If you had told me this time last year that not only would Miley Cyrus and Liam Hemsworth be divorcing, but Miley would have moved on with not one, but two people in the time it usually takes me to throw out my leftovers, I would have laughed in your face. What can I say? I still believed in love then. It was a simpler, purer time. But now, after watching Miley declare “Miam” officially dead and proceeding to bounce from relationship to relationship (first with Brody Jenner’s ex Kaitlynn Carter and now with Australian musician and one-time BF to Gigi Hadid, Cody Simpson), nothing that comes out about Miley’s love life surprises me anymore. And while I’m happy that Miley seems to be moving on and living her best life, I can’t help but admit that watching her love life play out like a public game of musical chairs has made me think differently about her—and not in a good way.
I’ve been a huge fan of Miley’s for years. We’re both the same age, and it always felt like when she was going through a significant life change I was somehow going through something similar. When Miley and Liam broke up for the first time and she went through her Bangerz phase, I was just coming off my own breakup. I was a junior in college and things with my on-again, off-again boyfriend seemed officially off. He was my first serious relationship and the only guy I’ve ever said “I love you” to. After the breakup, I felt wild and lost and a little like I didn’t know who I was anymore without this person in my life. I saw these same feelings reflected in Miley. Except instead of getting drunk off strawberry Burnett’s and getting felt up in a bathroom at the Pi Kappa Phi house, Miley was miming masturbation with foam fingers and swinging naked on wrecking balls. At the time, the media made it sound like Miley was just “acting out” after a bad breakup, but to me it didn’t seem like an act of rebellion so much as her just trying to figure out who the hell she was after Disney and Liam.
When Miley and Liam reconnected in the fall of 2015, I felt irrationally happy, considering the two of them are actual strangers to me and probably always will be. Seeing them work things out after all these years, it was almost like I was reconnecting with my own first love. So when Miley announced earlier this summer that they were divorcing after only a few months of marriage, and that she had already moved on with friend-turned-lover Kaitlynn Carter, I was shocked and a little—dare I say—angry?
The anger didn’t stem so much from the breakup itself. I get it, people change, and even though I follow several Miam fan accounts on Instagram, I’m not actually in that relationship so I guess I’ll never know the full story. No, the anger was more about Miley’s actions post-breakup. One minute she was posting on social media about reconnecting with nature and focusing on herself during this trying time, and the next she’s making out with Kaitlynn Carter on a boat and posting thirst traps on IG. When her relationship with Kaitlynn eventually fizzled out I thought, “oh good, now you can start actually dealing with this breakup,” only to watch her dive head-first into some sort of romantic thing with Cody Simpson. I felt disappointed by her actions. It seemed disrespectful for her to jump so publicly from one relationship to the next so soon after breaking things off with her partner of 10 years.
The media seemed to agree with me. Over the past few months, story after story has been published about Miley and her romantic suitors. And while no one outright calls her a slut for her behavior, most of the articles read with thinly veiled contempt, as if we’re all disappointed that she’s not sitting at home alone, scrolling through her phone for old pictures of her and Liam, listening to “Wrecking Ball” on repeat, and crying into a pint of Ben & Jerry’s (or is that just me?).
Picking up on the contempt, Miley took to her Instagram stories last Friday to defend herself against slut-shamers by pointing out that men rarely get called out for serial dating. She referenced Leonardo DiCaprio and John Mayer in particular, saying:
“Men (especially successful ones) are RARELY slut shamed. They move on from one beautiful woman to the next MOST times without consequences. They are usually referenced as ‘legends’, ‘heart throbs’, ‘G’, ‘Ladies Man’ etc… where women are called sluts/whores!”
Honestly, she’s not wrong. I myself have written about instances like Scott Disick moving on from Kourtney Kardashian to Bella Thorne to Sofia Richie in rapid succession, and only commented on the diminishing age of his hookups, and not the frequency of them post-breakup. And while it’s not news to me that the media is often sexist in the way they portray famous women versus famous men, what was news to me was that I was a little sexist myself.
As a feminist, I pride myself on advocating for women. It’s 2019 for god’s sake, and women should be allowed to be open about their sexuality, to own their sexual experiences without consequence. This is what I’ve always preached but rarely practiced myself. After my ex-boyfriend from college dumped me (on my birthday) for a girl he’d been secretly dating behind my back for months, he made the comment that no matter what happened between us, I shouldn’t “spread myself around” after the breakup and that I should still be a “good girl.” At the time, I’d only had sex with two people and one of them was this prince. He made me believe that if I had sex with other people or started dating around, I wouldn’t be attractive to men, that I’d somehow be dirty for moving on too quickly.
I’ll admit that those words have stuck with me, even years later. I find myself saying things like, “I’m not a casual dater” or “I just need some commitment before I sleep with anyone,” which are statements I rarely follow through with, but often use as a way to make myself feel bad anytime I have a casual hookup or a one night stand.
