Fear and Loathing on the Educational trail:

snackbreak lowres

Illustration: «Snackbreak», A3, Moiret Allegiere, 2019

 

There is a certain level of dangerous absurdity, or absurd danger, in education. Considering the climate in places of education – be that education primary, secondary, or higher – where men are concerned, one would be hard-pressed not to understand why men are dropping out of higher education at alarming rates. When all one is faced with as a male student is hostility directed at ones gender, either covertly or overtly, the easiest path to tread is to burn out, drop out and fade away into obscurity, leaving what could possibly be ones own brilliance in a field to rot in a vacant lot in some hellish ghettoised suburbia.

Higher education was not something that appealed to me in any way, shape or form. Lectures and sitting still and not doing anything for hours on end but listen to some holier-than-thou authority drone on endlessly does not come easy to me. I am far too fidgety. I also happen to be one of those arseholes who believe in autodidacticism in no small way. Chalk that one up to a high level of distrust in authority on my part, I suppose. May be a flaw, may be a strength. It depends on the situation at hand.

Either way – flaw or strength – the path I wished to tread through life was very clear for me from an early age. That path would be the thorny, bushy, broken and difficult path of art. Despite my love of literature and my love of writing, I find visual art to be the most appealing to me, both aesthetically and practically. It gives my nimble fingers and fidgety nature something to do, and provides a fantastic outlet for whatever is going on in my ramshackle psyche at that moment in time.

I believed, with all my thorny-bushy pride and artistic integrity, that studying art would be suitable for my nature; all anti-authoritarian dreamery and eccentric shaman-shape. I honestly thought that this would be a haven for just such a repugnant freak as myself. Now; studying art in any academic sense was out of the question; dry lectures on dry art history in dry halls with dry professors and dry paintings with dry interpretations beneath dry roofs of dry academic arrogance and humourless wisdom accumulated from dry and dusty tomes of prior dry art history did not appeal to me in the slightest.

I wanted the practical approach to art – as I do in most things; a practical and efficient approach to life in general. This is not to say that there is no room for theory – of course there is. I would not be reading and writing as much as I do, if I did not place value on theory. It is, however, the practical approach that appeals the most to me. And a practical approach to art means that I get to create art, which is – excepting writing, bending over in anguished pain, and producing alcoholic beverages – the only thing I’m any good at in life.

And so I applied to, and got accepted into a liberal art school of no ill repute. Judging by the reviews and this schools eloquent and fanciful self-promotional material, it seemed to be a perfect place for me to enter and so expand my nerve-twitching approach to art. I wanted to learn how to create, and also to be free to create. Considering my highly introverted nature and severe social anxiety at the time, I thought this would be a great place where such things as forced socialization so common in education – at least where I’m from – would not be in bountiful supply. I just wanted to be left in relative solitude to tinker with my things and to let others tinker with their things.

This is not, of course, to say that I do not enjoy being social. It means that I enjoy my solitude and enjoy the company of a few like-minded friends. There should not be anything wrong with this. And boy, how wrong I was in thinking this.

Opening the doors into this school was a learning experience in no small way. I ascended the stairs and in so doing descended into hell. This was prior to my red-pilling. At this point in time, through years of – quite literally – indoctrination and brainwashing from prior incarcerations in schools, I was a feminist. Why wouldn’t I be, considering the hardships and horrors women had to face whilst men had it so easy through life that we literally had no issues, and if we had issues it was due to other men and due to being men ourselves, which could easily be remedied by not acting like a man all the time. No easy task, to be honest, when one is born a man.

Now, this self-defeating philosophy of feminism instilled into me a self-defeating self-loathing which I could not name at the time for the simple reason that I did not know it at the time. It is a weird thing to ponder, considering my current stance on the cosmic horror that is feminism. I was blinded by the light and so did not understand that the light was only put in place to mask the darkness behind, beneath and above, engulfing all of the light. It was presented in schools from teachers not the least bit ashamed nor afraid to present their own personal political beliefs as the grand truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me Jezebel.

Feminism had been intravenously injected into our very young and eager minds as the only path to equality between the genders; a steady drip-drop of arsenic concealed behind blissful morphine telling us that women had all the issues, men had none of the issues and so boys must do all they can to make the lives of girls easier. There is no gendered discrimination in treating girls better on a systemic level, we were told for years uncounted. Because that is nothing but levelling the playing field, dont’cha know, and that is all there is to it.

I feel stupid, falling for it and being ensnared by it for so many years, despite the evidence to the contrary of the claims of feminism being so prominent, so obvious and so right-in-your-fucking-face as to be impossible to not see unless one chooses willingly not to see it. But that is the power of indoctrination, that is the power of allowing one ideology to become so powerful as to be virtually untouchable, that is the power of being able to hide the dark, evil, bloodstained beast behind the inscrutable saying; the holy no-true-scotsman-fallacy of “not real feminism”.

As we all should know by now, there is no real communism, and there is no real feminism. “But that’s not real communism.” “But that’s not real feminism”. Spouted as sucker-punch jargon all the while the world burns and people die and nothing is done about it due to ideologues being completely blinded by the light fantastic. It is a frantic wilful blindness to the vapid insanity of ideology slowly becoming dogmatic religion; cult-like in thinking and so infused with either-or pictograms that it crossed the bridge of fanaticism aeons ago.

In this school of art, I might as well have studied feminist dance therapy. I might as well have studied the eradication of masculinity. I might as well have studied shit under a microscope. Come to think of it; studying shit would have given me a far better understanding of art than my two years of art-school ever would or could. For one very simple reason: art was not the important topic in this school of art. Feminism, political correctness and what would later be dubbed social justice warriors were. The very simple pleasures of doing art took the back-seat as a sledgehammer approach to feminism took the front-seat, riding shotgun with all the radical feminist theory one could ever hope to have dripped in ones ears and forced down ones throat, or up any other orifice of ill repute.

Obvious disclaimer time; this is anecdotal. This is personal experience. I have no evidence to show for what I experienced but a re-telling of what I experienced. Looking to the stats, numbers and so-and-such in any area of education, excepting only a few, will prove without a shadow of a doubt that men are dropping out of education. Looking even further beyond the rainbow-coloured lenses of feminism and into the environment created on schools all across the western world by the forces of feminism, and one will quickly come to the realization that my personal experience is an experience shared by many a man bold enough as to believe that studying a field will mean that they get to study in that field, give or take some details.

Now, imagine if the world gave a damn about the experiences of men, be that one man as an individual or men as a whole. If that were the case, this blatant hatred of men would not be tolerated, would not be accepted and would not be celebrated. And yet it is, and the furious forces that be have the gall to claim, have the auspicious audacity to claim, that we live in a world where only the voices of men are heard, to the detriment of women!

What a wonderful, topsy-turvy, grand collapse of sanity one must celebrate and gather around to believe in this abhorrent nonsense when the evidence to the contrary is so obvious. That is what happens, I suppose, when one instils into impressionable young minds the damsel in distress trope and the chivalrous knight needed to save her.

…All the while complaining about the damsel in distress trope and the chivalrous knight needed to save her…

And then daring to brand this as something new, when it is nothing but the same-old-same-old expectations of gallant chivalry and male self-sacrifice we are so accustomed to seeing; demands placed on men to help women at the sacrifice of themselves. Demands placed on women to help themselves and other women at the expense and detriment and social de-valuing of men.

