This is just a quick memo for all you high school members of the male species.
Especially the ones hitting on me as I escape society for an afternoon woodsy run.
Hello, children. My name is MissAshleyPants. And I’m here to shed some light on the very important topic of “cougars”. Ya see, I get that it’s nice to have a notch in your belt carved deeply by the sharp point of a novelty screw. Something outta the norm. And I get that it’s currently popular for that novelty screw to be a woman who’s got a decade or more on you. I mean, back in my day (and speaking of days, I never thought I’d see the one where I’d ever actually say that phrase) it was about MILFs – the modernized Mrs. Robinson. From “American Pie” to “Stacy’s Mom” (who had got it going on), it was all about getting into the same place your buddy came out of. And while change of a new age can be bewildering for chicks like this bish living that grandma life, I’ll admit: it’s nice to see you guys have raised the bar by lowering the age limit a little. However it appears that in this easy access technology era, Auto Correct induced illiteracy isn’t the only ignorance error your generation seems to be chronically making.
(Okay to be fair, Auto Correct’s making all of us dumb. Even me.)
But, the point is, your kind’s also never actually learned what it means to be a cougar.
As a nearly 31-year-old, I can’t speak to what it means on an application level because A.) I’m not into people with less experience than I’ve got and B.) Point A. disqualifies me from said title altogether. Let me clarify: In the wild, cougars are predators. They hunt the prey, get what they want, and then it’s onto the next meal. And you know what? The social definition’s not so different, darlings. To be a cougar, you must “actively pursue” younger men. Never vice versa. So that little prospective notch in your belt (covering something just as tiny and incapable of satisfying me as the inexperienced and nubile bits of body and brain surrounding it) would mean nada even if you got it. Even if someone like me – a woman who’s a disgusting amount of years your senior – went pedo psychotic and came after you, it’d still not be a wildcat win for you. Wanna know why? Because, by definition, that means you’re just the prey. All you did was volunteer as tribute. Doesn’t make you any cooler. Just a suicide mission. And that metaphor carries on over pretty nicely to your older years, seeing as the experience with an old bish would pro’lly eff you up later on. (Read the VICE article on that). Also, you’ll look pretty dumb in front of your friends when I laugh in your face (like I did yesterday – which I promise wasn’t meant to be cruel but was entirely a reflexive response to your ridiculousness.)
In a way, you lose trifecta-fail style here. No matter what.
And, let me assure you, you’re embarrassing yourselves by hitting on too-old-for-you chick who’s just trying to enjoy a fckkng run in solitude in the evening. Don’t be fooled. I may be a child woman on a spiritual path. But if I happen to be jogging on that path the next time you catcall me while getting stoned with your friends, I’ll gently remove your head, spine intact, and serenely consume your skull like a Cracker Barrel lollipop. Because you’re killing my old lady high. Plus, as I said before, you can’t go after the hunter. They have to snipe you. You must be chosen. So, in a way, what you’re doing is just as bad as the girls in your peer group campaigning for prom queen. So, do you see now exactly how it’s embarrassing for you on multiple levels to hit on an old hag?
That said, if you’re still this desperate, I’ll make you a deal: if you pay me a decent amount, I’ll hand you a fake number and pretend it’s mine next time you’re with your buddies – so that you can look cool in front of them. Which let’s face it, is the whole aim of cougar poaching to begin with. (You can’t tell me you just woke up one day and decided you were bored of young, taut, bronzed seventeen year old cheerleader and soccer bodies.) But that’s where it ends, dear. Thereafter, you’re to leave me alone – especially on my jogs – or else the attack you receive ultimately won’t be the kind you’re looking for. More like, I use my phone to make a call. And then when the cops come and start beating the shit out of you for doing drugs in the woods, I use it again to document the whole debacle.
And make a small fortune when I sell it to the media who thrive on and die for that kinda shiz.
Actually, that’s like two wins for me – getting to see your ass beat and making money off it.
So, do whatev you like, little one. Either way, you’re not winning this match.
Just ‘cause I’m decked out in Puma gear doesn’t make me one.