The typewriting monkeys are silent now, the grand ivory towers all crumbling now, false narrative-pushers all set to blow, learn-to-code troops all buried in the snow.
Howling winds passing wide desolate corners besieged by lickspittle corporate-goon mourners, warming their atrophied reflexes in oil-barrels burning, detoxing from the opiate of the people with tremendous yearning.
The high-and-mighty will taste the salt of the earth, the flat-fisted commie-coughers aiming for rebirth, long-suffering white working-class boys tossed to the winds of woke, sacrificed by identity politics that would rather see them choke.
The neurotics left them dying in the poppy-fields, pining for their fathers in the woke-washed battle-fields – mouths gagged with dilapidated industrial war-machines; hands bound with penetrative razor-sharp amphetamines.
Boyish flesh matter little to the woke-machines of war; disposable bodies for the grind and for the great whore – synthetic synapses snap and pop and crackle so; back to the back-benches, buddy-boy, back to the hoe.
Back to the machines and back to the synergy, fusion of flesh and bones, cogs and wheels and energy, back to being crushed, to being ground to dust, dead in the streets, dead for the typewriter’s lust.
Typewriting monkeys bravely opining oh so loudly, magnificently, wondrously, virtuously declaring oh so proudly solidarity with the cast-aside and the disenfranchised, excepting those whom they themselves declare should be despised…
Blue checkmarked, holier-than-thou and eggshell-frail, humble sales-peoplekinds wagging their elitist tail at any inconsiderate attack on all they’d see fail: burnt-out bodies of those who are pale and male and stale.
Celebrations of victory for manufactured equality ring through ivory towers’ post-logic academy; naught but women and minorities here – notice that brilliant diversity, dear?
Notice that air of post-reason equity; a flame burning for those of a desired identity – a raging non-gender-specific, non-binary hard-on; soft bigotry of low expectations getting its freak on.
A lament seems proper for the white working class boys who were sacrificed, who were given no choice, who were told no at every step and at every stage, now dancing to the beats of some unfathomable rage.
Rage that turn to ruin, to wrath and feverish despair, to loneliness and hopelessness, to terror and to fear that breaks, berates and belittles them as the monkeys stand ready to pre-condemn.
As they always have and always will, in actuality – ready to attack those of an ill-fated identity whose time has come to be the enemy in round-about ways of repeating history.
Social justice is a far cry from being just or fair; it reeks of revenge: an everlasting nightmare, prepaid moral aloofness and hollow virtuous grandiosity: empty sentiments and platitudes with no perspicacity.
Arrogant loudmouth screeching of immense brutality; no depth, no height, merely superficial immediacy – petty first world problems to flaunt identity-flairs until such time as the next non-issue comes up the stairs.
Yet, it hides a cancer beneath its festering sore: once power is received, it will always lust for more – once the boundaries of what is considered fair is moved the new boundaries are never easily removed.
Once society identifies its very own scapegoat-enemy it will not rest or stop, will never let him be; evil begets evil, and history remains the same: we’ll always need something or someone to blame.
Coming soon; another collection of contrarian ramblings. Most of the blog-posts of 2019; our previous current year. Cleaned them up some and threw them at paper, in the hope that they will stick. It will be available as a paperback and for Kindle. Titled “My Generation Killed Rock ‘n’ Roll”, because we kinda, sorta did. Besides, it’s a great fucking title – even if I do say so myself.
Missing from this collection, apart from a few ramblings which I thought were a bit repetitive, is the whole “Why I am an Anti-feminist” spectacle. They were so plentiful that they deserve their own volume, which will be coming out at some later date. Just gotta find the time to edit, re-write and so and such. Were I to put them in this volume, it would have been an enormous amount of pages. Keeping the “Why I am an Anti-feminist” series out of it, it is still at a whooping 425 pages. It was a productive year, if nothing else. Hopefully, it will prove itself to be quality as well as quantity.
Due to the brewsky bug, everything has been postponed. “My Generation Killed Rock ‘n’ Roll” was supposed to be published in March. But, oh, well – shit happens.
I could sit here all day, blowing smoke up my own arse and stroking my own ego in an effort to convince you to hand over your hard-earned cash for this chronicle of chaos. But I won’t. Rather, I’ll let someone else convince you (and stroke my ego for me). Listen to what this glorious triumvirate of deplorables have to say about the tome:
«No one chronicles with more tenderness and lyricism the contemporary conditions of men’s lives.»
