We all know that essentially every “man” is a “boy”–and a fuck”boy” at that (usually one who can’t fuck you worth the same weight in pleasure as emotional damage). That’s precisely why it shouldn’t come as any surprise to a woman when she suddenly and very clichely begins to think about changing his name in her contacts to “Fuckboy” (or, if you’re Jhené Aiko, “Fucc Boy”–how you spell it, as usual these days, depends on your personal preference).
But before doing this, one really ought to assess her self-respect. For by the very act of name amendment, she is playing into just what he wants–though he’ll claim to the end of time that he’s not “trying” to do anything. Generally speaking, that’s the problem. In “men’s” lack of trying, they manage to succeed in breaking hearts and remaining shreds of pride. That’s what’s so infuriating–what will incite a girl to want to address him as such in her telephone when she knows damn well he isn’t going to call or text again unless he’s really scraping the bottom of the barrel circa 3 a.m.
The more empowering thing to do, however, would be to simply delete the motherfucker (’cause you know he probably would fuck his mother if these were different times and a geographical location called Greece). Not give him the satisfaction of putting that much effort into showing to no one but yourself how much you despise him to his very core. And worst of all, that behind that ire, lies something far worse: the secret shame that you actually like this person. Like the weak little non-feminist you are. It’s like Julia Stiles says in her terrible poem in 10 Things I Hate About You, “I hate the way you’re not around/And the fact that you didn’t call/But mostly I hate the way I don’t hate you/Not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all.” Oh girl, who you kiddin’ with that contact name change?
There’s just something about blonde women–something that seeps into their head when the peroxide does. As though egoism is an ingredient in the bleach that also seems to whitewash a “woman’s” perspective about her superiority over others with vaginas, particularly if the head above said vagina includes locks of brown. It’s a pervasive snobbery summed up best by Rhea Perlman as Mrs. Wormwood in Matilda when she tells Miss Honey (Embeth Davidtz), “You chose books, I chose looks”–as though being a brunette entails being incontrovertibly mousy and incapable of sex appeal. And, to be sure, raven-haired women (e.g. Monica Bellucci) are a different thing altogether–deemed the only class of dark-haired women that can be sexy without coming across as too “bookish.”
The stereotypes regarding brunette inferiority abound with the classic aphorisms of “gentlemen prefer blondes,” “blondes have more fun” and any light reading of Mein Kampf–further perpetuating the cultural notion that if only a “woman” would just dye her hair blonde she wouldn’t have to suffer the consequences of such crippling undesirability, loneliness and occasional premature death. In fact, wouldn’t be such a pauper, constantly at risk of utter destitution from a lack of ability to finagle “male” financial backing. Maybe this is why the only blonde mogul you ever see is a “woman” that was originally brunette (Madonna comes to mind, naturally). And yet, it would seem that, for the most part, those blondes “aware” of their elevated sexual prowess in comparison to brunettes often chase down other thoughts like butterflies too often to remember their so-called preeminence. So when they make regularly condescending comments to you in passing that relate to the hue of your tresses, it’s only because they can’t remember that they’ve already made their feelings of transcendence abundantly clear–able only to retain such details as bra and waist size. But never, of course, that they would be just Hitler’s type.
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.
As concisely detailed by Julia Roberts’ character, Maggie Carpenter, in Runaway Bride, there is many a “woman” still–even in these “independence”-oriented times–that has difficulty in possessing enough confidence in her own tastes and opinions to form a complete, separate of emulation personality. Hence, Maggie orders her eggs the same way as whichever fiancé of the moment does. Symptomatic of a natural fear of the judgment that can come with having the courage to declare “yourself” to others, the “woman” who prefers mimicry of another–whether “male” or “female”–is nothing more than a coward. Or maybe she really is, simply and truly, a nullity. Like water, merely reflecting back what’s near her.
It is, more often than not, slightly creepier when a “woman” chooses to copy another “woman” as there certainly isn’t the benefit of the potential of steady dick to be gleaned from such a form of obsequiousness. While this can occasionally result in the re-creation of the plot of Single White Female, it typically just makes a “girl” like Bethany Byrd (Stefanie Drummond) in Mean Girls come across as a blobbo waste of space. Is that what you want, to be an identityless waste of space seeking to attract the favor of blonde bitches? If so, you’ve come to the right planet.
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.