It isn’t so common, one would think, anymore, to hear a “woman” order white zinfandel outside of say, 1996, and yet, in these Trumpian times, one can’t be too surprised to find that it’s had something of a resurgence–even outside of the one-horse town milieu (a.k.a a suburb of New York a.k.a. Long Island). And yes, to be sure, it is always the wispy blonde type (who fashions her hair into a half-back, to boot) that doesn’t want to get “too crazy” with her alcohol intake that chooses white zin as her drink of choice. As if she’s somehow of the belief that white zinfandel doesn’t have “real” alcohol in it, therefore she can justify it when her behavior “suddenly” gets buck wild–as though it’s “so unexpected” when she starts letting something “slip” (besides her nip), be it gossip, an insult or a protected secret.
“Oh my god, I can’t believe I said that,” she’ll say the following morning, as though she’s genuinely shocked about the behavior that white zinfandel “imbued” her with, as though her latent bitch of a personality wasn’t underneath all along, and did not simply “appear” out of nowhere and at the fault of the white zinfandel. She’ll apologize ad nauseum to whatever fake friend or grudging boyfriend she might have offended, claim it will never happen again and then pretty much immediately go back to drinking, if not the next day, at least five days later. For white zinfandel is the very thing that makes her feel alive, that is to say, white. Because what could be more invigorating than living in a country where yuppiedom and all emblems thereof are consistently favored despite our false belief in the fact that diversity has triumphed in the twenty-first century? But unless the proverbial bartender refuses to serve the dumb bitch’s aim in feeling “sophisticated” with white zinfandel, all hope for a future sans the blanche parvenue saturating all facets of our existence is nil.
Because poverty dick is often more orgasm-inducing than rich dick (they were never good at sex because they never had to be, or just paid people off to tell them they were), it can frequently be the case that “women” stick with the same sleaze for well past the expiration date, refusing to acknowledge that there is no statute of limitations when it comes to the embarrassment of being seen with someone noticeably disparate not just in grossness but also intellect.
It’s been said by Leah McSweeney that “Good dick will imprison you.” But this feels more like an aphorism created merely to suit the aesthetic of her streetwear brand than actual reality. For how good is dick, really, ever? Good in that sense that you lose all track of your dignity, sense of self and, most important of all, self-worth. Then again, “women” are liable to lose their damn minds even just for adequate dick (which is almost as rare as the good kind). Their slavery to an apparatus that could just as easily be recreated while not attached to a humiliating disgrace of a human being is, sadly, what continues to keep them down, subjugated by an objectively inferior species that effectively proves each day we should all be implementing the tenets of the S.C.U.M. Manifesto.
Because “women” already get a bad enough rap as it is for having nothing to offer other than their bodies (even when, most of the time, they aren’t offering them but somehow still get seized upon), it doesn’t help matters when they cater to the cliche, “Girls just wanna have funds.” And while, sure, the best revenge is your paper and there is nothing more meaningful than money in a culture that has long ago lost all meaning, it would be nice if, every once in a while, a “woman” didn’t prove herself to be such a dumb bitch when it came to only really caring about the costly entities that will either 1) make her look less old, 2) make her look less fat or 3) make her feel more comfortable (a house in Pantelleria, that sort of thing).
Although the independent woman myth has been proliferated since “Sisters Are Doin’ It For Themselves,” it’s hard for those who have not shattered the glass ceiling like Aretha Franklin and Annie Lennox with their vocal talent to rely on anything other than that which they know to be the most viable tool for gaining “quick cash”: the Anna-Nicole Smith method (though, of course, it doesn’t necessarily have to be via a “man” verging on death’s door). While, sure, some “women” can break the mold and manage to afford their “material girl” needs on their own, most still have to rely on “male” purse strings (pulled by an acrobatic enough pussy) to get them what they so desperately crave: La Mer-level skin care, a house with a Brita filter and enough clothes to appear as though they’re wearing something different each day in various Instagram videos. So no, “women” are not the complicated creatures “men” make them out to be–that’s why most will stick around for the cash even if and when her bloke cheats on her. What makes them “complicated” in a “man’s” eyes, however, is the fact that none of them have the physical or emotional stamina anymore to surrender their already dainty and petite balls to “the man” so as to procure the dough that is essential to, in turn, procuring the type of human blowup doll they are all subconsciously seeking. Hence, all the railing against the bourgeois lifestyle in the present epoch (further fueled by the fact that only people like the Orange One can seem to get money, get paid thanks to the leg up given to him early on in life by the family trust).
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.
