Ah, the last stab at youth called one’s twenties. Sure, it’s still a period in a “girl’s” life when she can get away with being a fuck-up and engaging in the puerile behaviors that were once more endearing when it was still acceptable for her to suck on lollipops and wear Mary Janes with ankle socks. But what it is not is a time for “fresh discovery” of the likes of Janis Joplin (or Amy Winehouse, or The Smiths, or Joy Division for that matter). For some reason, however, the “woman” still grasping at some quaint notion of fatalism being endearing or some such bullshit seems to think that it’s a good idea to turn to Janis at a time in her life when being the tragic victim is a little much to take seriously (after all, twenty is the new sixty in this climate called despising the old guard).
Maybe it’s that Janis appeals to the maligned “woman” at any age, that her brand of being shat upon by a “man” transcends the generations. Yet, at a certain point, playing the part of the sad, chain-smoking alcoholic in order to better appreciate the place the music of Janis was coming from can become more exhausting than liberating. Anyway, it’s certainly not helpful to one’s lungs or potbelly. Or even one’s musical growth, for Janis’ music tends to hit a wall pretty quickly, what with her solo artistic output consisting of I Got Dem Ol’ Kozmic Blues Again Mama! and Pearl.
In any event, the “woman” who has “just” realized how “groovy” Janis is in her twenties can’t really be deemed anything other than someone who could never take another piece of your heart now darlin’–’cause she didn’t have one to earlier apprehend that feelings, if we ever have them/choose to embrace them, can only come in the dawn–not the twilight–of our youth. Everything after is just a feigned attempt at emotionalism.
Being that “women” who voted for Trump actually exist, it can be no wonder that there still exist “women” who are petrified by even contemplating the notion of asking a bloke out, of being billed, as Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie would call it, “Debbie Desperate.” Speaking to the congenital fear that all “women” have of rejection (most especially when it is all largely based on their looks–though there are some deranged “men” who claim they are unaffected by the beauty and fashion industry and all they do to transform “women” on a daily basis), the self-branding as desperate for expressing one’s affections is yet another instance of patriarchal-instilled gender role fulfillment. “If I’m not the one being pursued, how can I know this is real?” is the question. The answer being, in the stuck in the twentieth century mindset, it’s not. What’s worse, this mentality is what has for so long driven “women” to settle for whatever pathetic entrails show up on their doorstep. If he’s into me, I guess I should just go with it being the surrender Dorothy rationale.
That a very dance exists–Sadie Hawkins (in addition to that Leap Year loophole that permits a “woman” to invoke the Irish tradition of being able to ask a “man” to marry her on 29th of February that occurs every four years)–to flip the switch in “allowing” a “woman” to feel confident enough to express a desire and fondness for the bloke of her choosing without the usual sentiment of humiliation or prostration is just one of many confirmations of the rigged in favor of the patriarchy game known as “trying to bang the same person on the regular.”
Yet when taking into account the overall enervation of the “male” species and what it once meant to be “male” (in the John Wayne spirit) having totally vanished into obsoletion, it is only natural that a “woman” should, at times, feel inclined to take matters into her own firm and ready to grip hands, to drive the spirit of the “relationship” she can feel faintly forming based on intuition and the number of times he “finds ways” to touch her and/or glance at her for far longer than is appropriate without immediately thinking he’s probably stalked her Instagram profile to the point of having gone back fifty-two weeks. So then, why shouldn’t it be that she helps him along in his overt inclinations that can still be picked up on in those moments when one or both parties is not welded to their phones?
The point is, “men” are dainty motherfuckers, and waiting around on them to “bequeath” their dick to you at their own leisure will leave one’s pussy hairs turning gray. Though some “men” with a fetish for Helen Mirren (a.k.a. a strange offshoot of the Oedipus complex) might be inclined to actually pursue you at this stage.
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.
There’s nothing “sexier” to the “depth-laden” “male” than a “woman” with “rocker chick” taste in music. Not only does it signify she’s not just another pumpkin spice-loving basique, but also that she might be just a little grittier in bed. A little more personal–raw–to quote Lindsay Lohan. Does he bother asking her any detail-oriented questions regarding her preferences in terms of said band’s songs, albums and live performances? No. Not so long as the shirt squeezes in just such a way so as to blind him to the very thought of engaging in conversation when he would much rather engage in something more enjoyable–for talking to “women” is so often an exercise in boredom for “men” seeking the bottom line.
The “girl” who dons this very specific genre of attire, of course, can’t be blamed for her dumb bitch tendencies. After all, it looked so “cute” on the mannequin at Forever 21, how could she resist wanting the same aesthetic for her own body? One that was not meant to be limited by the confines of actual knowledge of a band’s music. For if she was actually cognizant of what most of these bands that have been franchisable enough to sell at places like H&M have put out, she would realize that their music is total shit (yes, most especially Mötley Crüe). However, that she’s adopted the persona of a Penny Lane-wannabe–a groupie type that is therefore “down”–takes far more precedence over the fact that she’s, more often than not, parading some highly offensive taste in music (Guns ‘n’ Roses being the only exception to the rule–maybe AC/DC if we’re being extra lenient). Thus, she should not be surprised when she attracts, by her own “unwitting” design, some highly offensive (more so than usual) to the senses “men.” The sort of “man” who would play “Everybody Wants Some” during a fuck session (and, of course, she would have no idea it was Van Halen despite his initial draw to her being her Van Halen t-shirt). In the future, the nature of these bands will change–likely to Blink-182, The Darkness, that ilk–but the sort of “girl” who deigns to wear them never will.
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).
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.