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.
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.
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.
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.
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.”
There’s something to be said for a “woman” who is shrewd enough to know the importance of subtly kowtowing to the man she’s trying to secure in catering to his every interest and whim. Subtly being the operative word, as few “men” like to feel as though they’ve found themselves with a personality-less sponge (unless she has the plastic surgeon’s looks to make up for it). This is why the truly clitless “woman,” in all her strategic wisdom, will first glean either from his online profile(s) or his friends/apartment decor (if she’s more analog a.k.a. craftier, classier and infinitely more in touch with the tangible world around her–ah, but fuck that, it’s all stalking anyway) what sports he’s passionate about.
Without him ever telling her anything, she will make it a point to start alluding to her own zeal for [insert meathead-filled team here]. Whether it’s football, hockey, baseball, soccer, bowling–shit, even fencing–there’s no limit to what a “woman” will claim to enjoy either 1) playing or 2) spectating. This gives her an automatic edge over every other “competitor” in the game called: find the needle that is the “straight man” in a haystack. So ask yourself, fellas, does she really care about any major league, or is she doing it all for the penis and the peanuts (concession stand food is the only reason to endure any game)? Every “man” with a “woman” who “loves” the same sport as he does should start questioning it immediately.
Dreadlocks aren’t a good look on anyone: “men,” “women,” black, white–whatever. But the “women” of a Caucasian background that somehow feel obliged to adopt the look for the “Rasta lifestyle” they slip into after smoking weed a few times and securing a black boyfriend à la Julia Stiles in Save the Last Dance are of particular note when it comes to causing offense with this hairstyle. Once they’ve lost the black boyfriend and merely settled on a “casual” white drug dealer in a band, the dreads persist–after all, they’re rather difficult to just “get rid of” once a white girl has committed (a.k.a. possessing gnarly hygiene is so much more comfortable–no muss, no fuss).
Then again, the dreadlocks worn by those claiming to adhere to Rastafarianism aren’t exactly the ones with the monopoly on the looque. Egyptians were the first to lay claim via archaeological evidence to the trend (though many trace its birthplace to India). When Rastafarianism appropriated the tenets of Hindu and African tribal culture mixed with the Old Testament, somehow the black Jamaican population became the only one permitted to sport the style without causing an outrage. And white “girls” are at the top of that list (especially after a Marc Jacobs runway show).
In truth, however, there’s this: just no one wear dreadlocks, ever. It does not enhance your power, as previously thought by the ancients, but merely detracts from it.