I'm a f*ckgirl. An out-and-proud, bonafide, full-throttle, no-holds-barred, thriving f*ckgirl. I have zero shame surrounding my f*ckgirl identity and am nothing short of ecstatic to indulge in the f*ckgirl lifestyle. I chose this life, and I vehemently own it.
We talk so much about f*ckboys. Oh you know all about f*ckboys, right?
Over here at Elite Daily, we talk about f*ckboys incessantly. But we don't talk enough about f*ckgirls.
The other day, I was reading a brilliant, hilarious article entitled "Caution Ahead: 22 Telltale Signs That Prove You’re Falling For A F*ckboy," written by badass Elite Daily writer Niki, when it hit me like a slew of scalding hot bricks to the skin.
I'm a f*ckboy. Except I'm a girl. Which makes me a f*ckgirl, right?
It got me thinking: Why do the boys get to have all the fun?
Why do the boys get to be salacious, hyper-indulgent, irrepressibly horny, poorly-tattooed forces of nature who are allowed to shamelessly hashtag their gym selfies (#GAINS), while us girls are expected to be prim and proper, politically correct ladies of a sky-high moral code?
Why do the boys get to send douchebag booty call text messages at 3 am, while the girls are expected to sit pretty and irritated, stewing over the stupidity of men?
Not on my clock, kittens. For I've decided it's time to coin the term "f*ckgirl." Only being a "f*ckgirl" (unlike being a f*ckboy) isn't a negative thing. It's actually a beautiful thing.
It's time all of us f*ckgirls came out of the repressive closet and embraced the fabulously fun and freewheeling f*ckgirl lifestyle.
If boys can post pictures of their half-assed exposed ab muscles on their Instagram accounts, I can most definitely post a picture of my fabulous outfit and hashtag #OOTD, without an ounce of shame.
If boys can blow all of their money on bad tattoos and not feel an ounce of regret, then I will happily blow all of my cash on f*cking lipstick from Sephora without feeling a trace of guilt.
If boys can date multiple girls at once, so can I.
See, there is nothing wrong with being a f*ckgirl. The most powerful women throughout the course of history have been f*ckgirls. Marie Antoinette. Anne Boleyn. Queen Elizabeth.
F*ckgirls are also scattered throughout modern day pop culture. Samantha from “Sex In The City” was a total a f*ckgirl.
She f*cked all the men she wanted to f*ck without apologizing or slut-shaming herself into the ground. She spent an endless supply of cash on sexy dresses, and beauty treatments, and cigars and didn't give a flying f*ck.
She didn't think twice about drinking a clichéd pink cosmo at lunch (after all, they DO taste good and are loaded with liquor). You never heard her talk about "juice cleanses" and all that other obligatory bullsh*t girls feel they need to do.
She was a f*ckgirl. And the intention of a f*ckgirl, beyond anything else, is to feel good.
“Orange is the New Black” Star Ruby Rose is a total f*ckgirl too. She shamelessly shows off her sleeves of questionable tattoos, cuts her hair short, emulates Justin Bieber (the poster child of the f*ckboy) and willingly seduces the masses with close-ups of her pillowy, luscious lips.
Look at her social media accounts. They're full of selfies of her pouting next to shelter puppies. She knows what the f*ck she's doing. She's a total lady slayer and doesn't try to hide it. Because to be a f*ckgirl is to excel without apology.
Angelina Jolie is one of my original f*ckgirl inspirations. Especially in the 90s.
She talked openly about how she liked to f*ck other girls, admitted to being into bondage and boasted a collection of knives. She had pet rats and lived off a diet of steak so rare, it bled.
A f*ckgirl is an empowered girl. A f*ckgirl doesn't give a f*ck about being "ladylike," or "demure," or "delicate" or "dateable." She is who she is and does what she wants.
I would say f*ckgirls do the most f*cking of all girls, because a girl who owns her sh*t is by far the hottest girl on the block.
Here are 50 of my f*ckgirl confessions that I pray you can identify with because f*ckgirls are just f*cking better.