There is expected responsibilities for men to carry all the burdens of the world, and then some. There is expected freedom for women to place all the burdens of the world, and then some, on the tense and fractured shoulders of men.

Instead of responsibilities and liberties being shared.

All this granted by the holy goblin-ghost of feminism, whose stout and stalwart onwards march into the midst of our civilization have made them able to cease the means of production and create a global mythology that sees them – and only them – as the only force striving for equality, even when that equality means female supremacy; the hoisting up of one on the shoulders of the other. This trickling down into our schools and then into the minds of pupils and of students, is incredibly dangerous. It leaves no room for nuance, teaching only the absolutist thinking of feminism and portraying not only men, but masculinity as a whole, as the one destructive force in our world – the only negative and the core reason for all our woes and terrors. No Pandora’s box here; no multitude of reasons and complex complexities of humanity to contend with and to ponder and to consider. Nope. Only men as the problem. This it is, and nothing more.

But I digress.

The first six months or so in this school went fairly well. All fanciful introductions and clever displays of “look how free-form and free we are; how open-minded and so-and-such.” Of course, the feminist rage and hatred was very prominent, constantly boiling beneath the surface and the layer of scum, popping ever so often to the surface in swift and fell swoops designed to shame the men therein for being men, evidenced by needless meandering and monologues from the teachers – not labelled “teachers”, but “educators” for some reason – when they were to showcase their art, all ferocious feminist fancies and ill-conceived vapid silliness brought on by what I can only deem a wish and a longing to be oppressed and persecuted for their gender were they female, or a longing to prove themselves worthy men were they male.

After a while it became obvious that the progressive stack was in full fucking force within the walls and sheltered halls of this institution of indoctrination. Or, that is to say, it would have been had I the words to explain the situation and the madness at the time. I did not, and though it felt wrong at some visceral gut-level, I could do nothing but nod in dumb-struck agreement; to go with the flow of cerebral nothingness shown in so-called art and in so-called introductions to art where they – as feminist virtue-signallers are known to do – could not shut up about gender for more than three seconds at a time, using gender and political leanings as the basis for their judgement of art and not the work of art in and off itself.

I am doing my best not to reveal the identity of anyone. My gripe is with ideology and with bad ideas, not with individuals. As a general rule, I am not interested in going after individuals. I am interested in going after the ideas and the ideology, as that seems to me to be the best path to tread. Keeps me out of trouble, and keeps others out of trouble as well.

I find myself hard-pressed, however, in this instance. As revealing the position of certain teachers within this school might also reveal their identity. Thus, I stay away from revealing their positions as well. I think that is only fair.

Things turned on their head at around the six month mark, and the hostility towards men became more tangible, an electric buzz tasted at the tip of my tongue and in the back of my throat as the blood rose and the fever worsened. A madness seemed to descend upon the school; all gripped in the holier-than-thou attitude of being untouchable, and as such allowed to say and to spew whatever they wished, as long as it was said and spewed towards men, capitalism and some perceived beast of right-wing leanings.

I think one anecdote is good enough to paint a decent picture of the goings-on. My art tend to be fairly personal. This is usually done to battle personal demons. Of course, I do my best to make the art look beautiful and be relatable to those who view it as well. Beauty is of no importance when it comes to art – as we all know, who have seen modern art devolve into a piece of shit within a glass-container.

I had done some drawing or other of a personal nature, drawing on my experiences with severe insomnia, only to be met with the judgement from one of the teachers that it was so personal that she felt sick looking at it.

Now, criticism is criticism. I did not expect to study art and not meet negative criticism of my art. That would be absurd. And so I did not think about this too much, until the very same teacher praised to high heavens a piece of art done by a female student, just as personal as the art I had done – albeit coarser and more, I would say, in-your-face than mine. If memory serves, it was not a bad piece of art at all. But that is not the point. The point is that she was touted as being brave and strong and courageous for creating something this personal and sharing it like she did. So; my personal art made the teacher in question feel “sick”, as she put it. A female student’s personal art, however, was praiseworthy for her courage in doing exactly what I did to make this teacher sick through my art. You get my point.

Men, being severely privileged by nature, can not have any issues worth anything to the mind of a feminist, and so when men have personal issues, they would rather not know about it. All empathy, understanding and praise must go to the female students, as empathy, understanding and praise is a finite resource to the minds of people who view everything in terms of power-dynamics and not in terms of mutual respect and equal treatment. Balancing their imagined scales by giving praise in the direction of women and scorn in the direction of men.

At around the same time – at the six month mark – I met my future wife in this school; we were in the same class and hit it off almost instantly. Both of us being highly introverted probably contributed a lot to us hitting it off so good. And so we became a couple. This, it seems, is the greatest grievance ever and the worst trespass I could ever have done both to this school and to this poor unfortunate woman who had fallen into my cunningly laid trap and been swayed into my arms and eager mouth, waiting to devour and corrupt her.

The teachers at this haunted mansion, infused with the essence of the feminine divine and the feminist gospel, did all they could to keep us apart and break us up. I wish I were joking. But I am not. I wish I were making this up. But I am not.

Some of our fellow students partook in this as well, which I find to be fairly interesting. Now – to be fair, I do not have any evidence that this was fanned by the teachers, or if they just felt the general direction the winds were blowing and wished to gain favours with the teachers.

Teachers pets are not an uncommon thing, and doubly so, it seemed, at this shack of a school, all Gothic towers and underlying sense of doom rivalling a short story from Edgar Allan Poe.

When teachers go on friendly visits to their students in their past-time, some foul smell of favours and corruption and favourable corruption is not exactly without their merit.

And yet, and of course, it must be mentioned that us both being highly introverted also meant that we kept ourselves to ourselves mostly, and so did not take part in the grand collective too much. This, by default and by definition placed the role of “outsiders” upon us. Which is kinda funny considering the archetypal outsider-role of the artist generally speaking.

When once one is deemed an outsider, it is easy to also earn the wrath and the ire of most. Somewhere, somehow, upon someone, fault must be laid and blame must be placed. It seems very human, in all honesty. It is a tale as old as time. However; when teachers, who are supposed to treat all students equally, misuse their authority and take part in the caning and the shaming of the outsiders, something is lost and broken which should not be lost and broken. And I would dare make the claim that it is not the job of teachers to meddle in the personal life and affairs of students. In particular when those students are of age, and are mature, and so should be left alone to do with their lives as they wish to do with their lives and with their time of study as they wish to do with their time of study. As long as whatever is supposed to be done in study is done, that should be the extent of their meddling.

This was not the case. And the mutual introverted natures of my future wife and myself were enough for the teachers to pass judgement most foul upon me for being a man so horrid and so offensive as to dare be in a loving relationship with someone of the female persuasion.

As time moved on, the hostility became ever more apparent. And so did the attempts to keep my future wife and me apart.

