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?

Women Who Say Kk.


There are manifold things wrong with use of the word “Kk” (other than the fact that it’s not even a word and one of the worst examples of Orwellian Newspeak coming to fruition). Not only is it intended to be dismissive and unacknowledging of what a person has actually said, worst of all, it’s a means by which some “women” believe they’re maintaining their aura of youth and the associated superficiality that comes with it. While once the person chained to a conversation with such a “woman” who would bandy this term would only be subjected to it via text, by and by, its usage has transcended into auditory verbal form.

While, sure, in the past, vacuous “girls” were underdogs and undercover geniuses (e.g. Cher Horowitz, Paris Hilton and Elle Woods), they now merely seems to be straightforwardly daft. Hence, this free-flowing utterance of “Kk,” always delivered in a manner and cadence that infers it wouldn’t matter whether you told them you had just come up with an ironclad cure for fuckboy syndrome or that you just killed someone. Because, in truth, the only sound these types of “women” can hear is their own sparse internal monologue telling them how attractive and worthy of preferential treatment they are. Kk, bitch, whatever you want to tell yourself. Just don’t fucking tell it to me with your damned two-syllable word just one letter short of paying homage to one of America’s most racist institutions. Okay?






Women Who Only Confess Their True Feelings Whilst Blacked Out.

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.

Women Who Self-Victimize.

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.

Women With No Identity of Their Own.

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.

Women Who Treat Lesbianism Like “The Best Option.”

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.