Tag Archives: cosmo

fuck you, cosmo. fuck you.

I found the October issue of Cosmo at the gym and for the first time in ages I tried to leaf through it whilst sweating my weight on the Crosstrainer (It’s a sort of birthday prep; hating myself on gym equipment)

Anyway. A couple of things pissed me off, which is remarkable really because the only reason I picked up the bastard rag was because it boasted 160 seasonal shoe options and by fuckit, I feel that I deserve a new pair of foot-wrappings. I could only have semi read four pages of text at the most.

In trying to find these shoes (spread over 6 or so pages- pathetic) I landed on a page of copy broken up into brief, bite sized chunks of digestible bullshit. I read the first two or so sentences of each one before realising they were tackling one big issue as opposed to embarrassing stories or whatnot. Indeed, (for me) reading whilst exhausting myself is like trying to talk and laugh. It’s just one or the other, which is why pictures and headlines are more attuned to my skill set when I’m bouncing around.

I finally realised that this entire page of copy was dedicated to coaxing men into screwing you a second time, moments after the first. “Ha” I thought and wondered what they could tell girls to do to prevent the chemical burst that sends most men (and women) into a merry coma having been (correctly) fucked. It’s either on the cards or not.

First, the article was a dupe because half of the page’s paragraphs served to explain that a) sex makes people tired b) it’s a chemical thing and c) some other shit. Maybe there was more to it, but like I said: the first sentence was usually enough.

My rapidly flailing attention hit upon this: “do a saucy strip tease or touch yourself in front of him”, which is funny in itself because it both drew me in and switched me off, immediately. I don’t know; I was sort of hoping for something more honest and realistic “prevent sleep by turning on every light and elbowing him in the ribs. Take his moment of being caught off guard to put on some Enya at full volume or shout YOU’RE LATE FOR WORK!” then get his attention by doing a sexy dance (snort) or frig yourself whilst standing at the foot of the bed with your mouth dangling open. And good luck.

I like to imagine girls touching themselves in frustration (the angry kind, not sexual kind) and failing to coax their boyfriends from deep sleep and just deciding to finish the job themselves, happily and noisily. (winning?) Hey, why not go two more times? As long as you’re awake.

I remember reading cosmo wen I was 13 and I suppose I should thank “them” for giving me more than I ever bargained for. Indeed, I learned how to suck a dick (long before ever having to face one) when all I wanted was shoes and Oreos. On that note, did women EVER freeze grapes before falling to their knees? Not only does it say “I prepped for this” but it also says “I feel like I need to jazz up my act. I got this from a magazine, along with my rubbed-on perfume”

Returning to the magazine I had in front of me, I pinched a chunk of pages and threw them to one side. The next article I landed on (lucky) was an interview with Fearne Cotton, who I have since decided was better off talking idle shit on telly than personal shit with Cosmo.

She suggested her mother’s mantra to keep afloat: Lipstick, Mascara, Smile!
Apparently (and feel free to draw your own conclusions here) no matter how down you feel, you’ll soon bullshit yourself into feeling happy if you wear a false rouge smile plastered across your face. She ACTUALLY said this. I’m so glad my mother isn’t an asshole.

On the topic of men, hers being new (note: NEW) she suggested girls remain ladylike and mysterious throughout their relationship by abstaining from wearing tracksuit bottoms (how else do we get thin?) or burping (how else do we amuse ourselves?) as if these two things fall into the same category anyway.

Does she live with her boyfriend? Will she still “treat every day like a red carpet occasion” when she’s trying to make her own mucky period knickers disappear from the wash basket in their shared home? When he’s around? Wearing his own stinking human things with eye bogies and dried toothpaste on his chin?

I used to think she was likeable.

“Just popping out to empty the bins – pass me my Prada”
Fuck. Off.

I suppose if this was a men’s magazine I would have felt duly ashamed, vowed to change my ways OR become a lesbian (more appealing and infinitely more doable) but since it wasn’t, all I could think was this:

“If Cosmo were a real girl, I’d walk up to that stupid dick-sucking-extraordinaire, five-rounds-in-one-night, mixes-vintage-with-classic-cool idiot and laugh in her face.

I’d stand there, in my old decaying gym gear, with the sweat saturating my top and pooling on my arse and point and laugh. And I’d probably even spray her with corn flakes or pork pie, depending on how much of a real woman I decided to be that day.”

Stupid bitch.

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