Toxic feminity

For my seens it has been as long as I remember my unseemly lot to handle the affairs of humankindⁱ. Leaving discussions of size aside -- for what's a humankind ? Are three guys on a boat humankind ? -- and leaving further aside questions of manner (is the eight year old boy introducing capitalist relationships in a communist country's one-among-many sandpits "just a boy" for is it "just a sandpit" ?), the activity's unpleasant to the point of mental dissolution (in the sense that the mind dissolves it into nothingness to defend itself).

If a flood strands a hunting party, upwards of thirty men (and who knows how many dogs) somewhere "in nature", a single solitary female stuck there with them, she's going to... what is she going to do ? She's going to fuck them all, mostly, for being the only hole there and what's them to do ; but it'll not be anything like the neglected cunts back at home, contributing bodily flower to the wallpaper of pointlessness, imagine it to be. For every ten million idle cuntlets, yearning for an attention they can't possibly earn or justify, there's one such "accomplished" exemplar getting all the attention nobody ever wants or needs, indescribable tedium to her what all the others "not so fortunate" pin all their hopes and idle rumination upon. Just so, for the secure creator creation's a lot different than it appears to the insecure, would-be creators. It widely diverges from their notions and ideas "of how it must be" exactly like the problems of adulthood aren't what children imagine they must be. They're something entirely else.ⁱⁱ

I have no qualms with your naive idea that mental supremacy, viewed as the single act, in isolation, would be all the balm in Gilead your lacerated ego dreams it ever needs. I believe ; just as I believe each night the mouse goes to sleep in his />muse : to dream, while hungry and shivering, to dream of owning a flour mill -- not as such, not in those terms, but "the source of flour", as an abstract. Isn't the ever-present ability to introduce layers of indirection such a boon to thought ? So easily so much is lost in there, so amply plenty to feed oh so many mice...

Yet what'd the mouse do, as owner of a mill ? Eat ? How much would he eatⁱⁱⁱ ? And after he's done eating the inobservably minute quantity he needs... suppose he kept going. Out of ambition, out of artistic consummation, suppose he did, suppose he kept eating, indicible piles atop negligible nothings. How far could it go ? The mill loses each minute more flour into dust than he can eat a lifetime. What then ? Find some other mice to feed, mate and replicate ? Leaving aside the stupidity of the proposal^iv -- any attempt at implementation always ends with a broken mill, and overnumerously, unjustifiably angry mice. Weren't they promised things ? Isn't every virgin female mouse promised, by the act of her birth, outward circumstances commensurate with her mother's ? Well then ?! Better fix that damned mill, mouse boy...

I have no qualms with your notions that "with great power comes great responsibility" or whatever in that "golden rule" vein of ridicule^v -- there's no such thing present in any of the books, nor possible in the vast expanse of possibility as responsibility to varmints, but then again neither is arguing with varmints. I have no qualms with any of it, I'm merely writing an introduction for an article, upon which introduction rests the impossible burden to explain that indeed, by both nature and experience I actually am qualified to discuss the topic of the article -- and explain it to a multitude that aren't, nor ever anymore will be, for the mere possibility is gone. All things considered I think I did okay, and if you don't like it I guess you're more than welcome to write your own. Let me know if you do, I'll at least try and read it, I'm sure.

I am -- not "for my needs", neither "for my needs such as they are", both terms of art with specific and distinct meaning ; but thoroughly, roundly as to the very margins of the possibility of representation -- satisfied that the correct model for womanhood is something very much like tapioca. Tapioca well boiled constitutes the larger part of calorie intake for all the children the world over^vi ; otherwise it is a poisonous root. Cyanide, the principal poison found in raw tapioca root, accumulates in the body if intake exceeds said body's (very limited) ability to clear it^vii ; the effects vary with the acumulated levels. They go from toxic goiter and tropical ataxic neuropathy (a sort of early-onset Alzheimer) all the way to konzo, which is, I suppose, both a funny walk & a dedicated take on social distancing rolled into one convenient package.

