The Potty Mouth Granny

I really try my best not to man-bash, but mercy has its limits. Harder than a pimp’s heart, yes—and just as guarded. I don’t carry this irritation into my real life. The men I know in flesh and breath can look you in the eye, hold a thought, and say something with weight. They exist in gravity.

But social media men? Different ecosystem. A digital savanna full of chest-thumping and echoing hollowness. The interactions leave a sour taste in my soul, like biting into fruit that looked ripe but turned out to be foam.

These aren’t conversations; they’re drive-bys. Half-ideas lobbed like beer cans. Confidence with no credentials. Opinions raised feral, never house-trained by reading, reflection, or basic curiosity. Empty vessels, yes—wind whistling clean through, making a lot of noise and moving absolutely nothing.

They speak in memes instead of sentences, posture instead of presence. Everything is loud, shallow, and allergic to nuance. No wonder the algorithm loves them—it feeds on heat, not light.

And the tragedy is this: it’s not masculinity that’s the turnoff. It’s the performance of it. The cosplay. The refusal to think paired with the insistence on being heard. Wisdom drowned out by volume. Substance replaced with swagger.

So I scroll on. I mute. I preserve my peace like it’s an heirloom. Because my spirit deserves better than wrestling ghosts in comment sections—men made of pixels, bravado, and absolutely no books on the shelf.

Somewhere off-screen, real men are still real. And that’s enough to keep me sane while the rest howl into the void.