“Men” have a lot of “justifications” for being non-empathetic shitheads. Especially when it comes to backing out of relationships with the sort of sleight of hand usually reserved for David Copperfield. “Oh, you know it’s just, I can’t be what you want me to be right now” or “I don’t have my shit together enough to be worthy of you” is the usual stock excuse for a “man’s” hands subtly squeezing out of the shackles that (he thinks) bind.
After a “man” breaks free from a woman with enough excuses he feels are cushioning and viable
But, by this logic, no “man” is ever really “right” for a woman–at least not until he’s maybe around seventy, seventy-five years old and can finally stop searching around out there for something that doesn’t exist. This is why, as usual, Anna Nicole Smith was always ahead of the curve.
If you haven’t heard about Bromojis, maybe you have a dick. The latest emoji app to clutter the iPhone universe is not only telling of the alarming number of bros there are in the world (and Williamsburg area), but also just how easy it is for “men” to capitalize on a bro’s willingness to waste money.
Pertinent to the bro
Invented by four Williamsburg denizens, in fact, it’s only fitting that the quartet would see directly into the mind of a bro by incorporating phrases like, “Bro, what’s ur sister’s number?” and a simple “Blow me.” To be sure, the app signals the tangible manifestation of a reversion to caveman speak. God or whoever help us all. The language of “men” continues to fulfill an Orwellian prophecy.
It’s interesting that so many women concern themselves with their physical appearance to “men,” when, in truth,” the male mind is so rarely able to discern the specifics of what a dame actually looks like. Sure, they can detect her general shape and, if it’s pleasant (i.e. curves that aren’t too curvy, tits that aren’t too small), his “dick” will perk up. But beyond these crude sketchings, it doesn’t much matter what she looks like.
There’s a reason Picasso painted women this way
This is often why when a woman makes either a subtle or dramatic change, a “man’s” reaction tends to possess the extremes of 1) not noticing or 2) being so “duped” by the different look that he hardly recognizes her at all. For you see, to a “man,” a shape is a shape. But the beauty and fashion industry really don’t want you to know this.
Here is the thing about dream girls: they don’t usually (necessarily) live up to a “man’s” criteria for ideal attractiveness. More often than not, in fact, the dream girl ends up simply being a woman who will put up with his shit and share an above average amount of interests with him (or at least, she’ll pretend to–for a time).
The prototype for what truly constitutes a dream girl, rather than, say, a Playboy pinup
But then, when she proves too much to seem “made for him,” the “man” in question will grow bored. Because, ultimately, “men” seek excitement in the form of the unknown, a constant shift in what’s to be expected–it helps convince them that mortality isn’t imminent (what’s more distracting than variety, inconstancy?), and that a woman can never know him so intimately so as to be able to use it against him when it suits her. But, ultimately, to throw over a woman willing to not only withstand your foibles, but even find them endearing is to say: “I not only have no dick, I also have no conscience.”
There are a number of words in the English language that conjure some rather grotesque imagery. Ones that I shan’t get into as the one we’re about to discuss is foul enough. That word, ladies and “men” pretending to have dicks, is “wipe.” As you probably already know, the popularity of wipes has not only proven that more adults want to regress, but also that the sewer system is incapable of handling every asshole’s shit.
It’s a wonder “men” still don’t need their mothers to wipe their arses
“Men” who feel compelled to use wipes are not only dainty, and therefore vile, but also, simply put, trying to revert back to their infancy–a time when their mothers wiped their ass and they didn’t have to worry about much of anything, least of all impressing a woman that didn’t birth them. And so, you might say that “men” seeking a constant supply of wipes are also, in turn, trying to wipe away their “man”hood altogether.
It isn’t just a certain Republican presidential nominee that has revived an interest in “men’s” activism. It’s that, for a particular sect of faux penis possessors, women have gone too far (see: Beyoncé), provoking a not so understated backlash that has left, in its wake, an absurd desire for women to, in essence, “be quiet” and stop looking and being so goddamn superior.
Some “rights” “men’s” activists are keen on
The steady build of “men’s” activism, which developed in the 1970s out of the fear that the feminist movement of the 60s was getting, well, out of hand–which just means a woman preferred to use her hand for other things besides cooking and manual stimulation of a non-existent dick–has only increased over time as a response to “men’s” natural panic at no longer being subjectively viewed as the “better,” more powerful sex. But the incongruity–the sheer oxymoron–of the movement and term is circumcised by one simple fact: women have never subjugated “men.” Instead, they have let them believe, all this time, that they have even a modicum of control, letting them be free–even with their derogatory “activism.” A feminist, on the flip side, is merely an advocate of equality, not oppression. Though, in the current epoch, it feels as though feminism’s definition is becoming dangerously muddled with misandry’s. Which, if “men’s” activists aren’t careful, will win out in the end.
“Men” in general have very little discernment when it comes to sexual comportment. Between routine rapings and unwanted “affection” on the subway, it’s all women can do in this town to keep their bodies and vaginas free of taint.
When it comes to dickless food trends, no area of Brooklyn is more savvy than Williamsburg. From rainbow bagels to gold donuts, there seems to be no shortage of absurdly priced and aesthetic’d gastronomical creations. The latest, however, takes the cake–or rather, yet again, the donut.
$150 a pop
To cushion the blow of this bougie culinary endeavor, the “man” responsible for the donuts’ creation is saying that they will be offered for a limited-time only, and that all proceeds from the sale of these aluminum foil-looking concoctions will go to the American Cancer Society–a crafty plan for making it impossible for “men” to resist the temptation. But eat at your own risk, your dick shrivels an eighth of an inch every time you spend exorbitant sums of money on food that should cost a dollar.
I don’t know how Europeans do it. Maybe they’re more evolved than Americans, or simply more accustomed to fucked up relationship events happening to them. Whatever the case, they’re the ones who always seem to be touting the greatness of being friends with your ex. And because Brooklyn folk love to emulate Europe in order to live up to some sort of false notion of sophistication that New York is supposed to have (being the U.S.’ only redeeming city and all), they end up adhering to this nouveau social norm.
But the “man” who doesn’t see the problematic nature with being friends with his former lover/girlfriend/main bitch is either delusional, dickless or a combination of the two. In becoming friends with your ex, you’re essentially saying, “I don’t want to deal with all of you. All of your flaws, your psychological damages, you physical damages or your family.” They want the part-time responsibility of being around you because it’s easier. Moreover, a friendship with the ex is bound to get uncomfortable when future significant others arise. Thus, Missing A Dick says that the “European way” is a terrible approach for one’s emotional well-being. Keep it American and pretend that nothing ever happened.
“I don’t like cities, but I like New York.” So sums up Madonna on the aptly titled song, “I Love New York.” And yet, there are so many “men” who can’t seem to fathom a woman’s love of this objectively cruel city. Unless, of course, they are able to live within the cushion of Williamsburg, where a different New York resides.
Your ire is dickless
Those who live in a less cushioned version of the city, however, will tend to despise the town a bit more frequently. Whether this is because they’re forced to work in a more common “man” sort of way or because they can’t afford a lifestyle that they fancy themselves accustomed to depends on the nature of the “man.” Though, usually, it’s because he’s too fucking dainty to deal with it. Maybe this is the reason the ratio of women to men in New York is something out of a sci-fi novel. Because he’ll never understand your need to be a City Grrrl.