There’s perhaps no worse breed of “man” than the music snob–the one who will either only listen to Bach like the skull fucker he is or only go to or participate in DIY shows like an elitist motherfucker pretending to be a “man” of the people. There is no in-between with “men” when it comes to music. They’re either “classicist”-loving pretension-wads or angst-ridden alt rock/indie adoring fuckboys. And if they do love or even vaguely appreciate pop music, you’re probably fucked anyway because it generally signals a predilection for their love of other “men” in addition.
Even so, just because a “man” might cringe when he hears the opening, dated notes to “…Baby One More Time” doesn’t mean he ought to begrudge you one of your few simple pleasures in life, often, these days involving the making of a video of some variety to go along with your lip syncing. And anyway, is it a crime if your body responds to the frothy melodies of a pop star like Ariana Grande or the so-called vacuous lyrics of women so frequently describing being abandoned and done wrong in the most upbeat way they can? (e.g. “Sorry” by Beyonce). How else are they (and the women they appeal to) supposed to cope with the constant disappointments and fuckery if not shaking it off with the type of ditty that laments, “You just keep on pushing my love over the borderline” while also allowing you to move your arse on the dance floor? So no, do not begrudge a lady her devotion to pop music. She doesn’t hold it against you when you splooge over Radiohead, after all.
Even a “man” as demented and business douchey as Ted Turner somehow saw fit to co-create the 90s cartoon that taught you to love Gaia, Captain Planet and the Planeteers. Affectionately shortened to Captain Planet. The planeteers are summoned by Mother Earth herself after she feels some fuckwad named Hoggish Greedly–clearly a portent of Donald Trump–drilling into her. To protect herself, Earth sends five rings to youths across the globe, each one with the power to control some element of nature. Using her Planet Vision to inform the planeteers where the most destructive Eco-Villains are wreaking their havoc, the quintet manages to handle most of the environmentally unfriendly assholes on their own. But, occasionally, when the situation gets very dire, they need Captain Planet to swoop in and take on the nefarious knave of the moment ruining the earth.
Clearly, we need Captain Planet to do just that more than ever, but he’s probably slumped over at a bar made entirely out of repurposed wood dealing with the crushing blow of the Paris Agreement news. So he’s out for help. The only other option is to tie Trumpio up with hemp bindings and sit him in a chair–Alex in A Clockwork Orange-style–and make him watch nonstop back to back episodes of the show until he comes out wearing a loose, shapeless potato sack and admits he’s been Hoggish Greedly all along, who now just wants to make Gaia a sustainable place for us all to live.
For whatever reason, “men” can clam up at any arbitrary time without warning. Just shut down, close up shop and disappear from your life faster than they entered it–and you. There’s no telling why they feel it’s best and appropriate to simply cut off all communication. Maybe some aspect of it comes from an empathetic place. Or maybe, rather, a place of fear–fear of having to deal with what he interprets as a woman’s river of emotional shit. Because the only thing a “man” hates more than leaving his mother’s womb is dealing with emotions. Particularly when all he wants now is a new orifice with which to interact with. I’m talking, of course, about the opening that is made when he forms his hand into a slight fist to masturbate.
But where does that leave the woman who needs to know what went wrong? The exact moment when he started to formulate the exit strategy. Was it all her, or is something about her merely a reflection of his own lost soul, refracted momentarily in the folds of her vag until he smoothes everything out for himself? It would just be really fucking amazing to know, to hear something. To not have the title of the crucial Judy Blume novel Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret. apply to your existential crisis in relationships as well. With a title instead revamped to: Are You There Fuckhead? It’s Me, The Girl You Ghosted. So try to bear in mind that your silence, while presumed to be pacifistic, is actually violence–and that a few kind words geared toward a phase out might just preserve a little longer someone you boned’s self-esteem.