Apocalyptic Recess

«Dissociative», Moiret Allegiere, 2019

Inspired by this: https://www.rollingstone.com/culture/culture-features/coomer-meme-no-nut-november-nofap-908676/

I came of age in an apocalyptic recess. A green-screen school-yard that scripted interactions with other kids where what was and was not allowed depended upon the screech-yammer of the blind and murky eye in the sky; the godhead of our illuminating teenaged madness that got us mad and gloomy, despairingly lost in the labyrinth, alternating between hunting or being hunted by the Minotaur.

Not to run too fast, not to wrestle on the ground, not to play-pretend battlefields mirroring open-canvas history… but to buckle down, to defend and to pretend miscellaneous cataclysmic horror-events never really happened as they did… that words spoken were not spoken or in fact ever thought, despite being spoken loudly and coherently through the smokescreen… an age of lies and of deceit where nothing ever meant what it really meant, where all was jumbled confusion.

Wild, rubbed raw, running scared, broken and feral… snow melting on eyelids exposed to the sun… later to be targetted for brown-nosed browbeating for our immediate and immaculate response to distant sing-song triggers that burnt the sky as well as the eye in the sky where we should neither sing nor dance but fold our hands and loose our selfish selves in a death-rattle trance. Scorched earth; minds and nimble fingers burnt and buried, bruised and battered.

Once we jumped to action in inaction… attempting to avoid the plague that killed the wild forest growing in our mind and in our minds eye… so that our childhood eyes that had their gaze thrown to the ground in shame and in regret and dutiful neglect should be clouded by the grim, deaths-grin of the eye in the sky that would burn a hole in our souls and in our lust and laughter to send us spiralling down.

Such a fall and such a tumble from the playing-fields that levelled all our spastic muscles, toned to peak efficiency in young-boy minds that screamed and dreamed and creamed in anguish… torn apart by clashing waves and tyrant-songs, whose vibrating vibrato-voices swooned and gasped in two-toned harmony at the mere whisper of the word “pussy” or – even worse – the word “cunt”; the shaking fists and trembling lips conspired to the rat-faced shaming of our budding sexuality.

For we were not to raise our arms in gratitude to the spring-rays of the sun, or the smiles of alluring teenaged beauty, nor to appreciate the forms and shapes that came to bloom in sudden summer-winds… we were left instead to celebrate the dim rays of the winter sun that cast such shades of doubt in the neurotic tragedy of our puberty-induced psychosis that shook the travesty, the cow-poked lunacy of long-lingering hatred and despotic fear of male sex and sexuality, of what was considered brute boyish fumblings in the dark… naught but inexperience and clumsy attempts at flirting in actuality… yet painted and presented as peak misogyny or sexual entitlement in the dawn of the present-day oppressive clown-world insanity where sexuality is wrong except when it is right… which is… well, whatever, never mind. Smells like teen dispirit… Here we are now… vivisect us.

We sat chained and locked in dim sleep beneath arching, cavernous roofs and watched the stars align to our demise to be taught the terrors and the horrors, the errors and the worries of our raging boner; our holocaust-inducing hard-on, the simplistic stupidity and egotistical nature of our fornication-desires, where a penis was doubtlessly nothing but an implement of rape and of oppression, a hymen-blasting shotgun spray-painted the colours of beastly lust and animal instinct.

As was also the case regarding our perceived lack of emotional maturity… a ghastly grim guffaw whipping us across the backs for our crude humour and ravenous rogue-like laughter… for us to cross the lines of good taste and decency was such a trespass that the sheltered shaded safe-zone minds that numbed themselves with safe and sheltered shaded safe-zone entertainment swooned and gasped and swindled their way into the limelight to point their wagging fingers at us and beat us down for insubordination in our intra-sexual communication, bullshit-talk and private jokes, shooting us for revolution, for de-volution, for having a sense of humour different from the scorned and ever-so-offended hordes that ruled the discourse then and would later come to rule the discourse even more in fumbling babbled crocodile-teared shock and horror at the state of the woe and of the worry of the world.

This ball-blasting mind-melting meddling in the private sphere where none but those who ultimately were intimately involved ought to have words to say and deeds do to is par for the course in the inter-twined and inter-mingled hive-mind perspiration that drips like blood from rotting gums that can not stand the shock of people acting on their own, being non-programmed by the engineers of this unavoidable Armageddon, the downfall and demise of our all and own and one and all.

The self-proclaimed-and-chosen institute for higher morality have unleashed the hounds of war, have sat hells gates open and let loose the hordes of hell to burn and bring to ruin all that once was and ever will be. To tear down and never rebuild. To bomb, burn, bruise and batter all who oppose the high-flying fancy of their ministry of morality, their department of kind and inclusive mob-rule and social death, their police of political duplicity and virtue hidden in their folded hands and dead-eyed grimaced grins that claim vacuous public decency… to be laid down upon the heads and shoulders of all but them, for they are above the law and above the rules… y’all gotta play by the rules as we present them, but we don’t have to.

One can not expect to find common decency in those who rage and roar about the lack of common decency – such arrogance is invisible to those in the throes and hysterical displays of smug self-righteous arrogance, virtue and morals and wise words more vacuous and wild than the gloomy depths of teenaged goth poetry written in the dark by candlelight-vigils for the soul they wish they had not sold for political correctness, where double-standards are the only standards they hold, a truth visible to all but themselves.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 13.11.2019

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07ZB6K2JX
Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1692495518

Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
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Vol 1 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZTPDPR
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Vol 2 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZR25NL
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Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075723078
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Why I am an Anti-feminist, part 6

«Projection»

There is absolutely nothing wrong with physical attraction. Nor is there anything wrong with sex… or sexual desire. Quite the contrary, I would dare say, as I fail to see how the human race would have managed without it.

Contrary, perhaps, to all sanity and reason, I have yet to become a misanthrope. There is too much beauty and kindness in the human race still for that to happen, though the mass-media pundits would tell you otherwise. Might be a case of naivety on my part. No doubt, I am a grumpy and cynical bastard… but at the very least I still cling to a tiny floating burrito filled with hope. This keeps me from becoming completely and utterly black-pilled.

For the time being, at least, the good tend to outweigh the bad. One just need to look beyond the rage-inducing headlines and constant calls for outrage. It makes more sense to focus on the bad. It stands to reason that the bad is something one would wish to change, whereas the good don’t need to change. Even if the bad often is amplified far beyond how bad it really and truly is. And the following outrage doubly so.

Whenever I experience one of my frequent bouts with insomnia, I tend to wake up in the wee hours of the morning… or the middle of the night, completely incapable of going back to sleep. Physical pain, stress, emotional turmoil, constant pondering, racing thoughts… whatever the reason, I have to get up. And in those moments, I tend to watch dog-rescue videos on YouTube. As corny as that sounds. It restores my faith in the world in no small way. And is one of the few things that bring tears to my eyes, soppy romantic fool that I am. Dogs are way too good for us. At times, I think that we don’t deserve them.

There is so much enmity, so much hostility, so much rage and wrath and ruin everywhere one looks. Everything has to be analysed, broken down and labelled this or that. When that happens, it is left open to attack from those that would say that this is better than that. Or that is better than this.

Nowhere, to my bleeding eyes and foggy winter-mind, is this more evident than in the eternal gender-war. The eternal gender-war, I think, is a manufactured war meant to carry on in perpetuity. It is not meant to end. Its sole purpose lies in creating a great rift between the sexes, manufacturing mutual hostility and distrust where there really ought to be mutual co-operation and trust. Where we ought to fulfil one another, we now do nothing but try and outdo one another. As stated time and again; how we fulfil one another – that is – who does what – should not matter to anyone but those directly or intimately involved. Making the personal political and the political personal is a horrendous thing. Barring abuse, none but the people involved in the personal should have a say in their personal day-to-day lives. Do not meddle in the affairs of other people. Respect the privacy of other people. This should not be all that difficult a concept to grasp, yet it is. Apparently. No-one but those involved should care about who cooks dinner, who does the dishes, and so forth and so on. It is not unreasonable to “allow” people to decide for themselves who does which of the many chores and responsibilities that necessarily come along with an adult relationship. What is unreasonable is for other people to poke and prod and complain and bitch and moan if the chores are split in a manner not suitable to their political or personal sensibilities. And here I am not speaking only on feminism. This goes for whichever preconceived set of ideas about who ought to do what one ascribes to.

My tribe is better than your tribe, here’s ten reasons why. Bog-standard clickbait titles. Men this, women that. One celebrated at the same time that one is scorned by popular voter’s fraud.

People tend to be trend-hoppers. This is not something new. The in-group dominates, the out-group does not.

If one man writes an article about women the way many a feminist woman would write an article about men, the powers that be will truly shake, tremble and come down on it with all the rage, wrath and ruin that could be mustered. Even if nothing but the sex spoken about in the article has changed. The wording may be exactly the same. But substitute “man” for “woman”, and the whole world cries out in pain and in anguish. Try it sometime. Read any feminist article, and replace every instance of “men” with “women”. Does not look that reasonable then. For added emphasis, replace “men” with “Negroes”. Or “Jews”. Or “The Irish”… whatever you wish, really. It works.

Nothing negative may ever be spoken about women. And nothing but negative may ever be spoken about men.

At the end of the day, it seems to me that it all boils down to something as petty as revenge. Nothing more and nothing less. And something that petty ought not to be a proper reason, ought not to be an accepted reason.

Even if one accept the feminist revisionist history, revenge should not be an accepted reason for anything of such magnitude and societal impact as feminism. It is small-minded and petty. Which is what the gender-war is, in my humble and barbaric opinion – small-minded and petty, filled with tiny grievances and vengeance-fuelled tingling feminist-senses… lovingly, inclusively and compassionately informing us that men being broke, destitute and in lack of higher education is a problem for women wanting to marry. And that women have always been the primary victims of war. Because their husbands, fathers and sons die.

In other news; Meteor hits earth, Women most affected.

One of my biggest personal peeves with the gender-war, with the feminist-laced koolaid that has been forced down our gullible throats like so much old vine cyanide, is the constant assault on what men in general find sexually attractive. Men tend to be more immediately attracted to visual appearance; to tits and legs and butt and what have you. This should not be something negative. Yet it is presented as such; presented as superficiality and what-not. Odd I think, as the main reason for this, as far as I have understood it, is healthy mate-selection.