Watching Miley Cyrus defend herself on Instagram for doing something that men do ALL THE TIME brought back those feelings of insecurity and worthlessness. I’ve always felt like you should grieve a relationship when it ends and be respectful of the other person, but why do I feel that way? Hell, I’m notorious for mourning a breakup ghosting from guys whose most attractive quality is that he had a washer/dryer in his apartment. So why do I owe them celibacy?
And it’s not just me, either. Most of the women in my life are the same way, keeping their sex lives on the down-low post-breakups—at least from their exes. So why are women like this, then? Men certainly don’t hesitate to move on after a breakup—or even hesitate to flaunt their moving on, so why should women? Is it that we don’t want to seem undesirable to the men who’ve wronged us or to the future men in our lives? And why is a woman having a healthy sex life so often associated with spiraling out of control or acting out?
During the same IG stories where Miley took down slut-shamers she said, “I am trying to just THRIVE/survive in a ‘mans’ world… if we can’t beat em, join em! If our president can ‘grab em by the pussy…’ can’t I just have a kiss and açai bowl?!?!” And, this, poetic as it is, struck a chord with me. Here I am, saying how I support women and f*ck the patriarchy, and I’m getting disappointed in a woman doing what she wants to do because it doesn’t seem… ladylike? Apologetic? What? Bottom line: Liam seems to have moved on (albeit more quietly), and also these people are literal strangers to me and therefore I have no emotional stake in their relationship, so what am I really angry and disappointed for?
And while I may have handled a breakup like Miley’s a little differently (or maybe not, because literally the only people invested in my love life are my dog and @SweetestBetchYou’llEverMeet who is constantly trying to pimp me out on Hinge), I’ve decided that I don’t want to read about Miley Cyrus making out with Cody Simpson or Kaitlynn Carter or anyone else for that matter. Why? Because it’s none of my damn business. If I’m not going to be angry at Leonardo DiCaprio for serially dating any model under the legal drinking age, then I shouldn’t be angry at Miley for doing whatever it is she does.
Watching Miley go through all of this has made me realize that for how much I call myself a feminist, I still have work to do when it comes to judging other women and coming to terms with my own sexist thoughts. So, thank you, Miley Cyrus, for the reality check and this deep self-introspection. I’ll be sure to tell my therapist that there’s no need for their services anymore, I’ll just get my life advice from your IG stories from now on.
Images: Shutterstock.com; Giphy (3); @cosmopolitan /Instagram (1)
For most of us, birth control is a necessary evil. Like doing our taxes, or pretending to enjoy giving blow jobs (just me?). It’s the thing we joke about when our alarm goes off during happy hour, the thing we bitch about when we’re overly hormonal, or feel grateful for after a hookup goes awry. It’s a thing we hate sometimes, but can’t—or won’t—live without it. And if you think I’m being overdramatic with that statement here are the receipts facts: according to recent studies, nearly two thirds of American women use contraceptives in some way, shape, or form. I should know because for the last 15 years I was one of these women.
If a friend told me they were goingn to go off birth control, I would act aghast. “You can’t be serious. I don’t know who I am without it,” I’d joke. But it wasn’t really a joke. I was 12 when I first started using birth control. I had a heavy period that would come every 10 days. I was bleeding more days out of the month than I wasn’t. My doctor recommended me going on the pill to regulate my periods and my mom, who had nothing but good experiences with birth control, was all for me trying it out. Fifteen years later, I never looked back.
Being on the pill felt like an extension of myself, like an arm or the gel manis I can’t live without. There was never a question of me not being on it. To be totally fair, I never seemed to have the issues most of my friends had with the pill. I didn’t have crazy mood swings or weight gains. If anything, I felt like going off the pill would cause those kinds of side effects. My personality is already a fun mix of dark cynicism and the occasional rage blackout, I don’t need to f*ck with my hormones on top of it.
But I did end up going off birth control. For me, the decision wasn’t so much of a conscious choice as it was necessary to my finances at the time. When I was 26 I quit my job in the city to move back to my home state to be closer to friends and family. I quit without having another job lined up, which meant forgoing a monthly income—and health insurance. Being on my parents’ insurance was out of the question because I’d just aged out before quitting my job. My only options were to pay out of pocket or look into COBRA, a new law that lets you stay on your previous employer’s health insurance for up to 18 months after leaving your job, but it was going to cost me HUNDREDS of dollars a month. With no new income coming in and my bank account practically hemorrhaging money from my move across state lines, I chose to save money and forgo getting health insurance completely. Bye-bye, birth control.
At the time I thought I would find a new job in a few months and be back on birth control by Christmas. I was unemployed and living at home with my parents and, if my dating app matches were any indication, that wasn’t a great look for picking up guys or having sex. I guess living off parental pity isn’t as sexy as I thought it was? Who knew? So, I thought, if I wasn’t having sex, then what was really the harm in going off it? Sure, there’s the crazy mood swings that might manifest, but, as I was living at home, so only my family would have to endure those and they’re genetically obligated to love me anyways. Right, mom?
