For the most part, the pattern of “male”-female relationships is as follows: “male” shows interest in female, female acts aloof, then gives in and ends up becoming way more into it than the “male” expected, “male” starts accusing her of acting crazy even though he made her this way.
As a “man’s” interest wanes due to the at first subtle signs of urgency expressed by a woman fearing his inevitable flight, she only becomes more frantic, more seemingly “insane.” The greater his lack of attachment, the greater her sense of need for him to acknowledge her. This tends to lead to irrational actions she would never otherwise perform (e.g. stalking him in physical and virtual ways, saying out loud that she wants to get married, etc.) were it not for his total absence of emotion. Thus, it would be best for all involved if a “man” didn’t try to pursue a woman outside of the one-night stand bar scene if he doesn’t expect her to become genuinely affectionate toward him. Because then that affection can quickly turn to that of Elmyra’s from Tiny Toons.
There are many who think that all traces of “old” Williamsburg have vanished. But there is, alas, still one alcoholically-oriented port in the storm: Turkey’s Nest on N. 12th and Bedford. Unless, of course, the bar’s owner duped you into believing that the sign outside the door while they were revamping the exterior was real.
The “joke” sign
While it’s all well and good to maintenance a sign–especially when you’re trying to keep up with the bouge quality of Williamsburg–it’s a horrible thing to trick loyal drunks into believing that their prized margarita-filled Styrofoam cups could become as much of a thing of the past as a Lena Dunham-free Greenpoint.
One understands that a large part of living in Williamsburg consists of wanting to see and be seen. And yet, this hard-to-avoid reality still doesn’t really excuse a “man’s” inexplicable desire to spend his easily earned money on roast chicken from a self-declared “casual” restaurant.
The “casual” look of Llama Inn
For the price of $42, one could probably procure a fantastic blow job, or even a pair of fairly long-lasting shoes. Somehow, spending this rather exorbitant sum on chicken just doesn’t seem logical–in fact, it’s safe to say that no matter how much money a “man” makes, there is something commit to mental institution-worthy about dropping $42 on chicken. Popeyes, undoubtedly, probably makes a more satisfying chicken than the kind offered at Llama Inn (especially since there’s no better tasting food than the kind you eat whilst wasted). And yet, half the joy for Williamsburg “men” in going out is proving how much they’ve got in their wallet. It is not about procuring true pleasure, but rather true pain–the latter of which can’t be soothed by a few fried potatoes on the side.
Now that the phenomenon of “man”spreading has died down, it’s time to focus on a new subway annoyance prevalent on the L train. While it’s quite encouraging to see “men” read, even when it’s something from the canon of James Patterson, the allure they possess in presenting themselves as literate is automatically nullified when they sit in a manner resembling the positioning of someone cozying up on an easy chair next to a fireplace.
Not even reading, therefore less attractive
What’s worse is that they seem to be so engrossed in their banal title (or, if they’re on their phone, probably some sort of game), that they can’t even pick up on the enraged vibes of those around them lusting after the spare seat they’ve taken up with their overpriced shoes from DNA Footwear. But then, when one can’t even feel his dick, it’s no wonder he can’t feel anyone else’s ire either.
Going home with a “man” from Williamsburg used to be a much bigger gamble back in the pre-2008 era. You never knew what kind of lodging situation he was going to have: would he share a room with another female roommate? Would he be crashing on someone’s couch? Or would he just try to fuck you in the bathroom so as to avoid showing you his embarrassing accommodations at all costs? With the infiltration of wealth into the neighborhood, however, letting a rando take you back to his apartment became more enjoyable than the sex itself as it usually meant getting to hang out in a posh condo for eightish hours.
The accommodations of a converted dumpster
But now, Williamsburg is seeing a regression with a recent ad on Craig’s List offering a $1,200 a month converted dumpster apartment for rent. Any “man” willing to take someone up on this absurd excuse for lodging in an area where people can afford to spend $1,200 on a boutique garment clearly has no business even trying to live there. He’s better off taking his minimal funds and using them for a space off the Wilson L rather than subjecting himself to the humiliation of the girl’s horror upon finding out that yeah, he lives in Williamsburg, but he lives in a fucking dumpster.
The term “fuckboy” has come to mean a lot of different things to a lot of different women (and “men”). Perhaps that’s why we should get back to basics when it comes to the true definition of this word. You can’t call a “man” a fuckboy merely for being an asshole, because a fuckboy is so much more than that. He feeds off female attention in a way that firmly indicates he got way too much from his mother as a child.
What we all need, even the fuckboys themselves
Apart from constantly ensuring he looks his best (you know, the way a peacock might), the standard fuckboy concerns himself with very few other things. When dissecting the composition of a fuckboy, it can be broken down into eight major categories/conversation topics: “You up?,” Snapchat screenshots, “Just saw this,” “Netflix and chill,” “I don’t like labels,” Diplo, “Pics?” and “All my exes are crazy.” If you find yourself favoring any of these phrases and/or topics too heavily and you live in Williamsburg, congratulations, you’re a fuckboy.