The internal life of the female can consist (as in practice it often does consist) of the unyielding and perpetual secretion of two major poisons : anxiety and guilt.^viii

Neither of these are either natural or useful (let alone needed) in the course of human affairs, for either gender. It is particularly false to claim that anxiety is natural, with a view of proposing it a sort of sebum or carbon dioxide -- something that happens by the very functioning of biology, necessarily and universally. Anxiety is absolutely a learned behaviour, like masturbation or speaking the Dutch language : even though the upper lips and their attendant apparatus can be trained to vocalize Dutch specifically much like the lower lips and their attendant apparatus can be trained to orgasm, both activities are entirely conventional, the strict opposite of natural, and moreover not seen in naive populations.^ix That guilt is in turn entirely of the nature of the camel spitting behaviour I believe is sufficiently self-obvious to not require belabouring.

The working of the poisons leads, through the intermediation of preventing maturation^x, to what is called "depression" : a state reversible in females and irreversible in males whereby meaningful activity's no longer possible. Supposed "dizzying variety" of presentation is a meaningless artefact of phenomenological accident : much like jointly spilling in some proportion Burgundy wine and tumeric juice upon a piece of cloth will create random patterns intertwining urine-yellow with blood-red, their exact interplay isn't relevant : the cloth's been stained. Some types of cloth can thereupon be washed, and some are stained permanently. Discussing the pattern's a waste of time, and neither socially nor (usually) personally entertained (even though should cloth be found that flatters itself with propensiety for thought let alone kingdom-of-creation^xi no doubt discussing stains would make for such "dizzying variety" the poor damned things would scarcely find time for aught else, especially aught from an incomprehensible three dimensional spaces, something as remote and improbable as putative bottles and alleged juices).

In an ironic twist rather typical of human affairs on such scale, the reversibility of poisoning in the female entirely depends upon activity by the unpoisoned male, generally discussed as "violence" in this context (but, of course, with the caveat that insecure violence is rather possibly the originating, long forgotten source of both anxiety and guilt behaviours).

The value of this theoretical model is that it permits both structuring of history and prediction of the future to significantly improved quality as compared to any known alternative. For instance : the decrepit "non-violent" utopianist flavour of socialism is an application of this theory : "given that indeed all the foregoing is exactly true", it proposes, "could it be possible to extinguish the noxious behaviours through putting so much time in between the present and the last possible originating event, that no-one even remembers it ?" Perhaps the echoes of insecure violence will die out in time, is the hope. Needless to say, this doesn't work in practice -- as experience actually shows us, that particular hope of socialism, the notion that wearing pantsuits will obviate the memory of spear points, is just as groundless as all the others. As it turns out, the cognitive space humans dwell in is an active medium, echoes do not, of their own and necessarily decay within it. Some echoes can be carried forever, and this one in particular is. So no, dressing like a retard and acting like a retard isn't going to resolve the problem, because continued echoing does not actually require continual sourcing. Who knew!^xii

The entirety of human technology suddenly gathers meaning beyond the ludicruous "understanding" now prevalent : the original point of all technology, the spear, as a device to reduce the female wail (collective vocalization of guilt and anxiety) stands on the opposite end as the final gasp of human technology, the clucker, as a device to amplify (perhaps, who knows, permanently) the female wail. All sort and manner of "inexplicable" social movements, uprootings of "established institutions", "impredictable" events etcetera suddenly gain a transparency only similar to turning a sheet of glass such that it is faced, rather than regarded from the side.

In short : females are toxic, to everyone, including themselves. Their toxin production can be modulated, but only by unintoxicated males. The toxins are communicated to males via sexual channels, and to each other directly, and their presence downregulates antidote uptake in females and antidote production in males in some proportion to concentration. This positive feedback loop, long kept in check by material paucity, has been recently unleashed by economic development.

The end.^xiii

1. You know, "hu" for hucows, "man" for bois, and kind for "well intentioned in theory but so firmly committed to self-stroking in practice the output's universally harmful". [↩]
2. Works flow from supremacy and the supremacy can not be predicated on the works, or how did it go. In any case, you'll never do enough good such that you're a good girl, sorry to break it to you, sad, socially distanced civillian. Not that it matters in your case anymore. [↩]
3. There's some historical record on this topic. [↩]
4. Why would a mouse miller want his mill full of mice ? It's still a mill, mice still do not belong there, what of it that he's a mouse himself, is he a miller or is he not ? [↩]
5. Don't you find it amusing, by the way, that this time around once fashion finally dictated a war's in order, the muppets enthusiastically swelled up the ranks of the weirdest reverse-mobilization ever heard of ?! It used to be "show up for the trenches", but now it's "stay at home". Such wars of grandiose import and massive impressivity, as fought by muppets with their daily tools -- the ploughmen dug furrows and the idle clucking cuntlets stay at home ?! Shock and awe, such creative, abrupt changes reaching to the very core of indolence... [↩]
6. Yes some of them are breastfed for a few months (the few "helpful" pantsuits didn't get to) ; but all of them eat each day for years and years. [↩]
7. Which, incidentally, is entirely dependent on, specifically, meat protein. The misfortunate populations without access to meat get konzo at shocking rates ; the ones that can fish, or hunt, do not -- not at all.