So I decided to go off birth control with the sole intent of not making it a permanent situation. I don’t know what I expected when I stopped taking the pill. The metaphorical floodgates to open and to start bleeding uncontrollably? I pictured my first period post-pill to look a lot like Carrie after they doused her in pig blood. That I’d bleed for an entire month and ruin every piece of underwear in my possession. I expected my acne to get worse, and to be rocking in a corner somewhere with all my ping-ponging emotions. But that’s not what happened at all. In fact, after I went off the pill I didn’t get my first period for 8 weeks, and when I did get my period it only lasted 4 days. I was shocked. The whole reason I went on birth control in the first place was because my periods were heavy and long. Post-pill, they were short and light. Manageable, even. Other than my cramps being a little worse than normal, my periods were a lot like the ones I had while on the pill. This doomsday mentality I’d crafted around being off the pill was just that: a mentality. It wasn’t real.
I thought being on birth control gave me a sense of safety—and it did, don’t get me wrong—but being off the pill made me feel empowered in ways I didn’t expect. For one, it helped with my anxiety. I used to obsessively try and plan out my periods by skipping pills in the pack so I wouldn’t have my period on the weekend or on random days during the week if I had an important work meeting or something. If I wasn’t planning out a period, then I was constantly trying to hound my pharmacist for my prescription. If the pharmacist couldn’t refill my prescription on time and I couldn’t start my new pack of pills within the first three days after my period, I would panic and have a breakdown. I can remember crying in my office because the pharmacist told me my insurance had changed last minute and I could only refill every 31 days, so I’d need to wait a few more days to pick up my prescription. Crying in my office! And not even over something reasonable like my office nemesis eating the last everything bagel in the break room.
Sure, I could have tried another form of birth control, one where I don’t need to worry about monthly prescriptions or even getting a monthly period, but the pill was so ingrained in my life that I truly thought I couldn’t function without it. I’d heard horror stories of friends getting the birth control implants in their arms and bleeding for weeks at a time, or having to fish an IUD out like an errant tampon. The pill worked for me. My periods were light and manageable. My skin was clear, my hormones weren’t making me crazy (aside from what just comes naturally with my personality). Sure, it caused me stress and anxiety, but wasn’t that worth it in the long run? And if I went off it or tried something new, who would I be then? I’d been on the pill for 15 years, over half my life, and I was terrified to make that change.
Then there’s the sexual aspect to it. For my entire adult life I’ve been on the pill. I was a late bloomer so when I started having sex in college, I’d already been on the pill for six years. Six. Years. That’s, like, almost the entire length of The Buffy The Vampire series (sorry #Spuffy fans, but I don’t count the 6th season because it was trash!!). My uterus was practically a cement fortress at that point, and boy did I love to test the limits of that fortress. I felt invincible because I didn’t have to worry about getting pregnant, but at the same time I felt powerless. I was constantly having to fend off arguments from guys as to why I still wanted to use condoms, as if being on birth control gave them free reign over my body. There were times when I felt like I couldn’t say no, like wanting to protect my body from diseases was too flimsy an excuse.
This is something I have to work on personally. I know this. Standing up for myself in my relationships with men, and also not choosing to date flaming piles of garbage masquerading as human men. But that doesn’t change the pressure I felt during those instances. I felt like I was solely responsible for providing the contraceptives during sex because I’d been on the pill for so long. Once I went off the pill, I thought having sex without that added protection would be scarier, but it wasn’t. I didn’t feel like it was just me having to be responsible for safe sex anymore, I felt like I was in a partnership again.
Look, I’m absolutely not advocating that women go off birth control or refuse to use it. I’m advocating that everyone should do what’s best for them. Women need birth control for more than just sex, and my experience is proof of that. But since I’ve been off the pill I’ve felt more at ease in my own body. I don’t feel anxious about my period or refilling a prescription. I feel more confident in my sexual relationships. These were not the emotional or psychological reactions I expected to have when I stopped taking the pill. I fully expected to feel more anxious, more out of control, powerless. I didn’t realize how much pressure this one, tiny thing had over my life until I was off it. And, to be fair, I got lucky—there are women who do experience side effects after stopping birth control, such as a heavier, irregular period; shedding hair; breakouts; and decreased libido, so just because I felt completely normal does not mean that you will too. Everyone is different, I’m just saying that for me, my choice to go off birth control did not have those drawbacks.
It’s been seven months since I made the decision to go off birth control. I have a job and health insurance again, but I still don’t know if I’ll go back on the pill. Or if I ever will. After 15 years of taking a pill every damn day of my life, it’s been nice to take a break, to not have to worry about medication. Will I feel differently in a few months? A few years? When hell freezes over and I finally get in a long-term, committed relationship with someone? Maybe. But for now, I’m not looking back.