I could go on and on about lectures, supposedly about art, bringing up feminism and male-female power-dynamics, and the horrors of masculinity ad infinitum. I could go on and on about the shaming of men so common now, and so common then. I could mention the feminist seminar which which was taking place, prominently advertised at our school, and the shaming of a male student who wished to attend this by a female teacher who made it very clear that she did not think he had any place there. I could mention the visiting artist supposed to have a presentation showcasing his artistic endeavours being browbeaten by a teacher in the audience for daring to state his support of the state of Israel, halting the entire presentation in order for this teacher to showcase his moral superiority and derailing the entire presentation into a mass-shaming of this poor artist who just wished to talk about his art.

The political correctness ran rampant, and I was stupid enough to take part in the political correctness. I was suckered into the follies of the PC-police, despite being assaulted by it at the same time. It is the powers of indoctrination, of brainwashing, showcasing itself yet again. The horrible, nagging feeling of this being wrong was overshadowed by the glorious sensation of being in the right, of doing something good and proper and true.

I am ashamed to admit it.

But that is the way it was.

Now, in my defence, I did not verbally assault anyone. Nor did I act like we now see the hive-mind social justice warriors do. I did not reach that point of insanity, not by a long stretch. But the foundations were there, laid down after years of schooling showing no nuance and teaching not a semblance of critical analysis of a situation. I had to learn that on myself.

Lucky break of random chance, then, that I am a strong believer in autodidacticism and so read ferociously and feverishly all manner of books and articles critical to the school of thought driven and promoted and – in many ways – owned by the feminist hive-mind.

Lucky break of random chance, then, that I should suffer this horrible treatment by feminism, insisting they work for equality but showing quite the contrary, and so making me doubt the very foundations of my education up to and including that point in time.

Lucky break of random chance, then, that the feminist hive-mind behave the way they do and in the manner they do, so as to make someone like myself who was so ensnared, so shackled and chained by the programming break free from the programming by witnessing them doing exactly the opposite of what they claim to do.

The roots of my eventual red-pilling draw their sustenance from my years studying feminist dance therapy. By which I of course mean art.

At the start of the second year, the teachers at this school quite simply refused to give me any feedback on my art. I received no guidance, no education, no feedback, no nothing. I was – it would seem – un-personed, a non-person, a non-existent nuisance, a blemish on the gigantic arsehole that was this school. My crime was being introverted and having a girlfriend who also happened to be introverted.

This was made very much evident at the six month mark of the second year at this school, in which each and every student were supposed to have the art they had produced during the previous six months evaluated by the masters of indoctrination and feministing. I produced a fairly decent amount of art – some good, some of it not exactly good – but quite a lot to be evaluated nonetheless. And so I brought bags upon bags of my art, as well as some short films I had made into the hall of judgement, prepared to be taken behind the shed and shot like some mongrel dog. What greeted me behind the doors of this elusive hall of judgement were two teachers who, quite obviously, had conspired together and laid plans for their strategic assault on me as a person, not my art, not my output, not my creativity, but me, myself and I.

What followed was a long lecture on how wicked I was in not being social enough, and in not being social enough also forcing my girlfriend to isolate herself from the rest of the school. For sixty minutes, give or take.

It was a completely pre-planned fervent assault on my horrid character: the patriarchal oppressor doing all in my power to oppress my would-be-wife in the most horrible way possible. That is: by refusing her to mingle and be social with the rest of the over-social mad and positively over-acted gleeful scoundrels at this school.

It became obvious after five minutes that they were not in the least bit interested in viewing my art. Not at all. They were there to judge my character. A deeply disturbing act, to be perfectly honest, as I could not for the life of me comprehend where this vacuous hostility, these illogical assumptions, these nonsensical sentiments stemmed from.

In hindsight, I know precisely where they stemmed from, of course: it was the feminist ideology at full force, wherein my would-be wife was viewed as a weak and useless victim of my absolutely fantastic authority – in their fractured hallucinatory fantasy, my would-be wife, by virtue of being a woman, had no agency of her own and so could only do what I commanded her to do. Which is very peculiar, obviously, considering feminism proclaiming to work for the right of women to do what they wish with their lives. This, of course, only ever extend to women doing precisely what feminism wants them to do with their lives. Obviously, my would-be wife did not do what the frantic forces of feminism would have her do; she did not act as they expected a strong, powerful and independent woman to do and so the fault must of course lie with some man or other. This is clear, as feminism perceives women to have no agency of their own; being crushed beneath the weight of the thumb, cock or balls of whichever man they were unlucky enough to have in their lives.

They had not spoken with my would-be wife on this matter. They had just assumed that her lack of social participation was due to me and my introverted nature coupled, of course, with my severe social anxiety at that point in time. A social anxiety, I must add, which I thought would be remedied by forcing myself through studying in some place I believed would be good for my mental health. Obviously, it was not. It made it far worse. At the very least, it laid bare the view feminism hold of both men and women.

As the highly moralistic assault on my very character continued, all I could do was stand there in jaw-dropped silence as these two pre-programmed androids kept lambasting me with this and with that, having no mind or no concern for what they were actually supposed to do. It was clearly pre-planned, wolves circling their prey and slowly, slowly, ever so slowly, closing in for the kill. As the assault neared its end, they suddenly remembered what they were there to do – that is to say – what they were actually receiving fucking pay-checks to do.

With one swift swing of the sword, with a baring of the teeth, one of the synthetic wolves snarled that I should show some of my art. I showed one piece, which was – with no exaggeration – laughed at. Loudly. Mockingly. Childishly. That is one piece out of probably fifty or so which I had brought with me, expecting to have reviewed and judged on their merit. Now, obviously, this mocking laughter combined with the scorn and the shaming I went through in this hall of judgement, did not exactly fill me with high spirits and some hope for what the morrow would bring.

Quite the contrary.

I do not think it unfair to assume that in a review of ones art, one would expect to have ones art reviewed. I do not think it unfair to expect a level of professionalism from supposed artists posing as supposed teachers at a supposed good school for studying art. I do not think it unfair to assume that the personal and/or romantic life of students should not be scrutinized by moral busybodies with no grasp on reality and no understanding of anything but their own preconceived notions, their own pre-programmed ideological definition of male-female power-dynamics. I do not think it unfair to expect to not meet this level of hostility, to not be met with baseless assumptions in regards to my own romantic relationship, painting me as some horrible oppressor and my would-be wife as some horribly oppressed poor damsel in distress needing the teachers to save her from me and my forcing her not to be social. Especially not when the only thing that was supposed to be reviewed were my art, my work and the sole fucking god-damned reason I was in this hell-hole to begin with.

As this was completely unexpected, I could do nothing but stand there and feel that old sense of dread; that anxiety welling up and coursing through my body and my mind as blasts of misplaced adrenaline ran through my body, numbing my skin and my mind and my senses and clouding my comprehension of the situation at hand. Were I not as anxious as I was back in those days, I would have done something or said something or complained or, well, whatever. As it were, the real nature of this encounter did not sink in until it was too late to do anything about it.

Anxiety is such a weird thing to suffer from, and to explain it is impossible, I think, to anyone who has not experienced it first-hand.

Then, push came to shove. My feeble psyche had withstood all that it could endure during that year and a half within this glorified gulag, this re-education camp for horrid male oppressors and their flaccid and weak-willed victims. I suffered a full and complete nervous breakdown.

Keep in mind that there were several individual instances of similar nonsense which I have not mentioned for the simple reason that this would be a never-ending ramble were I to do that.

