The disappointment one feels in “men” is seemingly boundless until you read your first Shakespeare play and realize that the imaginary “men” created by the lauded Brit are far more appealing than the types you encounter off the page and off the stage.
Even the most forgettable of characters, like Seyton in Macbeth, have more interesting things to say than your average male (in Seyton’s case, it’s: “The queen, my lord, is dead.”). They’re attentive, into–even obsessed with–you and, most notably, willing to die for you. Can any of this be said for the modern “man”? Fuck no.