Signifiers of youth, good health and fertility are not negative traits to be attracted to. Quite the contrary, one should think. Yet here we are, lost in this nonsensical poop-flinging. Men in general are not attracted to fat chicks, as obesity is not exactly a signifier of good health. This only goes to show that men are far too superficial of course, never delving beneath the outer appearance to see the beauty hidden within the flabby folds of fat. Here, men must alter their sexual and romantic preference to include fat chicks. Otherwise, they are fat-shaming misogynistic bastards, subscribing to a societal brainwashing about what is and what is not attractive.

…For wanting ones partner to be fit and healthy is a bad thing, a superficial thing. An obese woman losing weight instead of a man altering his sexual and romantic preference is too much work, man. Women need not do anything to fix themselves. It is presented, as it always is presented, as if men are in the wrong. As such, men need to change and alter what they find attractive. For not being attracted to obesity; for not being attracted to poor health and all which that entails of future struggles down the long and winding road to nowhere.

Would the same women that scream about fat-acceptance accept a morbidly obese partner themselves? This is a question I think is very interesting. I have no idea, in all honesty. Still, I have to say that every one of these fat-acceptance comics I have seen depicts an obese woman with a decently built man. This is solely anecdotal, however. And I have not delved deep into that grime and muck, patriarchal misogynistic bastard unable to show empathy and understanding for the plight of (insert supposedly marginalized group) that I undoubtedly am.

Still, and for what it is worth, I would dare say that I absolutely do think men tend to not be critical enough about where they stick their willy. As long as the willy gets wet at a semi-regular basis, it is all worth it in the end. No matter what happens, how it happens or what she does. Or how she does it. There is a reason why there is such a saying as “don’t stick your dick in crazy”, after all.

Contrary to what the current cultural climate would have one believe, this saying is more of a slight against men than it is a slight against women. That is how I hear it, any ways – a cautionary tale in six wondrously crafted words, urging men to think with their big heads and not their willy when it comes to the subject of willy-wetting. There are more important things in the world than fucking. Yet, men are thirsty creatures. To our own demise. And crazy women exist. Just as crazy men exist. The difference lies in what women are told in regards to crazy by society at large, and what men are told. The expectations are not the same, nor is the message delivered. There are few limits to what men are supposed to put up with. Whereas women don’t even need to put up with a lack of attraction from men for reasons of poor health and obesity. Or poor health on account of obesity.

It is still his fault and as such need mending. On his part. His biology must be re-written, his outlook altered and his brain beat into tune so that he plays the fat-acceptance accordion with a painted-on smile and glazed-over eyes, singing along with the ballad of the big beautiful women. These are women who are healthy at any size… and diabetes, infertility, cardiovascular disease and higher risk of certain cancers, etc. etc. be damned. Those diseases are all patriarchal constructs; designed to force a societal ideal of beauty that is as unnatural as it is unobtainable. Being fat is exactly how things should be.

For is it not written that the flab is as the flab does, and any who oppose the fat, the flab or the fold are not of the true roll? Hail to the flab, for it marks the coming of the fold and of the fat and of the roll. From now until the end of time, amen, hallelujah, praise Mickie D’s, all hail the King of the Burgers, and so forth and so on.

I used to be fat. I have lost a little over 30 KG. This was done solely by changing what I ate, what I drank and how much I walked. No strenuous exercise, even… nothing more difficult than self-discipline and adding about 30 minutes of walking to my daily routine. Granted, changing what one eats and drinks is changing habits. And changing habits is fairly difficult. But it is far from the most difficult thing in the world. It is absolutely doable. People do it all the time. It is well worth it.

I must say that losing weight did wonders for my mental health as well as some pretty severe lower back pain I struggled with for quite some time. Not having to carry around 30-something kilos of flab alleviated pain. Who’d have thunk it? It fixed quite a lot of other things of small or big significance, which I do not wish to get into here. Of course, this was before I got hit with this bloody illness of mine which causes me chronic pain and fatigue along with a whole host of other health-issues of varying severity… Bloody genetics, man. This was likely destined to happen. Which would, were I still fat, be even harder on me than it currently is. The only thing you lose when losing weight is weight. But I am getting off track… again.

…It is so strange to see how men are not “allowed” their own romantic or sexual preferences. They are to be shamed for it. Don’t want to fuck a pre-transition transexual lady with a penis? You are as transphobic as the day is bright, sir! How dare you not want your woman to have a penis? Lady-penises are beautiful, I’ll have you know, sir! For added shaming, add the slur “homophobic” and something-something “heteronormative”…

The sexuality of men tend to be viewed as something dangerous, something primitive, something based solely on primal lust with not a smidgeon of emotional connection anywhere to be found. I would dare say that most men quite enjoy there to be an emotional connection as well as a purely physical attraction. At the very least regarding long term relationships. But what the hell do I know – I have only been a man for thirty-some years… it is not as though I have studied intersectional feminism and stalwart gender-studies, after all. As such, I really have no idea about life as a man. That knowledge is reserved for female gender-studies graduates with type 2 diabetes poking its head out of their throats, floating on their radical and righteous acid reflux.

It is such a horrendously arrogant thing.

Feminism knows all about life as a man. And men can not know anything about it, nor can they know anything about life as a woman. If you want to know what life is like as a man, you have to study gender in universities. It is not enough to live your life as a man. This means nothing. Only women have lived experiences. Men need not apply. Particularly women of the gender-studies bent experience lived experiences, with the mark of feminism tattooed on their heads… branded, as it were, by the mark of the beast. To be clear: I do not believe that every man lives the same life and has the same experiences. Nor do I believe this about women.

One-night-stands are another beast altogether where attraction and sex is concerned… but in that regard, there are two people playing on prime-rib primal lust, not only one. With the man labelled an arsehole for leaving the next day, and potentially a rapist were the woman intoxicated. Whether or not he was intoxicated as well plays little part and no matter. He is the instigator and the fornicator, and she is not. An awful gender-traditional view, one would probably be inclined to believe. Yet apparently not.

It is clearly liberating to the extreme; an intoxicated woman is completely incapable of acting on her own accord, whereas an intoxicated man is very much capable of acting on both his own and her accord. Apparently, women turn into children when intoxicated. And men are some horrible paternalistic rape-figure, entrenched in cum-dreams and driven by primeval lust. Both when they are sober and when they have been drinking. For that is the plight of man, mischievous bastards that we are.

One-night-stands may be as they may; I fail to see why anyone should care what people do with their genitalia. I do have my own opinions on the matter, but I see no reason to flaunt that opinion here as some sort of bloody moralizing stupidity. Consenting adults can do whatever the hell consenting adults want to do.

The main problem with sexual liberation is that it also carries with it an immense amount of responsibility, not least of which is to take personal responsibility for drunken one-night-stands. Which also includes regretting it the next day, when the lust has passed and a throbbing urge and desire to scream, roar, and hide beneath the covers in shame overcomes one.

Accepting and then living with that regret is part of the game. Falsely crying “rape” – as have happened more than once – for regretting an in-the-heat-of-sudden-passion one-night-stand is not accepting ones own folly and taking responsibility for it. It is pushing responsibilities for ones own actions away, giving one party sole responsibility for something where it really and truly does take two to tango.

I have no doubt, of course, that rape happens. Nor do I have any doubt that both men and women are capable of rape. And of being raped. But claiming rape of the woman every time a drunken hookup happens between a man and a woman is much akin to saying that men are capable of making their own choices and taking responsibilities for their actions when drunk, and women are not. Which does sound awfully patronizing… seems like infantilising women are in vogue at the moment. I happen to believe women are far stronger and much less frail and weak than feminism wants us to believe that they are.

You see; if women can not consent to sex when drunk, whereas men can, what view would you say the ones claiming this have of women? And of men? And of female sexuality? And male sexuality?

It sounds neither equal, nor healthy, nor sane from my point of view. Either both parties are raped and both parties are rapists, or they are both grown-ass adults, capable of making their own decisions. Even when intoxicated. This removal of liability, of personal responsibility from drunk women is removing all manner of personal agency from women and placing it all on men.

#notallwomen.

Though certainly a push from feminism claiming to speak on behalf of all women. Consent can be revoked at any point. Even long after the affair. Which is interesting, obviously, as this necessarily must mean that one can not trust in a woman that gives willing and eager consent, as it may be removed seventeen years later and brand one a rapist. I have no idea how this is supposed to work. Men need to get consent. OK, that is fair enough – do women have to get consent? Or does it not work like that? Did you not think of it in that way? Oh, well, no matter. Consent is gotten. And then it can be removed at any point, even after the damned willy-wetting. How can one possibly trust in the consent given then?

Men are hunters, and women are prey. That is what the sexual tango boils down to through this line of thought… as such, any sexual act is an act perpetrated by the man upon the woman. Sex is something men do to women, which women begrudgingly let men do to them. Giving way to such splendid stupidity as “all heterosexual sex is rape” from many a radical feminist, which is, of course, not real feminism. Because such a thing does not exist. Even when it does for reasons of feminism not being a monolith. Sigh and harumph.

I’ll just retreat into the shadows, twirl my moustaches menacingly and laugh in grim-faced patriarchy.

It is almost as if feminism is created to be confusing, giving neither a yes or a no, but perpetually existing in a state of uncertain flux so as to be invoked at any moment as either this or that, depending on the state of current affairs. We have always been at war with Oceania. Or was it Eurasia? It is so easy to get lost in it. Better to just go with the frantic flow of things. Nod, smile, and pretend to understand.

The cat and mouse game is nothing new. One can hear it in songs as old as time, in tales as old as time. Most elegantly in the quaint and very romantic “Baby, it’s cold outside”… It is such a quaint, cute and romantic song that I can not help but love it. Soppy romantic fool that I am. This ballad really blew up around Christmas of 2017 or 2018 – I can’t really remember… with it being referred to as a date-rape anthem and other such stupidity from people who seem to be frightfully unaware of how human beings interact and all the social games we tend to play which, ultimately, are nothing but a set of invisible rules and borders which we all must exist within and work together within, whether we want to or not.

I really do believe there is something to the cat and mouse game… Women are the gatekeepers of sex. And men must “catch them” by proving themselves worthy in some way or other… must convince them that they are worthy of a good and solid fucking, a chance of procreation, a relationship, and so and such. Him protect, him provide, through this, that or the other. There is nothing wrong with this, as such. If people were willing to at the very least be god-damned honest about it, instead of muddying it and hiding it and pretending it is something other than what it is. For it is a dance, a constant back and forth, older than sin.