   Vegetarianism has, you understand this, meant tapioca self-poisoning for most of history to date -- a history in which your Amazon nonsense does not figure for reason of tininess. [↩]

8. They're not meaningfully different, even if readily distinguished : one's spinning as to the future, the other's spinning as to the past. Same thing, really -- though I can't now for some reason find the "let's also disambiguate thought" discussion. Where the hell is it ?! [↩]
9. In the immortal words of Gorgo, "the fact that all of you consist of cunt and biosupport for cunt doesn't mean my brain stopped working". [↩]
10. A reference to Wolbachia is not out of place here -- mostly to make the point that while animism is the most commonly held "tool" in the arsenal of the mind, proposing equally that "someone's conspiring" behind any line of events, nevertheless the universe stays cold and disinterested ; and even though the complexity involved would seem to on the face promise personal thought and personal involvement, nevertheless the agent's a simple poison, not even a bacterium, not even a virus, but simply an earworm, parasitizing a well described if not yet so well understood receptor. A bacterium's at least alive, up to some standard, a virus at least exists, like salt does, an inert substance with undesirable properties if introduced in some complex contexts. But an earworm ?! What is it, nothing at all, mere thought descarnate, what can it do ?!

    Well... [↩]

11. Let's save here an ancient writ. It goes like so :

    Obligativitatea opiniilor
    by Ion Luca Caragiale, in Epoca, III, nr. 353, Jan. 17th 1897.

    Aseară m-am întors acasă târziu, zdrobit, cu mintea zdruncinată și cu sufletul turburat. Căzusem, victimă a lăcomiei, într-o cursă. Mă întâlnisem după amiază cu un prieten, care-mi propuse să mă ia la masă. N-aveam poftă de societate și am respins politicos invitațiunea. Dar infamul mă știa că sunt o bestie lacomă de lucruri delicate, mi-a arătat, cu rafinerie infernală, o strălucitoare perspectivă — stridii, icre moi, un mușchi de căprioară împănat, un cotnar original, mai știu eu ce...

    Era peste putință să rezist până la sfârșit, și am cedat numaidecât.

    Am plătit scump slăbiciunea mea...

    Stridiile au fost minunate, icrele moi delicioase, asemenea și vânatul, brânza, fructele, cotnarul și cafeaua. Dar...

    Dar eram mulți la masă. Îndată ce-am trecut de primul pahar după stridii, s-a încins între meseni o vie discuțiune „de omni re scibili et de...” [Despre orice lucru ce poate fi știut și despre... (lat)]. Am auzit trei ceasuri atâtea și așa opiniuni despre artă, mai ales despre artă ! că, intrând în casă, am dat un picior strașnic câinelui meu, care mă întâmpina după obicei gudurându-se. Îmi pare rău, dar trebuia să lovesc, aveam nevoie să maltratez material pe cineva.

    Câinele s-a mâhnit, firește, însă i-a trecut curând și a venit iar să se gudure lângă mine, ca și cum ar fi vrut să-mi spună că nu înțelege pentru ce l-am pedepsit.

    Atunci, scrâșnind enervat din dinți, l-am apucat cu amândouă mâniile strâns de urechi, i-am atras capul între genunchii mei și, privindu-l drept în ochi, i-am debitat pe nerăsuflate următoarele:

    Câine ! Știi tu, în imbecilitatea ta, ce este libertatea opiniunilor ? De atâtea mii de ani îmi ești prieten credincios... toate te-am putut învăța, toate ! Te-am învățat să joci domino și șah; dar încă nu te-am putut face să înțelegi aceste mari cuvinte: libertatea opiniunilor ! Totuși, n-am desperat: am să mai încerc înc-o dată. Ascultă bine.

    Libertatea opiniunilor este principiul cel mare, pe care, după atâtea lupte de veacuri, l-a instaurat omenirea ca fundament al vieții sale sociale. Acestui principiu sfânt datorăm în cea mai mare parte bunul trai particular și liniștea publică.

