In A World Of Body-Shaming, Slut-Shaming, and Pokemon Go-Shaming; Do We Care About Those That Are Chai Latte Shamed?
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Consider this as just another simple query even though it comes from a place almost entirely composed of desperation and the need for validation. I ask because as of late this has become to take residence at the expense of my confidence and well-being and has so far been an offensive presence in my life. You can even go as far to say that, if I could, I would exact retribution of the greatest extent to rid myself of it. I ensure it has the highest Itunes bill imaginable by buying kilos of Pokeballs. I would sabotage the brakes on its car but not to cause its physical harm, but just so that I can slow it down long enough to reach the restaurant before it does so I can steal the reservation it made two weeks before to celebrate its anniversary. I’d tell the police that it give western grip handjobs to random johns in the back of its 2014 Kia Sorrento.

I’d direct the scorn of the local Catholic church at it by telling them that it’s the first word as an infant was “Abortion.”

Who or what is this “it” I keep referring to? Well, “it” is a question and that question is: Does loving Chai Tea Lattes more than mid-morning blowjobs and perfectly prepared French Toast (AT THE SAME DAMN TIME!!) make you a bitch? Or, at the very least, less of a man?

I get the fact that the velvety texture you feel on your lips from the steamed milk can take you to a softer, happier, place whose only comparison would be inside your mother’s womb. I get that the light peppering of cinnamon and allspice can evoke a sense of wonder and childlike glee that the jagged edges of adulthood have been chipping away at for years. I get that the savory, yet supple flavor can give a man an erection that could very well challenge the authority of God himself. Still, does the fact that I enjoy it so much mean that got it wrong, and my lineage is pure bitchmade?

I don’t think so. The insult and its premise are mired in antiquated gendered stereotypes that have long since gone the way of the Dodo and extended periods of direct eye contact during sex. Does a man not deserve to feel fancy? Can he not savor the feeling of being enveloped in a seemingly otherworldly entity that I’ve since aptly named “Oprah’s bathwater”? He can and he will! This year is lousy with the death of beloved celebrities, immeasurable tragedies both foreign and domestic, and general no foreplay fuckery from our national politics and law enforcement institutions. Maybe the sanest thing a man can do at a time like this is to breathe deeply, put on that Selena Gomez song that I can’t remember the name to, but she’s all about touching shit that people only touch after watching a Jamie Lee Curtis Activia commercial, and treat yourself.

Life is hard. Particularly for women, but not of an insignificant amount for men, either. As a man, I try to mitigate that harshness by ingesting a beverage that all but guarantees a quinceanera of flavor is about to take place on my taste buds.  Maybe you should do the same.