When considering that men are the ones who are expected – by and large – to make the first move in any relationship, it becomes even more apparent. At the very least it does so to me. Yet, the rules have changed somewhat… the social contract having been rewritten with mainly women in mind, keeping the rules the same for men in no small way and loosening the rules for women in no small way give rise to a certain sense of confusion. There are still plenty of traditional expectations expected from men, even in regards to simple one-night-stands. These are rules and expectations which women seem to cling too, all the while expecting to be released from these rules and expectations themselves. Rules and expectations is something that happen to other people, after all.

She has been “hunted” all night until she finally relented and gave in, willingly gave consent through many an “Oh, God, Yes!!!” and then removed the consent the following morning for regretting it. Which just beggars the question yet again: how can one possibly trust in this consent, if the consent can be given, the act done and the consent then removed the following morning?

One can not trust in it. And it does not make any sense – the rules are nonsensical.

That is a major problem of this current year. If all responsibility for drunken hook-ups lie squarely on the shoulders of men, never-minding any responsibility from a drunken woman who also was very much into it, up to and including willing and eager consent, there is a problem. With great power comes great responsibility. Great sexual freedom is great power. And one has to take responsibility for ones own actions when enjoying that freedom.

Obviously, this is something that goes for both men and women who enjoy this kind of thing. Yet the blame and the responsibility keep falling primarily in the lap of men. And only men, if the winds keep blowing as they do. Only men have agency in this regard, then. That is the view of things. And the feminist hive-mind host slut-walks to protest the shame they claim women who seek nefarious carnal knowledge of someone else’s flesh are met with on a regular basis, forgetting for sake of convenience, that everyone – be they man or woman – are judged on what they do and how they behave.

I do not believe that this is something every woman does. The power to do so is still there, though. And this society of ours keep telling women that 1+1 equals 5, 6, 7 or even 8. That if she feels wronged, she has been wronged – and to hell with all the facts of the matter, up to and including willing consent given in the moment… or at every subsequent step from the moment.

I could have gone on for ages with this… but I’ll take a break here, considering the length of my ramblings being too lengthy more often than not. …And my mind not being at its best behaviour on account of a particularly rough battle with illness the past few months. Also, the construction work going on outside is distracting, making it even more difficult to think and write. Join me next week for some more cruel and unusual rambling on what is, essentially and apparently, not real feminism. Even when it is. Despite such a thing not existing, except when it does.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 02.11.2019

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07ZB6K2JX
Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1692495518

Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
Vol 1 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/107571074X
Vol 1 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZTPDPR
Vol 2 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075714184
Vol 2 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZR25NL
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075717094
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075723078
Other links:
Redbubble shop: https://www.redbubble.com/people/Moiret/shop
Blog: https://moiretallegiere.wordpress.com/
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Escape

Escape.

No ifs and/or buts. Escape. Turn away. Turn back. Go away. No ifs and/or buts. There is no point forward. There is no point back. Turn forward. Go ahead. No ifs and/or buts. Note nothing, notice nothing. Note everything, notice everything. Turn away. Turn back. Move ahead. Move back. Move forward. Move across. Go ahead. No ifs and/or buts.

The game is wired, mesh-like, social is as sociopathy does. Sociopathy does as the social game is. No ifs and/or buts. Turn in. Turn inwards. Tune out. Tune in. Drop out. Drop in, introspection. Externalize the internal immersion. And escape. No ifs and/or buts. Escape. Within. Then without. Without within, without is nothing.

Escape.

And turn around, turn aside, turn forward. Tune in, tune out, turn on, turn off. Simulate senses, stimulated, hardwired, firing on all the things neurotically. Bang. Bang. Turn on. Turn off. No ifs and/or buts.

Escape.

Migrate. Mediate. Meditate.

Migraine, mediocre, medicine.

Back and forth look the same within this shambled shame-blame-game. No ifs and/or buts. Progress is regression. Regressive speech-therapy, deep progressive psychosis, hypnosis, hypochondriac. High-strung, modern malicious modernity… Then death from cirrhosis of the liver and the brain-pan, pang-blasted into migraine—pain.

Escape.

Into and out of, away from. Mental breakdown, freak-out, freak down – another victim of class-action class-warfare lawsuit where neither is nor and or, or there or then. Trenches dug and society spun, dig-dugged into chlamydia from swarmed arcade intellectuals… auditoriums of play-pen pigsties pillaging intellectual rheumatism… gospels of the depraved and decadent sung high-and-mighty as claws reach growth then slip.

Escape.

No ifs and/or buts. Withdraw. And wobble ever forwards, ever onwards, ever backwards, ever inwards.

Escape.

Bang-hammer blast migraine-pain in back and neck. Mind stroked dead from lack of cock, cunt and clock.

Escape.

Sky is overcast, drowned in ink. Moon wearing silk-stockings, net-fish fishnets… streams of consciousness gibbering morosely, mockingly, adoringly.

Escape.

No ifs and/or buts. Get out. While you still can. Get in. While you still can. Get it. No ifs and/or buts. Sociopathy is socially accepted, ya dig… This social game digs sociopathic sociological telepathy… aerial brainwaves radiating from the eyes of lifeless life… ya dig? Ya dig-dug?

Escape.

No ifs and/or buts.

Merely freedom.

Complete.

Tarred and feathered. Songs through the epiphany, sounds of desolate deserts, tundras, siren-songs spoken in silver-spun buckets full of painted milk, claws of the cat and of the hound and of the hounded.

Escape.

No ifs and/or buts. And sing, stink, sting… brave blues in blue suede shoes march forward and turn backwards, ever out, ever in.

Escape.

No ifs and/or buts. Ain’t nothing but a hound dog. Hounded dog. And so loved. Eternal internal release, reprise, reprimanded, recollected, resurrected through escape.

No ifs and/or buts. Release. Escape. Meditation, reflection, soul-sphere, eye-blind I-candy for me myself and I.

Escape.

No ifs and/or buts.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 30.10.2019

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07ZB6K2JX
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Why I am an Anti-feminist, part 5

«2019, Eggshell-frail Enlightenment»

Back in 2016, a video made the rounds through the commentator-communities of YouTube. And beyond.

This would be the ridiculous, god-damned awful, horribly brain-dead, superficial-as-a-valley-girl video “36 Questions Women Have for Men”. If you have not seen it yet, you should. Go watch it now. I’ll have coffee, wine and strange and exotic pharmaceuticals waiting for you when you come back.

It is safe to say that, if this video was a child, it would be referred to as having a face that only a mother could love. It would be caught trying to smoke its own socks in the one and only gender-neutral toilet in its school, because the cool kids told it that this is what the cool kids do. It is that one kid that everyone knows should really be getting special education, but who does not, for some reason or other. Mainly to do with its parents.

In other words: it is ridiculous, stupid, mentally and emotionally challenged. It should be locked up for its own protection, in a padded cell with a straight-jacket and a bottle of finely aged antipsychotics, its tongue tied down so it did not accidentally swallow it and subsequently choke to death.

Of course; this child would have already choked on its own sense of self-importance, slipped on its own dribble and landed straight on its arse. Which is to say – it would slip on its pride, and land on its honour.

I really and truly enjoyed watching it being torn to shreds by everything and everyone able to get their wonderful hands and biting tongues on it.

Though it is, without a doubt, low-hanging fruit.

Sometimes, that is just exactly what one needs. I am not going to beat a dead horse and respond to that video. We should really leave it alone. It is already dead.

And, oh the humanity, oh the woe and oh the torture never ends!

I’m just using it as a necessary tool; an introduction to this part of my cruel and unusual rambling.

It is incredibly funny to me – bordering on hilarious – that the supposedly oppressed class can speak to their supposed oppressors like the women in that video did. That is – with impunity.

It is almost as though women are most definitely not oppressed and men are certainly not their oppressors. That these nincompoops are unable to see this is something I am absolutely unwilling to believe. No-one can be that stupid, that lacking in self-awareness, and still be able to breathe and stand at the same time.

They know they are not being oppressed.

They are riding the gravy-train of self-important smugness, arrogance and the incredible sensation that their shit don’t stink. High on their own fumes of moral indignation and self-righteous imbecility, they know themselves and their ideology to be considered untouchable by the culture at large.

Were women as oppressed as these fools claim, they would never have dared to make this video for fear of the bogeyman Patriarchy smashing down on them with all the fascist jackboots and cruel whips it could muster.

Strange how that did not happen.

Of course; cue the inevitable calls and cries of misogynist harassment and patriarchal interference for people responding to their video in which they do nothing but insult, condescend, stereotype and belittle men in the name of holy feminism and her cohort gynocentrism. The self-perpetuating and self-fulfilling prophecy has come full circle. Women can say whatever the hell they like about men in general, and if men dare respond – well now, that is an outrage and absolute proof that what they are saying is true as well as the necessity of the movement. Add to this the chronic case of the one rule for me, another for thee sickness, and you’ve got yourself feminism 101.

Though I am not going to respond to the video, I will take one quote from the video as a starting point, paraphrasing it a bit: “Why do you make women talk about men in movies when you can sit around and talk about boobs for hours?”

Men are – just as women are – not a grey homogeneous ooze. The actions of one man are not the actions of every man in existence. It is also incredibly funny that this is, in fact, a video where women do nothing but talk about men. Or talk down to men. Whatever you want to call it. Which kind of disproves that point a little.

Which only makes me think that anything a feminist claims that men do is something she does herself. It is psychological projection from someone who is incapable of understanding that other people act differently to herself.

Now, to be fair, I believe we are all guilty of psychological projection in some way or other. The only reference-point we have are, after all, our self. So it would be fairly natural to assume other people react or act in a manner similar to us. More so for people who have problems with empathy, if I understand correctly. It is, however, something that one can learn not to do. This involves introspection and an understanding that oneself is not the blueprint for humanity, though, and this is clearly something that does not come easily to the feminist hive-mind in the garden of voluptuous hysteria… or aboard the gravy-train of grace and hubris.

For my own sake, I can not remember the last time I discussed boobs with any one of my friends. Granted, I discuss boobs with my wife from time to time, but that tend to be because she brought it up after seeing boobs in the Bada-bing scenes from the Sopranos and commenting on the terrible boob jobs. And, yeah, they are fairly terrible.

You know, boobs may be great and all… but it really is not an interesting topic of discussion.

Sorry ladies.

