“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.
To compensate for a shortage of what can best be described as men that are Ryan Gosling in The Notebook, “women” very often use one of the best survival skills they have–denial–to ignore what are fairly apparent signs of complete and total disinterest. And though sometimes it’s a challenge to discern just, exactly, what disinterest is when a “male” tends to be naturally monosyllabic and steely, certain indicators are simply too blatant to ignore.
Among the primary classics, there are three: 1) the slow-to-text responses, most offensive when your last message doesn’t get a reply for a full twenty-four hours (death or major accident that has put him in the hospital unconscious is the only excuse); 2) his overt lack of desire to touch or be touched by you and 3) his constant implementation of bro epithets like “dude” when addressing you. If one or more of these standard gauges of into itness (or rather, lack thereof) have befallen you for a prolonged period of time, then you’ve been evading a fairly harsh truth about your so-called relationship: he doesn’t give one fuck, two fuck, red fuck, blue fuck about you. At least not in a manner befitting someone of your passionate and need for passion in return variety.
“Oh my god I’m just so fucking weird and zany and arcane it’s bursting out of my body at any given second!” seems to be the constant exclamation emanating from what can best be deemed as the “super quirky! girl.” Unlike a standard-issue quirky “girl” in the vein of Diane Keaton as Annie Hall, this new-fangled breed seems to get their orgasms from being as irritatingly neurotic, whiny and chirpy (among other sounds) as possible. In a major sendup of the ultimate modern pinnacle of the super quirky! “girl”–Zooey Deschanel–a recurring sketch on Saturday Night Live circa 2012 called Bein’ Quirky with Zooey Deschanel drove home a point that many of us more The Craft meets Angela Chase–esque weirdos had long been feeling: these “women” are bullshit, and they don’t know from fucking quirky and the darkness it takes to be it. The prototype in pop culture came to its highest fruition with Winona Ryder in Beetlejuice and Christina Ricci in The Addams Family (kooky, quirky–there’s a rhyming correlation, see?).
Yet somewhere around the mid-90s, roughly three years after The Addams Family‘s release, the concept of the quirky “girl” took a turn for the worse in the form of one, Phoebe Buffay (Lisa Kudrow), the bia on Friends who was always just sort of there with no context or place as a “bohemian” (a.k.a. she was too flighty for a job) among yuppies. With her vexatious logic and non sequitur dialogue, the definition of quirky “girl” was redefined in a manner that could only be rebranded as “super quirky!” And now, as a result, we have to deal with “women” like Lena Dunham and sometimes, dare I say it, even Greta Gerwig. Geri Halliwell may have wanted to be taken back to her chico latino, but some of us would just like to be taken back to a time when the label “quirky girl” wasn’t synonymous with being intolerable and ineloquent as all get-out.
While, granted, options are extremely limited “out there” (out there being the cold abyss we call Earth), it doesn’t mean a “girl” should feel so confined by the lack of choice that she ignores the blatant signs of the sociopath “male”–of which there are many. In fact, some Valerie Solanas types might argue that all “men” are sociopaths, which, yes, seems like an increasingly viable thesis statement. Defined in its most simplistic form as someone “with a personality disorder manifesting itself in extreme antisocial attitudes and behavior and a lack of conscience,” many of the “men” living in Brooklyn fall under this blanket description. Antisocial attitudes, after all, don’t necessarily entail a shut-in who won’t leave his house (minus the part where most “men” are always playing video games). The behavior can also encompass a natural hatred of women and a tendency toward mind flaying (not an intentional Stranger Things reference)–e.g. one minute acting super attentive and into it and the next disappearing for days before reemerging onto the text scene.
Yet, because of New York City’s specific concentration of “men” paired with a simultaneous and ironic paucity of selection, “women” are so often willing to discount their gut instincts with regard to interpreting a sociopath’s very overt comportment. “Oh, he’s just having a hard time at work” or “Oh, he just has to focus on himself right now before he can fully devote his time to me” are some of the many infinite excuses a “girl” might use to justify out loud to her friends why she’s still putting up with the sociopath’s antics. Alas, she’s going to find it very difficult to justify to the corpse of first her mind then her body why she decided to endure the fuckery for so long. What? All to not be alone. Sod that, we’re all alone in our head anyway, and you’re better off inside yours than trying to enter that of the socio “male’s.”
Just when you thought there could be nothing more annoying than the into it “straight” “man” on Halloween, the Karen “I’m a mouse, duh!” in Mean Girls type shows up to the party or mills through the streets to remind you that, oh yes, there is a reason “men” still think they’re somehow superior. At the other side of the spectrum of the overzealous “straight” “man” seeking to perpetuate his childhood well into the adult years by acting too hype on Halloween is the unoriginal and/or lazy “woman” who decides to put cat ears atop her head with a slutty dress or some other seasonally inappropriate ensemble.
If she’s feeling truly “innovative,” she might even put on some Fabletics workout garb on in black, curl her hair and call herself Sandra Dee. Whatever basique effort she makes, the only thing that’s clear is that she doesn’t give two shits about the spirit of All Hallow’s Eve, so much as showcasing her body to impress some gross “guy” at a bar or, excuse me, “masquerade,” who wouldn’t appreciate a “woman” for her mind as manifested by the thoughtfulness of her costume even if she walked up to him as Judge Judy and bopped him on the head with her gavel to notice it.