Images: Giphy (3); Pixabay.com (1)
Dear Wannabe Cameron Diaz in The Holiday,
Is there something in the air? Have the fumes of over-priced pumpkin spice lattes and faux cashmere gone straight to your head that you’re about to set sail on a journey of desperation for extra likes attention this holiday season just so you can make your summer fuckboy jealous mom proud of you with an annoying as fuck “sitting-by-the-tree-with-bae-wearing-fugly-sweaters” boomerang? Like, I’m all for wanting to settle down (lol, who am I kidding) but whichever one of your delirious friends gave you the green light to hunt for seasonal sausage needs to be cancelled stat.
I have v strong opinions about the way you’re choosing to spend your winter, but can we first just take a second to talk about where the term “cuffing” actually stemmed from—the county jail? BDSM? Giving up my first amendment rights that have something to do with freedom? Case in point, none of those things sound pleasing in any sense, so for the sake of sacrificing what little dignity the human race has left, how about you first stop equating the act of courtship to a fucking prison sentence?
And since when was it a thing that your relationship status had to change according to the weather? Sure, there are tons of reasons why I’d want to sell my soul and commit to someone—free meals and effortless starfish sex, to name a few—but a change in climate shouldn’t be one of them, so because I’m such a good friend, I’m about to tell you why your plan on “cuffing” up a fuckboy is about as satisfying as week-old grocery store sushi.
Because I’m the prestigious journalist that I am, as a general consensus, I’m just curious to know if any of the following statements sound appealing to you:
-an extra blanket when indoor temps reach subzero
-an extra shot of Bailey’s to spike an extra glass of hot chocolate
-the freedom to ugly cry during Love Actually—and replay it a second time, judgement free
-being able to blast “All I Want For Christmas” three months early, judgement free
If you answered no to any of the above, feel free to exit the premises pretending like you’re about to enjoy sweating your balls off being little spoon from the coming months of October to February. But if you’re still not convinced, just be prepared to abide by an unspoken set of cuffing guidelines.
There’s already general “frowned upon” rules you’re supposed to follow in a normal relationship, like not drunk texting your ex or agreeing that his mom is great, but when it comes to seasonal dating, you’re treated to the shitty “almost, but too soon” rulebook. In order to abstain from developing feelings (gross), invisible boundaries have to be set. For instance, PostMates = acceptable. All you can eat breadsticks at Olive Garden = the line has been crossed into dating territory.
This in turn, causes you to continually wonder why you’re not dating considering the twice-a-week sex and weekly text convos, and I didn’t go to school for that kind of next-level therapy shit. Speaking of crazy, the gray area that is cuffing season will force you to hide your crazy because you’re technically not dating-dating, and you’re not allowed to go agro on him for forgetting about your dumb Secret Santa party. And we all damn well know that the only thing more crazy than girl who expresses her crazy is a girl who lets her crazy internally build until it explodes like North Korea’s nukes.
All in all, you’re just allowing yourself to settle for some pity right swipe, or the guy from college you put off dating for three years whose only talking point is how tight he thinks he’d probably be with Dean from The Bachelorette—like on the one hand, same, but on the other, it’s called ESPN.
I get that every girl dreams of being whisked away in a winter wonderland in a cozy cottage as a hot stranger knocks on your door. It might’ve worked for Cam, but let me tell you something: At the end of the day, you’ll come to find out that your kinda-sorta-idk-boyfriend has some secretive past with like, two kids and a neurotic sister with the hots for Jack fucking Black, and in reality, you’re so much more than that.
Oh, and might I save my best argument for last? On top of the emotional and mental roller coaster you’re about to embark on, it’s not like you’re gonna get any sort of last season Michael Kors or a wine tasting Groupon out of this. You’re not dating-dating, remember? In that case, the only “gift” you should be expecting is an added 3-4 pounds dangling from your waistline from all the stress he caused by not texting you back. Ew.
So before you resort to playing whatever the fuck psycho revenge album Taylor Swift’s about to drop on repeat once Black History Month rolls around, save yourself the Halo Top binge and just RSVP to your family Christmas bash as a party of one this year. You’ll thank me later when you and your drunk uncle are lit off your asses with no judgements, and most importantly, no strings attached.
Yours truly,
Too selfish to share my new Costco fleece blanket this winter.
Dear Adult Children,
In the last couple months, we’ve noticed a startling trend starting to develop among your species. We’ve stood in public places where people are supposed to be having fun and watched grown men playing with fidget spinners. Fucking seriously? A fidget spinner? The last time we got that attached to a toy (besides our vibrator) was probably our American Girl Dolls in like fourth grade, and even then, deep down we knew we were too cool to be toting that shit around in public 24/7.