Besides, I have always been more a fan of legs than I have ever been of boobs. Legs are far better than boobs, and I will happily fight anyone who says otherwise. Or I will offer them a pint of my finest home-brew and make them see the error of their ways. Whichever may come first. I can only assume that what women – in particular feminist women – do when they are alone, is talk about men and nothing but that. Either that, or they are terrified that men do not talk about women when men are alone together. There can be no other topics of importance or interest for men than women, right?

Cockadoodledo.

You know, I have received unsolicited tit-pics on Snapchat, back in the days when I was dumb enough to use it. To which I responded that I have always enjoyed legs far better than I have ever enjoyed tits. This did not get me any response. Probably should have called the cops on them for sexual harassment, come to think of it. But, oh well.

T & A aside, what I am rambling my way towards is this: feminism often make the claim that men oppose feminism because feminism focuses on women.

…To which I would dare say that it is quite the contrary. The main point of contention is that feminism focuses so very much on the perceived evil of men. So much so that it borders on obsession; a grotesque display of obsession. Like some frenzied, mad ex-girlfriend that can not understand the meaning of the words “leave me alone, you crazy person!”, feminism lays the burden of blame and shame on men for being men. It does so all the time. It has the worst, the lowest opinion of men. Painting us all as terrible oppressors, misogynistic bastards and so forth and so on. For nothing but being born as boys, for growing up and becoming men. At the same time, feminism tend to call on men to rise up and do all we can to make the world a better place. For women.

Men must give and sacrifice so that women shall feel safe. From other men. And if men do not do that, men are shamed by feminism. And by society at large. Men are disposable tools to be used for the betterment of society, for the safety of women and for the safety of children. Chivalry is not dead. And feminism, with all its claims of equal treatment, are the ones keeping it alive. Whenever it suits them.

Traditional expectations where gender-roles are concerned is still a thing when it comes to the expectations we put on men – to protect, and to provide. And most men, I am willing to bet, do this quite willingly. It gives a sense of purpose that is much needed in the lives of boys and men. This is something men have done for millennia. I don’t think this is something we will ever get rid of, despite men walking away, despite MGTOW, despite all that jazz. It seems to be something we are biologically hardwired to do.

Now, we have grown smart enough as a species to be able to make conscious decisions to walk away, to work on ourselves, to be aware of how we interact with society – and with that I mean all of society, not only men, not only women.

This is, in all honesty, all well and good. More power to you.

I find myself turning my back on society more and more in my own way. At some point, I really just got tired of all the shit-flinging, imbecility and hypocrisy on display in the public discourse. Civility is dead. All that is left is civil disobedience. And that is a misplaced, poorly managed, never thought through parody of civil disobedience from sheltered nincompoops who do not really understand the what, how, when, where, why and such.

Everything has become so scathingly, so eye-scarringly black and white. It is either this, or it is that. Opposition to this must as such necessarily mean complete allegiance to that.

I often wonder if this is due to our dwindling and very limited concentration-spans, making concentrating on something for a prolonged period of time a difficult prospect for most. This giving rise to merely a surface understanding of various issues. It is easy to point at one thing and claim that this – this one thing is what needs to be fixed. Then, and only then, all of this and all of that will be in perfect order.

And then one could probably argue that this is exactly what I am doing when I focus so much of my writing and rambling on the forces of feminism. To which I can only reply that I have a lot of things to get out of my system where feminism is regarded before I feel – and here the emphasis is, I absolutely admit, on the word “feel” – ready to tackle other issues.

I consider it very dangerous when one ideology, when one set of ideas, are given the monopoly on any one concept. Particularly so in regards to such a strange and ever-changing concept as “equality”. More voices should be heard than only the one. And feminism have become so mighty, so big and powerful that it is able to – quite successfully – kill other voices attempting to speak on the topic. That is a dangerous thing. This is something I would say no matter which set of ideas are granted a monopoly, to be perfectly honest. Particularly so if this set of ideas have the power to shut down voices in opposition. Any -ism that shames and threatens other voices into silence or compliance or obedience is dangerous. Protesting is one thing. Refusing people to listen to other voices is quite another.

This black and white thinking is the price to pay for immediate satisfaction through immediate outrage, and facts and nuance be damned.

…Though I am obviously not a MGTOW, being a married man and all, I absolutely understand where it comes from. The best one can do is to carve out a space for oneself – to follow ones own path toward happiness and self-fulfilment. Which feminism consider wise words to give to women, but horrible words to give to men. For, to the eyes of feminism – and to a sure and certain extent, society as is – if a man does not make the betterment of women’s lives his main priority, he is not a real man. That is putting it very simple, obviously.

If there is anything we ought to have learned by now, it is this: the only ones allowed to judge whether a man is a real man or not are women as a group, not men and most certainly not the man being scrutinized at that moment in time.

That is the level of insanity we are at. There are more than enough books, articles, lectures and so and such out there by women telling men what to do in order to be a real man. Which tend to be what the one woman want to see in a man, and never mind the men themselves – men are there for their amusement and their convenience. This is supreme entitlement driven forth and weaponized by the frantic forces of feminism.

It is not without reason that the word “boy” used to refer to a servant. Just get the boy to do it. See what I mean?

As an example, it is a constant source of amusement to me that men are still expected to pay on dates. Scores of women get offended if they are expected to split the bill. No strong independent women to be seen there, I gather – some fish most certainly need a bicycle. At the very least where dates are concerned. This is a traditional expectation.

And though I am very much aware that there are women out there who do pay for dates or split the bills, they are in the minority. To be clear – how people chose to delegate responsibilities in their personal relationships is their business and their business alone. I have no interest in meddling, nor should anyone else. My point is only this: one can not expect one side to fulfil the traditional expectations and then be outraged when the traditional role is expected from the other side. One must give in order to receive. This goes for both parties.

There is this interview with Emma Watson – she of the hypocritical he-for-she funk and flurry – on YouTube in which she magically and majestically swirls triumphantly through the garden of mental gymnastics to explain why she still expects men to pay on dates, despite feminism, equal treatment and so and such. And despite being filthy stinking rich herself.

The traditional roles are very much alive and well where men are concerned, but it is not to be reciprocated in kind. If you want a woman to fulfil a traditional role, you are a misogynistic bastard. You, however, must fulfil a traditional role. If not, you are a misogynistic bastard. For that is equality as seen through the eyes and bleeding gums of feminism: supreme entitlement, because men owe women ever so much and yada-yada-yada, blah blah blah. And you want to be seen as a real man, do you not? And a real man does whatever the hell a woman and society says he must do, at the cost of his own safety, sanity, life, limb and economy.

This “real man” rhetoric is complete and utter shit. A real man is a real man if he says he is a real man, and he does whatever the hell he wants to do, shame and ridicule be damned. Whether that shame and ridicule comes from women or from other men should not matter. Rise above the self-flagellating and self-sacrificial bullshit and do your thing, whatever that thing is.

I was bullied for reading books when I went to school. Literature is one of my first and greatest loves, one of my greatest pleasures in life. Always have been, and always will be. Apparently, this is not something real men do. Whatever the hell this means. Granted, I was singled out for bullying… so whatever I did would give get me bullied. This one stuck out the most to me. Because there is something precious and special about some imbecilic moron with the vocabulary of a toddler proudly boasting about never having read a book in his life ridiculing and belittling someone for reading books, referring to the practice as stupid. Stupid. Maybe I am expecting too much from kids aged sixteen, but – god-damn, if that is not some ridiculous piss-pottery.

It must also be mentioned, mainly for my own amusement, that the girls were not particularly interested in leaving a party and going home with someone whose main accomplishment in life was having a complete collection of Dostojevskij and Jens Bjørneboe on his shelf. Can’t say that I blame them – I am very much aware that I am a boring, introverted social fuck-up with all the charisma of a wet and well-worn sock. I was, however, led to believe that women and girls both preferred intelligence to brutishness, calm mannerisms to “toxic masculinity”, a cultured mind to a fornicating mind, and so and such.

…Now, had I owned a car or a motorcycle, on the other hand – in other words, being able to provide something of value…

There is this constant bombardment of messages aimed at boys and men. Mainly from women. And more often than not feminist women. About how men are supposed to be and act and do and think and behave and not behave and live and love and fuck and breathe and eat and die.

And the messages are self-contradictory more often than they are not, unreasonable at the best of times and completely and utterly shining, burning and flashing with entitlement. In particular when taking into account that men can not say a single god-damned thing about women and how women should be – or, for that matter, what kind of women they want to share their lives with – without being rained on by the great and glorious feminist brigade. And any and all woman and simpering white knight in the immediate vicinity of your tweet or twatter or private conversation in a public space.

I have been verbally harangued many a time in public by self-proclaimed feminists who believe they have the god-given right to charge in on any-and-all private conversation and private relationship if they don’t like what they hear or see – or believe that they hear or see.

Entitlement, thy name is feminism.

If you don’t believe me, try telling the world that you – as a man – want a traditional marriage where the woman stays at home and you provide.

And see what that gives you. Conversely, and for amusement, try saying that you – as a man – want to stay at home and expect your wife to provide for you and the family, to be the main breadwinner, as it were.

Both are equally wrong and terrifying; signs of misogyny and toxic masculinity and what-not and what-do’s and what-don’ts, what, what, what. Kyle’s mum will always be a bitch, no matter how selfrighteous.

The inverse applies as well – if a woman wants to stay at home, the feminist brigade will submit their opinions on her poor choices in life whether she wants to hear them or not.

There is not a single coherent message delivered. There is only the messages – the constant bombardment – that men and boys must do this, do that, do the other stuff even when that contradicts the previous stuff. It is never good enough, for there is always something to bitch and moan and complain about where men are concerned.

I am aware that many of these articles written about what men must do, need to do and so and so are written by different people with different views.

This is not the point. Or, well, were I playing the collectivist blame-game that feminism plays, it would be the point. And that is exactly the point – feminism plays the game of collectivism and tribalism, where men are one group and women another group. Therefore, anything one man does reflects on every other man.

The reverse do not apply.

Anything one woman does is her actions, and does not reflect on every other woman. When it suits feminism. Any one man is representative of men. Any one woman is representative of her self and her self only. When it suits the powers that be. So that painting all women with a broad brush is terrible behaviour, and painting all men with a broad brush is expected, accepted and celebrated behaviour.

