Women Who Roll Up to Their Tinder Date With Friends.

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.

Women Who Wear Bleeding Cups.

“I bleed for you,” most “women” are internally saying to the fuckboys they covet on a daily basis. And it’s true in the literal sense as well. Never truer, in fact, thanks to the rather disgusting invention of bleeding cups. Some of the tiptoers (so everyone) around direct language prefer to use the more palatable phrase–if you can call it that–“menstrual cup.” But no, it’s ultimately a bleeding cup. It’s filled with fucking blood that you’ve freely chosen to cart around with you as though it’s a separate entity, a friend. Pads were already foul enough in this regard, but bleeding cups are pads on steroids, allowing a “woman” to chill with her own filth as though nothing bizarre or slightly cultish is happening. Because, yeah, cults, rituals, blood sacrifices, etc.

Promoted as being more “practical” and “eco-friendly” than tampons and pads, the bleeding cup has found a lot of favor with the “ethereal woman.” You know, the sistren that goes to yoga, eats granola, wears natural deodorant and composts. There’s nothing wrong with these activities, one supposes, except that, well, what is she really getting out of wearing the bleeding cup, ultimately? Missing A Clit’s guess is the feeling of wearing a strap-on, ergo sporting the closest thing she will ever have to a dick. Her desire to feel powerful in this fashion is what the bleeding cup provides in a subversive, undercutting way. But of course she’ll tell you she’s only trying to be environmentally conscious–all the while subconsciously wishing for a penis, even if it is one that amounts to a chode.