Keep also in mind that I had struggled for years at this point with mental health issues of no small impact. This nervous breakdown came complete with dissociation, with a worsening of my insomnia, never-ending nightmares, panic-attacks and wild and vicious exhaustion and fatigue. For which I was given, until the line at the psychiatrist opened so that I could receive mental health “treatment”, as many bottles of Valium as I wanted with the instruction to take up to five pills a day.

Yeah.

That was the level I was at, and the state of the treatment I received prior to the waiting-in-line was done. A full four weeks of medically granted sick-leave was also given me, which was not enough. Of course, I should have quit that god-forsaken place instead of letting it drive me insane. Quitting was not an option, however, as I had dropped out of education previously. For much the same reasons, in fact – not personal attacks on me, as was the case in this school, but the over-reaching feminist indoctrination and control of these schools which constantly vilified men, making it a fucking chore to study when, just around the corner, some cleverly veiled assault on masculinity was waiting and ready to pounce.

I can not, for the life of me, fathom how the ideology of feminism is viewed as such a grandiose and beautiful thing. Its most ardent followers are quite clearly living within a world of their own delusional design, wherein all choices a woman makes, if not done in a manner accepted by feminism, must mean that the woman is oppressed and unaware of it herself, being too weak and too frail and too stupid to be aware of it.

Feminism, it seems, does not exactly have a high opinion of women.

At the same time, I can not fathom the depths of unthinking assumptions being made by feminism wherever men are concerned, painting men as all-powerful and, in being all-powerful, corrupted by their own power to such an extent that they do not see their power for their, well, power. Which, clearly, causes all men everywhere to oppress women, even if they don’t mean to do it. This just lies in the nature of men, according to feminism, and so we must be taught not to act like this just as women must be taught not to act like that.

Feminism, it seems, does not exactly have a high opinion of men.

Feminism does not like anyone or anything, except feminism. And those who do not align with their rigid guidelines are either forced to the fringes of society, metaphorically killed or whipped until they submit to their world-view, their dogma and their ideological and narcissistic drivel. You are either with feminism, or you are free game. Conform, or be killed. To quite the Borg: “Assimilate!”

And it is so odd and it is so strange that, for all their gooble-de-gook about female empowerment, they are completely unable to accept a woman behaving in a manner they do not consider proper. A woman not behaving as feminism would like a woman to behave is oppressed, even if she does what she wants to do. She just does not know it – as stated before.

The only possible explanation that a woman does not behave like feminism would have her do, is one man as an individual or all men as a collective keeping her from doing what she wants to do – that is, what feminism wants her to do. There can be no other reason, and if she does not see this for herself, it is up to the good forces of feminism to do the work for her, to emancipate her from the horrors of a loving would-be husband who is just as introverted as herself.

You see, there were parties at this school which my would-be wife and myself did not attend for wanting to stay at home instead. In a normal world, this would be accepted. This, however, was not a normal world. This was the world according to the gospel of feminism. And so not going to these parties were brought up in my time of judgement as evidence of me keeping her from being social. Which, of course, was an absolutely absurd statement, considering it was my would-be wife who most of the time expressed interest in staying home instead of attending the parties.

Odd, that the assumption was that it was my fault – this lack of gleeful socialization. I wonder if they would have considered it her forcing me not to be social, were they to have been informed of this?

Of course not.

They would probably not have believed it, for the simple reason that their view of the world does not allow for such a thing to occur. Or they would have, by some magical mental gymnastics or other, found a way around it.

Now, to make myself perfectly clear – my would-be wife did not force me to not attend any parties either. It was very much a mutual decision, and it should be respected as a personal choice. To a feminist, however, personal decisions does not seem to matter too much. The personal has to be political. Even when the people involved don’t want I to. It especially does not matter when some victim and victimizer power-play can be manufactured to their hearts content, power-fetishists as they seemingly are. It seems the only thing that brings any form of meaning to their dishevelled lives.

Now, of course, that is just me being mean.

I am sure they find lots of joy in other things. Like for instance filming three women standing on a bridge pissing, forcing us to watch it, and calling it art.

Luckily, my time at this school came to an end and I attended the graduation-ceremony, such as it were, stoned to the max on Valium and being almost unable to complete structured thoughts due to long periods of sleep deprivation and the wonders of Valium turning me into some weird and pervertedly enlightened Benzo-Buddha.

Believe it or not, this usage of Valium was not even me intending to get stoned on them. I just did what the doctors said that I should do. Which, I later learned from another doctor, was highly irresponsible from the other doctor.

The scars ran, and still do run, deep. This school opened the doors for me to venture even further into the whimsical world of mal-practiced psychiatry. A world which I had, prior to attending this school, all but quit for feeling better, getting better and wanting to cope with life without the aid of mental speech-bubbles labelled therapeutic help.

It is the sole reason I was put on so many psycho-pharmaceutical drugs that I can not even remember the names of half of them. Shortly after this school ended, I completely lost faith in art. Not only art, but in my own ability to create art. By extension, I also lost complete faith in myself. This, in turn, caused more need – or perceived need – for psychiatric help, which fanned the flames of the feral drug-industry of the mental health services, prompting ever more drugs to be thrown in my general direction. These drugs were thrown my way along with diagnosis of various and sundry, each more dangerous, clinical and serious than the rest, prompting more drugs, and so forth and so on. That is, of course, another story waiting to be told. And I am writing a book – believe it or not – on this particular branch of madness, this weird halting of my life for six years, abruptly ending by an abrupt ending of the drugs. Well, the book is more focused on the quitting of the drugs than what led up to it.

It was very clear through the madness of psychiatry that the core reason for my eventual breakdown, the root cause of it all, was of no interest. Any mention of the negatives of feminism was shooed away, and it was clear that this was not a topic to be discussed. At the very least not in any depth or detail. Just throw drugs at the problem, and it will all go away.

And I find myself thinking, all these years later, after clawing my way through hell from medications and from quitting medications, through piss-poor treatment at school and from teachers supposedly there for my benefit, being there solely for their benefit and the benefit of feminism and the perceived benefit of my poor and oppressed wife-to-be…

I find myself thinking that there really is no wonder why men are dropping out of education, failing to launch and failing to live.

There is no wonder in this at all, as the places of higher indoctrination do all they can to make sure that no man shall feel safe or feel fulfilled or feel anything but a deep-seated sense of shame, regret and remorse for being born male.

Feminism has dug its claws so deep into the skin and neural interface of education that they can not be removed without tearing the skin, ripping the flesh and damaging the nerves.

Without tearing it all down and rebuilding it without the political indoctrination, the call for ideological purity, the unopposed forces of feminism so prevalent in any-and-all corner of this throat-tearing silliness called education, it can not be saved. At the moment, it is only men paying the price. In just a few years, however, it will be all of society paying the price.

I paid a not insignificant amount of money to attend this school. This, I think, is akin to having to pay for the rope to be used when one is sentenced to death by hanging. It is having to pay for the toxins in ones lethal injection. This school did, directly and indirectly, mess up the trajectory of my life in no small way. It brought me six years of complete and utter drugged-out apathy. Why should any man wish to do this? Why should any man be forced to do this; to pay in order to be told that they are evil incarnate, that they are doing nothing but causing distress to all the women around them? Why should any man pay to go to a place of learning dominated by women to be told that more must be done to get women into higher education, despite women making up a severe majority of students in higher education?