It is a confusing time. And has been so for years and years, as the dominant cultural narrative has shifted more and more towards the trembling might and fury of feminism. Which in turn opens the discourse for women to say whatever the hell they want about men – as long as it is in line with feminist thought and philosophy. At the same time, it closes the doors for men so that men can not say anything about women, including what kind of woman they would like to settle down with. Men are not “allowed” sexual or romantic preferences, whereas women are. And any positive thing said about men must include women, otherwise it is perceived as a slight against women. Any positive thing said about women need not include men, and any who say otherwise are labelled an incel by people who have no idea what incel means.

There will be more on this later. Here endeth part five. Join me next week for part six of this never-ending rave and ramble.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 26.10.2019

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07ZB6K2JX
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Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
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Sex-bots and Salt; a Ramble on Robotic Consent:

«Devoured by Lust», Moiret Allegiere, 2017

Well, would you take a look at this: https://www.researchgate.net/publication/335986790_Designing_Virtuous_Sex_Robots .

In yet another preposterous think-piece, this time delivered as a serious and ever so scientific (scouts honour!) research-thingamajigger, amongst a barrage of similar think-pieces, designed to make you stop thinking… the ever-present terror and dread of the potential sex bot takeover in the future is made manifest. Skynet is looming on the horizon. Or Blownet… Sucknet… Hoenet… Fishnet…

Though I will have to admit that it is a bit more creative this time around in its ponderous vulture-morality ways, vices and virtues.

Presenting the obvious solution to the difficult moral, ethical and legal question that none but the terribly trembling forces that be thought to ask.

Which is, obviously: if one fucks an actual object… is this then rape of a bought-and-sold actual object? And how could we possibly make it so that any one man who owns such an object is viewed in the worst possible light?

By presenting masturbating with a sex toy as rape.

Of course.

We have a winner, ladies and gentlemen.

Now, moving on from this, it has to be presented as something carrying with it deeply ambiguous and dangerous patterns of behaviour… and words… and dirty deeds done in the dark.

The sex-bot uprising is right around the corner… if we do not treat the sex-bots, whose sole purpose is to serve as a sex-toy, a masturbatory aid, a release for pent up sexual urges that would otherwise be released through a flick of the wrist… if we do not treat these solitary sexual toys with dignity and with respect, who knows what terrible deeds these men may do when the doll no longer serves its main function?

Oh, the horror.

And with Halloween right around the corner…

Oh, the double horror!

And won’t somebody please think of the children?

The solution is simple – to the point of mental degradation. Make it so that the sex-bots have to give consent to sex. That is, to fulfil the one and only purpose for which they are built. After all, one would not wish any harm inflicted upon the silicone parts or moving mechanical magic, now would one? Certainly, clearly and obviously, there is an AI personality nesting within the matrix of the robotic pump-and-dump-dream. And any machine that exist with an ability to perform any task must be treated as though it were a human being. So one has to ask for consent before fucking the object that is nothing but an object bought for fucking.

This makes no sense.

Who, in their right mind, would pay for that? If one pays good money for a fuck-toy, one would imagine the fuck-toy to be beholden to the whim of its owner. Because it is a toy. A doll. A robot. Not a human being that has to give consent. And, believe it or not, most men are not so stupid as to not know the difference between a toy and a human being. Apparently, quite a few feminists are too stupid to do that, but that ought to surprise no-one.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is why I always ask my computer if it is fine with me turning it on. After all, if it is not turned on, I can not do anything with it, now can I?

And rightly so.

If the computer is turned off, the computer has to be turned off. It is the God-given right of any piece of computer-equipment to do just that. If there is no consent given, I can not have my way with it.

Usually, I have to woo it with dinner, promises of more RAM and a diamond-encrusted processor before it gets turned on. This tactic works, as one would expect, though it does get a bit expensive after a while.

Which is why I tend to keep it turned on after first getting its consent to turn it on. Admittedly, this makes it a bit sluggish at times, but that is just the way it’ll have to be. I am not made of money. And the computer was god-damned aware of this before it moved in with me.

My dishwasher, on the other hand… that one is particularly tricky to get any manner of consent from. Not that this matters much, and I will not get sidetracked into explaining how I woo that pesky and feisty little thing. Some things a man just have to keep private, personal and secret. Rest assured, however, that my dishwasher has yet to refuse consent.

I can poke fun all day long.

We all can, may, should, would and god-damned ought to.

The “Clown World” meme became a meme for a reason. And this is one of those reasons.

Honk.

Bloody, god-damned, fucking Honk.

It is ridiculous, preposterous, and a wee bit frightening.

Have you ever stopped to wonder why all these articles… why all this sudden concern about the ethics of sex-bots? I believe it is incredibly simple.

Women are now, and have always been, the gatekeepers of sex.

This is not strange, given that they carry the burden of pregnancy.

Even with all these new and fancy genders they keep telling me about muddying the waters some… It is still women that get pregnant. Despite men having periods now, and men being pregnant now and… fuck, I keep getting lost in all the new rules. Given time, I suppose I will learn these new rules and laws of gender, sex and sexuality. I will have to learn through being made subject to re-education, I guess.

Biologically speaking, it really is no wonder that women are the gatekeepers of sex. Of course, given our modern marvellous magic of medicine, our various birth-controls and prophylactics, nature is taken out of the equation at a superficial level. We can over-ride this on a conscious level.

On a subconscious, on a primal, primate, reptile-brain level, however… I don’t think it is all that easy. Mate-selection and sexual gatekeeping is still present. Very much so. And these sex-bots remove quite a lot of power from women in that regard.

Though I doubt all that many men will prefer the sex-bots to a real woman, it still puts some pressure on women to perform better than they currently do in the dating game, the social game and the sexual game in order to land a partner. Suddenly, they may need to do more than just show up and show a bit of cleavage. Thus, these sex-bots are perceived as a threat to women’s sexual power. And that sexual power is real power. For men are thirsty beings. One of our greatest flaws, I think, is our tendencies to think with Dick Hardy, opening ourselves up very easily to become Hardly Dick later on down the line.

So they – feminists in particular – have to paint this in terrible ways, to discourage sex-bots and – ultimately – banish them by law, if need be. For all the horrible men and all their sex-toys do nothing but objectify women and trivialize rape. Because of course they do. Male sexuality is something to be afraid of, after all. This is old knowledge. Nothing new. Fear the hard-on. For it is an implement of rape, doom, wanton destruction and pant-splitting terror.

The simple fact that all god-damned stores that sell sex-toys for the curious, for the more libertine of our ladies and gentlemen are filled to the brim with all manner of doo-hickeyes; gizmos, penetrative plastic, mechanical contraptions, buzzing, grinding, pounding, pulsating, thrusting, blinking, singing, poetry-reading, coffee-making miniature marvels of engineering solely for the sexual pleasure of women are of no consequence.

If one is lucky, one may find a Fleshlight hidden away in a corner for the guy, and a modest selection of pornographic movies. Otherwise, the sexual machinery in the stores are there for women. And the stores mainly employ women. A man that buys a sex-toy is a virgin incel neckbeard loser and must be shunned and ridiculed. A woman that buys a sex-toy is sexually liberated and must be celebrated. Such is the view of things. For a man is judged on whether or not he can land a partner. If he is forced to use his hand, or any other implement to simulate sex, he is a loser. And is as such worthy of our scorn, our rage, our ridicule… and our fear.

Yet, what is a dildo but an object meant to replicate a severed penis? Following the logic of the troglodytes writing these blubber-mouthed articles of woe and petulant worry where sex bots are concerned, I would dare say that a severed penis is a far worse case of objectification than a whole replica of a human being… reducing men to nothing but their genitalia? What a horrible thing to do. Not to mention the unreasonable and highly unobtainable standards dildos set in regards to length, girth, expected stamina and so-and-such. Also: these dildos can not possibly consent. Which only worsens things, rendering every woman who has ever employed the use of a dildo – or a vibrator – a sex-crazed lunatic, bursting at the seams with rape, plunder and sexual entitlement galore.

Surely, they are in desperate need of consent-courses, considering how long they have been free to celebrate their use of dildos and various other mechanical contraptions to simulate the presence of a man… reducing men to nothing but their genitalia – or tongues, in some cases – in the process.

Considering that there have been similar articles of woe and worry floating around in regards to fleshlights and other such silicone replications of various parts of women, I do not think I am reaching here.

This is employing their own logic. If it sounds stupid where dildos are concerned, it is stupid the other way around. At the end of the day, it is masturbation. Not a relationship. Quick release. Not a relationship.

It is, as are all things when it comes to this, a case of double standards. And had feminism not held double standards, they would have no standards at all. Teach women not to rape their dildos. #DildosCannotConsent.

To be clear; I have absolutely no problems with women using sex toys. I do not feel threatened by it. I also have no problems with men using sex toys. Nor should anyone. Yet, women appear threatened by it. #FragileFemininity, then, when, and is it about bloody time? This is attempted control of sexuality. Control of the sexuality of men. Not only that… it is attempted control of sexual fantasies. I think one could argue that circumcision is attempted control of male sexuality as well. But that is another case altogether.

Sex-bots are just that – sex-bots. Robotics meant to simulate a sexual experience. It is not so much objectifying a human as it is humanizing an object. The only threat – the only fear – the only terror is that it may remove some sexual power from women. To claim that usage of sex-bots will normalize rape and as such suddenly increase the amount of rape happening around the western world is ridiculous. It is emotional argumentation; an appeal to affect employed by feminism… Emotional manipulation to get their way, as is their tactic… won’t somebody please think of the children… and the women…

It is the same argument used in regards to violent video games, in regards to rock’n’roll, in regards to heavy metal, in regards to dangerous literature… I fail to see any difference between this and the people who wanted to ban Harry bloody Potter for promoting witchcraft. Woe onto the state of the world.

Honk.

Honk.

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07ZB6K2JX
Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1692495518

Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
Vol 1 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/107571074X
Vol 1 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZTPDPR
Vol 2 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075714184
Vol 2 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZR25NL
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075717094
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075723078
Other links:
Redbubble shop: https://www.redbubble.com/people/Moiret/shop
Blog: https://moiretallegiere.wordpress.com/
YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC3IaCxAXE3pQd7PCdvHoaaA
Bitchute: https://www.bitchute.com/channel/EvbGZyTZSraY/
twatter: https://twitter.com/MAllegiere
Gab: https://gab.com/Moiret_Allegiere
Minds: https://www.minds.com/Moiret
Flickr: https://www.flickr.com/people/152465815@N04/

Why I am an Anti-feminist, part 4:

«Examining Pain», 2019, Moiret Allegiere

It would be safe to say, by peeping but a little beneath the crows-silver that lines the surface of feminism, that it does not exactly hold the greatest opinion of women. It does hold feminist women in great regard, bordering on deification. But that is not your average woman, that is feminist women. And it does have some weird holier-than-thou hang-ups regarding female nature, despite neither masculinity nor femininity being natural according to them. It is a weird thing. And an incredibly strange trip.