It’s unclear why fidget spinners needed to exist in the first place, but I guess they’re pretty harmless if you’re under the age of 13. Whatever, flick that stupid little thing around on your thumb all you want, but if you’re old enough to drive a car you need to get a fucking life and throw that thing in the nearest trash can. Or recycling bin? Idk, save the manatees. Whatever. Get rid of it. Do not pass Go, do not collect $200. It’s embarrassing.
You really need something to do with your hands? We have some ideas. How about picking up your phone and responding to our fucking texts? Sorry, but you don’t get to be bored while you’re in the midst of ghosting us. After responding to our texts, how about you pick up a good book, or do a puzzle, or literally absolutely anything but mindlessly twirling a shitty little piece of plastic.
We get it, you like to keep up with the trends. So do we. Our favorite trend is wearing all black, and we’ve been doing it since forever. But our second favorite trend is harshly judging bros for acting like children, and fidget spinners are honestly making it too easy. If you’re going to have a major flaw, at least make it something interesting, like a foot fetish or that you have a pet iguana. Then we can never text you after the first date and actually have a good story to tell our friends, rather than having to explain that you were more into playing with a child’s toy than picking up the check.
So the next time you’re going to a bar, or a restaurant, or literally anywhere that you will be seen by other humans, we better not see you playing with a god damn fidget spinner. It’s lame, it’s boring, and you can do better. Well, maybe you can’t, but it’s not our problem.
Sincerely,
The Betches
Listen, I know that in these modern, Instagrammable times, everybody expects you to be out late and updating your story with increasingly drunken and unintelligible videos until at least 3am, but I’m here to tell you that you do not have to live that life. You should always leave a party early. Do not @ me on this. Think back to all the times you’ve ever left a party early. Did you regret it? Or did you wake up the next day like, “Wow! this is what 10am on Saturday looks like. Crazy.” Leaving a party early is the relief you get from cancelling plans on steroids. It’s the best case scenario. You show up, you take pics while your makeup is still fresh, and you leave before the Lyft surge pricing gets out of control. But for those of you with nosy-ass friends who try to give you shit for leaving parties instead of focusing on the insecurities that are clearly driving them to stay out for wayyy longer than is necessary, here are a few reasons you can give for always dipping before the Sun comes up.
1. Nothing Good Happens After 2am
This is a fact. Just ask the train conductor driving the last train back to Long Island and he will confirm. (Sorry, could be a she, women can drive trains too, it’s 2017.) The point is, there’s nothing you could do at the end of the night that you won’t do better in the morning, so know when it’s time to leave a party and go home. Unless you’re hosting the party there is no reason you should be there when the party ends. The only other exception is if you’re pulling an all nighter in order to make a 6am flight or something, and if you’re flying at 6am you better be going somewhere fucking cool or why would you do that to yourself?
2. Lingering Makes You Look Thirsty AF
The longer you stay at a party, the more thirsty you will seem. Do you think Prince Charming would have chosen Cinderella if he had talked to her for four more hours? No, because he would have lost interest and gone after some other chick who was more mysterious and elusive. Just look at literally any Disney princess as an example. They all got away or disappeared from the Prince, which only made him fall for them harder. Little Mermaid became a mermaid when Eric didn’t kiss her, Sleeping Beauty got bored and went back to bed, and Snow White drank too much and got poisoned which still counts as leaving early.
The reason leaving early is always better for you is because you leave everyone wanting more. Even if your crush is at a party, after a certain point it’s time to get out so he’ll realize you’re gone. There’s nothing better than getting a “did you leave” text from your crush, which can literally never happen if you never leave. If he can’t lock it down before your Uber arrives, just trust that he’ll probably try harder next time now that he knows you have a habit of getting away. Plus, if he really has game, he’ll take your exit as a cue to make a move, which just speeds everything up for you without you actually having to do anything.
3. Nobody Wants To See Your 4am Pics
You put a lot of work into your pre-going out look, and for the first 2-3 hours of partying, it pays off. However, once the clock strikes blackout, we all know that suddenly for whatever reason our entire look goes from happy hour hoe to actual prostitute. Makeup starts running. Your hair gets all frizzy and shit from dancing. And honestly, you start to look like the melted knock-off version of your 9pm self. You can guarantee that the photos you took of you and your besties make you two like a Groupon ad for escorts, but there will always be that one person who doesn’t realize exposed nipples are not a good look and posts. By the time you wakeup a casual 12-15 hours later, the picture will have been all over people’s feeds and even if you send an immediate emergency text demanding its removal, the damage has already been done. Your crush saw the pic. Your ex’s new gf screenshotted it and sent to her group chat with the side-eye emoji and you can’t even blame her. Don’t put yourself in this position. GTFO before anyone even thinks of posting a photo where your arm looks weird. What if your grandkids see it?