– Janice Fiamengo, Professor of English (retired), University of Ottawa
«From the seductive opening lines to its final, unsettling conclusions, Moiret Allegiere’s, “My Generation Killed Rock N Roll,” is the gripping biography of a society living in the abyss of an ideological curse. It’s a page turning revelation of a book, punching at our sacred delusions with brass knuckles and tearing down the last of our pretty lies. It’s a brilliant, blockbuster effort that reminds me why Moiret Allegiere is my standalone favorite writer on men’s issues.»
– Paul Elam
My favorite men’s issues writer has done it again. Have you ever dreamed of wearing x-ray glasses? Allegiere takes apart the cultural hatred towards men in such a clear and effortless manner that is exactly what it feels like. You get to see right through the bullshit. He has a profound grasp on how the parts fit together and this book shares that in a unique and accessible fashion.
Reading My Generation Killed Rock and Roll will give you an extended and deep view into our cultural madness. Insightful, wonderfully offensive, clear… and did I mention he is really funny? My Generation Killed rock n roll consolidates the many ways our culture spouts its anti male venom. Highly recommended.
– Tom Golden
Hopefully, that’ll convince you to throw money at my book and, in so doing, support both the channels and the blog in a not insignificant way.
There is a strange disconnect from reality when speaking with women and men who have been intravenously injected with feminism since early childhood. It seems they don’t think about what they are saying. They just say it. Otherwise, the glaring double-standards, double-think and double-speak of their bloody obvious hypocrisy would most certainly be obvious. It sure as all hell is obvious to anyone who has swallowed the red pill. In fact: it ought to be obvious to anyone who has two working braincells to rub together.
I am lucky in that, I suppose, as I have about two and a half braincells left, having never devolved into watching reality-television and as such burning that last half braincell out of my head, leaving me a bit more than the standard pair to work with.
Sometimes, my cognitive abilities are working and not flat-lining from stress and clickbaity YouTube videos. But only sometimes.
On one of many forums on the internet dedicated to women, I was lucky enough to behold a woman write what she wanted in a man.
She wanted a man who opened the doors for her, who pulled out her chair for her, paid the bills, carried the heaviest grocery-bags and so forth and so on with all the typical and nonsensical chivalry one has come to expect.
She carried on with stating that she wanted all this, not a man who pushed her into a traditional gender-role.
Chew on that one for a bit.
He was supposed to fulfil the traditional male gender-roles; the expectations of chivalry and sacrifice. She was not supposed to fulfil any of that which is traditionally expected from women in a traditional relationship.
Of course; in demanding these acts from her boyfriend she could not help but push herself into a standard gender-role as well. This was not obvious to her… or any other woman on the forum, for that matter. They all clucked their tongues and pecked at their keyboards with all the hen-pecked hen-pecking a nest of hens could ever inspire. “Yes! That is exactly what we want, need and deserve!”
I enquired as to why she found it alright to push him into a standard gender-role whilst expecting him not to push her into one. For that was exactly what she was doing.
She never replied.
Feminism helps men too, you see. Except when that means women giving up on their privilege. As the feminist hordes are known to say: Privilege is invisible to those who are privileged. Yeah. I can see that. Check your privilege, shitbird.
I am certain that this woman never thought about it like that. Nor, it seems, do anyone who babble on like this. Men and women alike. It has become a standard response, programmed into our basic operating system until it becomes an instinctual response, or, rather, a habitual response. Of course the guy shall do this and that and the woman do none of it.
That’s just how it is supposed to be. That is equality.
What in the hell kind of fucking misogynistic arsehole are you that you expect anything from a woman? Men are not entitled to a woman’s anything. Women, on the other hand, are entitled to a man’s everything.
Here’s one for the ladies: If you want to be treated like a queen, it is only reasonable to expect you treat your man like a king. Give, and you shall receive. Expect only to receive, however, and you are an entitled princess. Expecting not to give anything back is acting like a spoiled child. And this is not an endearing trait in anyone, man or woman. Difference between men and women, it seems, is that women are defended and celebrated when acting like a spoiled child, men are not. That’s our woman-hating culture for you.
Pro-tip: any relationship need to be built on mutual respect. Both doing, giving and receiving in equal measures. It does not matter who does what, as long as things that need to be done are done. It is supposed to be mutually beneficial. That is part of the bargain, part of the deal, part of whatever and what-not.
People don’t think before they speak. Not thinking before one speaks is a very human thing, of course. It is easy to get caught up in the moment and just let the tongue waggle freely on ones chin. And we all have our own internal contradictions and such to deal with.
