Men Who Have Google Alerts On Their Name.

While we are all aware that the “democratization” of fame has been a blessing for some (e.g. Tao Lin), for most of the rest of us, it has come with the curse of being able to instantly pinpoint the ego of the type of “man” who would be unable to resist turning on a Google alert for whenever his name comes up in an article from a semi on the radar website (blogs, of course, obviously don’t count).

The desire to know he’s being talked about is more of a source of ejaculation potential than analog banging ever could be (because how can a “man’s” ego possibly be fortified by his fucking skills these days?). “I didn’t see that article come up in my Google notifications,” he’ll admit unabashedly when someone mentions they saw something about him on the internet recently. It’s the kind of exchange that tends only to occur in New York, where everyone keeps track of everyone for the sake of knowing where their place is on the insignificant totem pole called “talentless microcosm.”

The “man” who needs to be notified of being “eloquently discussed” by some middling “publication” (non-ink laden with typos and grammatical errors, as it were) is clearly clinging to whatever bread crumbs of relevancy he can in order to stave off the unshakeable thought that he is just as irrelevant and meaningless as he knows himself to be deep down. But with the “frequency” of Google alerts, he can help perpetuate the fallacy of self-importance that his Asian girlfriend can only do so much to support as one person. It is the foremost tool of modern “fame” that has been perhaps one of the greatest contributors to the deterioration in quality of art. Because if you’re only in it to see how many times your name crops up in some crevice of the internet, how can you possibly create something enduring? What’s more, high-level fame (the Madonna tier) does not require one to be notified of their “many” achievements if there are enough to lose track of.

 

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Men Who Constantly Need to Be Brought Back Down to Earth (Let Them Fly Into the Abyss).

When one refers to the need for a “man” to be brought back down to earth, it usually means he’s either 1) delusional in his aspirations or 2) is utterly and obliviously vain and arrogant (Gaston-level in Beauty and the Beast). In rare and extremely unfortunate cases, he is both. In these instances, you’ve really only got yourself to blame for somehow getting wrangled into being his kite wielder. The person responsible for directing him when he inevitably gets led astray.

While you might not be able to help it–this need you have to attempt directing a “man” who can’t be “hemmed in”–it’s really best for all involved if you simply let go of the string that holds the kite tethering him to the earth. If he wants to fly like a bird, there’s more than likely no stopping his ass from doing so. Let him indulge in his fantasies of touching the sky, of reaching a place in the sun free of responsibilities and obligations to, of all things, a woman. In the end, he’ll deflate to the ground as readily as his “erection.”

Men With Too Much Self-Love.

Maybe Narcissus is responsible for the origins of too much self-love in “men.” And maybe Hemingway and Picasso perfected the art. Whatever the case, the practice of vainglory has been allowed to triumph for far too long, primarily due to “men” being permitted to make gross amounts of money that have merely fortified their ego/ability to go through people–and usually via means of not even creating anything real (e.g. coding).

Too much love

Too much love

However, there is an even worse breed of “man:” the kind who does nothing but still seems to genuinely believe he is a gift to women–nay, the universe. Often, he lives on family money and tells people he’s an artist so that his existence is more socially acceptable. He feels his mere presence in your midst should be enough to explain his greatness, how much he deserves to be revered. Each night, he tries to cozy up with his non-existent dick, delusional enough to believe it is actually a behemoth when, in fact, it is not there. Still, he loves himself with the ferocity of a heroin addict for the feel of the needle. But even needles have more girth than the phantom dick of the Narcissuses of the world.