In recent months the concept of the performative male has been bursting in popularity. I thought it was silly, laughable that even men have to pretend to be into Clairo, read feminist literature, and drink matcha, I already do these things. I thought this, like many memes, would be a mere fad. That was until a Co-op put on a Performative Male Competition on MAC Avenue. I thought it was dumb, but I went anyway, and I lost to some dope with a guitar and a likeness of Timothy Chalamet.
Not saying he didn’t deserve it, but what kind of person learns to play guitar and sing a somehow pitch-perfect rendition of Taylor Swift? If I didn’t know any better, I’d say this was an industry plant to withhold the prize tote bag. I mean, I personally think someone like me deserved it more, arguably, I mean, I’ve only been drinking matcha and listening to Claro and Lady Gaga for 5 years. I literally shared Taylor Swift’s engagement post, and by god, I even offered to split the check on a date in the name of equality, what more could you possibly want?
Like, even doing pilates and yoga didn’t help, I didn’t see that manly twerp do half the poses I did. All those months of reading about the menstrual cycle and 5th wave feminism were wasted; I can’t even return the books anymore. Since then, I sent a strongly worded, beautifully written letter, with a crochet Labubu, demanding a second decision. I sit here with my growing glasses of vodka crans eagerly waiting for justice to be served. Standing tall at 5’11 (arguably 6 feet), waiting to grow my hair out, which in no way is a response that doofuses hair is getting as many compliments as it did.