Being less-than-perfect biological machines, this is a given. But the extent to which this is present in those who have gobbled feminist rhetoric is astonishing to me. Feminism is not only speaking with two tongues – it is speaking with two tongues that reside somewhere deep within the owners rectal cavity. No matter the words that are spoken, they will still be full of shit. They come from a place that is full of shit. A repository of shit, if you will. These tongues don’t waggle freely on the chin as much as they waggle freely on the unwashed buttocks of their owner.
Observing behaviour such as the aforementioned makes it very difficult to believe that women actually know what they want. Dismissing traditional gender-roles with one tongue whilst not only expecting it, but embracing and demanding it with the other tongue is quite the example of cognitive dissonance.
Also: a man carrying the heaviest bags would, one assumes, be an expression of toxic masculinity… you know; celebrating physical strength and all that… whilst also being wicked enough to assume that the woman can not do the heavy lifting. Women can do everything men can. Except the naughty things. That is the domain of men and men alone, even when women do the naughty things.
You can’t have it both ways, ladies. And that is a fact.
Expecting the traditional roles from the male does simultaneously place the female into a traditional role, whether she sees this or not. If the male is expected to provide and to protect, the female is obviously expected to be both provided for and to be protected from.
If the male is to pay for the meal, say, she is being provided for. If the male is to carry the heaviest bags, say, she is being protected from the “strain” of carrying the heaviest bags. In expecting and embracing this, she is simultaneously expecting and embracing the old gender-role of being provided for and protected from.
But that is the thing of it: feminism speaks with the two tongues of the rectal cavity; screaming about equality and breaking the traditional gender-roles, yet still retaining the female privilege of the traditional role. And men don’t matter much; we are merely there for their amusement and subsequent debasement. Human-doings, not human-beings.
They want the one, but not the other. Or, to put it another way – they don’t want the one, but they want the other. No traditional expectations for women, but traditional expectations for men. Men are still to be shackled with the traditional role. Women shall reap the benefits from their traditional role, but none of what was their part of the bargain. Because it was a bargain; a part of the social contract. Give. And you shall receive. Receive, then, and you shall damned well have to give.
Now, of course, I can’t fault people for not seeing this disconnect from reality. It is, after all, something that is being fed to us with our less-than-nutritious breakfast cereal… brain-food for the feeble-minded and demented. Something that causes a lack of emotional development… makes the cognitive faculties less than faculties and more like your regular meeting in the teacher’s lounge on a very hungover Monday morning.
Nothing good will come from it, in other words.
And so we raise a generation of girls to be entitled princesses under the preposterous pretence of women in general being so feeble-minded and useless that they have allowed themselves to be oppressed by the male sex for all of eternity; demanding everything, yet expecting to not have to give anything in return for petty reasons of perceived payback and revenge (which is a far cry from actual justice, but never mind that little factoid – boys are stupid, throw rocks at them), and this disconnect is what you get.
The reverse applies to boys.
We raise a generation of boys to be indentured servants; expected to sacrifice everything under the preposterous pretence that they have been omnipotent and malicious oppressors for all eternity, and not being allowed to demand or expect anything in return for the very same reasons.
All the while, boys are expected to pay for the so-called sins of their fathers. That these so-called sins of their fathers is manufactured politically convenient trash is of little matter, because she who controls the past controls both the present and the future. And the feminist narrative has been in control of the past for a good and long while, through education, through academia, through government and through culture, be that television or movies or books or whatever else. It seeps into us from all possible channels.
Reality is not what it is. Reality is what those who control the narrative say that it is. Twisted and malformed, but still some semblance of reality remains. Judging the past by the standards of today is not a good way of getting a picture of what the past was like. Yet that is what is being done.
Claiming that working in extremely dangerous conditions for very little pay is a more privileged position to be in than taking care of the home is… err… an interesting claim, I would dare say.
What is missing from the feminist equation is of course the male experience. And I mean the true male experience, not the male experience of the top one percent, or whatever. That the past was hard for women I am in little doubt of. Times were hard. All around. For, you see, it was hard for men as well. This is conveniently forgotten, of course – pushed to the wayside, hidden in the annals of history because we only ever care about the female experience… an experience which, of course, have been altered tremendously by the soothing application of feminist revisionism.
One can never talk about the male experience… about male issues and problems without having to mention the female experience, female issues and problems in the same breath.
So often, whenever we see some genuine mainstream effort at talking about male issues, it always begins with something along the lines of “we know that women have problems, blah, blah, blah”.
A disclaimer put in place so that the poor women should not feel left out. Because that is exactly what a society, a culture, a government and a world that just hates women would do. Obviously. It would put women up front and centre, even when looking to the problems predominantly affecting men. This makes perfect sense, if you squint, squeal and then proceed to roll around in the mud for a bit.
