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?
Though, long ago, the snuggie was bad enough in terms of enduring what was to be seen/interpreted of a “woman,” it didn’t evolve into its most complete grotesque proportions until the advent of the mermaid blanket, most specifically peddled by a company called Blankie Tails (try not to let your gag reflex kick in over that name), created by, um, “Chief Mermaid Enthusiast,” Hattie Peze, back in 2015. Incidentally, the company that brought you the snuggie–Allstar Marketing Group–would also attempt to take credit for innovating what they rebranded as the “mermaid snuggie.” The sight of this frenzied competition over how best to help a “woman” tap into her most profound inner douchebag was harrowing, to say the least–especially for those perched on the sidelines in normal blankets. And, worst of all, it has continued to force us all to watch a grown “female” make her best attempt at returning to the womb the way a “man” does every day simply by existing.
It doesn’t help matters that the mermaid trend is one that seems to be perpetually in our midst, along with its compatriot, the unicorn, which is anything but rare (the way a unicorn ought to be) these days with its pervasiveness on phone cases, drinks and the cups they come in, clothes, accessories and anything else a company can print on. It’s almost as though these two entities, especially when combined, are the prerequisite for type of “woman” who is not only a foul representation of the gender, but also the exact type of “woman” most likely to have a boyfriend. Because to be generic in one’s “free-spiritedness” and “fun-lovingness” is to attract the last of the “straight” “males” still seeking a “girl” that at least doesn’t overly rock the boat with her verbosity in a post-#MeToo epoch. And how else is a “man” going to justify being close enough to a mermaid blanket to potentially get in one himself? Maybe even finagling his “girl”friend to buy him a matching one for potential Instagram photoshoots touting the new zenith of their coupledom?
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.”