This is about women in NYC. Not just any woman, I’m talking about ‘that girl’. I’m talking to you, the diluted American Princess. The kind that give women a bad name, and will probably never realize it.
I get it. A 13 to 1 women to [straight]men ratio in Manhattan probably fosters much of the stupidity, jealousy, and full-on penis driven frivolity I observe from women every day in this city. I see it on the subway, at the office, and most often at highly concentrated breeding grounds thinly veiled as happy hour ladies' nights and office mixers. From 96th street to Battery Park city, women are hiking their skirts, skipping lunch, scouring for Prada, Bloomingdales, sex and perfume, all for the elusive whiff of attention from a well-to-do financially stable blue-eyed boy, just looking to display his woman like freshly hunted wild game on his Mahogany wall. She'll stand there, too, with a frozen glazed-eye smile, so proud of her coveted status as trophy girlfriend. And it's not hard, either. The men have it easy, fishing in a barrel full of vapid, beautiful exotic fish. At least once a day I see a leggy brunette, sunken cheeks pinched with rosy stain, hair slicked back in a deliberate disheveled high-bun, designer bag in one hand, and a slimy, short arrogant fucking disgusting Wall Street financial investor in the other. You must be so proud. You got your man, and it only cost you your values, self-worth, bank account, ownership of your body, and mind. Congratulations. What's worse is that said self-loathing entitled shithead Mister is representative of the greater part of the single, straight, disease free male population in Manhattan. Can I just say something? Just one, little, tiny bit of opinion to those choice men and women about which I'm ranting?
WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU? REALLY?
I understand the human condition of love and the innate desire for it. I understand the human condition for the need to connect, for affection, for attention. I also understand that it may be more difficult in a city where woman outnumber men 13 to 1. But I really, really don't think that is an excuse for reckless abandonment of yourself, ladies. It may not seem like that's what you are doing, but every time you compromise your true self for the attention of someone else, not only are you relegating your own self-worth, you're also fueling the entitlement of self-centered people.
And yes, many women genuinely love to feel sexy, love to flaunt their assets and express themselves through high-end fashion and low-food intake. You know, I like makeup. I like feeling and looking good, too. I like new shoes and first dates and lip gloss. Heck I like dressing up and acting like a woman (rare, but true) and flirting, too. There's nothing wrong with taking care of yourself and having fun. But here's the thing:
You, and by you I mean the women who give women a bad name, have a fucking fundamental misunderstanding of what it means to love yourself, and what it means to sell yourself out.
In my very young, 24 year old freshly imported opinion, the moment a prospect of penis is introduced, everything else in many women’s lives becomes gray. I have seen and experienced, time and time again, the mysterious disappearance of a friend when a man is introduced, only to become the sporadic, wallowed shoulder after a fight about something stupid. I'll be there for you, too. We are all human and experience passion and fighting, irrationality and weakness. And I will comfort the shit out of you. But when it becomes permanent behavior, when erratic, self-pitying banter become the norm, that is when it is unacceptable. When you place more importance on your diet-o-the-week with the goal being to fit into those skinny jeans you've stapled to your front door, over showing up to your friend's home cooked meals, then you have disappointed me. Then you have contributed to the vicious, paltry cycle of gross materialism that infects the minds and hearts of women, and every little girl looking up to you. You love zombie! Stop eating our brains!
I only ask you to think about this: Why does sex or a relationship have to be the single most important influence over your happiness, where you live, what you choose to do, what you look like, what your interests are, and what your dreams become? Does it not seem like a shallow replacement for how you should feel about yourself? Shouldn't you want a counterpart to be a part of your life instead of the whole fucking thing? And don't you want to feel like an equal?
Maybe I'm too cynical at the ripe old phase of post adolescence, maybe I’m too critical, resentful, or scared to let someone influence me like that – especially deriving from the prospect of sex and attention – But, I can’t help that it infuriates me every time a woman, after dating someone for a week, adopts phrases like "WE'LL see you later!" or, "Oh, WE just couldn't, WE have so much to do this weekend" into her daily vernacular. Maybe I am making sweeping generalizations, but it just seems like a lot women think relationships are their main goal, their highest achievement, and must declare ownership of a man, like pissing on a tree, immediately. Have you ever thought that maybe it shouldn’t be your entire identity? You shouldn’t be Kyle’s girlfriend, and maybe you should have a life and set of interests that others identify you with before your relationship with someone else?
I should mention that I’m partially self aware; I realize this is most likely a self-indulgent and highly biased manifesto. But, I guess it’s better than taking it out on every starving, shallow money hungry sex driven retard in NYC who knows more about lipstick and high heels than they know about themselves; and every smart, respectable woman who transforms into a ball of stupid trying to act cutesy around their significant other. (Hint: Save it for when you’re not in public, save it for the quiet nights at home, whatever you do; just stop calling him baby in a whiny high pitched voice, especially on the phone at work. In your cubicle. Among 50 other cubicles. Note: WE CAN ALL FUCKING HEAR YOU.)
Wow. She’s really worked up. She thinks she’s so perfect, so rational, so edgy and curt, but she knows nothing about who I am. Who is she to judge? She’ll eat her words the second she’s in a relationship, too. She’s just jealous. She’s a coward for putting this on a blog, instead of saying it to whatever girl she’s talking about. Don’t hate me ‘cause you ain’t me. So on. So forth. I hear you, and whatever thoughts bounce up from your non-existent stop-gap. You want to know why? Because I am you.
I am faced with the same insecurities you are. Dear American Princess, I have fallen in love, too. Lust, too. I have felt lonely, and sought the company of others for a temporary solution. And yeah I have stared at a closet full of clothes and seen nothing. I might even have a couple pairs of emotional shoes, too. We all do. A completely rational life is the dumbest thing I can think of. Then again, so is following a penis around like a fucking pied piper. So what gives?
You have a choice. I think every woman will and should indulge in youth and sexuality, make some bad decisions, laugh about them the next day, shake them off, and learn the hard way. But after you do those things? You know, after all the Facebook stalking and new dress shopping, after all the subtext behind the texts and active sleepovers? After pretending to love the Atlanta Braves and Curb Your Enthusiasm and Derek Jeter’s batting average and Kenny Chesney… [can I insert trying to be a humble-yet-masturbatory HIPSTER through all of that? Oh come on, you’re not that ironic] take a time out, and learn from it.
Stop the rat race and do things for you. Stop pretending to like Kurt Vonnegut books and Kevin Smith movies just because he does (I mean you could, but probably don’t). Stop thinking ‘if you just lost 5 more pounds…’ then he would love you and every other silly thought going on in that spaghetti brain of yours. Value people, who, oh, I don’t know, appreciate your humor and intelligence, and the fact that you lead your own life instead of catering to theirs. You have so much more potential, you otherwise amazing woman. You might just find something more meaningful and impressive from your own brain; any maybe even stop one of those terrible, terrible types of men from thinking he deserves better than you. Because if you don’t respect yourself, then why the hell should he? I have complete faith in you, faith that somewhere buried underneath the Spanx, crash diets, and bandwagons that there is a much stronger woman in you. Can you just, like, let her show up to the party every once in a while? She’s so much more fun. Oh, here’s a song. I’m having a bad day. Whatever.
Cheers[sarcasm],
Merman
