That Kind Of Woman

By Mitch Goldstein via Four Pins

Dudes, stop sending pictures of your dick to people. Especially girls who’s pants you’re trying to get into. I don’t know where our generation went wrong, but at some point it became socially acceptable for y’all to start taking selfies of your dong and sending that shit to any girl you think might have even an inkling of an attraction to you. Way to blow it. So seriously, no more nudes, unless they ask for it, in which case you’ve got yourself a golden ticket, or a potential spot on Page 6. Heads up though because either one or both of the following statements are true in that situation: 1. that chick is batshit crazy and 2. your package is gonna end up all over the fucking Internet. Also, stop leaving creepy anonymous sex messages. Nobody wants to see that shit. Now that I’ve gotten those basics out of the way, allow me to educate your asses on what you’ve been missing out on while you were trying to find the best angle in your bathroom mirror to add a couple centimeters.

I used to give girls, like, letters and mixtapes and shit like that. It used to not work because I was a little dork with hair past my shoulders. My handwriting was illegible and my taste in music was garbage. Here’s the kicker though, now that all y’all are trying to spit game via anonymous grey face, girls are heavy into the whole making an effort thing. Turns out that I was just ahead of the curve, bitches. Next time you think about sending a message to that girl who just started following you five minutes ago (it took you four minutes to check the the “self,” “gpoy,” “me” and “personal” tags) you need to pause. Like, full-on-pause. Wait at least a day or two before even making some polite conversation that has nothing to do with your penis. If you don’t realize that telling a girl your sexual fantasies over the Internet after she just stumbled upon your blog isn’t a good idea, maybe you really shouldn’t be talking to girls in the first place. However, if you feel like things are going smoothly I highly recommend making a mixtape for them. You can even do this on the Internet using YouTube, Spotify, 8tracks or what have you. They’ll probably think it’s real cute and maybe they’ll even agree to meet you in real life.

Write a letter for real too, or a letter length email because I understand if you don’t have the patience to wait for the postal service to bring your burning desires to her mailbox. I also understand if she doesn’t want to give you her address. Be expressive and flex your creative muscles a little bit. I’m not telling you to write her one hundred and fifty four sonnets or anything, just try and not sound like a total doofus and she’ll probably dig it. Stop being a pussy about it and let her know that you think she is a damn fine shuttie and that you want to touch her face. Don’t word it like that though. Word it like the slow part of a Drake song.

All of this leads me to another thing I’ve learnt recently. A shit ton of you menswear blogger types are god awful at talking to girls. You can talk for days about a triple breasted panda suede blazer, but god help you if the girl making your iced coffee happens to be cute. It’s not rocket science guys, just be normal and remember to breathe. Be polite, shake her hand, make eye contact and, for Christ’s sake, speak up. If you can talk shit on the internet I don’t understand how you can have a problem speaking to a semi-attractive girl. Just pretend she’s a grail jawnz item that is very rare. If it helps, talk to her like she is a leather jacket or some shit—swoon over her details.

Let me get semi-serious for a second and maybe straight up recommend to stop looking for girls on the Internet. Spoiler alert, it’s probably not the place to meet your future wife. This might be the biggest problem our generation has when it comes to dating. We don’t try and pursue relationships that begin in the real world as much as we used to. We need to stop the online stalking. (And, uh, the IRL stalking too please.) That girl that sits in front of you in your lecture class would probably rather meet you face to face assuming you don’t mention her trip to London that she never actually told you about. Talk to that girl at the bar. Talk to your barista. Talk to your peers. I’ll reiterate, stop being a shy little bitch about everything.

Take all my shitty advice with a grain of salt and test out some game tomorrow. Frankly I’m writing this because I’m sick of some of the complaints that come from the blogosphere types about their lack of luck with the ladies. The girl you’ve talked to on Skype twice didn’t want to move across the country to be your girlfriend? Really? Stop being an idiot. It’s less than likely that you’re gonna wife up some model outside of a fashion show or that “cute in Photobooth pictures” girl with all the Tumblr followers, especially when you don’t even have the confidence to show your face in your WIWT pictures. Go get em’ fellas.

Mitchell Goldstein is a writer and artist living in Brooklyn. Check out his personal blog here and his Twitter here.

Romantic despair, I call it. 

The most wonderful notion of knowing what you need romanticly.
No longer do you go open eyed into every encounter you have with an attractive member of the opposite sex. Instead we stand armed with a checklist of things that are necessary, unecessary or forgivable.

First, forgive me for all my romantic ideals, for my commands. I just want someone to challenge me, as well as meet and overcome all the mental obstacles I build around my heart. I demand, I desire, I deny. I am a Rubik’s cube of romantic opportunity.  I am all intentions, I have plans, I have plans about plans. I will fight, grab and want. I need for you to do the same. Do not tell me you don’t know, tell me what you want. Tell me you want for nothing. Tell me that it is working, or it isn’t. I can’t read you mind, so I say what’s on mine. Blunt, perhaps. Or maybe I just know that moments are precious and if I have expectations then I won’t spend trying to find out what I want. Or finding out you don’t really want me. Fight for me. 

I want a confidante. I want someone who will grab me up and laugh loudly with me. Be foolish with me. Touch my elbow, or arm. Let me know that you, like me, sometimes just have to reach out and touch. Double check, that this, us, is as real as it’ll ever be. I don’t want the moon, don’t throw a lasso over it and bring it to my door. Don’t bring a boombox under my window. Don’t even pick me up after my sister’s wedding when everyone forgot my birthday with your perfect hair and your perfect car Jake Ryan.

Just indulge me on my silly requests. Get my jokes, even when they are horrid. Understand how my “blog” makes me feel. Listen to my music. Kiss me often. Do something with me. Let’s build something, or make something. Hell, let’s invent something. I just want it to be about challenging each other, or understanding the horrible days. Let me cry, I am not pleasant nor pretty when I am snotty and weepy, but just let me get it out. 

Love my pets. Get along with animals, if you don’t I just may have to kick you to the curb. Unconditional love from an animal is something a lot of people don’t understand, but a hell of a lot of people do. I will cook for you, I will come home from a long day and throw on some sweats and botch. I will try to be positive. Our lives are not a J.Crew weekend Lookbooks. I am not always beautiful in the morning, Usually I am not, in fact. 

I am sarcastic. I am sassy, when need be. I will stand up for what I believe. I will fight my own fights. But you having my back is always nice.

I drink beer, and please don’t buy me a miller or bud light. I drink whiskey. I eat meat. I devour salads. I dance, enthusiastically and wildly. 

I want to live in the city, but not too long, I want to settle in the countryside, but not too soon. I want to have a garden. I want to instill the same values my parents instilled into me into my kids. I don’t want to have kids until I am emotionally, and financially ready. 

I want to name them ridiculously old fashioned names like Archer, and Gwendolyn. I want to fall head over heels and yet I don’t want to give up my independence.

I call it romantic despair, and it really just gets more despairing. 

Honestly, I know you, sir, are out there. I know. I feel it when I finish books like The Age of Innocence, I know that once I find you, or you find me, or we are thrown together by the universe that it won’t be perfect. It will be hard, and work. I can’t wait, though because once you get to know me you know if I want something, really really want something, I work damn hard to get it, or as close as I can get. 

(Source: thatkindofwoman)