A Case for Femcels
To begin, I will do the kind favor of providing a description for Femcel that I found on the internet. Just so we’re on the same page. I am tossing this word around pretty flippantly, and I am conceptualizing it in a very personal way. Obviously the definition I am providing aligns with the way I am using the word. I like imposing meaning on words, just as much as I like imposing meaning on memories and the actions of others. In all cases, I am making myself out to be right. This is a healthy use of critical thinking, bending things so they fit. I like doing that. This whole essay will be me doing that (imposing meaning on memories, on actions, potentially misusing the word femcel, bending myself to fit the definition, bending the word to fit my circumstances). So yes, read below, we are using a definition I agree with, so I can assure you that I know what I am talking about. I have an opinion, and based on the definition I chose to provide, my opinion is right. It is about myself, so what does it matter anyways?
A femcel (short for female involuntary celibate) refers to a woman who feels unable to participate in romantic or sexual relationships due to factors like societal standards, personal struggles, or self-perception. The term originates from the broader incel (involuntary celibate) community but has developed its own meaning and discourse.
While the term incel is often associated with online subcultures that can be misogynistic or extremist, femcel spaces tend to focus more on self-deprecating humor, critiques of beauty standards, and discussions about loneliness and desirability. However, like all internet terms, its meaning can shift depending on context—some people use it seriously, others ironically, and some reclaim it as a form of identity or solidarity.
I am not going to make femcel my entire identity. I am just decentering men right now, and this definition happens to encompass my circumstances (Existing in the World, Single, No Say in the Matter Really, but decidedly OK with it, Prefering it even).
I talk about men alot for someone who is decentering men. I know this. I guess it’s due to the fact that being desirable seems to give you street-cred or something. This is tied to evolution, obviously (probably). I noticed this from a young age. I had my first kiss in summer going into 7th grade, boys sometimes had crushes on me (usually the wrong boys, my guy-friends, and rarely the guy I liked, but on one or two occasions, the guy I liked liked me back, at least for a few weeks), and I felt I had been perfectly situated to get baseline middle-school street cred. Of course, some girls were rolling in attention, because they barely had an awkward phase. I got some extra attention from the older-boys on the beach, because they said I had a wagon. I looked back at my middle school bikini pics recently, remembering that. I’m not quite sure what they were talking about. But that was my little claim to attention, so I was really into the whole call-out at the time. Very clout of me to have a little middle-school ass. To be known for it. Hood famous for my big fat seventh grade ass. (I got made fun of when I went through my pushup bra phase, though, because with all the ass I was packing, I had a very obviously flat chest). I will include pushupbra pics, for fun, but no bikini pics, because that feels a little too perverted. Disclaimer: my boobs have literally never looked like that. I have no idea what I was thinking, pulling the straps on my bra as tight as they would go. I thought I was fooling people, I was hungry for boy attention. The early 2000s were all about b00bs. I was being greedy, because I knew what a$$ attention felt like. I wanted more power, and more clout, and more street cred. Hence the b00bs. Boy attention does things to you. Sinister things. I don’t get enough boy attention now, to know for sure, but judging by these photos, its definitely for the best. I’m more rooted in reality when I am not doing things for the male gaze.
Anyways, sure, I want street cred, sue me. Why the hell else did I start my social media addiction as soon as Facebook became a thing. I wanted to wear my push-up bra and take digitals and get likes and rates from boys on my Facebook wall, that’s why.
It also doesn’t hurt to get compliments and attention. But since men aren’t giving this to me (Fuck You, Men) I will have to give it to myself. Which actually seems better, because everyone is a feminist these days. Plus, I think guys repeat compliments. I string together some real poetic lines about myself when I’m forcing self-love journaling or holding my inner-voice at gunpoint. Men just say stuff that they can tell any other girl. Not very shakespearean, not very custom. Cheap compliments honestly. Don’t even miss men, or those lame ass compliments, now that I swore off them! (When you claim you’re swearing off something that you don’t have / can’t get, it is very empowering! Trust me!) So Femcelhood. It’s a very duh-moment for me. I’m like, taking my power back. I’m vibrating with all the extra power I’m storing, actually. I’m glowing.