Now, of course, it usually follows that men in general, or masculinity specifically is blamed for the issues of men, prompting men to fix themselves and alter their venomously masculine behaviour. When men stop being men, the message goes, all will be well in the world of men. But, more importantly, all will be well in the world of women also. Apparently.
The biggest problem with men, according to the church of the latter day troglodytes, is that we are, in fact, men.
Men must give up their masculinity as long as men stay being men and keep providing for, and protecting, women, without forcing women into a traditional gender-role.
So, man up, men, and do your part for women. And blame masculinity – that part of you that is demanded of you – for what is wrong with you. Stop doing that which you are told to do.
Do it and don’t do it at the same time.
And whatever you do, don’t wish for sex. Or a relationship. Unless she wishes for sex. Or a relationship. Then you have to read her body-language and understand her psychic hints; that you have to chase and make the first move. The cat and mouse game is still going strong, is still expected. Just be damned sure that you are reading the signs correctly. Otherwise you’ll get yourself a rape-charge, boy. Believe women. You still have to make the first, second, third, fourth and on and on move. Because she can not be expected to do that, of course. That would put the onus on her. And we can’t have that. Expectations of responsibility? OH NOES AND WOES! But you should not feel entitled to anything. And don’t ever say no if she actually initiates sex. Women do not deal well with rejection. Except that they do and men don’t, even when women don’t even when they do. But no means no, and sometimes yes means no as well… and sometimes no just means that you have to try harder.
The death of masculinity in turn, at every turn, celebrated by high-handed academic nobles hell-bent on tuneless destruction.
Autotuned destruction manufactured by salty sirens singing sulking siren-songs, lost at the seven seas or at a loss for words to weep into the seven seasons of the seasoned sea, creating post-reason and post-truth randomized fancy-sounding jargon instead – overseeing and then overlooking academic rigour in fortified compost-heaps of indoctrination previously known as high seats of noble learning; as pursuit of truth immaculate and clean… comparing apples to oranges in hallucinatory Ibogaine-dreams beneath this new green-screen moon of ours where they caught their venomous high in imaginary goddess-pasts where all was one in insurmountable harmony… where the one was lost between the thighs of time or between the tits of para-mythological synthetic pasts dreamt up by sheltered prophets of the one true faith that says, in luscious tongue-twisted and henpecked rhymes:
Masculinity is dead, and men are obsolete.
So say the high-swingers, the over-educated gold-diggers, the apocalyptically sized lie-triggers triggered by anything so long as the god-awful triggering can be used in their defence and for their splendid cause be spent and used.
Twitter gave me PTSD.
Oh woe, oh no, oh wow, oh boy.
Twitter gave me PTSD.
Say it ain’t so, oh no, oh no, for sooth, for sure: there’s no blisters on these pale and noble hands, no sun-burnt neck, no tired toil to rub the skin from these luscious lady-lisps.
Much apologizing; I meant, of course, to say “lady-lips”… lips that crack and bleed and break and moan at the discord brought from vague dissent.
How dare this cock-wielding, woman-brutalizing, manspreading defiler of sanctity and sanctititty mansplain his atrocious disagreements to the humble noble at the metaphysical top of the bookmarked Twitter-hill?
Does he not know that there is a natural order to things and that he, by virtue of his cock and balls, is so much better off than she and so should shut the fuck up as the fuck-face that he is, stay in his lane and never contradict the inane and insane ramblings of this noble woman whom he so defiled by his parade of disastrous dissent?
For doing so… disagreeing with a woman is misogyny by default; woman-hating and woman-bashing and whatever else there is to put the word “woman” in front of.
Such a terrible trespass; such a crime that ought to be punishable by banishment and later on by death.
Here come the gag-orders!
Gag him with the full fury of the peoplekinds in blue; with all the layered lawyers and brutal barristers; all the perverted politicians and corrupt constabularies the goddess can bring forth from out the flesh of the patriarchy that just hates women ever so much; that oppresses the ever-loving gobblefuck out of every square inch of their luxuriously dyed hair and painted fingernails that never once cracked or broke from shovel-lifting and sweat and blood.
And misogyny is a hate-crime, and misogyny is whatever the fuck the wearer of the problem-glasses say that it is, by gobbly golly, and so be it, for such did Karen speak and sputter.
Problem-glasses can only hide the true Karen for so long… Karen-ness, I believe and one assumes can be measured simply by looking at the wingspan of Karen’s spectacles: a spectacular spectacle brought forth from spectacle-spectacles that speaks spectacular spectacle-woes and worries.
Let me talk to the manager of men! I am most displeased with this dis-service from the hands and meaty mouths of mutton-eating men! I demand to speak with the manager of the patriarchy!
