I think last night was the first time I muttered the phrase “That’s so 2002.”
And gladly. Because apparently boys are still boys and not men. This is actually something I’m okay with, since I don’t necessarily feel comfortable saying that I’m a “Woman” yet, rather maybe something along the lines of a Young Lady (although my mom would beg to differ concerning the “Lady” aspect, recently causing feuds and tensions because I’ve said ‘fuck’ on Facebook several times. She took away my car, but she can’t take away my dreams).
Here’s the thing: I’m not even trying to call boys “boys” in some kind of Christina Aguilerian, pesudo-feminist sense, because it’s not that I feel dis-empowered by their advances nor am I even put off by their complete inadequacy in making a normal, like maybe healthy meal for once. It’s okay. Eat your fucking ramen and spend all day on cracked.com. To be honest, this is probably what initially attracted me to you anyway in the idea that it was “cute” since you’re “witty and funny” and/or wear flannel shirts. This serves as special code for the nerd-cute and a.v. club-esque cesspool you have so delicately bloomed from.
I’m still attracted to you.
But what gets me is the fact that young men still want to see my boobs. And apparently that’s it. Like maybe nothing else, maybe not even a make out session, they just literally…ask to see my boobs.
Now I’ve had my fair share of return-to-7th-grade-moments myself wherein I’ve felt completely disgusting, like, say, listening to Mariah Carey on the way to a party and resorting (unconsciously, I doth protest!) to a “baby child” style of voice and physical conduct which hopes to provoke all male specimen in the room to fall ravenously head over heels.*
But seriously guys. I’m not showing you my boobs. Not even one. In fact one would be even more humiliating for me. I can’t just show you something or send you something without there being some kind of physical two-some engagement.
Honestly, though, what do guys want to do? I wont talk about it, because it’s embarrassing for them, but is that really that much fun? I’d like seriously be willing to come over and hang out and you want some cropped portion of my body for like, a minute or two of “finding yourself” whilst later you may post witty tweets as another form of intellectually finding yourself and the time that it took to do that I could have just come over? And let’s not mention how now this boob shot is in your possession and now it can land on your twitter or elsewhere. KimK style.
Maybe it has something to do with the whole dominating someone thing, but be honest with me: don’t you feel dumb asking? Maybe just a bit? Doesn’t it actually make you feel like you have regressed somewhat, or do you think it pushes you more towards a masculine position in which the sexual energy is heightened because you ask me to do something and I do it? I’m not even being a condescending feminist. I honestly want to know.
Because for me it’s cringe worthy and uncomfortable. Not only do I feel sorry for every Myspace all star who will immediately pose for you in nothing but pearls and her latest Pop Pink lip gloss from Walgreens, I feel sorry that you even asked her to do it. At least now you have something to remember her by other than her opinions of Barack Obama and her invitations for you on Facebook for the “Women for Obama” page because it makes her feel empowered again.
Now, just so I’m not completely projecting and making other people feel bad, any great writer** would turn the tables on herself. Well I’m not perfect, and as said before, I still do many 2002-esque things that I’m not proud of, so I technically rival Pop Pink Princess. And, as mentioned in the title, I am currently taking Kim Kardashian’s diet pills. I’ve also seen her most recent sexy photo all over the net and have also invested in watching her sex tape with Ray J. She talks like a baby and puts on lip gloss. You can also tell she does a lot of this stuff to get attention.
Reminds me of me.
So, in short, perhaps I abhor you for asking for me to essentially pose for you over Skype or face time, but let me boomerang back to my own self worth and proclaim that I am admittedly pathetic in other ways and I actually now see why you would even ask me in the first place.
Because when I say “No!! What are you thinking?” I say it in fluent Baby.***
*This actually probably could work on most male specimen, but keep in mind the aforementioned flannel shirt-wearing and a.v. Club-reading type. They don’t really go for that blonde baby shit. In fact they probably inherently despise it, seeing as that is the kind of girl who most likely didn’t show them her boobs in 7th grade. In fact—they didn’t even ask, nor did they even try to ask. Theirs was a world of making funny videos and watching Tarantino movies way before the guys who did get to see boobs started posting Pulp Fiction posters up on their walls.
**Or an unemployed wannabe who luckily now has the internet as a free publishing platform and unluckily still possesses the notebooks from 2002 as a c. Y2K publishing platform.
***And how do you know someone doesn’t already possess some kind of fun picture of me? These are like proverbial desperation relics in the new media forest. If they ain’t on the internet, they don’t exist.
Photo still by amateur filmmaker RayJ