Men Who Lead You to Sexually Identify As Crying.

Women are relatively forgiving and resilient beings. Just as a pussy can take a pounding, so, too, can a woman’s psyche. And yet, there are still only so many times a female can endure the suffering inflicted upon her by “men” that would prefer to “be free” or “explore other options” in his arsenal of potential fucks masquerading as semi-permanent girlfriends.

It’s true that some women take an emotional beating more frequently than others–something in one person’s chemistry perhaps making her more throw awayable than another. Or maybe some women simply come across as aloof and detached enough to withstand the pummeling of being used, abused and subsequently ghosted. Who knows, really? It could merely be like Carrie Bradshaw said: that some women are Katie girls (as in Barbra Streisand from The Way We Were) and some women are simple girls. And the simple girls are the ones who can maintain a hetero level of sexuality while the Katie girls are inevitably led to sexually identify primarily as crying. Tissues are the condoms of the teardropsexuals. And on the plus side, cotton feels so much better on the skin than latex.

Men Who Prefer Basiques to Complicatos.

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?