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.
One supposes considering the unjust ratio the world has chosen to present “women” with, that when a “female” does manage to finagle a “man” for a brief period a time, it’s only natural that she should, in her joyousness over not being just another undesirable or material deemed fit solely for a one-night stand, get a little bit overly showcase-y with the photos–miraculously sanctioned by the “man” that considers himself in a relationship. Which is fine, to a certain degree. That is, until she starts to lose sight of the fact that there’s even a human being behind the visage of her lover with thoughts (albeit minimal) and feelings (also minimal) that make him more than a mere pawn in her social media strategy to be seen as “utterly in love” and, as a result, sought after. For there’s nothing more fetching than a “girl” who is made more unattainable by the fact that she’s “spoken for.”
And to play up that point, the type of “girl” who just loves displaying her “ardency” for her boyfriend will never limit herself in just how “candid” these evidences of her so-called “mad love” is. But it’s not about love for another, so much as love for herself, and wanting to spread it all over town a.k.a. the internet. So while Romeo and Juliet (the persistent example of what some fools still think is the very pinnacle of avidity and devotion) were determined to keep their love a secret at any cost–even death–the new basique sort of “woman” wants to tout it from the mountaintop of her boudoir no matter how little she seems to realize that the more “sincere” she wants her photographic documentation to seem, the more disingenuous it comes across. And yeah, “men” aren’t good for much except being props, but still. A “woman” is supposed to be known for treating people like human beings, even if they do have something resembling a penis.
Nowadays, if a “woman” manages to land the last of the straight “male” Mohicans, she knows all too well that surrendering more power than ever is merely par for the course of sustaining a marriage that consists of such a precious gem: a “man” who will actually fuck you and pay for things. Accordingly, she must do what she has to in order to keep him interested or at least from making good on that prenup agreement. So she takes a page from Mrs. George (Amy Poehler) in Mean Girls and insists, “I’m not like a regular wife, I’m a cool wife.”
This means openness to open relationships while also maintaining the expected 1950s duties of cooking, dishwashing and laundry (and all while running a successful online store!). She might grow to despise these enslaving emblems of femininity just as Betty Friedan did, but she will ignore that, fastening on a smile as she sips from a daiquiri for fortification, returning to the living or dining room where her husband has put his hand up another girl’s skirt or exchanges a conspiratorial look with one of his “male” friends when making reference to something salacious. But she will not scold him, neither in mixed company nor in private. She’s cool. Run me down, mow me over, make a fool out of me, gaslight me–that is the emotional consent a “woman” must give to keep her marriage strong and long-lasting. As strong and long-lasting as the non-stick cookware set she just bought in the same click as a $1,500 top from Net-A-Porter. She is the best of both women, commingling twentieth and twenty-first century elements to ensure that she remains fierce competition for the impending sex robots.
There is nothing coquettish about a “girl” who twirls her hair so much as utterly murder-inducing. Whether she “realizes” it or not (but of course she does, for all “women” are extremely aware of what they’re doing behind the innocente act), this constant and abrasive movement is highly annoying. Even to the “man” she’s possibly doing it for. Not only does he have to bear witness to it, but so, too, does every woman around her who can’t evade seeing it out of the corner of her eye because of just how bombastic the motion is.
And God or whoever help you if you’re seated right next to her while she’s doing it, for who knows what subtle flecks of parasitic skin shavings or dandruff might land upon you without your knowledge. Plus, you’re going to have to do your best not to gag all over her scalp as a result of seeing her prostrate herself in this archaic and highly lacking in original way to a “man” who would just as soon bang her regardless of her attempt at “subtle” flirtation. And for those “women” who claim that hair twirling/playing is just a subconscious habit, get a fucking hypnotherapist and speak to your subconscious about that on all our behalfs. Because no one wants your gross ass hair so invasively in their lives. Even Rapunzel probably shaved her head once the mane no longer served her purpose of escape and she went batshit crazy after the prince inevitably abandoned her because the mood struck him.
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?