From the dawn of time, men have been called liars, cheaters, emotionally constipated, rage-aholic toddlers, commitment-allergic disasters, and tragically incompetent at basic human speech. Which is unfair. Because those descriptions are actually a bit too generous.
Scientists have yet to properly classify the modern man, but preliminary research suggests he belongs to a fascinating species known as Homo sapiens immaturis. This creature thrives in environments where the bar is extremely low; which is lucky, because that is exactly where he lives.
The Man Who Is “Just Confused”.
This drooling deer-in-headlights variant freezes the second emotional gravity kicks in.
You ask the fatal question: “So… what are we?”
He blinks once. Twice.
Then delivers the species’ signature mating grunt:
“Oh.”
“Oh” is not confusion.
“Oh” is weaponised incompetence.
“Oh” translates cleanly to:
- I genuinely believed you were joking about having standards
- I was under the impression this was a casual situationship with no emotional receipts
- I will now slowly back away from accountability.
Anthropologists agree: when a grown man says “Oh,” what he really means is “I have absolutely no idea how we got here, but I’m pretty sure it’s not my fault.”
The Man Who Has Been “Broken”.
Another common subspecies is the Previously Broken Man. You’ll spot this distressed figure by his tragic backstory.
Within three conversations he’ll sigh dramatically and drop the sob story: “I’ve been before.”
This is not vulnerability. This is a pre-emptive Get Out Of Jail Free card he laminated in 2018 and still flashes at every toll booth.
He was heartbroken once, therefore he now has a lifelong licence to:
- ghost for sport
- breadcrumb like it’s performance art
- behave like a confused raccoon in human clothing
If you point out that you are the one currently haemorrhaging dignity, he’ll clutch his invisible wound from seven years ago and whisper:
“I just don’t want to get hurt again.”
Meanwhile you’re lying in an emotional ICU and he’s worried about a paper cut he got during the Obama administration. Pathetic.
The Man Who Loves “Chill Girls”.
Men adore “confident” women, provided the confidence never rises above bedroom-volume moans, and exists solely to stroke their fragile egos or their perpetually limp pride, wood so unacquainted with daylight it wouldn’t know how to stand tall if you gave it a manual
They worship “independent” women, as long as that independence never includes saying “actually, I didn’t come” without immediately soothing his ego. Basically an ideal woman paradox who is bold enough to worship his every half-baked idea, but never bold enough to point out that his bedroom performance has all the staying power of a wet matchstick in a windstorm.
The dream girl has sky-high standards… that she only applies to her skincare routine.
Her standards for him should be Comic Sans, framed above the toilet, next to the empty Viagra bottle he swears he doesn’t need.
The Man Who Is Deeply Impressed With Himself.
Ah yes, behold nature’s most generous gift to the male species: unearned, stratospheric, Teflon-coated confidence.
Meanwhile women are out here collecting advanced degrees, running departments, decoding other people’s emotions like it’s a second language, maintaining actual friendships that don’t end in ghosting, and still lying awake at 3 a.m. wondering, “Wait… am I being too much?”
Men? They have never, not once in recorded history, typed those five words into their search bar. Not even in incognito mode. The consistency is honestly kind of beautiful.
Like watching a toddler in a cape insist he’s Superman while he can’t even last through one round of missionary without calling timeout for a water break and an ego check. He struts around convinced he’s packing world-record stamina and technique. When in reality he’s the human equivalent of a firework that goes “pfft” and then immediately starts looking for applause.
And you know the best part? He still expects a standing ovation. For showing up. With all the follow-through of a deflated whoopee cushion.
Truly, the male ego deserves its own protected habitat. It’s that endangered, that delusional, and that hilariously overrated in every department that actually matters.
The Communication Phenomenon.
Men communicate flawlessly about things they care about:
- fantasy football trades
- whether current Gojo gets folded by Prime Goku
- whether they can suck up to Virat Kohli in a new way till he announces his retirement from another league
Ask them to describe a single feeling about the woman they’ve been inside for six months and the internal fan starts screaming like it’s overheating from basic emotional effort.
Error 404: self-reflection not found.
Buffering… buffering…
Final output: “idk”
(Also “idk” is what he says when you ask if he’s ever made a woman come without Google Maps and a PowerPoint.)
