For very different reasons than the “man” who fell prey to downloading the Top Nine app to unearth his most liked photos of 2017 (one still can’t understand why it’s not ten or even fifteen), the “woman” who does the same has some genital lack. While, no her generated curation likely won’t have outdoorsy photos (unless she’s strategically trying to allure an athletic “male” to help her create the ideal spawn–since that’s what some uncles are still convinced of when pandering on social media), it will have something far worse: in addition to selfies, cupcakes and other “cute” food, the Top Nine of the clitless “woman” will also offer contrived outdoorsy photos. Flowers, leaves and fucking rainbows. Maybe even a waterfall for added cliche in its attempt at not being cliche good measure.
She will then hashtag it with slightly more exertion at thought than a “man” by saying something like #alookbackat2017 #comingforyou2018 #topnine. Of course, all this faux striving at being authentic and excited about one’s life smacks of the old Shakespearean line, “Methinks the lady doth protest too much.” Her protest, in this case, is by not protesting against the deceit that is Top Nine, trying and failing to make the sum total of your existence’s worth add up to nine photos that merely perpetuate the lie you’ve been telling yourself about being “fabulous” (exclamation point). But like the fall leaf on the ground that she managed to capture “just so,” a “woman’s” participation in the Top Nine confirms that she blows as easily in the wind as any trend (or as easily as her lips gravitate to dick). She is, to sum up, a phony baloney pushover. With bad filter choices.
There are particular books in this life that people, specifically “women,” will read very calculatedly in public. One of the most shining examples is A Confederacy of Dunces (which takes the place of The Catcher in the Rye and Infinite Jest for “men”). “Edgier” and “less embarrassing” than those other “female”-associated classics, The Bell Jar and The Feminine Mystique, A Confederacy of Dunces lets those “males” of a “sensitive,” “writerly” (a.k.a. do-nothing) nature know that this “woman” is well-read in just the sort of thing that one can chat about for long enough to seem intellectual before delving into more important topics, like zodiac signs, job titles and parentally-inflicted scars.
And if a “woman” is going to trouble herself with the picaresque genre, it’s certainly not going to be Don Quixote–that would make her come across as too intimidating. Like that inane/sexist quote goes, “A well-read woman is a dangerous creature” (no wonder it was coined by a romance novel writer and former pageant queen–thanks Lisa Kleypas). And so, to appear the perfect combination of non-threatening, semi-intelligent and “fun,” A Confederacy of Dunces is, to the clitless “woman,” the ideal public read. For yes, “women” do base their literary decisions on boning incitation, especially in the pseudo-intellectual microcosm of Brooklyn.
Any “girl” who tells you she’s not reading this book out in the open for at least mildly subconscious reasons of strategery (it’s acceptable to use George W. Bush words now) is full of shit. She’s out for seed the same way Ignatius is out to blame “Fortuna” for the world’s decision to render him a failure. Much in the same way it should render the “woman” in question reading about him somewhere that isn’t in the privacy of her own boudoir.
While, sure, we all know that, these days, a “woman” never knows who might sexually assault her with the concealed perversions of “men” being at constant play (though certainly not the eighteen to twenty-five set, what with their intense interest in screens and the shift toward how much more disposably “women” get treated than ever before), there’s something more than a bit callow about the type to bring a group of friends on a Tinder date. For one, the “man” in question is already easily discombobulated enough what with being more monosyllabic than your average gender (of which there are both many and none during these twenty-first century times). For another, he’s probably (if he knows what’s good for him) going to pay for your shit in the hopes of banging you, and by bringing other parties, you’re making it impossible for him to assess the situation from a financial approach.
In your faux superior attempt to gauge if a “man” is good enough for you by bringing your fellow hens to appraise him, you’re automatically establishing yourself as the true cunt rag diva you are–and all because your parents never told you otherwise, that you’re nothing just like the rest of us. The least you could do as an adequate user of an app designed to further send monogamy into tatters is not act in a manner that only makes “men” not so undercoverly despise the “female” collective at large even more (especially when they’re being too “mean” to them on Facebook). But no, you need your goddamn peanut gallery under the guise of being “too afraid” to meet a “guy” alone, when we all know they can be taken down with a swift kick to the place where their wang is supposed to be if the occasion for it arises. As it usually does for his mere being, in which case, one supposes you are going to want a friend there to film it.