I talk about men still. Often. And so what. I’m taking my power back, and if I want to talk about people who don’t even know if I’m alive or dead, then I reserve my right to do so. Plus, if I let you know I am talking about men in a decentered way, you can follow along with the understanding that I’m being very joke-y and very unaffected. I am not emotionally talking about men, I am just providing anecdotes, or observations, or rehashing the same memory for the 50th time. I’m storytelling, actually. All meaning died on the third or fourth time I told this story out loud. I was still emotionally invested for the next 30 times that I mulled things over in my head. When I get back around to talking about whatever-guy-situation out loud, you can really see my growth, because I definitely care less than I did the first 4 times I talked about it! I won’t lie and say I don’t care at all, because the people and memories I don’t care about don’t get brought up to begin with. Anyone I don’t talk about I have forgotten about. My brain is very beautiful like that. For example, I think my body count is 5 right now. An omiscnient narrator would tell you my body count is actually a higher number. Maybe they are right, but I only give my thoughts and breath to approx. 5 of the men on my roster, therefore the rest are dead, may they rest in peace. (I mean that, they clearly didn’t do me wrong enough to leave a lasting mark, I hope they are peaceful, whoever they are).
See, that’s the thing about decentering men. Men still exist, and they exist relative to me, but they are not the center of my universe. I am trying to center myself instead. I allow mediocre men to exist on the plane (decentered) because I’m still working through these thoughts and ideas I have about them, and myself. Basically I am trying to understand myself as the center of their universe. In that way, I am centering myself. It is a very healthy practice, actually. To think: God I am so beautiful and worthy and fabulous and leave such a lasting impression on so-and-so. I think that way enough and suddenly I stop self-loathing and being insecure. Suddenly I begin to believe how great I am. I am great, as long as I am the center of the universe to a few men I’ve been with. Only the real insecure-ego-maniacs will understand. I’m going to rebrand it as wounded-divine-feminine, because that sounds better. Ego-maniac is soooo masculine.
Seeing that there has been a great deal of time and space between me and men (like, any man) there should be absolutely 0 reason why anyone should or would take me seriously when I talk about them. My friends who have known me since college are impressed with my growth in the de-centering of men. I used to get real tizzied about the what ifs. In college, I let my anxious and hopeful mental chatter flow freely. It was like a tick. I would ask and re-ask what certain things meant. Does he like me? Does he not like me? Type of thing. But like, really irrelevant stuff. Imparting meaning on actions that blatantly had nothing to do with me. He hasn’t texted me all semester, does he like me? Is this a game? No, he does not like you. He has not texted you because he has not thought of you. He is two years older, he sleeps around with half of the school, you are not on his mind, why does he exist at center of yours? He permeates your thoughts everyday, you hear him in music and see him in the trees, it was never romantic, why are you doing this? Why did you just ask about him three times in the past day? He probably never asked about you once, since he met you. Did you know that?
Any current man I do bring up has not broken through the virtual barrier, and they probably won’t. That is my favorite space for men to live. In my phone (and in music, and in the trees. But not really in the trees. That part was a joke). They can give me texting attention and compliments, and I don’t have to get nervous to see them IRL for the first time. I don’t have to worry about what they tell their friends about me, because they’ll look very freakish if they have to admit “well, I have never actually met her”. In this same vein, I am able to be as freakish as I please. I also don’t have to worry about men seeing my pores, or seeing food in my teeth if we happen to eat in front of each other (God, I hate doing that). I don’t have to give myself razor burn shaving my badussy every day (I always got waxed in middle school and high-school, pre-sex, but for some reason when it mattered, I stopped getting waxed. No logic, just vibes. It hurts. I don’t think men who I casually date deserve the pain. It is a protest, on an energetic quantum level).
From this you should have gathered that I am not an active dater. Depending on who I’m talking to, I will phrase my anti-dating femceldom as being “old school” because I’m “not on the apps”. For the record, I have paused, deleted and redownloaded both Hinge and Raya countless times. But right now, they’re deleted, so I’m old school for sure.
When I got accepted to Raya and I was fckng thrilled. It had nothing to do with the upper echelon men I could now swipe through. No, because the UX of raya sucks, and it costs money, and I’ve seen some of these guys on Hinge. Same shit, different font type deal. The whole subscription model feels very desperado (yuck!) Plus, the good ones never messages me. Or if they did, their message was weird, and I was like: Fuck You. You ruined my fairytale. You know?
