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?
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.