We’ve all been that “woman” at one point or another, when we’ve fallen prey to “loving” an “artist.” Because who isn’t, in the naïveté of their youth, attracted to the “romantic” lifestyle of staying up late drinking Pernod, sleeping in till noon and not really “having it figured out,” save for being certain that something’s just gotta happen with his art. Even if he doesn’t exactly know how that’s going to provide for a financial plan in the interim. Which is also why his “girl”friend might find herself paying for things more than occasionally once he starts to feel comfortable, a trajectory from obsequious that happens real quick. Still, one of many “female” superpowers is an ability to ignore just how bad things are, particularly when a self-imposed cloud of love and therefore muddled judgment is at play.
That’s why, upon rising from the sometimes shared bed (for he would never actually let you live with him, disrupting his sacred “artist’s space”) in your post-coital glow–despite the fact that only a faint fluttering of an orgasm occurred–you will be met with a new manifestation of his art and be “blown away.” Which is to say, at least you’re getting blown in some way by this little asshole. Because, later on, when you’ve come out of what you now realize was the miasma of emotions, you can see objectively again, and come to find that, well, his art wasn’t very good. And, with hindsight, you comprehend that “passable” or “adequate” art isn’t really art at all. What is an art, however, is the “male” skill for duping, and moving on to the next mark who can be convinced of worshipping him as a god.
When Urban Sophistication, helmed by Tel Aviv-based brother and sister Neta and Elad Yam, launched a line of themed clothing and accessories for their brand called SCREENSHOTS, it might have been just another flash in the pan amid other popular graphic declarations, like Do Nothing Club and Broken Dreams Club, sold here. But once Gigi Hadid got her hands on the phone case touting “Social Media Seriously Harms Your Mental Health” and was photographed around town with it in March, it at once seemed almost too well-timed to coincide with the refreshed contempt for an entity that, according to most all of the sudden, had robbed them of their privacy (as if they didn’t already know that’s what the exchange was for parading their lives in a grandiosely false and self-indulgent manner).
Yet models and it girls just like Hadid have built their entire “careers” on the existence of Instagram and its buttressing companion pieces, Twitter and Facebook. Claiming to hold derision for a medium that they would very literally be nothing without smacks of a wolf gnawing off its own leg to get out of a trap. And maybe that is how people of primarily middling Instagram fame feel (for ultimately, isn’t that what illustriousness amounts to when you’re a model now?), that they would simply and for once like to be “free” from scrutiny (though it happens to us all from an act as simple as walking down the street–to exist in the world is to be judged).
While the backlash against social media might be chic now, there’s no denying the place of value it has held for many very strategic “women”–strategic meaning parlaying a topless photo into a news event. One can argue all the points about its damage to the psyche for prompting one to spend hours in a fictional world that will not elevate the mind like, say, literature or for inciting a “user” to compare herself to others in a manner that will never lead to happiness. But the fact remains, your ho ass would be invisible, ergo penniless, without it. So please, do not come to me about how your mind is being infected when this is the type of sensual social media self-aggrandizement that has made you relevant:
It’s believed that to be human–at least one of an “elevated” variety–you’ve got to have some sense of need or desire to create, to express your feelings through that polarizing medium called art. The problem is, there really are quite a few people–often “women” who make their rich older boyfriends buy kilns–who should keep their expressions limited to stock phrases generated for them by Kim Kardashian (you know, like “slay in your lane”). Instead, they prefer to “innovate” and funnel out their so-called “emotions” in the hours when they’re not tending to their bloke or the hygienic maintenance that has landed them that bloke (i.e. ass and vag waxing, Botox, languishing in the gym, etc.) via the “fun” means of collaging or painting. Mainly watercolor. And yes, there’s a reason watercolors and collages are among the first artistic forms put into use by children via the instruction of their somewhat clueless teachers, who in their role as glorified babysitter, feel obligated to at least impart some sort of viable mental stimulation. Ah, but that word–stimulation–merely conjures comparisons to the effects of masturbation, which is precisely what a bored “female” pursuing art often entails. It’s almost as bad as when a “man” pursues art as a legitimate career.
And in her inarticulate strokes, the very definition of “cute” in its most demeaning manner will shine through, and yet, somehow still endear the last of the “male” ilk still willing to engage in their faux practice of “caring” to pursue her because she’s “super quirky!” and “so creative!”—“really bohemian!” Or, as it’s better known, “This girl is the ‘weirdest’ it can get without being too much for my touch.'” Because, in a “man’s” mind, at least if a “woman” is “artistic,” she might be willing to eventually allow penile entrance into a novelty orifice (on Valentine’s Day, or his birthday). Maybe even do a little Jack and Rose role reversal by painting him in the nude instead before concluding the foreplay with paintbrushes used for other means. Unfortunately for the rest of us, we merely have to look at the prosaic art as opposed to receiving the orgasmic benefits it seems to help with behind closed doors, Molly Jensen in Ghost-style (and yeah, she has shittaytay pottery, too).
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.