Why should any man pay to be – in short and in essence – discriminated against for their gender?

It does not make any sense.

And the senseless, heedless, needless downplaying of the needs of men is only surpassed by the severe display of lack of compassion and lack of empathy; the clear and blatant hatred and shaming of all things masculine, of all men in all areas of education. And this is labelled as a quest for equality! It makes me sick to my twisted stomach and trembling oesophagus.

It makes for a better grasp of oneself and ones sanity, such as it is, to not partake. It is a survival tactic, this, to not study, to not attend higher education, to not attend education at all, but to fade away and burn out – a flame being snuffed before it managed to burn.

A candle that burns twice as bright may very well only burn half as long. A candle that is snuffed before it is allowed to burn does, at the very least, not stain the carpet with melted wax.

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 – Moiret Allegiere, 11.05.2019

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Emotional coping mechanisms and the Spark of rebellion:

Female nude lowres

Illustration: «Female Nude», A3, 2019, Moiret Allegiere

 

 

Way back in the ticky-tacky days of late January or early February of 2019, something happened of a severely personal nature which caused a severe decline in my health and happiness – a rather significant double-barrelled shotgun shock to the solar plexus of my misfiring central nervous system, if you will allow me my poetic flights of fancy. Now, the nature of this happening and the circumstances surrounding it is something I aim to keep private and personal. Suffice it to say that it was directly related to my writings.

What I am interested in, is not so much exploring and explaining the severe emotional and physiological distress I found myself in as a result of this happening, but the coping tactics I employed in dealing with it. Of course, I will be explaining the pain and distress. But not in too much detail.

See, it has bothered me for quite some time this insistence that boys and men don’t deal with their emotions, or that when they do, they deal with their emotions in an inappropriate manner, whatever the hell that means. That we suppress our emotions and pretend we don’t have any. I find this to be both insulting and belittling, and more like than not, I can find several other words to use as proper descriptors for this nonsensical idea, each of these hypothetical words more inflammatory and pissed-off than the next.

The whole thing smells and reeks of social engineering, and that is a frightening prospect in and off itself.

See, back in the days of high-strung muscle-tension that is the ever trembling body of feminist “research”, it was decided that the one true way to properly express – and deal with – ones emotions is the feminine way of expressing – and dealing – with ones emotions.

Since the feminine way is deemed the only way, boys and men have needed to be re-structured and re-programmed on a societal level to express their emotions as women tend to do, and in so doing toss their own nature to the fires of Hades as the sinful parasite on society that it is. What else could one gather from this hopeless denial of biology and this shameless shaming of masculinity, than the attempted re-engineering of the nature of men, the biological truth of men mastering their emotions instead of being governed by them; than the tired old view of women as moral and emotional superiors to men, and so the only moral and emotional guidance needed?

If you, like me, have been a victim of this attempted re-engineering, a victim of this brainwashing which claims masculine identity to be wrong and feminine identity to be correct, despite both apparently being solely societal with no biological underpinnings at all, you might know what is coming up next. And that is very simple: our society do not wish to hear about men’s emotional pain. Or the pain of men at all, for that matter. For all the slack-jawed talk that men need to emote, need to open up and talk, there are sure as all hell few ears – if any – willing to listen. More often than not, a man is shamed and shunned should he dare to express his pain and his insecurities. By both men and women. That is to say: by society at large. Strange that this should happen in a society which claims that men, in order to be free from the constraints of traditional gender-roles, need to express their emotions with tears and valuable dialogues; how odd that this should happen in a society which claims that men are treated far better than women in all respects. When the same forces that claim this are the same forces that shame and ridicule men when men do what they claim men need to do, confusion and isolation creeps in.

On the one hand, this is said.

On the other hand, this is shown.

And both hands do nothing but shove a giant middle-finger right into the glazed-over eyes of confused men, trying the best they can to be heard above the hubbub and the constant background noise of women-worsting.

Men, being of course fairly practical by nature, goes by what is shown them. And what is shown, time and again, is that no-one will listen, no-one will offer support. Quite the contrary. People will go out of their way not to listen. People will derail, hijack the attempted conversation, ignore completely or completely miss the point of what is being said. Or they will, quite simply, state that women have it worse or that women experience this as well, and so the man should consider that before complaining. Because in this society in which women are hated ever-so-much(!), the happiness and well-being of women goes above all. Even on an individual level, when speaking of one-self and not having gender as a part of it, it will creep in. This, it seems to me and my perplexed and eternally confused mind, is due solely to the fact that our societies are completely obsessed with gender whilst claiming that gender does not matter. It is a strange level of discord and chaos; gender does not matter, so lets bring gender into everything, even where gender has nothing to do with it – as in the emotional or physiological distress of one individual.

I would dare to offer this one thought in regards to this; or to point out the elephant in the room, as it were: gender does matter. And in trying to not make gender matter, we are making gender matter even more by our insistence that it does not. The elephant can only be ignored for so long. Eventually, something or someone will be trampled.

What I mean by this should be self-evident. Men and women are different. We deal with things differently. We are wired differently. We are biologically different. In trying to erase these differences and claiming complete same-ness in body and mind, we are shooting ourselves in the foot whilst riding the elephant in the room straight over the cliffs, to tumble to the doom of both itself and ourselves. In trying to eliminate and disregard gender and gender-differences, we can not help but see them and in seeing them, we can not help but bring it up. Even when it should not matter.

The simple solution to this should be, in my humble opinion, to let people deal with their emotions and their pain the way that works best for them, regardless of their gender. To treat the pain of one individual and the way this pain is processed as both the pain of, and the path to healing, of that individual, not wrong or right, but his or hers way of dealing with it. Let be, and let others let you be, instead of forcing someone to do something that goes contrary to their core being.

If he would talk and cry about it instead of seeking action or solitude, as men are known to do, this should be treated the same as if he seeks action or solitude. There is no shame in either, and there should be no shame in either. Clearly, this is something I believe should apply to women as well. My focus, however, is on men.

And men, by and large, are drawn towards action or solitude as a way of dealing with their pain. The action, I find, is more often than not of a constructive and creative sort. And I can think of no better way to tackle difficulties than to turn what could easily be a destructive force – for instance depression or anger into something constructive. To create something out of that which would otherwise seek to destroy. To claim, as the feminist hive-mind do, that men suppress their emotions because they do not deal with their emotions as women do – and I am speaking broadly, of course – is to claim that one way is better than the other, instead of it just being different paths to take.

It is as insulting as it is stupid.

In particular when the experiences of men, by and large, who listen to and are suckered in by this attempted re-programming is that no-one listens when he attempts to speak about it. Or that he is shamed for it. By women as well as men. Now, imagine if the feminist hive-mind had not been so hell-bent on dismantling any and all male-only spaces, whilst, of course, keeping female-only spaces female-only. Men have always offered support to one another. It just takes a form different than the one women tend towards, and in dismantling male-only spaces, a whole hell of a lot of that support flew out the window. Just look to the men’s shed stuff in Australia. But more on that in a later ramble, I think.