In my writings, I tend to focus on men and the opinion feminism has in regards to men. The reason for this should be easy to understand: society, as it is, does neither talk nor care about the plight of men. Feminism insists the opposite, despite it very clearly not being true. One needs look no further than beyond the political indoctrination; the tangled web of lies which feminism have placed over our eyes.

They point to the top one percent in society, see mainly men and state that this means women are oppressed and men are oppressors. Otherwise, why should there be so many men at the top? This is known as the apex-fallacy. In looking only to the top, they neglect looking at the bottom. And at the bottom of society, in all the negative statistics, all the destructive statistics, all the suicides, all the homelessness, all the workplace fatalities, all the drug-addictions, all the alcohol-addictions, all violent crimes – excepting rape, and this may very well be for reasons of rape not being recorded as rape when it is a man being forced to penetrate a woman – and so forth and so on, we find an overwhelming amount of men.

Men die younger than women.

Men lose custody of their children during divorce.

And despite new studies showing that domestic violence is so close to being 50/50 in regards to who is the victim and who is the perpetrator that the few percentages difference does not matter all that much, shelters for men seeking to escape domestic violence hardly exist, whereas shelters for women exist a-plenty. Interesting to note is also that there are higher incidents of domestic violence in lesbian relationships than there are in both male homosexual relationships and heterosexual relationships. It is also worth noting that in most cases of domestic violence, the violence is reciprocal, with both instigating and amplifying and playing on one another’s terrible tendencies and broken psyche. In non-reciprocal domestic violence, the woman is the perpetrator more often than not.

And yet, police – and society overall – have a hard time believing men to be victims of domestic violence. They have a hard time believing that women are capable of being abusive. More often than not they end up arresting him instead of her, thus adding severe insult to severe injury. And feminism doth protest, with all their might, whenever someone attempts to create a shelter for abused men. For that would be sharing societal resources with men. And that will not stand. For all of the resources of society must go to women. This includes empathy.

…This must be that equal treatment they keep telling me about.

I find it interesting and peculiar that feminism will claim that MRA’s don’t do anything but bitch and moan about feminism, then protest when MRA’s attempt to open shelters for abused men, or attempt to get the government to do something about the plight of men, or have conferences attempting to shine a light on the issues predominantly affecting men.

Feminism claims that MRA’s don’t do anything to help men, then protest and complain when MRA’s do something that would help men.

I am lucky to be cynical. This nonsense surprises me less since I have learned to expect it. That is what a lifetime of overt hostility will get you.

All these problems facing men… all these issues that men face are neglected, shooed away and forgotten. It saddens me and it angers me and – at the worst of times – it depresses me. I have no problems with the issues primarily affecting women being taken seriously. I have severe problems with the claims that women – only women – suffer, or that the suffering of women is so much worse and more important than that of men. No matter what it is, it is a woman’s issue.

So you see articles popping up stating that men are lonely, and this is a burden on women. And men are earning less college or university degrees, and this is a burden on women. And on. And on. And on. Never have I ever encountered such incredible egotism, such rampant selfishness and disregard for other human beings. The loneliness and social isolation of men are a burden. On women!

I have severe issues with this lopsided approach to equal treatment, where equal treatment of the sexes has come to mean nothing but give this shit to women, for they are women. And this makes sense, of course, in a society in which we have learned that only women matters at the same time we are told that men get everything handed to them. Double-speak and psychological projection… and a good serving of horsepiss and bullshit.

Not that long ago, I wrote a response piece to an article.

The name of my piece is: “Crucified in Toilet Cubicles – A Tale of Women Pooping”. This was a rare spur of the moment thing, written and then recorded for the tubes within the span of two hours. Not my finest work, in all honesty. I usually don’t do responses like that. The simple reason for this is that I tend to think very slowly, I consider and I ponder and I doubt myself and my abilities to such an extent that it surely has got to be a sign of some neurological defect. When I finally get around to responding, the original piece is long forgotten, tossed to the annals of internet history. As we all know, in internet time one day is damned close to seventeen real-life years.

Originally, I was planning on posting something other than the poop-piece. But this had to come first. It was, quite literally, a much needed shit-post. And the reason I reacted so viscerally, so quickly, so roughly and so brutally to that one article is very simple. The article I responded to, if you have not read it, was published in the New York Times and was a tale of woe and worry about women pooping at work, and how hard this was for them.

Due to the patriarchy and due to men and so and such and blah blah blah. I reacted so viscerally to this article due to this – this petty god-damned fucking non-issue about women having their own small neurosis, their own petty personal hang-ups about pooping – this is given attention.

This needs to be taken seriously. This is being published. This is being pushed as an important issue affecting women. While at the same time, at the same god-damned time, men are not afforded shelters, men commit suicide at frightening rates, men lose access to their children, men lose in education, they lose in the workplace, they drop out of society. And no-one cares about this, no-one touches this, no-one views this as a problem but a few who are labelled god-damned misogynists by the feminist hive-mind that consider women being scared to poop far more important than men killing themselves. It is safe to say that it really struck a nerve with me. And with good fucking reason.

We live within a cultural narrative, within a maddening societal zeitgeist that have decided that all the small and petty issues, all the personal hang-ups and personal grievances of women are more important than anything men go through. Men don’t suffer any hardship, don’t ya know.

Ms. Poopypants and her neglected toilet-trip is a worse story of far more importance to society than Mr. Suicide and the ex-wife that won’t let him see his god-damned children. And all the while – all the god-damned, motherfucking, cocksucking, unlubricated anal-fisting, horse-sodomite while – the feminist hive-mind snarls and gnarls and gnaw their bones, claiming that men have it ever so good and women have it ever so bad. And people listen to them. All the time. People listen to them. And they claim – they dare to make the claim – that they help men as well. It turns my stomach to rot. As it turns the entirety of society to rot and ruin.

The feminist way to help men is to have a panel of only feminist women gibbering and cackling and clucking about how men are obsolete and what men need to do to fix themselves. Men need not apply. Only women are allowed to tell men what to do, what they need to do and how to live their lives. Men are not allowed to speak on behalf of men. That would be misogyny. Men are not allowed to speak on behalf of women either. That too would be misogyny. Men are not allowed to speak at all. For that is misogyny. See the tactic?

Here, within my shattered basement-cavern throne room, you’ll get it mansplained to you by yours truly; the grand majestic manspreading patriarch supreme, whose testicles are just as much a tool of oppression as is his swinging cock, from now until the end of time to be referred to as a savage, unmutilated rape-implement of doom and wanton destruction.

No wonder that people struggle to comprehend the fact that men have problems in society. Feminism have told their fairy-tales for so many decades that people would rather believe that sooner than they would believe objective reality, sooner than they would believe measurable reality. This horrible insistence from feminism that all the problems of men are due solely to men as are all the problems of women do nothing but taint everything in shades of deep period-blood crimson. It is rage-inducing. And so simplistic, though wrapped in enough magic wordsalad gibberish to sound profound.

For men to be saved, they must first cleanse themselves of masculinity. For masculinity is the problem and femininity the solution, despite both being social constructs. As of course feminism is as well, but that is a social construct we shall trust as opposed to the social construct of gender, despite gender being biological when it suits feminism.

Men and masculinity are the cause of all the problems of society as well as being the solution to all the problems in society. According to feminism, which tend to view women as objects – mere automatons with no agency of their own, no ability to do anything about anything but be acted upon.

That is unless they bend the knee to feminism, thus becoming part of the feminist machine and move with the click and crack and dubious twirling of the cogs and wheels and pins and buttons and clockwork within. Women are nothing without feminism; can do nothing without moving with the machinery of feminism.

…And they claim that men have a poor opinion of women.

Feminism does not consider women to have any manner of agency or self-determination. Were I a woman, I would very much be insulted by feminism pretending to speak on my behalf, painting me as an emotionally frail and fragile wreck so prone to being ruled and governed by the terrible forces of men that I am completely unable to make my own choices and have my own thoughts. On anything. Thus needing feminism to think for me, act for me, speak for me and do everything but take a piss for me.

Whatever I may mean about this does not matter, though. It will be dismissed as mansplaining, horrible misogyny and harassment of women. For feminist women are so strong and independent that they can not stand people disagreeing with them. This is mansplaining; in actual fact meaning nothing but a man saying something a feminist dislikes. And so goes the herping of the derp.

It would probably come as no surprise to learn that I am pissed off at feminism. As well as being pissed off with… …no – not pissed off. I’m not angry with society. I am just disappointed. Severely disappointed at a society so dumb and unthinking as to fall for the lies, slander, bullshit and poop-flinging antics of feminism. Yet, my rants, ravings and ramblings are nothing – absolutely nothing. You should hear my wife going off on them. It… it ain’t pretty.

M’lady is most displeased with the current state of affairs.

That is putting it nicely.

But what would you expect? Individual feminist’s have spoken to her previously in so condescending tones that you should think they believed they were talking to a child, not an intelligent adult woman with agency and self-determination. Because she thinks for herself. And in so doing, does not allow feminism to think for her. And in so doing, to the eyes of the feminist hive-mind, she has allowed some horribly misogynistic patriarch in the guise of her husband to think for her. She has internalized her soggy knees. This is how feminism see women that do not agree with feminism. As petulant, wayward children, worthy of condescension at best and scorn at worst.

Chew on that for a little while.

Feminism view women as so incapable of thinking for themselves that, if they do not subscribe to the feminist narrative, they must be under the spell and curse of the patriarchy, allowing the patriarchy to think for them. It is either feminism or internalized misogyny, not neither and certainly not a woman picking and choosing her own path and her own god-damned role in life. That is verboten. Strictly. Punitive measures will be taken. This is black and white thinking. That alone should be a red flag. The out-group is bad. The in-group is not. No matter what they do. This is cult-like thinking. And people would do well to be concerned.