I was excited to get accepted to Raya, mostly so I could brag to people that I too am upper-crust and very sexy. I have gone on a few dates, super selective, because I always feel the need to have a good first date story in my first date log. This is because I go on so few of them. Usually these first dates turn into a few months of love bombing. I try to squeeze a lot into this time period, to keep fodder for storytelling. Because dating is the only thing that makes anyone interesting. The good news is, I am a master of perspective, and I can keep things fresh by bringing up different aspects of the situationship for about 6 months to a year. (It typically takes that long for a new man to crawl through the phone and situate himself in my real life, which then lasts a few weeks to months, which then turns into memories that could last months to years, depending how fast the cycle refreshes itself, and how interesting he made those months). I am usually tasked with keeping things interesting. That is because I am interesting. That is why I must be a femcel. I must preserve my interestingness. Not everyone deserves it, honestly. They get to tell stories too. I don’t want to be the main character of theirs, or vice versa. I want to be the main character of my own! No supporting roles, no rubbish actors. Would totally detract from the plot.
More than the exciting prospect of dating (dating is not exciting to me) I was looking forward to being in the club of people-who-go-on-dates. I’ve spent most of my life single asf, aside from a few texting-things I keep active (I’ll address this later). I’m always in a position where I must admit that I have gone on 0 dates lately. We love to talk about our dating lives, and I really don’t have updates. I know it’s not all-that-bad because people know I’m a worthy candidate. Sure, if someone chose me then I’d be more valid. I like to think that femceldom has made it less obvious that I want to prove myself to people. I don’t feel the need to be validated by being picked right now, maybe later (hopefully never). I’m like, sooo tapped out of that game, I am so unaffected, I am so self-assured. I’m tapped out of trying to convince people I’m cool, that I’m wifey, that I’m worthy, and I’m tapped out of the apps, because I’m not a prime candidate for dating (despite being so great on paper, just don’t look at my digital footprint).
Most of my friends are not single. Many people feel pressured by this. I do not. These friends don’t update me on their dating life. Like, things are pretty stable. So I don’t really have to show up with a bundle of stories or updates of my own dating life. Which is great, because its non existent. I am also very aware of the fact that you can’t just add bf to cart. I prolly wouldn’t, even if you could, because there are pros and cons. Right now I only see cons. Hence the femceldom.
So yes, I am still valid, despite no bf, no bf in cart, no prospects, no date. How? Because I look good on paper, I am employed, I am cultured (Relative), I have a college degree, I’m confident with parents, and I’m a good looking girl, I have facetune.
I am not a prime candidate for dating because I am still learning about myself, I am growing, I am changing, and I want to do that alone. I am independent, and I want to travel. In physics, the observer effect proves that on a quantum level, things change when observed. I’d rather not change under observation of a new person right now. I’d rather not learn about a new person right now, either. I’m observing myself, I’m learning about myself, I’m figuring out what I like and like to do, I don’t care to learn those things about someone else before I’ve got them figured out for me. I would say this is maturity but it more holds the vibe: me first! me first!
So yes, I’m very busy, I cannot date. It feels good to feel busy and self-involved. It feels powerful. God, my femceldom is making me so powerful. I bet this is how men feel all the time!
With dating comes sex. So it goes. I don’t want to date. It’s not fun for me. Getting laid regularly: awesome. I love it. I had visions of being a sexed up twenty something since I was a kid. When I had that (sex), it wasn’t even chic. It was actually very fratty and collegiete, not european, because I don’t live in europe, and I mostly had sex with frat boys (or alt-boys, which is a different but similar vibe). But I’ve hit a point in my life where I actually would rather abstain from sex than suffer in the ways I find myself suffering when I am intimate. To be fair, the suffering doesn’t happen during the fling or the intimacy (I like vanilla sex. Sorry. Not into that freaky shit).
It’s the uncertainty in the relationship that is suffering, and then once it’s gone, more suffering, but imagined (dare I say things are always most painful in the imagination? Or do I just participate in a lot of self torture? Maybe I live in my head too much. IDK how to stop. Maybe I’d be happier if I stopped. Maybe I’d be Married. But I don’t want marriage right now, so I guess I might as well think. If I do get married will I have to stop thinking in order to be happy?).
I won’t even like a guy much when we’re seeing each other. The second they’re not around anymore, I’m all ego, I imagine the attachment, it was all so much more romantic than it seemed, wasn’t it? Maybe it was very cinematic afterall, since my memory is so hazy and everything is so glowy in my minds eye. I am bored now, with all my new freed-up lonely-time, and I’m thinking more, and I start imposing meaning. If we listen to the Buddhists, that’s where suffering comes from. The attachment. The buddhists would love my femcel philosophy. They would not love how many old attachments I am still able to hold onto, despite my claims.
