The fixation on and preoccupation with “getting” a “man” to pay one the time of day she’s due is decidedly a 2016 phenomenon. Like everything else bad and ultimately fruitless from the year that took some of the only good “men” left in the world (granted, they were all of dubious sexuality), lusting or yearning after that false concept, “true love,” is a waste of a woman’s time. She’s better off focusing her energies on looking her best for her vibrator and making money to make herself look perpetually 28.
Pan or asexuality is the way in 2017. There is no in-between in America, after all–as you should well know from being unable to discuss politics with your parents. Or anyone outside of a naturally liberal major metropolis. Yes, to be sure, extremism applies more to sexuality now than it does or will to politics in the coming year.
To steal from a woman is bad enough. As if “men” haven’t plundered and pillaged enough from their gender counterparts. But apparently our minds and bodies aren’t satisfactory–they have to take our money and our dignity, too. And, for one woman, prostrating herself to a date she couldn’t even later describe–probably because he’s just one of many ciphers of Tinder–meant most likely permanently ruining for herself the inner sanctum known as the movie theater.
The egregious crime took place at a generally pleasant place (if you go during that part of the day just before kids get out of school to see tailored propaganda like Moana): Williamsburg Cinemas. The woman–like any hard-working and/or trust fund-resultantly wealthy person would–fell asleep at some point during what one can only assume was Passengers. Upon waking up, her passport (the most important thing for maintaining one’s sanity with the promise of an escape if necessary), wallet and the cash and cards therein were gone. The date in question, adding dicklessness to dicklessness, then brought the Louis V wallet back to a movie theater employee. Most likely empty. Just like his soul.
Women who wear workout clothes are not a unique breed. From Lululemon to Ivy Park, the brand she chooses to sport says a lot about the type of ho she might be. “Men” of a semi-straight variety have no discernment when it comes to at least deciphering a woman’s personality by brand. In fact, they’re delusional enough to believe that the female who wears such “high-fashion” workout wear has any actual intention of going to the gym for reasons beyond drinking water and sitting in the steam room.
No, the type of woman who can afford to invest in exercise garb is often the type of woman who can also afford the cosmetic surgery necessary to be seen in such “clothes.” You know, a tummy tuck here, rib removal there–maybe some butt implants for good measure. But even worse than this type of girl is the type of “man” susceptible to believing that she is genuinely the athletic, “nature-y” type. ‘Cause if a woman likes to move, then surely she likes to move in the outdoors, too, right? Na. The ability to give childbirth exempts any woman from feeling obligated to “be at one with nature.” They already make it anyway. But what they don’t make are disclaimers about how little they give a fuck about any calisthenics other than the kind required to get an orgasm.
Most “men” ought to seriously consider looking to Dick Tracy as their prototype for how not to be completely contemptible. And obviously, I’m referring to the incarnation depicted by Warren Beatty. Self-effacing and self-sacrificing, there is no “man” more attractive. And he even manages to make yellow work for his wardrobe. Which automatically leads to thoughts of a banana, which automatically leads to thoughts of a dick. You see, there’s a method to his sartorial madness.
And yet, for some foolish reason, there are no Dick Tracy types among us, merely those whose dick traces we must scrape and scrounge to find. Like dirt under our fingernails, however, there isn’t much we can really do with these traces. They’re briefly “fun” to look at in that anomalous, novelty sort of way, but, ultimately, prove of no use for anything other than the wastebasket.
There’s little need for “men.” It becomes more apparent as time wears on, though it’s always sort of been there, tacitly waiting to jump to the surface and threaten their existence. And yet, today is a day it must be admitted that women need them–at least the stodgy old fucks in the electoral college that might still give the U.S. a chance to not go full-on Nazi.
Yes, it is up to those “men” who are faithless electors to salvage any hope–especially and specifically female hope for what the future holds post-2016. Historically speaking, it is possible (though extremely rare) for faithless electors to make a difference, as they did in 1836, when a group of twenty-three Virginia electors abstained from voting for their appointed Democratic vice presidential candidate, Richard M. Johnson (it was because he had a slave mistress–like everyone else of the hypocritical time).
In truth, what we really need on our hands are a slew of Roger MacBrides, the first man who ever cast his vote for a woman (Tonie Nathan, for the vice presidential role) in lieu of sticking with his Republican candidates, Richard Nixon and Spiro Agnew.
Considering the extremely disturbing and indisputable information the electoral college has about Russia and its involvement in hacking the election to favor Trump, if these faithless electors don’t come through (and they probably won’t), well, it’s only going to solidify the already pervasive faithlessness in “men” women rightly have.
