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).
“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.
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.
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.
Fact one: you will never, no matter how hard you try, achieve closure. It’s almost more impossible to achieve than orgasm. It cannot happen, most markedly because you’re working with someone who’s internally dead on the other side. It’s not “men’s” fault, one supposes, that they can turn on and off like a light switch in such a way as to make you question how you, too, can transcend into such automaton status. What is “women’s” fault, however is their unquenchable desire to find closure.
Fact two: there’s a reason that one of the definitions of closure is: “a sense of resolution or conclusion at the end of an artistic work.” Note, this can only happen in a work of fiction, not real life. I mean, that’s why we’re all so fucked up, right? Going by the logic of works of art based on the three-act structure has made us believe that life should go in the according same way. “Women,” in particular, are sensitive to this pre-established rule formed by the diet of cinema and Jane Austen novels.
It doesn’t help that the “female” friends these “women” seeking counsel from shower them with bullshit like, “Maybe you can just keep sleeping with him if you want to, but I worry you’re just too emotionally attached.” It’s been said by a certain overly inquisitive fictional columnist that to have sex like a “man” is one of the ultimate “female” coups. This is because when you never fully engage your feelings, you’re at least not going to come out of the end of the prolonged fucking period (sometimes called relationships) looking like anything other than a needy douchebag with binoculars whipped out to find closure. Stop looking, he ain’t gon’ give it to you, just like he barely gave you enough consistent good dick.
As a young “girl,” it’s all very cute to play dress up, whether in the clothing of your mother or with one’s Barbie dolls (occasionally making her nonexistent genitalia touch against Ken’s bump to pre-experiment with sex in a way you don’t fully understand, but sort of just innately know is somehow illicit). But telling people your plans to be a fashion designer after the age of fifteen instead of tragically falling into the field like Donatella Versace is more than a little bit naive, and well, completely self-indulgent in a way that only white “women” can be.
And because the “woman” pursuing fashion in question is probably the daddy’s girl with the corresponding car to prove it, she’ll end up going to one of the mac daddies of missing a clit schools: Parsons or FIT. The costs of which will never be equal in measure to the middling salary a “woman” will get post-graduation. Then again, most “women” with the “creative” and “fanciful” spirit to choose such a major have no problem dropping their “passion” when a better offer (read: a “guy” or higher paying job in an even more soulless profession) comes along. Plus, the “glamor” of making one’s own clothes suddenly doesn’t feel that way when the true technical aspects of working in the fashion industry are put into practice. Because what do you really end up doing? Working some thankless 60k job for a Jewish-owned company where staring at templates for shitty clothes in the endless genre of recycled trends will never give you the credit you thought you were going to get. The international brand you thought you were going to have on all the major stretches of road: Rodeo, Madison, Montaigne and Vittorio Emanuele. So wake up little “girl,” it’s time to stop playing dress up and buying pumpkin spice lattes on the way to your hopelessly out of date office building located somewhere in the bowel of Seventh Avenue and start reconciling that unlike Anne Hathaway in The Devil Wears Prada, there is no way to break through the periphery of the fashion realm.
I just sat down by myself to relish the near beatificness of my sadness, where a “man” was also happening to sit as well, because people tend to commingle in public places in this sort of manner. We get to talking because he asks me what I’m reading, his British accent readily making itself apparent. I ask him if he’s Scottish, because I hate Scottish people right now (regardless of how much of this descent went into creating Lana Del Rey). He tells me no, he was born in London. It’s around this instant that his girlfriend swoops in like an eager vulture to ensure that another doesn’t peck at her bounty. Some “women” like to feign pleasantries with the other “woman” they’re threatened by–get on her good side so as to keep her enemy closer. This “woman” didn’t feel bothered to do so, instead treating me like a predator, or perhaps worse, vermin to be exterminated.
Please calm down, I do not want to fuck your boyfriend. Your boyfriend probably has crust resin on his dick and inside of his asshole. I almost admire you for putting up with him the way you seem to be able to, invariably so doing primarily because of the unfortunate ratio in life and in New York City. It’s very limiting in choice and can transform “women” into even worse versions of themselves when their claws instinctually come out to protect what they’ve worked so hard to secure (this can mean everything from not allowing herself to get fat to practicing head-giving skills on bananas–even though mangoes would be more appropriate for most of the chodes out there). But it’s important to remember, most “women” are probably just as unimpressed with your boyfriend as you are. No one wants to steal your slim chance at lasting monogamy. And if they do, rest assured it’s the “man” you’re dating who is giving out the signals of invitation for them to “attack.”