1. I have an exclusive Sephora Beauty Insider rewards card, but I can't get approved for a real credit card.
2. I leave a trail of makeup, clothes and jewelry everywhere I go.
3. If you've had the privilege of sleeping with me, your pillowcase most definitely has my foundation and mascara streaked all over it.
4. I use emoji instead of words to express my feelings.
5. Mostly because I don't have feelings.
6. I RSVP "maybe" to every Facebook event I'm invited to.
7. I will never, ever, ever, EVER text you first. Or make the first move. Or call you.
8. If you decide to call me, I will text you back three hours later with a cold "What's up?”
9. I'm notorious for ghosting people and falling off the face of the earth, without explanation.
10. I have a therapist, an eyebrow waxer, a hairdresser, an astrologer, an "intuitive reader" and a psychiatrist. I'm on texting terms with them all. The team it takes just to get me semi-functioning is immense.
11. I can't pay my rent, but I own every single lipstick MAC makes.
12. I'm too chic to care.
13. I'm more excited about the prospect of getting a quilted Chanel purse with a gold chain over getting married and having children.
14. I don't know my own phone number, but I DO know my dad's credit card number by heart.
15. I feel electric shock waves of genuine pride and dutifully congratulate myself every time my credit card isn't declined.
16. I'm allergic to public transportation.
17. I refuse to leave the five-block radius of my apartment for a stupid date or party.
18. I take shameless mirror selfies of my outfits and tag #OOTD (or if it's the evening, #OOTN).
19. I use affectionate pet names for everyone because I truly don't know anyone's real name.
20. I wear ripped fishnets to work and red lipstick to temple.
21. I undress everyone with my eyes, all of the time.
22. My idea of exercise is drinking wine in yoga pants.
23. I have a seamless account, an Uber account and a SAKS Fifth Avenue account -- but no savings account.
24. I spend all of my money on clothes, booze, shoes and makeup.
25. I own Uggs, and I'm not afraid to wear them in public. In the summer.
26. In fact, I never consider the weather or the occasion when getting dressed.
27. I will never add your last name to my contacts because I genuinely don't know it, nor do I care to ever learn it.
28. Sometimes I take selfies at the gym and post them #GAINS.
29. I only workout for aesthetic purposes. F*ck this "mental health" bullsh*t.
30. The only people I truly connect with are sassy, wildly inappropriate gay men who may or may not have drinking/drug problems.
31. I think it's rude if you're not completely enamored and obsessed with me.
32. I do whatever the f*ck I want.
33. I either order in or go out to dinner, I never, ever, ever, ever, ever cook.
34. I'm not into the whole "Netflix and Chill" trend, but all about the "Dine and Dash."
35. I never look at prices on menus, and almost always (innocently) order the market-priced item (like a $75-dollar black truffled Mac and Cheese, oops).
36. I post statuses of annoying milestones like “Just got a promotion!” to garner a plethora of likes.
37. I never take off my eye makeup -- I just keep adding to it. A metaphor for my life.
38. I can't go anywhere without running into someone I've hooked up with.
39. I don't live in reality.
40. Everything I own is tattered, torn, stained or cigarette-burned.
41. I order coffee and bagels to be hand-delivered to my apartment every single morning.
42. I plan all of my dates for the same night, so I don't have to get dressed up too many nights per week.
43. I bite back.
44. People can hear me coming minutes before I enter a room because my insane amount of jewelry clanks and my heels obnoxiously click.
45. I consciously overdraw my bank account regularly and refer to it as "taking out a small business loan."
46. I can drink any man under the table.
47. I troll the bars of the West Village by myself.
48. I would prefer to self-destruct in peace rather than get lectured on the "dire effects of sugar" by my friends.
49. I would rather drink champagne than go on a f*cking juice cleanse.
50. Within minutes of meeting you, I'm wondering whether or not I would have sex with you.
51. I was going to keep this at 50, but then I just got this text message from my father, which sums up my f*ckgirl lifestyle to a T:
"Did you charge $178 on August 19 to my credit card for purchases at Nasty Gal? It's on my current statement.”