Maybe Narcissus is responsible for the origins of too much self-love in “men.” And maybe Hemingway and Picasso perfected the art. Whatever the case, the practice of vainglory has been allowed to triumph for far too long, primarily due to “men” being permitted to make gross amounts of money that have merely fortified their ego/ability to go through people–and usually via means of not even creating anything real (e.g. coding).
However, there is an even worse breed of “man:” the kind who does nothing but still seems to genuinely believe he is a gift to women–nay, the universe. Often, he lives on family money and tells people he’s an artist so that his existence is more socially acceptable. He feels his mere presence in your midst should be enough to explain his greatness, how much he deserves to be revered. Each night, he tries to cozy up with his non-existent dick, delusional enough to believe it is actually a behemoth when, in fact, it is not there. Still, he loves himself with the ferocity of a heroin addict for the feel of the needle. But even needles have more girth than the phantom dick of the Narcissuses of the world.