Whatever. It doesn’t matter, because no new men are coming into my life. I am decentering men, instead of men not choosing me. See? It sounds better. And if I tack on: “Well, I didn’t even want to be chosen anyways”. Plus, if a man did try to choose me right now, I probably wouldn’t even take the bait. I can’t speak for future me, or predict the future. I haven’t decided when my deadline is for the decentering men era. But, it seems very tiresome to answer to anyone right now, except for my boss, my closest friends, and sometimes my parents.
My life is more peaceful when I embrace this way of seeing myself. This isn’t exactly the fate I dreamt up when I was a little girl. But I have accepted it, I kind of like being this way, and I don’t see things changing any time soon.
I was not born a femcel, and I don’t think I became one until about 8 months ago (around the last time I had sex).
The way my dynamic with men goes has not changed much. I am always texting someone. Either a new-contender, or someone recycled from the dredges of my roster. Like, I cast my fishing line back into the same tiny pond, because I know what kind of familiar garbage I will reel in. The purpose is served: a mindless activity. Texting. The new contenders are likely to wind up in my garbage lake, too. Like, I have yet to date prince charming, and I know that when I’m in it. I know a frog when I see one. Frogs are still fun, and I like to play-pretend. I kiss frogs not because I am looking for a prince. I’m just like, gross and chilling with reptiles. But no longer! No longer. I could loop warts into this metaphor somehow and tie it in a bow about femceldom but I don’t even care to do that, honestly. Like, point is: men are so decentered right now, frog or prince charming, I just really cant be bothered.
But yes, I can be bothered, and while we’re on the subject of my dating history (seemingly my favorite subject, no?), we should really dive in! I have admittedly and even proudly declared my propensity to love-bomb. I paint these frogs in pastels. Then it rains and it is revealed that once again, I’ve put lipstick on a pig. That’s fine. I knew that. And I keep equating the men I’ve dated to animals, which is a problem. I was just only even playing around with animals to have a plot for a little, and it was fun while it lasted, bla bla.
It’s very powerful, to paint something romantic when you’re in it, as opposed to after. When I revisit the memories in the future, when I’m desensitized from bringing it up 50,000 different times, I am reminded I’m dealing with pig as pig, no lipstick, this man is frog, I always knew there was no prince. That is the point where I can reach out and text, and be entertained by my happy little pig. My pig is so happy to see me! It’s not dreamy play-pretend love plot fun. More like, rough house fun. But it is something to pass the time. It is kind of femcel behavior, see? Disclaimer: while I do love texting my roster, instead of sounding like an asshole, I could also say something like: I shared memories and intimate moments with these men who I respect (or respected at a point in time), and it’s nice to check in and see how they’re doing. I enjoy shooting the shit with a familiar voice. I hope good things happen to people, aside from the fact that it kind of has to do with me, because our plots overlapped for a sec. Is that true? I don’t know. Depends what kind of mood I’m in.
So I haven’t gotten laid in awhile. That is also my choice (we tell ourselves things).The getting-to-have sex part isn’t difficult, which is what I believe separates femcels and incels. It is just difficult to find someone remotely decent to have sex with. Of course, before my earnest pursuit of femceldom, I did not care about whether the person I was having sex with was decent. I cared whether I was the center of their universe. I wanted to be their dream girl. They were not my dreamboy, but what does that matter? Because it was so easy to find a bunch of not-so-decent men to go to bed with, I have never gone more than a year of celibacy since first losing my V-card. I’m bad at math, but according to my calculations, recycling is good for keeping the body count # down. Recycling is less-good for self-respect and dignity, but things like self-respect are reserved for Femcels (yay! I love being a femcel). When I was getting laid-more, I was not yet ready to become a femcel. My sobriety was very similar to this. Thinking: being a mature adult is for super boring losers, and partying and blacking out is for really fun hot people. I won’t elaborate, but I will allow you to draw the parallel.
Now that I am a femcel, I have a few months to go before I hit the one-year celibate mark and earn my femcel stripes. Please don’t underestimate the sacrifice here. I am a generally horned-up individual, when I have access to a warm and willing body. I’m sure my sex-drive will resume. Only I will have to tack on descriptors like: pleasant, smart, hard-working, and relatively attractive ahead of warm-body. Seems challenging, which is why I’m going easy on myself and abstaining all together #femcel .