Observing Men in Their Natural Habitat.
Approach only from behind three layers of emotional body armour. Preferably with binoculars and zero expectations.
In the wild, observe them in their preferred formation: the pack.
They will happily invest four consecutive hours in a heated group chat or Reddit thread passionately defending why RCB is the greatest franchise in IPL history despite zero trophies or why Virat Kohli would single-handedly destroy any CSK lineup in a hypothetical death match, complete with stat breakdowns, memes, and personal attacks on anyone who dares mention the word “chokers.”
During this same four-hour window, zero synaptic activity will be dedicated to:
- Remembering that today is her birthday
- Recalling the exact month they started “hanging out”
- Locating a clitoris without satellite navigation, a user manual, a motivational TED Talk, and explicit GPS coordinates texted in advance
They will compose 2,000-word Reddit essays arguing why their favourite IPL team/ player is peak cricket writing or why their favourite anime waifu is peak character writing.
But ask them, calmly, once, how they actually feel about the six-month relationship they are actively running into the ground, and their face goes blank like you just asked them to derive the Schrodinger’s equation mid-thrust while keeping it up.
The Patriarchy Participation Trophy.
Let’s be crystal clear: most modern men are not diabolical masterminds.
They’re just beneficiaries of the most extravagant, lifelong participation ribbon in human history.
Society throws rose petals and slow-claps for the microscopic effort:
- He remembers to load the dishwasher one time: “Omg he’s literally green flag husband material, lock that down.”
- She silently manages an entire adult life, household logistics, career trajectory, emotional labour for three generations, therapy bills, holiday planning, and still has to stage an Oscar-worthy orgasm so his fragile little ego doesn’t shatter into a million insecure pieces: “Eh, women just do that stuff naturally.”
The bar for men has been lowered so far underground it now qualifies as paleontological sediment. And somehow, against physics, logic, and basic human decency, entire legions of them still manage to limbo underneath it, face-plant into the dirt, and then blame the woman holding the measuring tape for setting unrealistic expectations.
The Realisation.
Every woman eventually slams into this particular wall of enlightenment.
It usually happens somewhere between victim #87 and #92, right after he sets a new personal record for premature conclusion, rolls over like he just completed a marathon, grabs his phone, and starts scrolling Reels about sigma male grindsets or RCB comeback edits.
That’s the moment the fog lifts. Men are not mysterious creatures from another dimension. They are not riddled with fascinating complexity.
They are simply suspended in a thick, fluffy cloud of unearned, industrial-grade confidence, while simultaneously operating with:
- the sexual stamina of a 15-second Instagram Reel
- the emotional bandwidth of a single teaspoon that’s already full of excuses
Once this penny finally drops, everything becomes dramatically lighter.
You stop holding your breath for depth. You stop waiting for emotional maturity to magically spawn. You stop giving participation trophies when he manages to stay conscious and semi-functional for longer than the average bag of microwave popcorn takes to burn.
Life stops feeling like an endless audition for a role he never intended to play properly. And you finally get to stop pretending the bare minimum deserves fireworks.
Post-Delusion Era: The Exhibit Review.
These days I don’t hate men. Hate requires effort, calories, and at least a flicker of emotional bandwidth I no longer allocate to clowns. I’ve demoted them to background entertainment: mildly chaotic zoo exhibits where overgrown toddlers in comically oversized wheelchairs floor the accelerator, convinced they’re setting land-speed records. I watch from the safe side of the glass, curious, faintly amused, and occasionally experiencing something that might pass for sympathy on a very generous day (which is never, but the thought counts).
Because men are not evil masterminds. They are mostly just confused babies in rolling chairs who think they’re sprinting.
And honestly? Watching them wobble around with that much confidence is almost impressive. Almost.
I even root for them sometimes. Genuinely. Right up until the moment they crash gently into the wall again, look around in sincere confusion, and decide the wall must be cheating. At which point I simply nod to myself, make a small observational note, and move along to the next exhibit.
After all, the zoo is quite large. And the performances are remarkably consistent.
And we are not stopping here, for more such analogies and a front-row seat to the circus, follow my page at Her Campus at MUJ.