From personal experience, anecdotal as it may well be, this holds true. I suffer from chronic pain and chronic fatigue, as well as being constantly in the grips of insomnia, which one would expect does not exactly benefit my emotional state. These three are fairly severe. Of course, it is all intertwined and interconnected, and when the mind is in distress, the body is in distress, and vice versa. Which makes the usual view that body and mind is somehow separated bother me immensely.

Those few times in the past where I have been so bold as to complain about this in writings or in social media posts, the resultant reactions have been interesting, to say the least. More often than not, it has been ignored. This, I think, is to be expected with posts on social media as a general rule. Other times, I have been shamed for it. With one instance in particular tickling my rage-boner something awful.

In short: I was sent a private message on Facebook by a woman who, of course, self-identified as a feminist, telling me in no uncertain terms that I was “not allowed to make myself out to be so pitiful”. A very interesting way of treating someone in severe pain, don’t you think? In particular considering it is the feminists claiming that men need to talk about their emotions and how they are doing. And that women are more empathetic than men!

Another very interesting observation I have made in regards to my declining health, is that the first instinct of people – and this goes for everyone – is to ask how my wife is doing whenever my health is declining. Her happiness is more important than mine, and the way in which my declining health impacts her is more important than how it impacts me. Now, of course, I am aware that this is a normal thing to ask of people. It has to do, in these instances, with context. And the context here is simple: I am/was in pain. And the first instinct of people was and is to ask how my wife was or is doing in regards to my pain. The first question asked. Not “How are you doing?” but “How is she doing?” In short: how is my pain affecting her?

As a result, and as my eyes have opened more and more to the reality of the world we live in, I have learned to process emotions and to deal with my pain in a manner far more creative and far better suited to me as I am. I have learned that all this talk that men need to open up and be more expressive in regards to their emotions and their health, be that mental health or physical health, is nothing but talk. Because the moment you – as a man – start to open up and talk, you realize that it will hurt you more than it will help. Telling men that they need to express their emotions in a more feminine way presupposes firstly that someone is willing to listen, and that is seldom – if ever – the case. Secondly, it presupposes that what men do and how men do it is harmful, whereas what women do and how women do it is not.

I would be so bold as to state, as I have done before, that neither is bad or good; that they are merely different, that different people have different needs and different methods and that to shame and ridicule and to un-learn, through force that which comes natural does far more harm than it does good. I would also be so bold as to state that it is only ever how men, generally, do or do not that is shamed and need to be un-learned. Yet again, something incredibly self-evident to anyone willing to see and to listen.

Why not create a movement telling women that they process and deal with their emotions all wrong? Well, that would be sexist. But it is quite alright to tell men that they process and deal with their emotions all wrong. That is not sexist. That is equality made manifest! Because, to these people, equality is whatever they say that it is at any given moment, as long as women can somehow be made to be better than men at something – preferably all the things. Or, as long as the feminine can be made to be better than the masculine, despite none of these, apparently, existing as anything but socialisation and as such could be written off as just as expendable and nonsensical as each other. So why, then, pray tell, is the feminine better and more natural than the masculine, when both are made-up cultural constructs, just as much as cultural construct is a made-up cultural construct which, of course, might just as well be dismissed alongside all the other cultural constructs? In short: why is one better than the other, if none of them are real anyway? Nihilism ho! They talk the talk, but do not walk the walk.

This is not to say, of course, that I believe culture and society does not play a part in how we behave. It most certainly does! But to claim that biology plays no part in it is, to my bloodshot and near-catatonic eyes, nonsensical.

How I have learned to cope is fairly simple; I write, and I draw, or I retreat into solitude to mull things over, thinking on it and grinding on it until it is ground into dust and I have transcended it. Some things are of course far more difficult to transcend than others, as is the case with what happened in late January/early February, the results of which still manifest as a severe flare-up of my pain, fatigue and insomnia. Even in the midst of April, when I should be enjoying the early days of spring. Of course, I should give a big shout-out to the wonderful world of self-deprecating humour as well. Finding something to laugh about, even in the midst of severely debilitating pain, loosens the reigns of the thing. And that thing, that wonderful joy of finding something to laugh at, or about, even in the darkest moments of life, lifts the spirit immensely. It turns the whole thing on its head. So; I may be ill. But at the very least, I get to sit at home and get high on painkillers. And that ain’t all bad. Heh.

My writings and my drawings are, as a result of this being a big part of my coping mechanisms, subject to my emotional state at the moment of writing or drawing. As a general rule. Evidently so, considering the bleakness of the thing and things since February. For all my logic – or illusions of logic, depending on which way one sees it, I assume – my writing is highly emotional. And this does not bother me in the least. It may bother other people, of course, which, when one tries to get other people to listen or to read might prove itself to be a problem. The point of it is that it gives me a healthy outlet for anger, depression, anxiety or good old fashioned sarcastic snark. It’s either that, or self-loathing. And I have done enough self-loathing to last me a good dozen life-times or so.

See, in my darkest moments – in prior incarnations of my ever-evolving personality and barely contained psychosis – I was very much a prisoner of feminist indoctrination, and as such considered myself to be a fault and a flaw in and off the world around me. Growing up with the message that men are scum imprinted upon the plasticity that was and is my brain, I could not help but internalize the message. If one viewed it from the outside, one would not hesitate to label it as political indoctrination. For the very simple reason that this is exactly what it was, is and always will be. It was not until I was 28 years of age that I actually heard someone say anything positive about men in general. Prior to this, it had been nothing but shit; hardly a day going by without the message of men’s inherent wickedness and cruelty being fired into my subconscious mind with all the subtlety of a nuclear bomb.

When teachers, subtly or not-so-subtly, constantly and consistently hammered the message of the flaws of men into our immature and under-developed psyches, one could not help but embrace it as a part of ones own personal belief-system. Couple that with the media insisting the same, as well as relatives and everyone else in the social circles of days gone by, one is left with the resultant war-cry, echoing and reverberating within as well as without: “There is something wrong with boys and with men!”

How one can look to this constant message, this constant bombardment, this constant assault upon boys and upon men and upon masculinity as a force of pure good instead of the destructive force of pure chaos and hatred that it is, speaks volumes to the might of gynocentrism and of the manipulative powers of the immense fraud and sham that is feminism.

To look upon the way boys and men are constantly devalued, ridiculed and shamed by not only feminism, but by the society which we inhabit, and then claim that it is a force seeking equal treatment of the genders is absurd on its face. But that is the level of indoctrination, that is the level of manipulation, that is the level of our societal psychosis and the value women have in our society. How one can look upon the treatment of men and the treatment of women in our societies and claim, in unison, that women are oppressed and that men – all men everywhere – are guilty of oppression is as ridiculous as it is laugh-out-loud funny. We ought to howl with mocking laughter at this ridiculousness. But we can’t. The tears get in the way. A wondrous male privilege this; to be allowed to see my very nature dragged, kicking and screaming through the mud and ground-up glass all the way to the hang-womans noose, sentenced to death by our moral superiors!