I used to liken my sex drive to that of a teenage boy. Since then I realized that is very not-lady-like to say, and I stopped talking about sex as much. It’s probably also due to the fact I am finding sex harder to come by. It is also due to a few other more important reasons. One being that everyone I have sex with becomes a part of my narrative. So far my narrative looks nothing like the storybook rom-com dream I had when I was growing up. Even when I got more self conscious about the kinds of boys that would like me (or whether boys would like me at all) I still got let down. I wasn’t really the object-of-affection as much as I thought I’d be. I changed the type of guy I liked. I partially did this to make sure there was no painful overlap with my friends, who often liked the same boys as I did. Still, I didn’t really land the alternative, subjectively attractive guys either. I stopped declaring crushes out loud when I noticed that I wasn’t getting what I wanted. I didn’t want anyone to know what I wanted if I didn’t already have it, and I sure as hell didn’t want anything that didn’t want me.
I wound up with things I didn’t want. But I wasn’t empty handed. Is that a good thing? I don’t believe so. I now realize I’d rather have free hands than holding something useless. Unrelated, I barely have the patience to find a trash can for an empty iced coffee cup. My friends have carried my trash scraps for me because my anxiety holding whatever-wrapper in my hands is palpable. This is not even metaphor. It is my very real, annoying behavior. The purpose of my mentioning this is to explain the kind of person I am. It can also be a metaphor. I don’t care.
So, men dont apparate infront of me like they seemed to before. But I also didn’t like anyone who did apparate, anyways. Maybe they still kind of show up, but now I realize they’re just not good enough. God I love being a femcel.
I have an expected cadence: about one man pursues me every 1.5 years. He gives what I estimate to be 75% effort in his pursuit, and that is enough for me to entertain, as long as I have to do nothing but receive attention. I put my little fished-out pig trash back in my lake for later, and let the new contender entertain me. This is a very unromantic way of looking at dating, and very femcel. Do you see that?
In college, there are frat parties and classes and a million ways to get to know the people around you. In highschool, same thing. Slim pickings, but people find sweethearts. In adulthood there is work, and I have always been advised not to dip my pen in the company ink. Like, how awkward if things go south. Unless, of course, retirement is on the table, based on this hookup. I have kind of registered that in order for that to be the case, the employee would have to be far more senior, and likely much older than you. They probably have a family, or had one, or something is maybe wrong with them because they never got one at the age people tend to. So if anyone were curious about my take on dating people you work with, I’d say its a matter of checks and balances. I think in adulthood, relationships are more up to fate. Grocery store aisle, meet cute, whatever. That is another reason why I’m femcel. It’ll happen if and when it’s meant to happen. I don’t write the divine plot, and I don’t intend to. Seems like a lot of work. I’d rather something fall into my lap. And that happens, doesn’t it? So whatever. I’m not going on dates. God will drop man in my lap, or he won’t. I won’t be paying attention, because I decided to stop, so God will have to make it really obvious. And that sounds preferable, honestly!
No one is supposed to live in their head as much as I opt to. It seems like most of my intimate relationships have existed, largely, in my head. This is insane behavior, and I can’t exactly stop the habit, so again, I must abstain all together and be femcel. To avoid living in my head.
Of course, in the way that most girls do (I hope most girls do this) I will imagine a complete identity for my beloved. My beloved is sometimes (usually) a man with no name. I only saw the back of his head for 30 seconds in a crowded bar, but I love him, we are destined to be together. I won’t say a word to him. He won’t even look in my direction. He never even lays eyes on me. It’s all very romantic!
