You may know it as the tab open in your browser, right next to all the work you’ve been meaning to do. Or the place where you have an inappropriately large database of food porn, home goods, and your next seven wedding dresses.
The world knows it as Pinterest: leading cause of estrogen-induced comas since March 2010.
Now, I don’t think there is any arguing over the general composition of the pinning population. Bitches love to pin. I pin my dogs, I pin my food, I pin other people’s babies, and boy, do I pin the shit out of Matthew Fox. God, if only that was as sexual as it sounds.
Up until recently, Pinterest felt much like a treehouse. Secluded enough to drool over a picture of bacon in peace, and with no boys allowed. In fact, men even created their own separate treehouse called “manteresting,” where they could boast about all the work benches and weight sets they love and leave our damned bridal gowns alone.
But as I’ve learned the hard way, men don’t know how to stay in their own fucking treehouse.
One would think a real man would shun the act of pinning, save for against a wall. After all, what kind of brawny man out there is repinning my tutorial on velcro rollers? or a knitting pattern?
But alas, the pin men are coming.
Oh, pin man. Where art thy brawn? and balls? How hast thou come to such a level where thy pins cloggeth up my facebook feed?
Okay, I guess I can understand to a certain extent. You want to look at the cupcakes and travel spots too, I get it.
But I implore you: respect the feminine sanctity of Pinterest. Please no deer gutting tutorials. Please.