In this round of Gendercidal, Semtex talks about the continued mental block of women in terms of being unable to resist caring about whether or not he's “into you,” even though it doesn't matter because you should really have your own life filled with other things besides fluid. That, and, he's only going to leave you in the same cruel fashion that had Bernie Harris setting a car ablaze.
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It's never a concern of whether or not a woman is interested in a man's pursuits–no, she should just be glad that she still has the looks and youth (but mainly youth, because it's all shapes and figures to the male gaze) to still attract anything or anyone that might potentially have a means to penetrate the void called her vaginal orifice. That's why the line from one of the most retrospectively retro shows of all-time, Sex and the City (1998)(which doesn't feel modernized by Miranda Hobbes feminism either), spawned an entire book and film based on the “liberating” phrase, “He's just not that into you.” Liberating, supposedly, because women can instead focus all of their time and energy into fixating on a new penis that may or may not be attracted to the prospect of slamming his junk up against her cervix (what we call banging).
But, in all honesty, if we were to heed any of Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's advice, we would all be much better off, and slightly less “psychotic,” as blokes so often enjoy referring to us in the form of “psycho bitch.” As Adichie put it, “I think men are lovely, but I don't think that women should relate everything they do to men: did he hurt me, do I forgive him, did he put a ring on my finger? We women are so conditioned to relate everything to men. Put a group of women together and the conversation will eventually be about men. Put a group of men together and they will not talk about women at all, they will just talk about their own stuff. We women should spend about twenty percent of our time on men, because it's fun, but otherwise we should also be talking about our own stuff.”
“Our own stuff”? Who even knows what that could pertain to with so much of our heads inundated with the ceaseless indoctrination regarding our “highest purpose” of all?: not only being a source of perpetual comfort and assuagement to men even when we're not getting orgasms out of it, but also, eventually “procuring” one “of our own”–as if anyone can ever belong to another (despite what Paul Varjak tried to tell holly golightly in Breakfast at Tiffany's, ultimately succeeding in subjugating her free spirit because apparently she needed Achidie's texts to protect her more than anyone, but what's to be expected when you're the creation of a gay man as cunty and misogynistic as Truman Capote?).
Yesterday, my aunt (who, mind you, is a Southern Italian and therefore of an extremely narrow mind frame) smacked my stomach–which is the flattest it's been in a while–and told me this is the reason I don't have a boyfriend. I tried to tell her in my muddled Italian that it's the twenty-first century, and this type of mentality is more disgusting and outmoded than ever, but she wouldn't listen. Women–regardless of age or cultural origins–remain so utterly convinced that to be alone, without “other” is a crime on par with murder, or, one supposes it's more like suicide, since you're perceived to be killing yourself in choosing to live a life of solitude. Though it feels the mind only becomes duller when you're forced into the monotony of a domestic situation.
How could you possibly want to be alone? Well, if you're me, it stems from probably a three-pronged cause: not wanting to be known too well by anyone (my “soul-baring” writing style is really only a scratch on the surface of how deep the neuroses go), not wanting to be seen nude for a prolonged period (Tobias Fünke and I being never nude birds of a feather) and, against all my better judgment, ignoring the aforementioned two prongs to get fucking seared by the only person I truly let my walls down for. So, sure, while it may have taken me all the wrong reasons to get to this point of no fucks given about whether a guy “digs” me or not, I'm here. And it's emancipating in a way that has far more depth and meaning than “he's just not that into you” as the female version of “there's plenty of dick in the sea.” So keep your barriers up high and proud, and if a relative body shames you despite the fact that your physique is bangin,' just add it to the list of reasons why you should never engage with anyone/commune with anything except nature. On a related note, you know that any wooded area Thoreau and Emerson “expressed” transcendentalism in was filled with ejaculate. Because yes, emotional self-sufficiency tends to result in a lot of masturbation.