I suppose I understand that biting is a way for “men” to express their not so latent contempt and distaste for women under the guise of it being “hot,” but if he truly feels the need to add this to the sexual deviancy menu, can he at least not leave behind a string of visible bruises?
Maybe it’s a way to subconsciously mark territory, I don’t know. Or maybe “men” just have so little consideration for the delicacy of the female epidermis that they don’t care what happens to it–neither in the moment, nor after. The primary point, however, is: finesse your fucking bite. Don’t chow down on a girl’s skin like it’s a goddamn chicken leg because it ain’t. Treat it more like you’re nibbling on a very expensive piece of lingerie that you can’t cause a rip in or else the girl you’re biting will blow your fucking brains out.
For whatever reason, “men” have yet to fully fathom that most females are living with multiple personality disorder. They’re kind of like James McAvoy in Split, to be honest, and you never know when the murdering or the obsequious side is going to come out. Usually the former reveals itself after the female in question has been pushed to the brink of insanity by the “man” taking a piss on her willingness to plan her life around him or his decision to cast her out because she’s too much of a complicato.
Her mind is prone to split for other reasons, as well. You know, because a woman has to wear many hats for many “men,”–deferential to her boss, coquettish to her lover, “cunty” to the landlord who has yet to fix her radiator, etc. A “man,” however, is allowed to be perceived as having one, straightforward personality. Even when he constantly acts as inconstant as the moon (to borrow a phrase from Juliet), he is never dubbed with the moniker befitting a mental disorder. One supposes “men” simply aren’t interesting enough to be given such colorful classifications. Thus, just accept that women are suffering from multiple personality disorder if that’s what makes it easier for you to comprehend their “willfulness.”
“Men” don’t have much appreciation for, well, really anything. For the most part, it’s just expected that things will pan out for them. That it will all simply “fall into place” one way or the other. So when a woman makes it known that she’s willing to “plan her life around” him a.k.a. simply be willing to compromise in a way that he’s not, he not only doesn’t respect her efforts to accommodate, but looks upon them as something to be thrown away like trash. How dreadful, after all, when someone gives a shit about you.
And yet, later on in life when a “man” realizes that he ain’t gonna find no other pussy half as willing to acquiesce to this level of sacrifice, he’ll suddenly remember back to that that one girl who was quote unquote ready to plan her life around him, and he’ll think to himself, “Oh fuck,” and then he’ll go on masturbating to the Asian fetish porn he’s pulled up on his screen. For, you see, being aloof when you’re youthful is easy, but trying to own it as an aging and increasingly creepy “man” rarely works. Or results in anything other than crumbs, sexually speaking.
We all know the archetype: there are the simple girls and the Katie girls, per Carrie Bradshaw’s stark, The Way We Were-based assessment. The Katies (Barbra Streisand, in all her Marxist Jew glory) are the ones “men” deem too “interesting” a.k.a. complicato to deal with on a long-term basis. Sure, at first, there’s a “fun” novelty to them, both sexually and intellectually, but after a while, “men” ultimately can’t resist yearning to return to the no-frills nature of a basique.
While there’s nothing wrong with basiques, per se, they will never challenge a “man” in a way that will prompt him to grow or question himself in any real or meaningful form. However, they will be there to hold his hand/fake dick, encourage him in all of his bullshit artistic pursuits and essentially serve as a wordless sounding board that can be fucked whenever he isn’t feeling doughy or self-obsessed. In short, the complicatos are forced to go the Kristen Stewart/St. Vincent route, because, really, what other choice do we have apart from the hollow insertion of a dildo?
“Men” of New York are all too aware of just how much easier they have it than women with regard to “securing” a person for the night, week or month. This is one of the reasons they know that merely paying for their own rent makes them “a catch” by the standards of this belittling-to-women town. They don’t even need to live alone for the female sex to respond to them, it’s just a matter of that small, basic responsibility of paying for one’s shelter.
And yet, “men” shouldn’t get so ahead of themselves in thinking they’re a prize for this extremely rudimentary act that most of us must subject ourselves to in order to remain aspiring what-have-yous in this relationship abyss. In many ways, the “men” who pat themselves on the back for not relying on their parents to afford a place to live are the most dickless of all–self-lauding themselves for something they should have been doing the moment they turned eighteen. But alas, the alternate dimension called North Brooklyn encourages even the most moderate of baby steps into adulthood.