to suck enough cock (even if that means getting her workplace to subsidize the journey somehow) to “pay” her way to Portugal, beware the inevitable call out to @ihavethisthingwithtiles. It is, far and away, the only thing more calculable about a “woman” with hackneyed attempts at originality other than her period cycle.
There are so many “women” who feel a certain natural superiority over the idea of saying such “adult” phrases as “a ‘woman’ should age gracefully” or “I’ll never feel old because I’m already old in soul.” As to the first point, well, she’ll soon see just how “graceful” she feels when she achieves the thing that every “girl” always claimed she wanted to stop getting: male attention. Once that happens, it’s a guarantee, she’s going to lose all sense of “grace,” running to the nearest Botox facility and/or lipo venue to rectify the damage called age. And then where will her self-righteous declaration about being cursed with an old soul in a young body be?
The worst part of this woe is me shtick is that, in her mind, being an old soul entails listening to, like, No Doubt or some shit. Or enjoying reading books in tangible form as opposed to on a screen. Or the fact that she enjoys “reading” (which means culling the correct quotes and pre-made assessments) at all. She’s simply “too mature” for most other “girls” her age, and this is why, she claims, she tends to either “gravitate” toward older “men” or pull them to her “energy” (because yeah, what “man” doesn’t like a tight pussy with the additional claim of loving Nabokov, especially if she’s never actually read Lolita). It’s not her fault she’s fucking up the already extremely disparate ratio for other age-appropriate “women.” She’s just an innocent old soul. With the according craftiness to know that “acting innocent” is just the way to play it in any game–particularly one called The Dick Chase.
She can’t help that she’s got no personality, after all, instead masquerading it as “stoic wisdom.” Nor can she help that she’s cashing in on her youth by making it seem as though it’s very trying upon her to be so sagacious at such a tender age. But she’ll soon see faux sagacity is far better than just plain sagging. So take your old soul and shove it up your Albert Fish-teasing ass, eventually to be in need of a surgical lift. And from the operating table, please be sure to reiterate how important it is to age gracefully.
Not that “dating” is really a real thing anymore (at least not in the sense of the word connoting the romance some were conditioned to expect from their Hollywood diet–in a screen sense, not a food sense), but when it is, it appears that “women” are increasingly likely to settle for what can only be referred to as a potato. It’s not just that most “men” are slovenly, unkempt, colorless and mostly growing spuds out of themselves from an inability to wash. It’s also that they are potato-y in personality, exuding a blandness from their very skin (usually blanc, but sometimes golden, or red from a sunburn).
You will tell yourself, however, that a potato is sometimes a necessary evil in one’s diet of sexlessness. Yet like a stomach overly gorged on one bite of a potato, so, too, will the average vagina feel the same way. From one thrust of a potato penis. And like the great debate about whether potatoes are technically good for you because of their classification as a vegetable, you’ll find that rather than losing a feeling of loneliness, you’re only gaining the feeling of dead weight at your side and in your bed (because he likely doesn’t have one). So though you might be surrounded solely by potatoes in this abyssal farm-like landscape called the twenty-first century, it doesn’t mean you have to lie down with any of them.
“Women” do tend to say a lot of dumb shit, let’s be honest. Even despite the fact that they do so want to topple the patriarchy, it’s a bit difficult to achieve when you’re spouting heinous catchphrases tailor-made for hashtagging and captioning an Instagram post (since Facebook is evermore cancelled due to plummeting stock value, as if that’s going to stop the over twenty-five set from using a platform that has been indoctrinated into their daily lives for so long). To be sure, the most ironic thing about saying “living my best life” when referring to an image of an avocado toast or some such other basique fare is that the “woman” in question is very clearly living a waking nightmare.
Harkening back to that old cliche, “Are you living or just existing?,” the “living my best life” non-aphorism is contrarian to what it says right in the text: “living.” But no, it’s “existing in my mediocre life” that ought to be the phrase. These are the “women” who are so convinced that to spend money on bullshit (usually pertaining to food at overpriced New York restaurants) is to connote true happiness because it can be flaunted in a way that genuine, often intangible happiness cannot. Then, of course, there are the outdoor, nature-oriented, “activity” posts deemed worthy of the “living my best life” assignation. But, like everything else, the more you insist something is happening the less likely it probably is to be true. Because if you zoom in on the avocado spread closely enough, you can just make out the trace of a dead fly’s wing.
In any case, the only way for a “woman” to truly live her best life, evidently, is to proudly declare she’s been lobotomized by wielding this phrase so unabashedly.
One supposes considering the unjust ratio the world has chosen to present “women” with, that when a “female” does manage to finagle a “man” for a brief period a time, it’s only natural that she should, in her joyousness over not being just another undesirable or material deemed fit solely for a one-night stand, get a little bit overly showcase-y with the photos–miraculously sanctioned by the “man” that considers himself in a relationship. Which is fine, to a certain degree. That is, until she starts to lose sight of the fact that there’s even a human being behind the visage of her lover with thoughts (albeit minimal) and feelings (also minimal) that make him more than a mere pawn in her social media strategy to be seen as “utterly in love” and, as a result, sought after. For there’s nothing more fetching than a “girl” who is made more unattainable by the fact that she’s “spoken for.”
And to play up that point, the type of “girl” who just loves displaying her “ardency” for her boyfriend will never limit herself in just how “candid” these evidences of her so-called “mad love” is. But it’s not about love for another, so much as love for herself, and wanting to spread it all over town a.k.a. the internet. So while Romeo and Juliet (the persistent example of what some fools still think is the very pinnacle of avidity and devotion) were determined to keep their love a secret at any cost–even death–the new basique sort of “woman” wants to tout it from the mountaintop of her boudoir no matter how little she seems to realize that the more “sincere” she wants her photographic documentation to seem, the more disingenuous it comes across. And yeah, “men” aren’t good for much except being props, but still. A “woman” is supposed to be known for treating people like human beings, even if they do have something resembling a penis.
All in keeping with the trend of feminism, fluidity and any other “f” word that signifies “sisters” are doing it for themselves, “women” skateboarding is something that’s become perhaps even more vexing than “men” who skateboard. Not because it’s a “sport” that belongs to “men” or any reasoning so sexist as that, but because oftentimes the motives behind a “woman” skateboarding tend to veer specifically toward non-feminist reasons–a.k.a. she’s just doing it for dick.
While she might try to deny that her intentions in taking up the mostly “male”-oriented hobby have anything to do with presenting herself as one of the only banging options in a group of “guys” congregated near a makeshift halfpipe, there can be no questioning it. For once she “casually” starts to take up the “art of the board” and suddenly unearths underneath a graffiti-scrawled rock all that untapped dick, how could she possibly stop when full well knowing that most “women” are too damned dainty to risk the bruises and scars that will defile their body and, ergo, desirability?
No, no. She has no competition in the arena of masquerading as “just one of the guys,” all the while completely aware that they are each enamored of her not terrible lookingness and “decent” skills in the field. And one could arguably say that the greatest ruse of all is when a “lesbian” “woman” skateboards and then suddenly does the grand unveil that she’s bi after the right sk8tr boi comes along.
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.