Last night, Notre Dame football player Manti Te’o’s beautiful, tragic, cancer-dead girlfriend was revealed to be a hoax: Lennay Kekua does not exist. Two days prior, Esquire magazine revealed that Megan Fox is endangered: In a world overrun with “thoughtful” females, true hotties no longer exist. Hoax hotties, however, have yet to be defended. Until now.
The symmetry of her face is genuinely nonexistent. The lip on the left and the lip on the right are in perfect nonexistence, like a problem of logic with an invalid hypothesis. It’s not even logical. It’s closer to purely invented, a figment of the mind, the patterns of electrons crisscrossing the Internet. What she is is fake. There is absolutely nothing real about her.
Lennay Kekua is a fake girlfriend. To be a fake girlfriend in 2013 is to be an antiquity, an old-world relic, like Pygmalion’s hottie statue with that rock-hard ass, or Narcissus with that babe in the water. Fake girls once used to roam the cultural landscape like unicorns, and like unicorns they never existed.
Loneliness and denial both play their part. If you want to see naked fake women, of virtually any kind, do virtually anything to their fake bodies, just fire up the ol’ noggin, it’s a thought away. In your head, women no longer need to be real in order to express their desirability. Real women like Lena Dunham and Adele and Lady Gaga and Amy Adams do not return your phone calls, anyway. But a fake woman, she always tweets back, provided it’s not past the bedtime of the teen boy controlling her.
For every fake girlfriend who is dismissed out of hand — or fake girlfriend who is exposed as the figment of the Internet-addled adult man she claimed to love — there is a fake girlfriend who tries to be real. A female Pinocchio whose breasts grow larger in your mind every time she lies that she will meet you at the Macaroni Grill by your house on Saturday, just not this Saturday, because something just came up, let’s talk later, though?
It’s not Lennay Kekua’s fault. Today, unfettered fakeness is an impediment. To be serious or respected, it is better to be real.
There’s no doubt this transformation has been overwhelmingly excellent for people who care about reality. But we’re losing something in this process. Because creatively imagined sex is, was, and always will be better than the sex we actually have. Some of the very first works of sex we ever had were with hugely fecund women who we imagined in our heads, plus our hands, or maybe that really soft pillow at Nana’s house. American movies express that great fusion of sex and fake females, too. They are magnificent pagan dreams, utterly profane and glorious. Such fantasies need fake girlfriends. They need to consume fake flesh in their sacrifices. They need women like Lennay Kekua.
This blog post made possible by what we believe to be an authentic relationship of frequent online communication with Esquire. We have no reason to believe Esquire is an elaborate hoax perpetrated by a vast network of female satirists online.