We’ve all had to deal with flaky people. And it’s no secret they’re the worst. They bail on plans, take three days to text you back, and jerk you around like you’re stances on important issues and they’re Hillary Clinton. They live by one principle, and one principle only: inconsideration. And thus, are the ultimate narcissists. But perhaps the saddest part of all of this is that we let them affect us. We’re at their beck and call—ready and willing to be flaked on and then come back for some more. And while I’m sure there’s some psychological phenomenon(-a?) that can be attributed to, rather than try to make sense of our masochistic tendencies, let’s just agree that we’ve had enough. Fuck the flakes. Here’s how you deal with them.
Flake on them right back
How do they like it? How’s it feel to be flaked on, huh? Actually they probably won’t care or notice, but as a matter of principle, we’ll treat them how they treat others. #flakeesturnedflakers
cut them out of your life
Snippity SNIP that dead weight. You have to go cold turkey. Otherwise, you’ll be forever caught in their web. Delete their number, destroy any and all evidence of their existence (yes, this applies to burning their house down), and refuse to engage if they contact you. Put yourself into witness protection if you have to. Join Scientology—I don’t care, just whatever it takes to get out from under the flaky hold.
TAKE A HIT OUT ON THEM
Just straight up have them murdered. This may seem drastic, but the world would be better off without them. So, you’re welcome, everybody.
hang out with non-flakes
I know, revolutionary—how about trying to populate your life with decent people instead of those who treat you like you’re disposable? I’ve heard there are a few not-completely-shitty humans out there, so go get ’em. *Hint: start with the Trader Joe’s cashiers (literally any of them—their excellence is unmatched).
If you’re finding it difficult not to get entangled with a flaky person, fill your schedule with a lot of other things so you’ll be left with no time, energy, or head space to focus on them. Take up water aerobics, join a motorcycle club, speed walk with your 94-year old neighbor, FaceTime relentlessly with your dog, pour yourself into your work (LOL…OL), get into a spirited debate with a Hillary supporter which just consists of you repeatedly asking them to justify the Iraq War and them repeatedly saying, “I don’t owe you an explanation,” make a unicorn costume because you’re FUCKING MAGICAL, volunteer to
impart all of your inappropriate advice read to kids, mail glitter bombs to all of your enemies, use all of your sick days on a Golden Girls marathon… The possibilities are endless.
make friends with their friends
Become super close to their inner circle. Just to make a point—(“Even though you don’t seem to value me, other people do. In other words, flake on me and I will replace you, motherfucker.” #onlyBeyoncéisirreplaceable #actuallyapparentlyevensheisn’t #I’myourBeckywiththegoodhair,bitch #Infiltration101).
don’t even start with them
Although you’ve been known to make some pretty terrible decisions, your intuition is sometimes right. So if when you first meet someone, you sense that they’re flaky, don’t even begin a relationship with them, friendship or otherwise. There’s no point in starting something that’s going to eventually reveal itself to just be
you spending hours waiting by the phone, unfulfilled, crying on the bathroom floor a whole lot of nothing. Save yourself the heartache. #NEXT
Featured on News Cult: http://newscult.com/deal-flaky-people/
I’ve always been fascinated by the topic of marriage-induced name changes. Especially as a feminist (not the self-professed kind who will vote for a war criminal just because she has a vagina, but an actual feminist). To me, taking your husband’s name seems a mere tenet of The Patriarchy. So it’s hard for me to justify. But maybe it’s not that simple. Let’s discuss.
To start, what are names for? Identification purposes, mainly. If we didn’t have names, people wouldn’t know how to address us, and communication might break down. Names categorize us—they indicate what family we belong to, oftentimes where we come from, our gender, etc. But more than just logistical purposes, I think names serve to construct the subjective parts of our identity. Like, when a mom and dad decide to name their girl “Cash,” it’s because they want her to be different from the average “Rachel.” They want her to live up to the name she’s given, and I guarantee you that as she grows up, her name will help shape her. There’s no female “Cash” walking around who isn’t tragically hip, effortlessly attractive, and mysteriously unattainable. Rachel, on the other hand, wears lots of predictably solid-colored cotton shirts, has no layers in her hair, and her favorite flower is a red rose (with some white baby’s breath thrown in if she’s feeling frisky).
Names mold our identity so much so that some of us even change the ones we were given. If people feel like their names don’t represent who they are—whether because they’re gendered (or, in my case, androgynous), have some negative societal connotation (“Dick”), or everyone who shares them seems to be a massive tool (like, why is literally every individual named “Emma” a complete narcissist?)—they’ll re-brand themselves. And while I’ve always found this to be a foreign concept, (although to be fair, if my parents had named me Mark Sinclair, I would’ve changed it to Vin Diesel, too—mainly because Mark Sinclair sounds like a stuffy accountant and I don’t think Vin Diesel can do math), I at least respect the autonomy of it.