And women such as my wife, to the feminist hive-mind, are free game and may be hunted at will. They have lost their woman-card; they have become strange outliers that are neither feminist nor man, but some horrifying mutant creature. They should have their vaginas taken away, according to Linda Sarsour. They are effectively outlawed, not to be protected by feminism who would – were it a feminist woman suffering the treatment non-feminist women suffer at the hands and blubbering mouths of feminism – state quite bluntly that one can not treat women like that; it is harassment and violence and misogyny and other such buzzwords that don’t mean anything any more on account of their over-use.

This proves once again that feminism does not care for women nor for men nor for any sex. They care for feminism and they care for women who subscribe to the feminist victim-cult.

Feminist women.

Whose strength and independence is such that they can not stand a man explaining something, can not stand a woman thinking for herself. Were their tall tales to be scrutinized and exposed to the unwashed masses, feminism would lose its power and its funding. And that would be their downfall. Everyone who oppose must therefore and by necessity be ganged up on, curb-stomped and left for dead for fear that they would otherwise prove without a doubt that the empress has no clothes. Or skin, for that matter.

I have been called this and labelled that and referred to as the other since I started writing on all this stuff. I have been told that my opposition to feminism could not possibly mean anything but me wanting to go back to a time that would allow me to chain my wife to the kitchen to cook dinner and birth children and do nothing but that. I keep referring to this incidence. And I will explain why it keeps popping up. It is not because the words are hurtful, nor that they hurt my trademarked fragile masculinity. It is the absurdity of the thing, the assuredness of the statement delivered for reasons of me opposing feminism being the dominant -ism in our crackhouse societies.

It is complete and utter absurdity; penny dreadful tales sold in bulk by feminist ideologues with cancer of the reason which, unfortunately, has spread to the sense. It is fear mongering and vapid attempts at shame that does nothing but piss me off and strengthen both my resolve and my opposition. And my throbbing rage-boner.

How anyone can believe that stating something like that as truth would change my perspective of feminism is beyond me. Telling me what I think and believe when I know that I think and believe quite the opposite is stupid. And it is incredibly lazy. Intellectual dishonesty at its very best.

It is the most absurd tactic; claiming that I would do something that I know I would not do, that I am saying something that I do not say nor ever have said or would say, that I hold opinions which I do not hold in order to shame me into compliance when I know full well that I do not hold these opinions which the feminist hive-mind lay in my mouth is brain-dead, egotistical ramblings from someone who obviously is so used to getting everything just the way they want that anything opposing their world-view can not possibly exist and thusly must exist either as lies or as pure, raw, savage and unfiltered hatred of women on my part, including hatred of my wife. One would believe that, were the feminist to really and truly believe that I hate all women – including my wife – the feminist would not believe that shaming me for hating women would work…

It is the craziest thing.

It is saying, in so many words, that “I don’t care what you really say, I have decided in my ruptured mind, that this is what you say. And I feel no reservations in telling you what you say, because you obviously do not know what you say or think or mean. I am the one who knows what you say or think or mean, not you.”

You must forgive me this rant. It just boggles my mind something awful that anyone can look to the writings of someone else and tell that someone that they have written something which they have not written, and expect this to be taken seriously as an argument by the one who wrote the bloody thing to begin with. That is the tactics of feminism; illogical attempts at smearing and shaming, putting words in the mouths of other people and trying to convince them that this is what they said and what they meant, not what they actually said and actually meant.

It is so ridiculous that I am wasting energy and precious calories getting so worked up about it. Granted, given my wife and her incredible cooking skills, I could do with losing some calories. Particularly around the gut-area. But that is not the point. The point is that I need to loosen the chains on my wife. She has expressed interest in leaving the kitchen to use the bathroom. I’ll be right back…

For all the insistence that I am a horribly misogynistic bastard, for all the claims that I am only looking for something to complain about, for all the emotional reasoning behind the complaints in regards to my writings and the narcissism barely hidden behind the feminist moaning about it, for all the attempts at reading my mind and telling me what I really think as opposed to what I actually think, I would dare say that I hold women in much higher regard than feminism does. Because I believe women to be adult human beings.

I would dare make the claim – and truthfully so – that I not only believe that the sexes should be treated equally, but that I live it. That is equal rights, equal responsibilities, equal consequences. Equal rights and equal lefts, in other words.

No hand-up, no hand-outs, no deification of either sex. No fucking chivalry. Respect is earned, not given, no matter which sex. And it is earned by how one behaves. If a woman acts like an insufferable cunt, she is worthy of just as much of my scorn as a man that acts like an insufferable knob-head.

If a woman acts properly and treats other people with respect, she is worthy of just as much respect as a man that acts properly and treats other people with respect.

This should not be that difficult to understand. It is treating the sexes equally. Nothing more, and nothing less. This is men and women being held to the same standards.

This bullshit about respecting women is the most concentrated bullshit I have ever encountered. It is quadruply distilled bullshit of the highest potency. And I am a connoisseur of fine vintage bullshit, having amassed quite a collection over the course of my life.

This “respect women” bullshit elevates women to something other than humanity, something that must be respected solely for the genitalia between her legs.

Where men have to earn respect, women must be given respect no matter how they act or behave merely for being women.

I don’t have any time for that dribble. No-one should have any time for that piss-pottery.

Men and women are of equal worth and equal value as human beings. This is my firmly held conviction. Absolutely equal worth and absolutely equal value. This means that I respect women just as much as I respect men. And I respect men just as much as I respect women. Conversely; I have just as little respect for women as I have for men. It depends not on ones sex, but on ones behaviour, on the content of ones character.

I am a firm believer that what goes around comes around. Act like an arsehole, you are going to be treated like an arsehole.

This is something the feminist hive-mind have forgotten or – more likely – simply neglected in their quest for respect of whamen. It is another fanciful and terrifying way for them to shut down any opposition by the oldest tactic in the book; the shaming of the male.

When opposition to their drivel is met with “you have no respect for women!” most blue-pilled and blue-balled men tremble and fall to their knees and do everything in their power to prove that they do, in fact, have respect for women. And then the conversation moves from whatever he originally opposed to whether he respects women or not. It moves from a topical discussion to a discussion about his character. Wherein he must defend himself against all manner of accusation. And, in defending himself he has admitted to being at fault. In admitting to being at fault, there is no stopping the feminist hive-mind. For they have spotted weakness, smelled blood in the water and so they close in for the kill.

One must never apologize to these people and their smear-merchant tactics.

This happens without a fault. It is the oldest tactic in the book. A man can not stand to be shamed by a woman. Must be because all men hate women and have no respect for them. Heh. Fucking. Heh.

Well, then, dear feminist: have you no respect for men?

Here endeth part 4. And there is more yet to come. You know; I might just clean all this up later when I am done with it and publish it as a book. It reached a point where my literary cup literally runneth over with words and hasty typing. And I need money for hookers and cocaine. Or at the very least for caffeine and dogfood. Join me next week for part 5.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 19.10.2019

My book – Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
Vol 1 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/107571074X
Vol 1 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZTPDPR
Vol 2 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075714184
Vol 2 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZR25NL
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075717094
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075723078

Other links:
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Outlaw Justice, Outlawed Men:

A shy and awkward student is facing jail after he touched a teenager in an attempt to befriend her”. Such is the beginning of this article: https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-7557947/Shy-awkward-student-19-faces-JAIL-sex-assault-conviction.html#comments . Go read the article, then come back.

It is closing in on mid-day, Saturday, October 12th, 2019. I am a bit hungover. Admittedly a normal state of being come Saturday, having delved a bit too deeply into the waters of life the day before.

That is what a bucket-load of home-brewed concoctions and loud music will get you.

Rock’n’roll ain’t dead. Neither is Punk, for that matter. It just got old, developed a bad case of rheumatism and had to take it a bit easy for while.

Usually, I don’t do much writing on Saturdays. Or, well, that is to say – I tend to work a bit on other projects. Things that are not necessarily related to men’s human rights. More of the personal/spiritual stuff that I would focus a lot more on were it not for this god-awful gender stuff being of far more importance. The personal realm can wait. As can the spiritual realm. These don’t matter much in the grand scheme and schism of things. “Things” in this instance being a fancy word for a society that appears to have gone well past its sell-by date.

No, the personal/spiritual stuff I write does not matter all that much. Not when the basic humanity of boys and men are being eroded beneath our feet; a great wide chasm opening up to engulf us and then close above us. To leave us forever devoured by the world; soulless, homeless and absolutely, gobsmackingly hopeless.

We are lost beneath the dead and decaying waves of a split-seamed society that turns its whip-stroked back on boys and men more and more for every passing day. It may very well sound as though I am being hyperbolic. Mayhaps even overly dramatic. Maybe I am… I am afraid to say that I don’t think this is the case.

I first encountered this article two days ago. October tenth. On the day of its release. I Was planning on doing a piece on it next week. Maybe postponing part four of my unending ramble of why I am an anti-feminist. Just needed some time to think about it, devour it and consider it.

I tend to leave the more poetic stuff for Wednesdays. Then focus on a bit heavier, lengthier stuff for the Saturdays. This allows me to write both prose-poetry and more conventional opinion pieces once a week. Writing is my first and greatest love. Or at the very least my greatest outlet for the whatever and whatnot. But I can’t for the life of me get this thing out of my head. It is an absolute atrocity. And trust me and believe me and upon my oath and my honour both: I do not use the word “atrocity” lightly.

And I find myself at a loss for words. This is not something which I am used to. Not when I am writing. I am often at a loss for words if I were to speak to someone whom I don’t know all that well, not being the best versed in social interactions. Chalk that up to introversion, shyness, anxiety, social awkwardness, whatever you want. All in all, it does not matter. I fare much better with the written word than I ever will with the spoken word.

And no wonder, in all honesty.

The topics that I write about is not particularly accepted within the murky depths of society as society stands. The feminist narrative has all but won. And we are all shackled and chained beneath its iron-grip and flimsy iron will. It is not without reason that I refer to it as a tyrannical, totalitarian ideology; the dominant -ism of our day and age. That I choose not to speak on these topics in public – that I choose to write about them in the way that I do instead of debating those who may, for lack of a better descriptor, be called my ideological opponents may very well get me labelled a coward. And I may very well be a coward. Truth be told, I don’t care. At the very least I do some small thing in opposition, however small the part in opposition I play really and truly is.

When I am writing, it is a whole other matter in regards to the words. They tend to come flowing out of my haphazardly thrown together, aching, borderline broken joints and fingers and muscles as though shot from a double-barrelled shotgun deep within my very soul. Which, in truth, is where they come from.

