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?
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.
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.
It’s a hard habit to break, one that “women” have been indoctrinated with for so long via sentiments like “He Hit Me (And It Felt Like A Kiss).” And it’s one that, slowly but surely, is starting to melt away with the increasingly eye-opening fact that “men” are, by and large, more hindrance than benefit to a “woman’s” path. Even so, the average “woman” abandoned after being treated like shit can’t help but feel some remaining sense of attachment (mostly hormonal) as a result of her ultimate Achilles’ heel: self-loathing masked as loyalty to a “man” who really couldn’t give less of a shit about her.
Even so, a “woman” can spend months, years even the entire rest of her life wasting energy on a dickhead who never even gave her good dick. It’s something about the unique gift (burden, really) a “woman” has for nostalgia, for romanticizing the past, which was probably much worse than she is now capable of remembering it. Who knows if it’s the steady diet of codependent “women” exalted as heroines (e.g. Elizabeth Bennet and Carrie Bradshaw) that make the collective “female” population so prone to wasted devotion? Lana Del Rey certainly doesn’t help matters with lyrics like, “I will love you till the end of time.” Bitch he don’t give a fuck what you do. Your declarations of ardor are moot once he’s decided to move on, close himself off to your irrelevant feelings and your vaginal fluids. So stop obsessing. It’s really not cute, and it damn sure ain’t the aura that’s gonna help you allure another.
As “men” are so often wont to believe about “women,” they have no self-control when it comes to reining in their “volatile,” “irrational” behavior in matters of feeling slighted. And who tends, more often than not, to be the slighter? The “beau” in question. While many speculate as to who originally coined the phrase, “Revenge is a dish best served cold,” whoever it was might have been, sad to say it, a “man.” Maybe Machiavelli. For so many “women” still don’t seem to realize that a calm, collected approach to exacting vengeance à la Beatrix Kiddo in Kill Bill Vols. 1 & 2 is the only way to truly affect change within a “man.” To make him see, through blood-soaked lighting, the error of his ways.
One must also consider that where revenge has played out in pop culture, it is frequently the “men” behind or in front of the camera extracting it with the most force (e.g. Quentin Tarantino, as alluded to before, or Pedro Almodóvar). When it comes to stories of “women” on the screen getting their justice, it veers usually into the “exploitation” category via movies like I Spit On Your Grave and Ms. 45. Though there are a few with more careful consideration to a plot than just plain “I’m going to fucking tear your heart out” mode–like The First Wives Club–it always feels as though the “women” in these films are being portrayed with a one-track mind that replays the tape: “I hate him” over and over again, making for a largely two-dimensional character. But there is more to the “female” than a mere desire for receiving her own redress. She is complex, filled with a gamut of emotions, interests and views. And likewise, solid reasoning for her contempt. But to the “man,” she’s another aging bitch he’s going to have to deal with ridding himself of once she becomes too comfortable. Stops waking up early in the morning to brush her teeth and put her face back on, Miriam Maisel-style.
He really ought to be more cautious in his quickness to dispense with the one who has always been there for him though. Encouraged him when he didn’t deserve it, pretended to enjoy the sex when it was lackluster, that sort of thing. Because one can foresee a lot more calculated strategy to revenge in the future, still prophesied to be “female.” And as we come to see how this will unfold in our society, perhaps the revenge narrative will become a bit more layered, something Sun Tzu could be proud of in its more varied strategies.
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.