But when someone changes their last name to their spouse’s, that seems like anything but autonomy. Why basically label yourself as belonging to someone else? And of course the burden to change the name befalls women—but even in the rare cases where the man takes it on (please see: Marco Saldana), I would still argue that it’s wack. Because it signifies possession. And last I checked, humano a humano ownership isn’t considered cool (anyone remember a little thing called slavery?). But seriously. Taking someone’s name is in essence taking on their identity as your own. Why is that necessary?
And back to the gendered nature of it, because it’s impossible to ignore—it’s not that name-changing is problematic just because it’s a way to mark territory, but it is even more so because it is expected of women and not men—and thus just one more way the patriarchy reigns. It signifies that a husband possesses his wife; that she concedes to his ownership by way of his identity. I realize this sounds like some crazy conspiracy theory shit, and that’s because it is! On its face, women changing their last names to match their husbands’ is precisely a methodology of imprisoning them in their gender roles—the docile, subservient, agreeable wives.
I call bullshit. Why is this antiquated tradition continually practiced in our society? I, for one, won’t be changing my last name when I
never get married. And I salute all who’ve kept theirs—way to be strong, independent women who don’t need no man’s name. It is principled stands like this, aimed at establishing equality, that define feminism. (That said, if you were born with the last name “Hitler,” “Bieber,” or “Seaman,” then by all means, change that shit.)
Featured on News Cult: http://newscult.com/should-women-change-their-name-when-they-get-married-lets-discuss/
FUCK PDA. But seriously—fuck PDA. We don’t want to see your disgusting bodies rubbing up against each other in ways that even zoo animals would consider unnatural. If you’re a PDA person, stop. If you’re with a PDA person, cut that dead weight. But if you can’t avoid it, because we live in a terrible world, here’s how to deal with it.
1. Splash water at it
Just hose the PDAers down.
2. Yell “FIRE”
Wherever you are/it is. You need to vacate the premises.
3. Join in
Try to get in on that action. Just start licking one of the people—their cheek is a 7-Eleven Slurpee® and your tongue is the straw (..?). They’re a child and you’re Puck from Glee (too much? too soon? too much too soon? ).They’re a chipotle burrito; (that we can fuck with). Just like get your juices on/in/around/about their juices. #givingjuicingawholenewmeaning #andprepositions #fulldisclosurehadtoGoogle”preposition” #couldonlyrememberthesquirrel/treeexample #alotoffuckinggoodthatdidme
Most people will get uncomfortable and try to get away from you if you stare at them. So ideally they’ll either stop the PDA or just leave when they notice your eyes locked on theirs. Unless they’re a voyeuristic freak, which now that I think of it most PDA people are, so this is a fucking pointless tactic. #ughhh #IDEFYYOU,PDA!
5. Wage a PDA war
Grab who(m?)ever’s nearest you, whether you know them or not, and start macking all over them. #twocanplaythisgame #wewillPDAyouintotheGROUND
If these people are going to put on a show, it’s only right that you get to be the announcer. E.g.:
“And here we have Caitlin pouting and purring like an underfed cat while Nathan exudes his patriarchal, overcompensational gropes and groans in the most unflattering of light.”
Or: “Johnny’s going in for the win, folks—straight down the pants. Annnd we have CROTCH CONTACT. I repeat: crotch contact has been made. Are his hands clean? I’d wager not, but it’s impossible to tell until he resurfaces. Do you think they’ll stop when it’s their turn to order? Or will I have to explain the painfully obvious irony of us being in line at a taco stand?”
Or: “It appears we are bearing witness to a heavy petting session. There’s a lot of tongue happening—if you’re watching at home, you may not be able to appreciate the sheer level of moisture that’s occurring, but rest assured, it’s wetter than Bill Clinton’s dick on a good night.”
Exercise your civic duties and mount a protest so that they can’t escape you until they meet your demands or forcibly extract you. If this means you have to lie down in a puddle of melted Dippin’ Dots and stage a sit-in in the middle of the roller coaster line, so be it. If it means you have to filibuster the movie theater all the way through the end credits, do what you have to do. If it means you’re forced to occupy the bar until the couple adjacent to you learns the meaning of GTFO, be a FUCKING PATRIOT AND DO YOUR JOB, AMERICAN.
Featured on News Cult: http://newscult.com/7-ways-deal-annoying-pda/
Twice. And counting.