With that, I will wind down a theory-heavy post about me not getting laid with two meaningless anecdotes. In both anecdotes, I did some world-building and character development in a way that was extremely out of touch with reality. In both cases, I lived in my little fantasy world for a few months, before coming-to. I hope you will read these little stories think: oh wow, I understand why she stopped doing this! Then you will walk away from this blog post as big supporter of my femceldom. I thank you in advance. #Femcel
In college, my first beloved was quiet, and very very pale. He was in the fraternity I liked, in the pledge class no one liked. Easy prey. He was from the burbs of Chicago (I later learned he was from a small town 3 hours from Chicago). I knew nothing of the burbs of Chicago when I first got to Villanova, but I was quickly informed that rich people live there. This was confusing to me, because the very very small amount of mental real estate Chicago took up in my brain before college had nothing to do with money. If I ever thought about Chicago at all. See, college is for learning. Anyways, from this information, I deduced that the object of my affection was filthy fucking rich. I started to think more about him, his family, their vacations. How nice, I thought, would it be to raise our family very far from Chicago, but visit their mansion on occasion, and raise our kids with a cultured background filled with trips to Chicago, which apparently is a very wealthy and fascinating city! I decided I would have sex with this rich Chicago Aristocrat, and inheret many rubies and diamonds when we got married. I mostly only saw him when I was very, very wasted. No one else was paying him much attention, so he was very amused by the increase in drunken exchanges. I was never soooo forward as to reveal my intentions (yes I was). But he eventually got the hint, and invited me to a formal. Of course, I went manic before that event, which is a given when you live in a land of delusion and substance abuse. I returned to school to learn some very devastating news. My beloved prince charming was not a wealthy socialite from the suburbs of Chicago. He was from a farm town, and he lived on a corn-field. “Does he own the corn field?” I asked, crestfallen. No, he did not own the cornfield. Still, I had sex with him anyways. The heavy association-work I did was enough to deem him worthy. If I only lived in my head, I’d be a Chicago princess. And in my head I can be.
In the summers my parents always made me get a job. One summer I worked at a Juice bar attached to a health-food-market. There was a deli-case, and a kitchen in the back. My beloved was a quiet chef with a mustache (swoon). His nickname was little peep, because he had the same dark brooding eyes as my favorite goth rapper, lil Peep (rest in peace). I wouldn’t STFU about little peep that summer. My friends and my family all heard about him. Sometimes, at work, little peep and I exchanged glances. They meant nothing to a normal person, but to me, they held great meaning. The most romantic thing happened one day, a few weeks before I quit that job. I dropped an entire tub of whole carrots in the walk-in refrigerator. Little peep was rounding the corner and came running to my rescue. Together, we cleaned up the big carrots, and washed them in the sink. This was a very noble deed, and it confirmed little peeps undying love for me. At the end of the summer, little peep’s sous chef (he was the main chef, how Hot) found out I had a crush. First of all, she was disgusted. “He is 45 years old” she told me, thinking that information would stop my yearning 19 year old heart. When I told her he “looks young for 45, I thought he was 30” she laid more devestating news on me: “he is not the main chef, he is also a sous chef” (what the fuck?) (no one had told me he was the main chef, I just guessed) “…and he writes poetry. He brings it in and reads it to us, against our will…” I winced as I tried to chew on that information, make it fit into the picture I painted of little peep. My world was spinning, and our future together was crumbling. I tried to make sense of things out loud, and my coworker dropped the final bomb: “It’s bad poetry”. Like bad on purpose? “No, he is just really bad at poetry”. It’s one thing to be a 45 year old grocery store deli case chef, it’s another thing to write poetry. To write bad poetry, even as a billionaire, may be a deal breaker for me. You’re a man. No one is making you write poetry. Please. You’re a man. If you’re going to do something, be good at it. This world was built for you. It should be EASY for you to be good at things. This may have been when I stopped imagining men to be fantastical. I realized they were piggies, to be decorated with pastel paint.
So when I say I talk about a boy over and over in a way that doesn’t make sense, until it is eventually desensitized, that I what I mean. Like, I am still talking about both of these men. I am publishing Great Works of Art about them. We’ve been Romeo and Julietting in my head, for the past 7 years. I’m bringing up ghosts at the dinner table with friends. They full well know I haven’t talked to the ghost-boys for however-many-years. They let me talk, because they know I’m just being creative. I’m also a femcel, and I have nothing else to talk about. Femcels get to play pretend. It’s a fun thing, as long as Femcels are self aware: this is play-pretend, not reality. If another femcel is doing the same thing as me, but thinks its reality, then we are different breeds of femcels. There must be facets to the definition. My femceldom is playful, self aware, smart, and fun. I could be not-a-femcel if I had low standards and needed help hanging things on the wall. But my little brother lives nearby, and he could probably do it.
There are studies on femcels, and when I skimmed over the summary, seems like a group I want to be a part of. A bunch of smart ladies.
