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.
“Women” do tend to say a lot of dumb shit, let’s be honest. Even despite the fact that they do so want to topple the patriarchy, it’s a bit difficult to achieve when you’re spouting heinous catchphrases tailor-made for hashtagging and captioning an Instagram post (since Facebook is evermore cancelled due to plummeting stock value, as if that’s going to stop the over twenty-five set from using a platform that has been indoctrinated into their daily lives for so long). To be sure, the most ironic thing about saying “living my best life” when referring to an image of an avocado toast or some such other basique fare is that the “woman” in question is very clearly living a waking nightmare.
Harkening back to that old cliche, “Are you living or just existing?,” the “living my best life” non-aphorism is contrarian to what it says right in the text: “living.” But no, it’s “existing in my mediocre life” that ought to be the phrase. These are the “women” who are so convinced that to spend money on bullshit (usually pertaining to food at overpriced New York restaurants) is to connote true happiness because it can be flaunted in a way that genuine, often intangible happiness cannot. Then, of course, there are the outdoor, nature-oriented, “activity” posts deemed worthy of the “living my best life” assignation. But, like everything else, the more you insist something is happening the less likely it probably is to be true. Because if you zoom in on the avocado spread closely enough, you can just make out the trace of a dead fly’s wing.
In any case, the only way for a “woman” to truly live her best life, evidently, is to proudly declare she’s been lobotomized by wielding this phrase so unabashedly.
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’ve all been that “woman” at one point or another, when we’ve fallen prey to “loving” an “artist.” Because who isn’t, in the naïveté of their youth, attracted to the “romantic” lifestyle of staying up late drinking Pernod, sleeping in till noon and not really “having it figured out,” save for being certain that something’s just gotta happen with his art. Even if he doesn’t exactly know how that’s going to provide for a financial plan in the interim. Which is also why his “girl”friend might find herself paying for things more than occasionally once he starts to feel comfortable, a trajectory from obsequious that happens real quick. Still, one of many “female” superpowers is an ability to ignore just how bad things are, particularly when a self-imposed cloud of love and therefore muddled judgment is at play.
That’s why, upon rising from the sometimes shared bed (for he would never actually let you live with him, disrupting his sacred “artist’s space”) in your post-coital glow–despite the fact that only a faint fluttering of an orgasm occurred–you will be met with a new manifestation of his art and be “blown away.” Which is to say, at least you’re getting blown in some way by this little asshole. Because, later on, when you’ve come out of what you now realize was the miasma of emotions, you can see objectively again, and come to find that, well, his art wasn’t very good. And, with hindsight, you comprehend that “passable” or “adequate” art isn’t really art at all. What is an art, however, is the “male” skill for duping, and moving on to the next mark who can be convinced of worshipping him as a god.
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?