4. People Will Think You Have Better Things To Do
Sometimes it’s fun to stay at a party long enough to go to the after party, in which case we say, proceed with caution. If you’re on drugs then we forgive you because what are you going to do, lay awake and wonder if God’s real for the next 8 hours by yourself? However, we still suggest party hopping without waiting around for a party to end, because while we encourage leaving early, we also don’t discourage showing up late. Which means you can still keep your night going without ever being the last one left by the chips and jungle juice. As in, please just have more friends so you’re never just stuck at one place. Because staying at one party too long just makes everyone wonder, if she wasn’t here, would she just be staying at home alone tonight?
And let’s face it, you’re not going to meet your soulmate at 4am. Have you ever heard someone say “I knew she was the one when I got desperate that all the girls were gone and she was literally the only one left”? No, because betches aren’t a last resort, we’re a top shelf limited selection. Don’t be the last beer in the fridge and don’t overstay a party. You want your friends and crushes to treat your presence like fine wine that must be enjoyed. You want people to choose you, and the only way to know you’re not just a drunk end of the night hookup is to not stay until the end of the night.
So betches, leave the party early, because you are the party. Literally fuck FOMO. (Okay, not literally. You know what we mean.) You want people to get FOMO because you’re gone, and not the other way around.
If you saw avocados were trending today and wondered why, you can thank Tim Gurner, the 35-year-old Australian real estate mogul who went on Australian 60 Minutes and implied that the reason millennials don’t have houses is because we’re spending too much money on avocado toast. I mean, just by reading that sentence and letting it roll around in your brain for a few seconds I think anyone can poke holes in Gurner’s theory, but just as with any stupid shit someone says on television, were here at Betches feel compelled to respond.
Tim Gurner, welcome to your tape.
First off, I reject literally everything you have to say in this interview. I reject the premise. I reject the idea that all that stands between me and my very own above ground pool is a creamy serving of healthy fats. I reject your knock-off Wolf Of Wall Street look. I reject all of it. Go home. Take an L. You’re drunk.
Construction mogul Tim Gurner is upfront about Australia’s housing problem -he says his generation needs to stop whinging & start saving. pic.twitter.com/bysx3Jler5
— 60 Minutes Australia (@60Mins) May 14, 2017
Gurner starts out his interview by saying, “When I was buying my first home, I wasn’t buying smashed avocado for $19 and four coffees at $4 each,” which like, okay, that’s cool, but guess what… maybe the people who are spending their money on avocado toast aren’t like, looking to buy a house? Have you considered that perhaps this new generation of people also comes with a new set of priorities? Like, you know how your generation’s priorities were doing coke and using the stock market to wreck the economy and destroy the prospects of the middle class for generations to come? Well ours are doing molly and dealing with the fact that our undergrad degree cost three times what we make annually. That’s just how it goes.
And speaking of the wrecked economy, have you considered that (and we’ll say this loud for the people in the back) millennials inherited the worst financial crisis since The Great Depression? We’re bogged down by incredible student loan debt, and are unable to advance in our careers at the same rate Gen Y and Baby Boomers did because those aforementioned Gen Y and Baby Boomers are unable to retire and still in the jobs market. So yeah, we don’t exactly have the money to be buying a fucking house right now. We have to like, pay our phone bills and shit.
Were cell phones around when Tim Gurner was a young entrepreneur? Literally no. Beepers seem way more affordable. Kim Possible had one in high school.
While putting away thousands of dollars from each paycheck in hopes of acquiring a coveted mortgage seems pretty impossible for a millennial in an entry level job who makes $35k a year, it’s a lot more affordable for us to splurge on a damn avocado toast for $15 or a $4 iced coffee when the direct deposit hits. (Sidebar: You can totally get an avocado toast for less than $15. DM me for deets)
Gurner went on to say, “When I had my first business when I was 19, I was in the gym at 6am in the morning, and I finished at 10.30 at night, and I did it seven days a week, and I did it until I could afford my first home. There was no discussions around, could I go out for breakfast, could I go out for dinner. I just worked.”
Yes Tim. Please enlighten a generation of people who have had to settle for making ends meat by juggling unpaid internships, side hustles, the gig economy, freelance, and the occasional misguided sugar daddy meet-up on the value of hard work. Do you have any idea how many times I’ve considered going to foot fetish parties so that I could make rent, Timmy? Do you? The fact that you can look at a generation of people who have all spent at least one night of their lives obsessively googling how much their sperm and eggs are worth and tell us we don’t make enough sacrifices for financial gain is truly disturbed. Literally all this sentiment taught me was that when you were 19 you could afford a gym membership. Unheard of.
Gurner also said “We’re at a point now where the expectations of younger people are very, very high. They want to eat out every day, they want to travel to Europe every year. The people that own homes today worked very, very hard for it, saved every dollar, did everything they could to get up the property investment ladder.”