    A-mi spune părerea este dreptul cel mai sacru ce-l am eu, individ gânditor, în mijlocul semenilor mei. Omul este regele creațiunii: acest suveran este gelos de coroana lui, care e gândirea, și tot atâta de sceptrul lui, care este expresia. Dar, ca toate principiile sacre, și principiul acesta nu-i scutit de o bubuliță — mică, ce-i drept, însă nu tocmai atât de mică încât să treacă neluată în seamă.

    Regele creațiunii, reușind să-și recapete sceptrul, și l-a exercitat cu atât de adâncă convingere de la o vreme, încât a ajuns să creadă că dreptul lui îi este chiar o datorie. De unde, mai-nainte, orice rege al creațiunii, afară de rare excepții de bravură, trebuia să-și ascundă bine coroana sub căciulă și să-și înghită sceptrul, astăzi toți regii creațiunii se cred datori a-și purta fățiș coroana în cele mai mărunte împrejurări ale vieții private și publice și a face continuu semne de suveranitate cu sceptrul lor. Căci orice clipă de abdicare ar fi un act de extremă lașitate, și unui rege nu-i e permis să fie nici o clipă laș.

    De la optsprezece ani, el își ia coroana — are o opinie ! — și sceptrul — are dreptul să și-o exprime ! Respect opiniunilor libere ! Libertate completă expresiunii oricărei opiniuni ! Ba se întâmplă cazuri frecvente, în care părinții să moară când moștenitorul n-are încă nici optsprezece ani. Atunci, ce să facă el ? Să renunțe la titlul de suveran ?... Peste poate ! E dator să continue, deși încă atât de fraged, dinastia.

    Privește tu, câine, străvechi prieten și totdeauna credincios supus al regilor creațiunii, privește imensul lor carnaval, vasta lor mascaradă. Iată-i, fiecare cu coroana și sceptrul său, dacă nu de aur și de pietre scumpe, măcar de lemn și ciobulețe de sticlă colorată, dacă nu nici atât, măcar de carton și peticele de hârtie văpsită. Între ei, nici unul mai mare: toți egal de suverani !

    Vezi ce splendid cortegiu și ce larmă haotică, în care nu se mai distinge nici o figură și nici un glas, în care nu mai poți ști cine merită să fie salutat de tine cu o respectuoasă mișcare din coadă, sau lătrat ca un caraghios !

    În afară de acest imens concurs de suveranități, puțini sunt acei regi ai creațiunii care să-și amintească un moment că suveranul nu e robul coroanei și că nu e deloc în primejdie a se arăta mai imbecil renunțând cuminte la sceptru decât purtându-l cu ostentație bufonă; că ar fi în orice caz mai puțin ridicolă, și prin urmare mai demnă, o lașă abdicare decât exercitarea tenace a unei deplorabil covârșitoare suveranități.

    Să merg și eu la mascarada regilor creațiunii ? Nu, câine ! Mai bine stau acasă.

    În pădurea atâtor sceptre suverane, tot n-are să se ridice al meu mai sus. Suveranitatea mea, la care renunț față cu imensa concurență, mi-o confirm îndeajuns privind drept în fundul ochilor tăi galbeni și inteligenți. Simt o deosebită voluptate a domniei mele să te stăpânesc, uitându-mă în ochi-ți, în adâncul cărora văd bine că dacă botul tău ar avea grai, tu poate n-ai juca rolul cel mai trist în mascarada regilor creațiunii.

    Nu, câine ! Eu mă închin principiului sacru al libertății opiniunilor, dar în ruptul capului nu pot admite și obligativitatea lor.

    Mergi de te culcă sub pat !...

    I-am dat încă un picior și ne-am culcat, fiecare la locul său.

    [↩]

12. Obviously the "solution" to dysfunctional approaches will be "purer" attempts at the fundamental dysfunction, so "how about we don't even mention it" etcetera appeared, briefly, for the past few decades, as liable to provide what frank-er application of a faulty premise did not provide. Hurr. [↩]
13. There's a very good reason Africa never rose as high as to discover Zanzibar. There's also a very good reason the Euro colonizers found nothing but stone-age primitives as far as the eye could see, herds of poisoned cowmankind following herds of bison around indistinctly. The simple fact of the matter is that women can be cows and live -- and if they are, men can have a great time of them ; but boys can't thrive. [↩]