There's a certain type of male journalist who makes his living writing for women's magazines about how crap men are.
We've already met Simon Way who is just completely useless really, and now meet Scott Keneally who likes to share the fact that he wets the bed and cries a lot, usually in the pages of Jane Magazine. And he doesn't just share, he shares in a whimsical fashion.
Look at him. Doesn't he scream whimsy? We picture him spending Sunday mornings on a rooftop in Williamsburg, reading Rimbaud in the original French before heading off to a poetry slam on the Lower East Side with his best friend Dave Eggers, before heading home to bash out 1,000 words on how crap he is for Jane, which will one day become the book about how he has issues with his Dad.
"I watch Hilary Swank movies over and over. My sniffles, shrieks and snot bubbles are exercises in empathy. So if the day ever comes when I need to euthanize a paraplegic friend, or if my sister ever straps one on, poses as a guy and is shot seven time, I will have a precedent for those emotions."
So you cry. What do you want, a fucking medal?
And quite apart from the fact that this is the kind of twaddle you'd find on a teenage myspace blog, Scott, that whole "women want a man who's not afraid to cry" is something we say when we're fourteen and think we want a man with the soul of a poet. Once we grow up, we realize what we want is a man with a bulging wallet, who could light a fire and slaughter a wild boar with his bare hands for food if we're stranded on a desert island and doesn't go around blubbing his fucking head off at Hilary fucking Swank movies.
We hate to tell you this, Scott, but when you cry, we secretly think you're pathetic.
It won't get you laid. Ok?