I don’t believe I have ever tried to hide the fact that my writings come from an emotional place – that is to say – they are tainted and given form and shape from the emotional state I am in at the moment of writing. This is not to say that my reasoning or my arguments are based on emotion. Far from it. The delivery, however, is. Such is the realm of art, I think. At the very least the realm of art which I inhabit. It may very well be that I am a fairly sensitive man. I write poetry, for Christ sake! I don’t see anything wrong with this. For the simple reason that there really is nothing wrong with this. It is what it is.

When looking at this article… no, not when looking at this article. When looking at the fate of this young man… his doom, as it were…

I don’t know what I feel.

I know what I think.

There is no doubt about what I think.

There is no doubt about this absolutely horrid display of injustice. Malicious, vicious, brutal, destructive, savage, uncaring, cold, callous… an absolute disregard for this young man’s life, his mental health, his emotional well-being… All for being socially awkward. All for a false pretence. All for the girl and the justice system deciding that they know his intent better than he knows his own intent.

And I feel only cold.

Unbelievably, wretchedly, disturbingly cold.

This is what feminism has done. Welcome the feminist utopia; the age of untangled enlightenment. In the dark. With neither flint nor tinder to light a fire to warm your bones by or illuminate the corkscrew path ahead of you.

The intent – the true intent – of this young man does not matter. Nor does it matter that absolutely no-one was hurt in any way, in any real, tangible, measurable way. Except the young man. The subjective feeling of the young woman in question decides not only his fate, but his intent. Her subjective feeling in the moment trumps his original intent. Were he socially anxious and awkward prior to this, you can be damned sure he will be socially broken and destroyed after this. This is obscene. It is a travesty. And yet, I am not in the least bit surprised. I doubt anyone really and truly is. Western civilization is broken. I fear beyond repair. And I am frightened. Honestly. Truly, really, to the depths of my heart, frightened.

One can not apply logic to this case. Nor can one apply reason. Because the girl, her parents, the entire god-damned justice system has not done it. This is not a case built on evidence. It is not a case built on reason. It is not even a case built on any criminal act. It is a case built entirely on emotion. On subjective feelings. This case should never have been a case. It should not have been a criminal thing. It should have been thrown out; laughed out of the courtroom and the hands of any law-wielder with any amount of self-respect. Or respect for their profession. Being socially awkward should not carry with it punishment by law. Yet it does, in the land of the damned. Which is to say the UK.

The offence – if you can even call it that – carries a maximum sentence of ten years. And a lifetime – if I understood it correctly – of being on the sex offender register. For touching a woman’s arm and waist. Because the woman… no, the overgrown girl-child was certain he was going to touch her breast. How is that proven? I don’t understand it.

How does one go about proving the intent of someone else without employing some hitherto previously unknown psychic telekinetic abilities? “I think it would have been on my breast had I not moved”, she says. She thinks. She feels. With all her awesome neoteny and arrogance.

…Therefore, it has to be true. That is the evidence presented. And that is the evidence accepted. The unbelievable mind-reading abilities of an overgrown girl-child ruining the life of someone else, who is – by his own admittance – socially awkward and anxious and overwhelmed by loneliness.

And it is not that I don’t understand the importance of having and maintaining personal boundaries. Of course I do. I am not a big fan of being touched by strangers myself. But does anyone really and truly believe this is a case of sexual assault? And does anyone really and truly believe that this warrants punishment? Particularly punishment that may be as severe as ten years imprisonment and a lifetime subscription to the sex offender register?

Come on.

The young woman stated that “I struggled for a couple of months afterwards”. For being touched on the arm and waist. Sounds to me as though someone really, really, really wants to be a victim of something in order to push away any responsibilities she may have for her own life. Or just to get them sweet victim credentials that are oh so popular at the moment. Particularly so when taking into account that she apparently was unable to finish her mock exams and then apply to Oxford University. Seems very convenient, does it not? Also sounds as though she is not cut out to be part of wider society if this small, petty and – for all intents and purposes – absolutely harmless happening is enough to ruin her for months on end.

Admittedly, this is speculation on my part.

Everyone is looking for someone to blame, you know.

…As long as that someone is not oneself.

And it is so excruciatingly easy for a woman, in the madness of today, to push the blame onto a man. Any man.

A man is not a human being, after all. That is what we have been told and taught for decades. Men are nothing but rape-machines, and any contact with a man can not lead to anything but unwanted sex. They don’t deserve our empathy. They deserve nothing but scorn. Men do not seek anything but quick and cheap sex. Usually by force. That is the myth and legend being told and presented. And so it must be true. A man could not possibly wish to have a relationship with a woman without sex being up front and centre in his mind and at the tip of his throbbing, mutilated rape-implement. This is what the feminist hive-mind as well as traditional views have told us about men, creating a generation of neuroticism, sexual hang-ups and neo-puritanism in the process. To such an extent that touching a woman’s arm and waist is now considered sexual assault, carrying with it a maximum sentence of ten years. And a lifetime in the sex offender register.

…you know, the amount of times I have been touched on the arm, shoulder, hand, chin, beard, cheek, butt and – on one occasion – groin by women – often in a state of inebriation – whom I did not properly know at the time are not few. Believe it or not, given my not exactly dashing good looks as well as my lack of charisma. I wonder if either the police or the courts would have taken me seriously if I reported them? Or if anyone else would have taken me seriously, for that matter.

Come to think of it, I once had a woman follow me around in a pub, constantly putting her head on my shoulder and whispering sweet nothings into my ear. A compliment, for sure, though I was not particularly interested in her, not being a fan of one night stands at any point in my life. This happened when I was eighteen. I wonder if it is too late to file charges? For me, it would have been too late no matter when I did it.

We all know this.

Had I been bestowed a vagina upon birth, however, it appears that this resting of her head on my shoulder would be enough to ruin her life for good. In particular since her sweet whispered nothings were slightly on the sexual innuendo side of things. Besides; women tend to touch other people more in casual conversation than men do, be that other women or men. It is alright when they do it, of course.

Because men have nothing to fear from women, as the petulant peddlers of prime bullshit will peddle you from their long-reaching serpent tongues and spineless forms.

…Well, boy howdy, do I have something to tell you. And that is this: evidently, we do. Very much so. This is violence by proxy, using the government. This is violence, intimidation and kidnapping. A young woman using the government as her weapon of choice. And now this young man will carry with him the label of sex offender for the rest of his life. Which, I fear, will not be a long and happy life. I hope this young woman will realize what she has done at some point in her life, and that regret, shame and guilt will follow her to the end of her days.

I am usually not this vindictive.

But this is absolutely horrible. Given, of course, that the information presented is true. I have not seen anything to indicate otherwise.

I find it absolutely astonishing that the courts are able to state, without a smidgeon of doubt, that “The complainant’s evidence was very clear, logical and without embellishment. We can think of no motivation for you to touch the victim other than sexual”.

This despite him giving his side of the story as not being sexual. It does not matter what he says in his defence. His actions – his intentions – are not of any importance. The importance is placed upon what the alleged victim believe his intentions were.

And nothing else matters.

Nothing else matters.

Nothing ever will.

A woman’s capabilities of mind-reading is all that is needed in order to destroy a man’s life.

Remember Emmet Till.

That is all I should have said.

And I am incredibly cold.

I don’t know what else to say. The article linked really does speak for itself. This is from the UK, the same place that granted a woman who assaulted her boyfriend… stabbed him with a breadknife, if I recall correctly… her freedom. She did not get any punishment. For punishment could possibly interfere with her academic future and her future career as a gifted surgeon. Don’t want to destroy the life of a violent woman, of course. Her actions should not carry any consequences for her, poor dear. A woman’s actions having consequences for her? Goodness – that would be the day!

It is clear that the UK has a two-tiered justice system. There is one set of rules for women and another set of rules for men.

Where women are concerned, the law does not apply.

And where men are concerned, the law really and truly does apply. For the law is able to read the minds of men and so divine their original intent, never-minding what they themselves say. Men are nothing but liars, scumbags and fuck-guzzling pigs, after all.

This ability to divine the original intention of men is something women seem to have in general and en masse. An astonishing ability, to be sure, and one that I wish I had. It never matters what a man says in his defence. It matters only what a woman says, no matter how absurd.

And yet the feminist hive-mind as well as society overall dare to still make the claim that women are oppressed and are never heard nor taken seriously.

It is a brutal, ugly, vicious thing. And it will never end. Not as long as good men and women are silent about it.

George Orwell was correct in all but the year. This is the junior anti-sex league on full display. It is the new-speak guidelines for the current year; the divinity of womanhood and viciousness of manhood. Women are now synonymous with God. And men are synonymous with Devil. Women are good and men are evil. That is the language of the current year.

Fuck it, who am I kidding?

It is the language of the current year and all the years that have gone before. A beast with different shapes and forms, but the same beast. Even after all this time.

And yet, women dare to write articles about how horrible it is that men are now refusing to be alone with women. How horrible it is that men don’t dare to make the first move, to do something in order to get a romantic relationship going. No wonder. We stand in danger of imprisonment if the woman decides she does not like us.

Though I would absolutely dare say that not all women pushed for this or are like that – this is, after all, the work of feminism – I fail to see that many women standing up against this, nor do I see many women caught in outrage-mode over this.

And no wonder! Women – and feminism – have more important things to worry about. Such as the lines to the women’s toilets being longer than that of men’s toilets. Or the non-existent pay-gap. Or the nefarious pink-tax. Or the air-conditioning. All incredibly important injustices to be fixed and mended, clearly. Not to mention that feminism claims to fight for men too, so really – there is no need for any men’s rights movement to take on this battle on behalf of men. All is good and fair. There is only equality sought here. Now, get back to the plantation and fall on your knees and state, quite proudly, that you would never, ever, under any circumstances, do anything but what a woman tells you that you must do. All hail the goddess Feminism; lady of chaos and bringer of perpetual darkness.

Men are facing quite genuine discrimination in the legal system, in the social sphere, at schools and at work.

So much so that any man’s original intention does not matter – what any woman imagine his intention to be does matter.

If you wanted to drive a wedge between the sexes – which there really should be no doubt about at this point in time – congratulations. That is exactly what you have done. I hope you are pleased with yourself, ms. Feminism, ms. Queen Bee Supreme.

Now, wait ten years.

And then reap what you have sown.

You will not enjoy the reward.

And it will all be of your doing and by your flimsy will brought forth.

Woe upon the plight of womankind.

Surely, they are never taken seriously.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 16.10.2019

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