So spake Karen, and all who listened then obeyed.
Except the ones that didn’t listen or obey.
Which gave Karen PTSD from their dissent as she saw that she was no longer locked within the bowels of her aristocratically academic echo-chamber.
Oh Goodness, gracious Goddess, no! No, Karen, no! Put that footstool down! You don’t know where it’s been. Besides, you are far too delicate to lift it. Don’t overexert yourself, Karen. Breathe Karen, breathe, for fuck sake, Karen, breathe! Someone fetch the smelling salts – Karen has swooned again at being exposed to this terribly murky masculine musk!
Masculinity is surely dead.
And men are obsolete.
Evidenced as such by vague murmurs of dissent being enough to bring the high-and-mighty to their knees in problem-glassed shakes and shivers, whimpering and crying and begging for freedom from the persecution suffered at the hands of all these plebs, these peasants, these serfs and these have-nots that have it all and are so privileged that they tie the weak and meek amongst us all in knots.
Masculinity is dead. And men are obsolete.
Here come the age of feminine tyranny; an age marked by irrational fear-mongering, emotional upheaval, hysteria and all those other stereotypes of women which we have been told are not true and are, in fact, damaging to women… all held forth as shining examples of strength and of passion and of whatever else…
God-fucking-damnit, but I grow so fucking tired of pointing this out whenever and wherever. If this stereotype of women; the hysterical, the emotionally immature and volatile, the powerless, the irrational, the emotionally reasoning stereotype of women… that women can neither reason nor logic is oh-so damaging to women, these women would do well to not live up to the stereotype to such an extent that they make for perfect cannon-fodder for such articulate arseholes like myself to write a shit-post such as this on it.
Masculinity is dead, they say. And men are obsolete.
Give way, lean to the sides, cup your balls and drag ‘em up into your womb you lovely lady-boys: the feminine is the new de-facto default. Any man worth his salt is a lady through-and-through.
Even when he has no womb.
Though boys can menstruate, we’re told, in schools that reek of fuckery and neglect; that sold their souls to the politically correct narrative and, in so doing, ruined generations of children.
There is no sex and there ain’t no gender and there are no differences between the two sexes… nor are there any between the seventyleven genders, for that sexual matter that matters little to the sexuality of meaty matter. No differences, that is, except the wickedness of man which is worse than that of women ‘cause that don’t exist except when it do… which is when they are influenced by the wickedness of men, say Karen, all strung up and wound up with no manager to speak to any more.
For, you see, all the managers turned into Karens over night as the proverbial glassceiling shattered. And all that is left is a bunch of angry Karens yelling at other angry Karens.
What a terrible future this is.
Masculinity is dead. And men are obsolete.
I know this to be true, for those who wished the death of masculinity and who wished for men to be rendered obsolete told me so… A panel full of women wishing for the death of men and of masculinity said so; with no man in sight to say or to claim otherwise, one would surely be a savage man-beast with feral inclinations to say otherwise.
Not that it matters, otherwise or no, considering that dissent muttered in dissenting tunes and harmonies would be deemed harassment and considered pale and ruptured soggy knees and so bring the panel to their swollen knees in PTSD-brainwaves lapping at the beach of femininity and fragility that are so linked and intertwined in the strengths of these women.
Strength, that is, that is measured in weakness shown and bragged and then later on drowned in all the jargon and intellectualism a lovely lady-boy could ever wish to eat or drink or piss or shit.
Masculinity is dead.
And men are obsolete.
This is clear and obvious and all who say otherwise are either dying or obsolete. The thing is the thing whether the thing is real or not.
So Spake Karen.
And all who spoke against are guilty of hate-speech and so should be removed from her sight and from the might and influence of the glorious wingspan of her problem-glasses.
(AN: I will be taking some time off for reasons of health. A mind can not function properly when running on very little sleep for a very long time. Add to this insomnia the chronic pain, and the shit hits the fan. No updates next week. Will be back the week after, though. Hang tight and have a good one!)
The weight of the world can be crushing. The rush, the stress, the constant buzz and activity expected of any functional member of society can be devastating. There is this current in our cultures that constantly push and pull in this or in that direction. To achieve, to succeed, to be constantly on the move and never take a break. Seems we turned into a society of over-achievers, where a glorious corporate career is celebrated and considered to be more important, to be more rewarding and more gratifying than a simple life, or a humble life, or family-life, or doing with ones life as one wants to do with ones life.
This culture we have created is a culture that can not help but create chronic stress. How much freedom; how much downtime does one have in ones life?