Yes Tim, the generation that literally invented the concept of Netflix and Chill’s expectations are “too high.” Wow. I didn’t realize how spoiled we millennials were for wanting to go on vacation and eat out. It’s not like spending your money on experiences (i.e., eating out and going on vacation) is scientifically proven to bring you more happiness than spending it on material items like a wrap-around porch.
But more importantly—if millennials want to spend their money on food and trips rather than buying homes, who the fuck cares? Truly. Who? As time progresses, wealth is measured in different ways. Sure, buying a home was the ultimate in financial stability for Gurner and his giant forehead, but go back a hundred years or so and wealth was measured in the amount of chickens or pigs and shit you could get for marrying off your daughter. Does Tim Gurner have any chickens or pigs? Probably not. For our generation, having a kickass Instagram full of great looking food and amazing vacays is worth a lot more socially than a white picket fence in the suburbs. You might think that’s stupid, but guess what, it’s not really up to you. Also, maybe part of the reason we don’t want houses is because when we were in high school the housing bubble burst and literally millions of people lost their homes? Just a thought.
This entire idea of millennials spending all their money eating out is, quite literally, fake news. Studies show that millennials spend 44% of their “food dollars” on eating out, meaning that 56% of the time, we’re bringing hard boiled eggs to work and microwaving a Top Ramen for dinner. Also, just because someone is “eating out” doesn’t mean they’re buying some insanely trendy Instagram food. They could literally be going to Subway, which is a huge sacrifice in and of itself.
And really, who is eating this much avocado toast? Seriously. I want names. Like, I’ll occasionally get one when I’m at boozy brunch and trying to feel fancy, but I think most millennials fully recognize that it is not a daily meal. Anyone who is buying avocado toast on the daily is probably doing so less because they are a millennial, and more because they’re fucking psycho. In the past six months, I imagine that (and this is a generous estimate), I have maybe spent $50 on avocado toast. Maybe. Do any of y’all know a house that I can get for $50 that doesn’t come with a live-in crackhead? Probably not.
Also, four $4 coffees?? Who is doing this?? A tall coffee at Starbucks literally costs $1.85, and I highly doubt anyone is getting four of them in one day (if you are, please see a doctor). Like, yeah, fraps and stuff are expensive, but if anyone is drinking 4 frappuccinos a day they should be way more concerned with the fact that they’re going to lose a foot to diabetes than their future home buying prospects.
Finally, and I truly cannot stress this enough, I think I speak for all millennials when I say we’re kind of over taking the advice of real estate moguls with questionable hair. It honestly has not been working out so well for us lately.
Tim, I get that like, giving unsolicited financial advice to millennials is the only thing that gets Gen Y hard these days, but you fucking played yourself. Millennials aren’t buying houses because they don’t want houses, and avocados are fucking delicious treats that make us feel better about the fact that all the generations before us are going to the polls and destroying the world because they don’t like how things have been going since the internet was invented. Maybe instead of complaining about people who are younger/hotter than you, you should use your incredible business sense to help create a world where someone can have both avocado toast and a house. It would be a much more useful way for you to spend your time, and people would probably hate you a lot less. Just a thought.
I used to think that spring was my favorite season because it meant it was finally warm enough to wear something other than sweaters and leggings, but without the humidity that makes my hair frizz. But recently, as I’ve been tearing through as many malls as possible looking for cute spring shit, I’ve realized that it is actually the tackiest season of all. I’m going to go out on a limb here and blame it on the fact that once spring rolls around, stores start trying to sell us fugly clothing covered in lace.
My eyes are already irritated enough from allergies (and I’m in a bad mood because I accidentally rubbed off my winged eyeliner), so the last thing I want to do is pick through a rack of lace overlay eyesores. It’s time for grown-ass betches to quit dressing like doilies and stop trying to make lace happen.
Lace clothing is kind of like the boxed wine of fabrics. Like, it definitely derives from something that was upscale at one point, but is now cheap and makes me want to vom upon first sight. Except the difference is that boxed wine actually has made me physically ill, but I still effing love it. Just like toting a box of Franzia around tells the world that you’re ready to black out, a lace bodycon dress screams “I have ‘classy, but a bit smart-assy’ with the bow emoji in my Instagram bio.”
The worst thing about lace clothing is that it’s always obvious that what you’re wearing probably wasn’t your first choice. Seriously, the only person who actually goes into a store (probably Charlotte Russe) looking for a “cute lace dress” is Tomi Lahren. Every single one of us has found ourselves in a fugly lace shift dress in the fitting room at the Topshop section of Nordstrom the night before an event at least once. It’s always a last cry after you’ve tried on a ton of dresses you actually wanted to wear but didn’t fit, and now your cleavage is semi-visible through a dress that Katherine Heigl might have been forced to wear in 27 Dresses.
