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.
Fact one: you will never, no matter how hard you try, achieve closure. It’s almost more impossible to achieve than orgasm. It cannot happen, most markedly because you’re working with someone who’s internally dead on the other side. It’s not “men’s” fault, one supposes, that they can turn on and off like a light switch in such a way as to make you question how you, too, can transcend into such automaton status. What is “women’s” fault, however is their unquenchable desire to find closure.
Fact two: there’s a reason that one of the definitions of closure is: “a sense of resolution or conclusion at the end of an artistic work.” Note, this can only happen in a work of fiction, not real life. I mean, that’s why we’re all so fucked up, right? Going by the logic of works of art based on the three-act structure has made us believe that life should go in the according same way. “Women,” in particular, are sensitive to this pre-established rule formed by the diet of cinema and Jane Austen novels.
It doesn’t help that the “female” friends these “women” seeking counsel from shower them with bullshit like, “Maybe you can just keep sleeping with him if you want to, but I worry you’re just too emotionally attached.” It’s been said by a certain overly inquisitive fictional columnist that to have sex like a “man” is one of the ultimate “female” coups. This is because when you never fully engage your feelings, you’re at least not going to come out of the end of the prolonged fucking period (sometimes called relationships) looking like anything other than a needy douchebag with binoculars whipped out to find closure. Stop looking, he ain’t gon’ give it to you, just like he barely gave you enough consistent good dick.
I just sat down by myself to relish the near beatificness of my sadness, where a “man” was also happening to sit as well, because people tend to commingle in public places in this sort of manner. We get to talking because he asks me what I’m reading, his British accent readily making itself apparent. I ask him if he’s Scottish, because I hate Scottish people right now (regardless of how much of this descent went into creating Lana Del Rey). He tells me no, he was born in London. It’s around this instant that his girlfriend swoops in like an eager vulture to ensure that another doesn’t peck at her bounty. Some “women” like to feign pleasantries with the other “woman” they’re threatened by–get on her good side so as to keep her enemy closer. This “woman” didn’t feel bothered to do so, instead treating me like a predator, or perhaps worse, vermin to be exterminated.
Please calm down, I do not want to fuck your boyfriend. Your boyfriend probably has crust resin on his dick and inside of his asshole. I almost admire you for putting up with him the way you seem to be able to, invariably so doing primarily because of the unfortunate ratio in life and in New York City. It’s very limiting in choice and can transform “women” into even worse versions of themselves when their claws instinctually come out to protect what they’ve worked so hard to secure (this can mean everything from not allowing herself to get fat to practicing head-giving skills on bananas–even though mangoes would be more appropriate for most of the chodes out there). But it’s important to remember, most “women” are probably just as unimpressed with your boyfriend as you are. No one wants to steal your slim chance at lasting monogamy. And if they do, rest assured it’s the “man” you’re dating who is giving out the signals of invitation for them to “attack.”