We are pushed out the door; trained into stress from the moment we are born, it seems. Straight from the womb to kindergarten, then to school, then to more school, then to work, then to the grave. To school, where one learns how to be productive; I.E. how to be a busy working-bee, to work, to tired toil permanently. From the cradle to slavery, if you will allow me some overt (and not particularly clever) melodramatics.
If one does not contribute, one does something wrong.
Of course; as men – we do something wrong if we contribute as well as doing something wrong if we don’t contribute.
Time to step down, men, and give women your place, the hive-mind will say. Then they’ll turn around and say that men who earn less than women are not good and decent marriage-material.
Women out-earn men; there must be some way this victimizes women. Men become poorer; women most affected. It is a very interesting thing to behold. One would not be amiss in saying that the serpent speaks with a split tongue; one would almost be inclined to believe that hypergamy is real. But that would be a misogynistic thing to say, apparently, so I will leave it unsaid, unwritten and unseen. You did not just hear me say it, did not just see me write it. You are hallucinating.
It’s probably stress-induced.
You should see a doctor for it.
If one does not succeed in this or in that, one is a loser. This seems to be the thing; men who do not succeed or who fall to the sides, who drop out, who become disabled and can’t work are not proper men. Men are defined, and define ourselves by what we do instead of who we are. This is a damned shame, but that seems to be the way of it. It is not good, and it is not healthy. Pushing oneself too hard is damaging.
This is not, of course, to say that people should not strive for success; that people should not strive towards excellence in whatever field. Far from it; I long for some success myself in my chosen field(s).
It is not, however, the most important thing in the world. Who one is should always be considered of more importance than what one does. The line that separates work from man and man from work ought to be clearer than it is. The first line written in a man’s perception of himself should not first and foremost be his profession. When all one defines oneself as is ones work, work is all there is. To my eyes, this can not bring anything but stress.
I used to refer to myself as an artist and a writer. And that was all that I was, and I was at a loss for anything else. It was not what I did, it was who I was. Which of course resulted in me not doing much except write and draw constantly… as though I wasted time if I did not do so. (Now, on the other hand, I refer to myself as a scribbler of lines and a semi-professional rambler. Seems fitting.)
Anyhow; I went to art-school and learned how the world of art operates and got disgusted with the whole scene. Then I got a book professionally published, experienced far from decent treatment by the publishers and so got disillusioned with the whole thing.
Thus; if I was an artist, I had to be part of that scene… and that was not in the least bit tempting.
If I was a writer, I had to deal with preposterous publishers and all that stuff… and that was not in the least bit tempting. And this is not to mention the seemingly unending demands for shoulder-rubbing and being bubbly and social and such that do not befit a grumpy pseudo-hermit such as myself.
I wanted no part of either of these worlds. They both seemed plastic, synthetic and phoney to me. Still do, in actuality. Self-congratulatory and self-aggrandizing; people who believe that the worth of their artistic work is of more importance than that of the so-called low-value work.
You know; the work of those who actually lubricate the cogs and wheels of our society; who keep the gutters clean, who keep the sewers working, who keep the electricity on, who collect and remove the garbage, and so and such.
Champagne-socialists with a bloated sense of their own importance.
As such, I was neither an artist nor a writer.
In fact, I lost faith in both art and writing for many years.
Cue existential crisis.
Cue identity crisis.
Cue me being confused and confounded for years, due in no small way to never defining myself from anything but what I did, never really figuring out who I was. Add to this a culture in which men are never really encouraged to do anything about this, and the shit hits the fan. There is a not insignificant amount of books focusing on women finding themselves, seeking themselves, celebrating themselves, whatever. Many of these have become best-sellers, blockbusters and whatever else. “Eat, Pray, Love” comes to mind as one example. I read it. It is dull and it is boring and superficial (albeit hiding its superficiality beneath a plastic layer of depth… the movie is even worse) and it is obviously not written for men. I have no issues with this, of course. I have issues with this being a message delivered solely to women: that it is very important that they find themselves and so and such and this is empowering and fantastic and screw the patriarchy, am I right, girls?
Men don’t need to do that. And those who propose that men might do good in doing just that are nothing but woman-hating misogynists for daring to consider themselves and their own needs; for daring to put themselves first.
Of course: this is not to say that I don’t consider art or literature to be important, because I really do. I still love art and I still love literature, being a man of culture and good breeding as I am. (Cue sardonic and self-deprecating laughter.) But to believe that it is the most important; to believe that one is a better class of people due to being able to draw a straight line, or due to being able to string two sentences together is naught but absolute rubbish. This, of course, was a tangent and a half.
