It’s never been a combination that can compute for “men”: a woman that’s intelligent and attractive. The dichotomy, to them, is stronger than a dog that can walk on its hind legs. A woman with tits and brains means that one of those characteristics will always be downgraded in a “man’s” eyes–and that characteristic is, more often than not, her “sharp cookie” persona. She can know a few things that might impress a “man,” sure (like the appropriate lines from Ulysses), but it will never be enough, as far as he’s concerned, to be an equitable match for his own so-called intellect. She is, at her core, only suitable for arm candy, and must be “educated” on a near constant basis about those things that she knows nothing of (“Tell me the part about Kenny G again,” comes to mind).
While a little bit of Eliza Doolittle/Professor Higgins role playing can be kinky now and again, the problem with this dynamic is that, in the end, he fundamentally only wants her to be visually pleasing over mentally stimulating, and will therefore come to resent her in the long run as she continues to flourish–or rather, resent her in the short run, when you gauge just how quickly a “man’s” opinion of the one he “loves” can devolve. Soon, he begins to bear a grudge toward her for being too deft of a caramel inside that smooth, eye-catching chocolate shell. This, to him, makes her an incongruity. She is someone to be embarrassed of, undercuttingly mocked and, eventually, used for some form of artistic fodder. Yes, it’s exactly what happened to Marilyn Monroe with Arthur Miller. And, like Marilyn Monroe, all you’ll end up for your trouble of attempting to impress a “genius” of a “man” with your never-adequate-enough intelligence is an intensified addiction to drugs as a replacement for the lack of love you’re getting return. Thus, he has technically succeeded in making you dumber than he (is that grammatically correct enough for you?) for choosing to stick around and letting your mind be whittled away by the abuse of his ridicule.
As a youth, I always wanted to be a lounge singer in Las Vegas. I thought there was something so endlessly glamorous about it. Now that I know what I know about the women who tend to gravitate toward this profession, it rather makes a lot of sense that my child self would intuit the forthcoming tragedy of my life. Because, obviously, the lounge singers of this world–whether relegated to Las Vegas or not–are all plagued by the same epidemic: melancholy.
And where does this melancholy stem from? Why, being jilted and/or rejected by a “man” they presumed was to be their great love, naturally. After their heart has been put through the meat slicer, however, they quickly see that there is nothing “great” about love. It should be avoided like the plague, dodged like a bullet at a GOP baseball game. But if you learn this the hard way, there’s nothing for you to do to recover except become a lounge singer. It really is the sole means by which to cope with what’s happened to you, to mourn the part of yourself that’s summarily been extracted by the person who played you like a harpsichord. You know, that part that once possessed a plucky hopefulness, that might’ve had a twinkle in its eye if it could be personified. But like Sugar Kane in Some Like It Hot says, that aspect of yourself is “through with love.” It will never fall again. Unless it’s on a stage as a result of drunkenness while walking to the microphone.
There are many “men” who still believe that a woman is reliant on them for money, clothes, jewelry, food and other trappings of the good life. This inaccurate perception seems somewhat comical when you consider that most Williamsburg “men” either work from home or have supplemental income from a trust fund.
Speak on it, Joan
Especially bad at emotional support, some “men” are even deranged enough to think that they’re capable of taking care of a woman when they can barely take care of themselves (see: wardrobe choices). But the truth is, women have always been self-sufficient. The eras of sitting at home and knitting/baking bread were nice while they lasted, but otherwise, if you haven’t got a dick to offer (which we’ve already established you don’t), you haven’t got much at all to con a woman into thinking she needs you.
Many men are capable of a requisite amount of delusion when it comes to penis size. Some like to say, “It’s not the size, it’s what it can do.” This is the first sign that they’re packing something that’s probably likenable to a stuffed olive (especially if they’re claiming to be Italian) in terms of girth.
I’m guessing not too highly if you’re living in the country of Williamsburg
And by the way, a small penis cannot do all the things a larger penis can. Just ask Samantha from Sex and the City. Granted, if you’re a “nice guy” who knows how to treat a person with a vag (which you undeniably don’t because you’ve chosen to live in Williamsburg and therefore think you’re superior to everyone), then you may have a chance of eking by with a small peen…but don’t count on it.
It does give one a distinct sort of pleasure to know that while women usually get, to borrow a phrase from Marilyn Monroe in Some Like It Hot, the fuzzy end of the lollipop in terms of improving our sense of self-worth through body modification, men with a tiny dick–a worse fate than utter dicklessness–are essentially powerless to change their fate. The world of penis enlargement isn’t half as advanced as breast enlargement, after all.