In this life, there remains the black and white classification of two types of “women”: the wife material and the other “woman” (more commonly known as: Madonna/whore). Because of this seemingly unshakeable phenomenon, “men” have managed to succeed at achieving their primary aim in life in order to stay in power: pitting “women” against one another through marionette-like control via the effective means of the smokescreen caused by jealousy.
While this “female” toward “female” resentment can manifest in many ways (see: Heathers, Mean Girls), the most common one tends to come out when a “man” who claimed to make a commitment to fidelity is caught cheating with the proverbial “other woman.” His reasons for doing so, however, often have less to do with the “woman” he’s saddled with on a regular basis and more to do with the fact that a greater amount of novelty is at play with vag that is not as attainable as a result of its illicitness (“men,” after all, need a lot of psychological bells and whistles to get an erection for a “woman”).
The wife and/or steady ride or die he ends up hurting (pride and vanity-wise, primarily) when he inevitably gets caught, unfortunately, cannot comprehend the bullshit motives behind his effrontery, choosing and preferring, instead, to malign the “Jezebel temptress bitch” that “forced” him to stray (even a “feminist” like Hillary fell prey to this behavior in ultimately deciding to stay with Bill). That “women” continue to succumb to this transparent trap (Cardi B being the most blatant exemplar of late) remains a stubborn confirmation of just how much “women,” in their surface pettiness of not wanting to see that “their” “man” could possibly willingly want to do them wrong, are their own worst enemy when it comes to being enslaved by patriarchy.
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).
It’s all perfectly fine and on the level for a boy to be a toy–a boy toy, if you will–as a result of how subversive it still is to objectify “men” in any way (plus it typically means his way is getting paid for, so where’s the harm in his objectification if it comes with a Gucci suit?), but it remains something of a source of melancholy to see a “woman” reduce herself to being a sheer plaything for the sake of either 1) money, 2) power or 3) some vague attempt at getting respect by dichotomously surrendering what little is left of her dignity to a “bloke.” Her relinquishment of all control over the self, both body and mind, in effect, renders her as lifeless and lacking in dimensionality as a Kim Kardashian corpse meme. Kim herself, obviously, knows a little something about engaging in the “beneficial” role of toy, otherwise she might have found the strength of character to leave Kanye long ago. Or even Kris Jenner, for that matter.
Because most “women” still feel that the height of their strength cannot be achieved unless they have a “man” at their side to form some version of the “power couple” (though we all saw how that turned out for Hillary), they can’t help but continue to feel prone to a certain amount of self-reduction. The kind that leads them to the mental level of little better than a doll or semi-modern Barbie (the kind with “accurate measurements“), which means a very minimal amount of overly “opinionated” comments that might lead to their prop of a “boy”friend’s sudden abandonment in favor of a more toy-like “girl.” It’s better to be lifeless in a pair than vivacious and “full of cute ideas” alone. Which, yes, does make one need to double check every so often to corroborate that it is, in fact, the twenty-first century.
The garden variety basique has many predictable weaknesses that are almost so predictable that it’s, in some way, appallingly unexpected when she blatantly and actually carries out such predilections for prosaism on social media. One such fetish of the basique is, it has to be said, getting hard for the Instagram account known as @ihavethisthingwithtiles, and accordingly trying to cultivate the perfect image that will get her mentioned on it. Like a trip inside the mind and perpetual wet dream of the “design savvy” bia who genuinely believes that watching HGTV and/or the Travel Channel on the regular makes her some kind of irrefutable expert on the matter of aesthetics, @ihavethisthingwithtiles is also what the average “female” interior design “genius” chooses to name check in any post she might find “absolutely tailor-made” for the account. This is a phenomenon that augments tenfold during her jaunt to Lisbon.
Apart from a city that’s only been on the perpetual up and up since Christian Louboutin bought a house in ’06 (note: none of the basiques atting I Have This Thing With Tiles can ever in their wildest dreams imagine fulfilling their true basique potential à la Carrie Bradshaw by actually being able to afford the Louboutins that might take their tile photo to the next level), there is its endless sea of vibrantly colored and patterned tiles to attract even the most fearful of “European discomfort” common vagina (think the Lady Gaga caricature–though not really much of a caricature–in Die Antwoord’s “Fatty Boom Boom” video).
So should you ever find yourself the unfortunate follower of a “woman” who has somehow managed to suck enough cock (even if that means getting her workplace to subsidize the journey somehow) to “pay” her way to Portugal, beware the inevitable call out to @ihavethisthingwithtiles. It is, far and away, the only thing more calculable about a “woman” with hackneyed attempts at originality other than her period cycle.
There are so many “women” who feel a certain natural superiority over the idea of saying such “adult” phrases as “a ‘woman’ should age gracefully” or “I’ll never feel old because I’m already old in soul.” As to the first point, well, she’ll soon see just how “graceful” she feels when she achieves the thing that every “girl” always claimed she wanted to stop getting: male attention. Once that happens, it’s a guarantee, she’s going to lose all sense of “grace,” running to the nearest Botox facility and/or lipo venue to rectify the damage called age. And then where will her self-righteous declaration about being cursed with an old soul in a young body be?
The worst part of this woe is me shtick is that, in her mind, being an old soul entails listening to, like, No Doubt or some shit. Or enjoying reading books in tangible form as opposed to on a screen. Or the fact that she enjoys “reading” (which means culling the correct quotes and pre-made assessments) at all. She’s simply “too mature” for most other “girls” her age, and this is why, she claims, she tends to either “gravitate” toward older “men” or pull them to her “energy” (because yeah, what “man” doesn’t like a tight pussy with the additional claim of loving Nabokov, especially if she’s never actually read Lolita). It’s not her fault she’s fucking up the already extremely disparate ratio for other age-appropriate “women.” She’s just an innocent old soul. With the according craftiness to know that “acting innocent” is just the way to play it in any game–particularly one called The Dick Chase.
She can’t help that she’s got no personality, after all, instead masquerading it as “stoic wisdom.” Nor can she help that she’s cashing in on her youth by making it seem as though it’s very trying upon her to be so sagacious at such a tender age. But she’ll soon see faux sagacity is far better than just plain sagging. So take your old soul and shove it up your Albert Fish-teasing ass, eventually to be in need of a surgical lift. And from the operating table, please be sure to reiterate how important it is to age gracefully.
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.