For years, I believed it all. Swallowed it hook, line and sinker. To sacrifice myself and what I want for the betterment of women. To step down and shut up, not object, not even to the gravest trespasses upon my own personal space or to the devaluation of my mental well-being, were it done by a woman or someone claiming to do good for women. And as the self-loathing grew, so too did my natural expressions of my own masculinity diminish. To the point where I was but a shell, a flimsy transparent nothing. My previous ability to say what was on my mind in regards to any given subject was thrown into the abyss, alongside what was left of my self-respect. I had been, not only told, but shown time and again that any objection to the feminist rhetoric would be shot down, no matter what facts I had, no matter what the truth was. The objections were not shot down by facts, reason or logic, but by shame and ridicule from women, which, for a young man burdened by puberty, the insecurities of puberty as well as insecurities emanating from the feminist insistence that there was something wrong with me by my very nature, was and is absolutely horrible.

For years, I did not cope. I settled for disappearing instead. Isolation and a bleak and nihilistic outlook took precedence. I sought the void, and became a lost boy; not going anywhere, not staying anywhere, not being anything but an over-medicated mess of man forced into psychiatric help which did not wish to see the root cause of the issues I was facing, but chose to medicate the symptoms into oblivion instead, and in so doing medicating me into oblivion alongside the symptoms.

And so, when realisation dawned after years and years of this vast and empty nothing, it dawned with the crash and the bang of a thousand suns imploding and exploding, a constantly repeating pattern of implosion and explosion, immediate, immense, powerful, mighty, frightening and masculine as though the gates of hell were opened, unleashing the hounds of war!

I marched to war with what strengths I had, which was – and is – art and writing, wrote the piece “Remembering Rebellion”, not knowing whether or not I would keep writing about these topics. Turned out I would, even at great personal expense.

That, I think, is one of the great masculine virtues: being able to turn something severely destructive into something fantastically constructive, no matter how long it takes to get to that point; to transcend tragedy and despair, not through crying, not through talking, but through action, through creativity, through honestly translating pain and heartbreak, trauma and destruction into language, into symbols, into lines and scribbles aiming, always and ever to transcend, to overcome, to grow and then to follow the process and become stronger, better and even more suited to survive whichever difficulties life – with all its suffering – will throw at one self.

Through “Remembering Rebellion”, I found the rebellious spark which was present in my formative years. And I would urge others to re-find, regain, re-awaken that spark of rebellion, that force seeking to rebel against all that is, all that was, all that ever will be and capture it vividly, fantastically, glowingly, immediately within your minds and guts and balls. To explore it, expand it, explain it through what ever strength one has.

Teenage rebellion is one thing – an unfocused force of self-exploration and self-expression; a force designed to rip one-self loose from the looming authority figures of that time in ones life. Something deep inside which makes one pound ones chest with ones fists and roar primeval, primitive, primordial, beast-like, reptilian that “I am here, and don’t you dare challenge my right to be here or belong here!”

And now, in adult life, with the damage done by feminism so clear to all who are not indoctrinated, who are not clinically insane, who are not still caught in the grips of our dominant ideology, of our demand for ideological purity and conformity, that spark of rebellion seems to me to be more important than ever it was before.

And now, in adult life, with boys and men being beat and shamed and medicated into submission and subservient subjugation to the demands – not of women, but of feminism – an adult mind would be, should be, could be capable of focusing that spark of rebellion through a lens of reason, truth and a demand for consideration and compassion, to make that spark of rebellion so focused, in fact, that it tears through the feminist rhetoric; that it burns right through the skin of feminism and so exposes and utterly dismantles the core, showing it to be nothing but what it always has been; Marxist rhetoric of class and class-warfare re-clothed as gender and gender-warfare.

This is not a war of the sexes. It is a war of ideology against one sex, harming both sexes in the process. It is not men against women or women against men. It is feminism against men and against the very fabric of our societies and all common sense. It stuns me in how cleverly it has been implemented; how fantastically smart it has been in painting any opposition to feminism as an assault on women and on equality between the genders. And how sly and manipulative it has been in painting the abhorrent hatred of boys, men and masculinity as nothing but the actions of “a radical few”, even when the hatred of men evidently lie at the very core of feminism! In order to make people understand that feminism cares for nothing but feminism, fearless rebellion is necessary in exposing feminism for what it is.

It ain’t easy. But then, nothing worthwhile is.

Feminism employs terrorist tactics, terrorizing any opposition, creating fear and layers upon layers of fear in any who dare oppose and object to their ridiculous assertions. Don’t want to lose your job and livelihood, your place of study or your social life?

Better not object.

This is the means through which they maintain power and control. Total social domination under fear of total social death and annihilation of the self. Tyranny clothed in justice. The emperor has no clothes, and only a few are willing to point this out. When one does not show fear in pointing this out, their power diminishes. In the end, they will expose themselves to more and more people as having nothing but flimsy emotional manipulation and the threat of social death and ostracising on their side. They themselves are doing the non-and-anti-feminists the greatest service there is by behaving just as they do, and in not backing down, not showing fear, but countering and re-countering, they will be forced to expose themselves for the hateful pile of ideological serpents that they are.

Rebellion ain’t easy.

But: we have two things on our side. The truth, and the very simple fact – however silly it may sound – that everyone, whether they admit it or not, loves a rebel.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 13.04.2019

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Extreme couponing and the loss of balance: a ramble on relationships:

Mechanics of Utopia A3 Lowres

Illustration: «Mechanics of Utopia», A3, 2019, Moiret Allegiere

 

 

I remember, back in the day when people actually watched television instead of either laughing at it in perplexed ridicule or throwing it out the window in astonished horror, watching the show “Extreme couponing” with a female acquaintance of mine. Now, for those of you who have not had the pure unhinged bliss of watching this shit-show, allow me to explain: mainly, it focuses on bored housewives extremely couponing to the max, filling their homes with various goods bought in severe quantities through the magic of couponing. The coupons were painstakingly cut from a wide array of newspapers and the like, often with begrudgingly given help from the rest of the family. Of course, I have to admit that the amount of work and pure mental focus that went into these couponers and their extreme couponing was impressive; the calculations and the ability they showed in keeping track of all the different coupons and so forth and so on was no small feat. That is, of course, if it was all real. Which, given that this was (or is – I have no idea whether or not it is still running) reality television, is certainly not a certainty.

The pretence was of course that it was economically advantageous – not wasteful in the least, but very smart financing. Considering, however, that quite a few of the homes we were presented in this show more likely than not would have been featured in the show “Hoarders: Buried Alive” if the winds had blown differently, I would dare make the claim that it was wasteful. When presented with people buying dogfood in massive quantities when they did not even have dogs for the simple reason that it was cheap, I think that is pretty god-damned wasteful. Other people with dogs would probably like to buy that cheap dogfood, you know.

Now, to be fair, quite a few of the participants in this show donated a lot of what they bought to charities and the like. It’s not all bad. Well, it is reality television, so one could argue that it is all bad.