The only thing more confusing than lace dresses is lace club wear. Whoever decided it was okay to get drunk and make out with a stranger wearing a bodysuit made from their grandmother’s tablecloth was seriously disturbed. It was probably initially an attempt to appear as if one is wearing as little clothing as possible while still actually wearing clothing, but now that the Kardashians rule the world, you can just wear a bra as a top and nobody will question you. There is literally no reason for this shit:
I guess my point is, stop wearing clothing that is made out of the same material as all of your underwear in an attempt to look classy. It’s 2017 and everyone can see your Snapchat stories. The gig is up.
I was just hate-reading Cosmo, as one does, when I came across an article called “6 Men And Women Get Real About What It’s Like To Be A Sapiosexual.” Because I enjoy angering myself (and because I continue to ignore my doctor’s advice to avoid stressful situations to keep my blood pressure at a healthy rate), I clicked on it. Now, I’m vaguely aware of the concept of “sapiosexuality” because I listed to one Ab Soul song one time. For those of you who don’t spend 16 hours a day on Tumblr aren’t familiar, a “sapiosexual” is defined as “a person who finds intelligence sexually attractive or arousing,” aka ALL FUCKING PEOPLE who would describe themselves as smart. Like, come on. You don’t find it attractive when someone is dumb as rocks? Congratulations, you’re a member of the not completely shallow section of humanity. Welcome. We’ve been here for years without trying to make up a fake-ass label for ourselves to seem “special” and “interesting.”
In case you’re like “well IDK maybe this is a real thing, who am I to judge” let’s look to the original article for clues as to why this is definitely not, in fact, a thing. And in case you’re wondering, yes I am qualified to judge given that I am God. Anywho, in this piece, Cosmo interviews six so-called sapiosexuals. Like, I don’t want to sound like a certain recently fired conservative talk show host, but if there was ever a case for the “special snowflake millennial syndrome,” this would be it right here.
Cosmo starts with, “Sapiosexual isn’t just a buzzy word popping up on people’s OkCupid profiles, it’s a real thing.” Uh, okay. Compelling point you made that’s backed up with zero evidence other than this blanket statement and the word of a handful of millennials (we’ll get to that in a sec).
First off, every person interviewed is between the ages of 22 and 26. That already should tell you the type of people we’re dealing with (*cough* hipsters *cough*). Here’s how a few of them describe what being a sapiosexual means to them:
Woman A: That I find a person’s intelligence, wit, grasp on academia, and worldly perspectives far more attractive than their looks.
You and literally everyone who’s gone to college.
Woman C: I identify as a sapiosexual, because to me talking about chemistry is the equivalent of talking dirty to me.
Great, you’re a nerd. Last time I checked, that’s not a sexuality.
And here’s them on when they first “realized” they were a sapiosexual.
Woman A: Definitely early in college when I figured out what I wanted to be in my life.
Woman B: Probably when I was 20 and had just left my high school boyfriend and entered the college hook-up scene.
Woman C: I think I was 17 when I realized it.
Man C: I guess I realized I was sapiosexual in college? That’s when I really started to date women from outside my friend circles and realized what turned me on other than looks.
Okay so…. two-thirds of y’all are in or about to go to college aka an institution of higher learning when you “just happened” to realize you’re attracted to smart people? And you don’t think that could be a product of being in an environment that’s focused on learning and not, ya know, because you fall under some new sexuality category that has only been “discovered” in like, the past three years?
On what makes someone attractive to them:
Woman A: I’m attracted most to men if they can engage me in debate-like conversations (whether it’s about who the best Mario Kart character is, or discussing John Oliver).
Oh, so you’re attracted to regular fucking people who can hold a conversation.
Man C: She needs to be cute, smart, and classy
In other words…
Man C: *Goes on record to Cosmopolitan to talk about how novel his sexuality is*
Also Man C: *likes the same qualities in a woman as every fucking straight guy ever*
Yeah, that’s all I’m getting into for today. This shit is ridiculous. From what I was able to glean through the power of context clues, every single one of these people is straight, and every single one is a millennial. How much do you want to bet they’re all white? Because I’m white and even I can recognize this is some grade-A level extra white people shit. Just say intelligence is important to you—it’s not that hard.
Look. Every smart person is also attracted to smart people. That’s because generally most people want to date other people they can relate to and talk to…this is not a new concept. Could one perhaps be so into intelligence it can border on fetishism? It’s possible. Does it warrant a special sexuality label and the self-righteous belief that you’re ~different than other straight people? Fuck no. You are just a garden-variety straight person. WHICH IS FINE. Accept it! Why not just enjoy your continued privilege of being able to marry whoever you want and not get harassed or attacked for being seen with your SO in public, rather than trying to make up new sexualities so you can feel edgy and misunderstood and slightly oppressed?
Yeah, you can all kindly GTFO of here with this. And I recommend to you all that if you come across a dating profile that says “sapiosexual”, RUN. Or like, swipe left.