The beret has long been, for some reason, a continued stereotype of what it means to be French in spite of the fact that it hasn’t been on-trend in France since the 1930s. Yet, like Italians portrayed with the shitty, “You-a wanna-a pizza-a?” accent, the beret is one so-called emblem of the culture that will forever be ingrained in the minds of Americans, most especially les “femmes” basiques.
Yet, for as much gall as it takes to wear a beret in America, even “women” like Carrie Bradshaw (who famously showed up to Mr. Big’s in embarrassment after self-chiding, “I’m running around town in a beret!”) know all too well that to actually wear a beret in France, particularly Paris, would be the ultimate crime against fashion, as well as the ultimate insult to French people (apart from matter-of-factly informing them that Italy has better wine and cheese). It’s mind-boggling, really, when you really examine it–the imagined scene in some “quaint” Canal St. Martin Airbnb–that a “woman” could actually be possessed to, of sound mind and body, pick up a beret, place it on her head and think: “Yes, this is going to make the Parisians regard me with le respecte.”
The only thing that could make it more of an affront to both Americans who don’t want French people to despise us any more than they already do and the French themselves is if the “woman” in question also donned a white shirt with horizontal stripes. The beret makes for a bull’s eye effect enough already as it is in terms of informing the French who’s la belle and who’s la bête.
“Women,” so often the possessive types, are almost always the offenders behind getting material items monogrammed. Maybe because they can never really claim the “men” who “belong” to them, they have to at least assert complete dominance over the middling personal effects that do (though this seems to be a moot point when Michael Kors bags tailor-made for clitless “women” already have “MK” emblazoned all over them).
Whether it’s her towels, her beach tote bag, her slippers or her goddamn mug, there’s no shortage of supplies a “woman” can take the time and money to mark with the stamp of her initials. And then, when she manages to finagle a child from some unwitting and unwilling dick, she’ll then monogram all of that “girl’s” unfashionable material goods with her initials as well, which gives the mother in question an added wetness where her clit’s supposed to be for playing god over choosing the letters that make up her child’s name in the first place. So the cycle for monogramming continues, with backpacks, baby booties, rompers, what have you now adding to the list of things that the “woman” can stain with her vanity and predilection for acquisitiveness.
But the “woman” truly cognizant of reality knows that we own nothing, for that which we try to cling to so vehemently always ends up owning us.
There is no shortage of poor selections a “woman” can make at karaoke. From Alanis Morissette’s boner killing “You Oughta Know” to Shania Twain’s “Man! I Feel Like A Woman,” there are infinite ways to disappoint and drive away an audience. But possibly among the worst of selections is “It’s Oh So Quiet” by the only Icelandic superstar we have ever known, Björk.
Often favored by the “girl” who fancies herself “super quirky!,” this song is frequently chosen with the intent of delighting and surprising those unfamiliar with its disparate cadences–and, of course, getting the “man” in search of the manic pixie dream girl utterly hard. But with her off-key whispering at the intro, overly high-pitched chirp when the time comes to scream, “And so peaceful until–you fall in love, zing boom!” and presumed wearing of a babydoll dress or some other such 90s garb made faux from being sold at Forever 21, there’s no worse sight or sound to bear witness to whilst attempting to be a respectful audience participant.
But there can be no respect for the “woman” who gets off on her self-deluded “cuteness.” It works for Björk, sure, but it ain’t replicable in others, least of all white wisps not born in Iceland.
It’s usually said, “Don’t trust a ‘man’ with two first names” (which just applies when his last name sounds like a first name), but this warning is far more applicable to determining a woman’s bitchery and/or vexatious qualities. With the two names in one phenomenon seeing more popularity than ever thanks to the hulked out self-importance of Generation Z–ranging from Lily Rose to Millie Bobby–all these mothers responsible for moniker lending are doing is giving license to a mutant generation of cunts.
Perhaps worst of all is when a woman who has just one name suddenly decides to incorporate her middle name as a means to be in possession of a primmer (but in her mind “more sophisticated”) title. But all this really serves to iterate is that she’s, well, a self-centered little asshole. The gall of expecting people–especially people as lazy and desirous of getting to the point as the current dominating population–to spit out two names when the rest of us in this life are relegated to one (even Madonna) is not only incongruous but utterly megalomaniacal. So next time you’re in the womb and you hear your daft breeder of a mom talking about what an “adorable” name like Anna Grace would be, kick her as a reminder that 1) you don’t live in the South and 2) you don’t want to be doomed to be a wispy little white girl who claims never to have farted.