And I will be a little honest here, a final dose, the insecure side of why I am a femcel:
When I think of myself, I am split into a million personalities. None of them are cohesive. I have my funny side, my philosophical side, my goofy side, my giggly side, my girly side, my quiet side, my awkward side, my self conscious side, my dorky side. Someone has to be patient to get to all of these sides, and it is important that they see all of them before they decide something romantic about me. I get worried if someone sees too much of one side, they will forget the other sides exists, or worse, never learn about the other sides at all. Worse yet, for someone not to learn about the bad sides before they opt in. I’d be, and have been, really concerned when someone only sees my best sides. Like yeah, I’m really outgoing and when I’m on a roll I can be really funny and engaging (notice how I said really funny? yeah. I’m in a generous mood. If you clocked that.) But have you seen my awkward side? Like, now that I am comfortable to be funny infront of you, I’ll probably always gravitate towards you, and feel safe to have a good time around you, and want to shoot the shit, but please catch me being awkward just so you know that I can be. Then decide if you like me.
I have a lot going on. I don’t really want to have to put a thick layer of icing on myself to be presented like a cake. I am like a tea-time assortment of goodies. They’re mostly delicious, and some are pretty but not very tasty, and vice versa, and some bits the chef just got carried away, the flavors were experimental, and some people love that shit but its not for everyone. And I’m not expecting every fatty to run in there and try everything on the tray. And what if they only try the kinda meh little cookies, or tasted the pretty cakes that had too much fondant to taste good? They wont understand because they were not gluttonous and didn’t try it all. They missed out on those really delicious bits.
God forbid though, if someone only tries the delicious bits. They got the insider tips on what’s best, from someone who knew. Or they did their research.
What if they knew about the experimental flavors, because the chef told them, and explained his vision. Then they’re like, that was creative, chef. It sounds delicious, chef. I really like how thoughtful you were, and even if I don’t like the taste, I really appreciate the perspective, and they’re visually appealing, and the whole thing is wonderful. Like as if they’re a critic who was paid off to write a good review. That seems worse. Like sweet, but wrong. It freaks me the most. Hence why I’m femcel. (what an odd metaphor).
*Disclaimer
By claiming my new identity as a femcel, I am not trying to radicalize young women to join me in femceldom. I don’t know why aligning with femceldom makes me feel like I’m claiming a political party (something I haven’t done yet). I don’t want there to be any confusion there. I’m very grab-and-go with words, definitions, opinions, identities. I usually believe something because I decide that for whatever reason, I want to, not because I have done my due diligence. I choose to build up big fantastical worlds, stemming from separate ideas, an entire sub reality; I live entirely in my head.This is easily triggered, by almost anything. I think a lot, it’s fun for me, I know what reality is, but I prefer not to live there. That is adult creativity. That is also why I am confused often. Like, coming back to earth and realizing I blurred the lines a bit. It fucking sucks. Not even that my reality is always better. No, half the time it is not even good. I imagine great tragedies befalling my kingdom. I say things like “befalling my kingdom”. But that’s called having fun, and having an imagination. I also imagine true-real incels say things like befalling-their-kingdom, but they’re being serious, and I am not. I am being whimsical, and playful, and no one can tell when I’m kidding or being dead-ass, and I am always going to say I am either-or based on whether it makes me look good or not. Like no, I’m not being dead-ass when I am imagining myself as a princess in a kingdom. But like, if you want to be in femcel kingdom, it’s really great here.
So yes, coming from a girl who used to wear pushup bras and arch my back in a semicircle for the ass Facebook pics, I am a femcel now. And I’m back online, Putting Myself On , again. Only this time it is not for boys at all. That is obvious, because any guy who has hit on me post-Jar Jar Binks has made a point to tell me my speed and my shimmy are unnerving. Which is fine, I’m not an idiot, I know what guys like. They like middle school girls in push up bras. (joke). I know what they like, and it is not what I’m doing. And I do not care. You know why? Vengeance. No men gave me street cred. Femceldom gave me the space and the freedom to be a Cringelord Shitposter, shimmying at a million miles an hour, writing borderline cringe psuedo-poetry with reckless abandon. not performing for the male gaze, but just doing What-the-fuck-I-feel-like. In fact, it has been brought to my attention that a handful of guys that I’ve dated see my stuff on the internet, and they “don’t get it”. Of course they don’t. I’m shite at picking guys to date. Or maybe shite guys pick me, and I just go along with it (more accurate) and that is just another high-level argument for my Femcelhood.
Thx for hearing me out on this <3