Struggling with a crisis of identity is a profoundly difficult thing. Men have no identity of their own any more; no healthy masculine identity “allowed” by mainstream culture. Just about all the old male archetypes have been, in one way or other, deemed misogynistic and as such an oppressive tool of the patriarchy, and besides – not only men can have these roles, women can do everything men can do, and so forth and so on.
Men, one comes to learn after hearing from the conveniently cuntish cultural chaos, can not do everything women can do. Women can birth children. Men can not. And so women, by default, have an archetype, an identity, that is solely theirs and that is solely feminine: that of a mother. And this is an incredibly important thing – don’t get me wrong. Just a damned fucking shame, then, that the traditional family unit has been deemed a patriarchal tool of oppression by the feminist hordes, and as such broken up and verboten. Fathers, they have said and sprayed and lied and spat and spun for decades, are not essential and are unimportant. As anything but providers. A father is a walking wallet and little more. Women can do the whole shebang on their own… albeit with financial support from the father, who is shamed and blamed for being a “deadbeat dad” who don’t want nothing to do with his children. A damned shame, then, that the courts favour mothers and the feminist hordes bitch and moan and complain about discrimination whenever a 50% shared parenting default is presented as law… conjuring forth all manner of vicious images and lies about fathers only seeking custody of their children to punish the mothers, and that children will not be safe from abusive fathers and so and such. Nevermind abusive mothers; they don’t exist… of course and as expected. Add to the mix the push some years back from certain feminist groups to remove father’s day and replace it with the conveniently dubbed “special person’s day”, because some children don’t have fathers in their life and so this would hurt them a lot, apparently. The observant among us, who have not gobbled the raw chicken of gynocentrism and feminism, will notice that mother’s day would not be replaced with “special person’s day”, for some strange and peculiar reason. That fathers would not have a day to be celebrated would undoubtedly hurt fathers, but they don’t matter and they don’t exist. As anything but external and permanent wallets.
So not even the role of father is an allowed masculine identity. Women can do that as well. And provider, and protector, and all that was typical male identities.
Warren Farrel refers to this crisis of identity as a “purpose-void” in his book, “The Boy Crisis”. It comes recommended, though I don’t agree with everything the man says.
Purpose-void sticks, though. Because that is exactly what it is. Boys are not built up, are not told anything positive in regards to their identity and their being. Everything good they can do, girls and women can also do. And everything bad they can do, only boys and men can do. So there is no masculine identity left that is “allowed” but a negative one. Yet – the expectations are still there, evidenced by a thousand articles like cigarette-burns up and down the arms of boys and young men: where have all the good men gone, where are the men that pay for dates, that provide, that protect, that are chivalrous and all that other stuff which is both discriminatory and empowering towards women. A not insignificant amount of women, it seems, wants to act like a bitch and be treated like a queen. Equal treatment in a relationship translates into traditional expectations from the male, full and fancy freedom for the female.
Here’s a handy and non-PC hate-speech tip for the women out there: If you want a man to pay for a date, you are going to have to earn the privilege of him doing so. And no – despite the claim that men only ever think about sex – this does not mean that you must put out. How to earn the privilege, you’ll have to figure out yourself. Do some soul-searching and see what comes up. This should be interesting.
The message presented is what it is: he shall provide the most, yet he shall also participate in the domestic duties. Don’t matter that he works more, that he works harder and so and such. Everything needs to be split down the middle. Except the bills. And the workload outside the home. Men also tend to have a longer distance to travel to and from work, so one can add even more time away from home.
There is the strange double-speak: despite the role of provider not being an accepted male identity, it is still an expected male identity.
I don’t see anything wrong in being a provider. That is to say: I don’t see anything wrong in a traditional relationship if that is what people want to engage in. This should be a topic of discussion for those who are involved in the relationship, and only for them. The personal really does not need to be political. It becomes a problem when the role of provider is both one that is expected and one that a man is to be shamed for; constantly reminded that his efforts – and by extension himself – are neither valued nor needed for the family or the relationship. There is no respect or understanding for the sacrifice of the male; the female, we are told, sacrifice oh-so-much and whatever and what not. And so the male need to pick up the slack, need to get of his lazy arse and help out more. He does not do good enough, no matter what he does.
And, besides, he is constantly reminded through dreary television and news and social media and what-not: he is not needed, his efforts not appreciated.
And so, what is to be done?
A big, flaming, politically incorrect and ferocious middle-finger can only go so far. Shitposts and edgy memes, despite their humour and ability to at least open a few eyes a bit, does little but act as a source of catharsis – albeit a very functional source of catharsis. I do love me some spicy memes.
