Tag: brooklyn

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.

Women Who Obsess Over the Same Guy Who Really Doesn’t Give One Single Shit About Her.

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.

Women Who Don’t Understand That Revenge is A Dish Best Served Chilled (With Parsley).

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.

Women Who Do Their Top Nine.

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.

Women Who Read A Confederacy of Dunces in Public.

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.

Women Who Roll Up to Their Tinder Date With Friends.

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.

Women With Two First Names.

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.

Women Who Ignore the Signs of A Man’s Disinterest.

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.

Women Who Ignore the Blatant Signs of the Sociopath.

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.”

Women Who Only Get Satisfaction Out of Men As Conquests Not People.

Ever since the pilot episode of Sex and the City, when Carrie Bradshaw declared to Big that she was experimenting in having “sex like a ‘man,'” a modern revolution has been afoot. Or maybe you could count it from the time Janeane Garofalo as Vickie Miner in Reality Bites tallied up the number of guys she banged in her diary every time one of them left her bedroom in the morning (adding many a question mark behind said names). Whatever you trace the origin of “female” promiscuity as a source of pride to, the bottom line is that, in general, their sole motivo for doing it is to prove something to a “man”–that is, that they can be just as callous and emotionless as a non-human purported to have a penis. But to be “slutty” for this competitive, vengeance-driven reason only serves to strengthen a “man’s” point that a “woman” has no gender identity of her own.

She isn’t having sex with a robust number of “men” for pleasure, she’s doing it for the bragging rights. And this doesn’t make her any better than a “bloke” who does the same thing. Rather than solidifying the perception that she is a feminist, the woman who gets satisfaction out of “men” as conquests and not as people is only debasing herself, lowering her values to the level of the former stereotype of the sexually appetitive “male” before we all got saddled with the current generation of 30 & unders obsessed with porn and video games to the point that it’s completely stamped out their sex drive for a flesh and blood girl.

Be that as it may, “men” are still, for the most part, the ones who get the reputation for “looseness” because they continue to remain the gender with the ratio in their favor. The only “woman” who has ever truly enjoyed boning an endless barrage of “men” for sport is Laura Bell, and that’s only because she got the “bow down to me” title of Queen of London whoredom. Every other “notorious” “whore” (e.g. Samantha Jones and Vivian Ward) went home wondering if they might ever find someone to share their bed with on a consistent basis. “Women” just aren’t disloyal enough for the lifestyle of the philanderer. Anyone who tells you otherwise has gotten her heart broken and is just trying to fuck the pain away.