All the archetypes are gone; stripped from the male just as his testosterone-levels; declining and declining, dwindling and fading. Which, oddly enough, is not seen as a crisis as much as it should be. I wonder why.
It is rather simple. First: men need to learn how to say no to women. Really. This does not mean to say no to everything just to be an arsehole. It means to say no when you don’t wanna. I know; this does sound obvious. Yet: men, we prove time and again, have an incredibly hard time saying no to women. Far too fucking thirsty is your average man. Pussy-begging and what-not.
Secondly: focus on yourself, your needs, your wants, your hobbies, passions, interests, whatever. This can be done, even in a relationship. Profound and unexpected, I know, but there you have it – it is completely and utterly possible to focus on oneself as a man, as a human being, and still be in a functional relationship with a woman. Any woman who does not accept this is a woman not worth the time of day.
Oh, my, what a terrible misogynist I must be.
The trick is learning to expect the same from women as you would from men.
Oh my, them’s fightin’ words to the feminist equality-brigade. Equality for me, but not for thee, they’ll say and sway as they stumble on their luscious backflab. Oh boy, I’m mean-spirited today. I just got laid. I’m bursting with testosterone and my beard has grown four inches since this morning. Shame about the male pattern baldness, but, oh well – must be proof of testosterone-poisoning or something to that effect. Besides; the feminist-hordes kinda laid the ground rules for viciousness and spite. I am simply returning the favour: speaking in their language.
And this is a complete lie. For if I did, I would be calling for a culling of the females; calling to kill them all. And I would never do that. Hell: I don’t target women either: I target feminism. And feminism, you have to understand equals neither women nor equality.
Thirdly: figure out your strengths. And cultivate them. More importantly: figure out your weaknesses. And conquer them. This is a long, slow and tedious process. In fact: it is a constant process. As it damned well should be: nothing worthwhile is over and done with inside of two minutes. Except a quickie.
Lately, I have found it fascinating, the shame and ridicule that is thrown men’s way through television and whatever else as men go through their “midlife crisis”. I suspect you all know the stereotype; the middle-aged man trying to recapture the glory of his youth, making a complete fool of himself in the process… rightfully and justifiably returning to his proper role and place as the follies of his crisis is revealed in full: he is nothing more special and exemplary than what he has been for years, and nothing is worth recapturing as there is nothing there to grasp.
Allow me to present a differing perspective on the male mid-life crisis.
This is a man who wakes up, just about halfway through his life, realising that he has spent most of his life working and providing; sacrificing himself and his passions and hobbies and whatever else in the process. There has been precious little time for himself, precious little focus on his needs and wants and desires, his hobbies and interests. In fact: they have been considered childish, or brutish, or selfish and whatever else and so have been pushed to the wayside and forgotten: better to settle down with a movie and focus on the relationship than it is to play silly video-games with his friends in the evenings, for example. After all: both him and her work most days, and hardly ever see each other and what about her needs and what about the relationship and what about the family and when will they ever spend time together?
In realizing how little of himself he has actually realised; in realizing how much of himself he has actually sacrificed, he seeks to reclaim himself from the shadows.
You know: like women are encouraged to do through just about every form of media there is. “Eat, pray, love”, anyone? Women who do this; who go through the same process are celebrated and encouraged. Men who do this are ridiculed and mocked.
Mayhaps the mid-life crisis would be lessened, the foibles and follies of recapturing something that has been lost would be unnecessary, if men were not expected and encouraged to complete and utter self-sacrifice, be that for society overall or for the women in their lives and for their families.
At the very least, in times past, men got a certain amount of respect and gratitude for their capacity for self-sacrifice. There was some manner of social reward for them in doing so. Which, one assumes, kept the whole thing going for a good and long while. Now, on the other hand, there is just this constant nagging… this constant bitching and moaning and complaining and it is never good enough; there is no respect and no gratitude, no social rewards but the constant flow of what can only be referred to as thinly veiled contempt. Prompting him constantly to give more, to do more, to sacrifice more, and more, and more.
Because it is never good enough.
And even when doing what all the articles and all the women who write said articles say, it is never good enough.
Self-sacrifice to the point of self-annihilation, and still expected to do more.
Such is the plight of man. And it ain’t getting any better. The tide will only turn, the winds will only chance, when men stop. When men focus on themselves and their own gratification; when men come to realize that their true self lie within themselves – as corny as that may very well sound – and not in what they do or in how well they can provide. Better to be poor and content than rich and miserable. Better to be self-actualized than to be self-sacrificed.
Know thy self, and all that is good will follow.
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Moiret Allegiere, 02.05.2020 (The year of the apocalypse-bat)