In this episode I watched with this female acquaintance of mine, the wife in the household had completely taken over the entire house with various and sundry, cheaply bought or gotten for free with coupons. The husband in this episode was – understandably so – getting a bit fed up with it. Maybe even feeling that he was being buried beneath the severe weight of consumable items which may or may not be consumed in the future. They had a deal that he would get one room to himself, free from all the hoarded goods of his wife. That is one room, in the entire house, that was not overflowing with cheap consumer goodies of variable and speculative quality. As one would expect, it did not take long before the hoard started creeping into his one room; into his sanctuary, if you will. He was not pleased with this, as one would expect. And so he confronted his wife about this, stating that the deal was that he would get this one room to himself. To which my female friend said, and I quote: “Wait, what does she get then?” And I was gobsmacked and astonished. “She gets the entire god-damned house”, I said. To which my friend did not reply, but gave a sort of grumbled grunt of disapproval. She had no retort, of course, but it was clear that she did not approve of him having room for himself in his own home. That, I assume, would be too much to ask. There was no room for the husband and his wishes in this relationship. The home is the domain of his wife, and he had damned well better be aware of it. The level of entitlement in this is absurd. Cooperation be damned; both parties agreeing and both parties compromising, sacrificing some of theirs for the other and thusly for both – or all – be doubly damned – it was all about the wife.

And that is the level we are at. Respect is a one-way street. And the street points solely towards the woman, with the man expected to sacrifice and to give up his all for her wishes and well-being and her wishes and well-being alone.

Which brings me to the complex question from the chronically cerebrally constipated: “Have you no respect for women?” What a stupid fucking question that is.

Have you no respect for men?

I don’t think I have ever heard anyone ask that question. Respect is not something one should receive by virtue of the random genetic mish-mash of ones birth. Respect is earned. This is not to say that I treat people I do not know disrespectfully. Of course not; I treat people I do not know properly and with respect, no matter their gender. The respect I have for them may grow or may diminish. This depends very much on how much respect they show me, how they behave, and various other factors. What it does not depend upon, however, is gender. This, I would think, is treating the genders equally. Which, I believe, is what we are supposed to do. Of course, and as all those who have woken up one morning to find a bitter red pill caught in their throat know, this is not the case.

A study found that women and men alike perceived men treating women as they would other men to be misogynistic. Which would be interesting knowledge, were it not for the fact that it is blatantly obvious to anyone not currently having their head stuck up the ass of ancient chivalry: “ https://uwspace.uwaterloo.ca/bitstream/handle/10012/6958/Yeung_Amy.pdf?sequence=1 ”.

If one is to dole out respect solely based on genetics, I think the aristocracy is not as far behind us as we would like to believe. The lords and ladies of high birth and good genetic stock deserve more respect than us common pleebs, us peasants, us unremarkable serfs of the mud and the fields. That is to say: the ladies of high and noble birth, by the vague virtue of vulva, deserve respect granted them upon birth whereas the lowly men of low birth and bad genetic stock need to earn respect through deeds done to bypass the totalitarian terror of testicles. No respect granted here by birth. Nothing but shame and humiliation for the crimes of the swinging cock and pendulous balls, lest he proves himself worthy of respect. Mutual respect ought to be the buzzword of the day. We get “Respect whamen!” instead. And to hell with the men, they don’t deserve respect, they must earn respect. And that respect must always be earned and re-earned through toil and sacrifice. Toil and sacrifice, I might as well add, which is never good enough.

Respect by noble birth for one.

Respect by noble deeds for the other.

And the noble deeds are never good enough, it must be done and done again and done to death until he dies, constantly proving himself worthy so that he may bask in the light of her countenance.

To be perfectly honest, I would not have much of a problem with men earning respect were it not for the one-sidedness of the thing. I tend to take a lot of pride in what I do, no matter how little impact that has or how little it amounts to in the grand scheme and schism of things. And I see very little reason to take pride in being born male. Random chance is such a weird thing to take pride in. By the same metric, I of course see no reason to be ashamed of it. Random chance is just as weird a thing to be ashamed of as it is to be proud of. It is just something that happened, and that is all there is to it. It is what one does with what is handed to one which deserves recognition or ridicule. And a woman screaming in my face that I have to respect her does little to make me respect her. Quite the contrary. This behaviour very much lends itself to ridicule. But then, that would clearly be misogyny for the lack of respecting whamen for the sake of being whamen, never-minding the fact that a man doing the same would not make me respect him either. Well, frankly, a man doing the same to another man – or woman – would probably soon find himself on the receiving end of a good old fashioned ass-whooping. Must be that male privilege the feminist hive-mind of virtue and vulva and virtuous vulva go on about.

Treating the genders differently is A-OK, you see. As long as you do it proper. And what is proper unequal treatment of the genders? Well, treat her good and treat him bad. Grant her respect for being born a woman, grant him disrespect for being born a man. That is how you go about doing that. As in the extreme coupon-hoarder example above. He respected her wishes and her happiness enough to grant her the entire house for her, excepting one room. And she respected herself enough to infringe upon his room, disregarding his wishes and his happiness in the process. Apparently, this behaviour is quite alright, as my female acquaintance did not even consider her having the entire god-damned house dedicated to her interest, passion, hobby, hoarding, whatever, as her having something whereas his desire to have one room free of the accumulated hoard of this barbarian queen-conqueror was a manifestation of his inherent selfishness and entitlement for being male. This, I would dare claim, is what one could easily refer to as female entitlement; a relationship where he sacrifices so she shall be happy. A relationship where he must sacrifice because she must be happy. And where she need not even grant him room for himself and his interests and hobbies in a home which is supposed to be a shared space where both shall live together and be fulfilled together, each one giving and receiving in equal measure…

Alas, no – he must give, and she must receive, otherwise he is the selfish and entitled one.

It is absolutely astonishing.

And yet, that is the level we are at. That is the world which we inhabit, where notions of mutual respect and mutual adoration, of cooperation and compromise go swirling down the drain along with his receding hairline; a hairline probably receding from the stress of having to sacrifice all the time, showing respect and sacrifice solely for the chance of being granted, from time to time, the boon of fornication. Heterosexual fornication, I must add, which is of course rape by definition according to the thought-leaders of the feminist idiocracy, most of whom have made it abundantly clear that any act of penile penetration of the vagina is rape, no matter the consent of the woman. Because, as the holy feminist orthodoxy teaches us: women are just too damned stupid to think for themselves and must therefore follow the laws as laid down by their supreme Queen Bee Superiors of the elucidated hive. Being a woman, the feminist hive-mind concedes, you have no choice in the matter no matter your choice in the matter.

Were I cynical, I would have to admit that these feminist thought-leaders were hurt at some point or other in their lives, and as such use their preposterous positions of academic privilege and power to reap bloody vengeance upon the world by projecting their own personal insecurities onto every woman and man there is, howling at the moon-goddess Luna that “I was hurt, so everyone else must be hurt as well!”.

Of course, I am not a cynic. I am more of a realist. And being a realist, I will have to admit that these feminist thought-leaders were hurt at some point or other in their lives, and as such use their preposterous positions of academic privilege and power to reap bloody vengeance upon the world by projecting their own personal insecurities onto every woman and man there is, howling at the moon-goddess Luna that “I was hurt, so everyone else must be hurt as well!”.

One-upping the patriarchy one unresolved childhood-trauma at a time!

Oh, man, is that rude of me?

Is that not proper etiquette and conduct of a gentleman in the presence of a lady?

One would assume that claiming every husband rapes their wife every time they fuck is also rude. A gentleman might be led to believe that labelling every man who enjoys conjuring forth the beast with two backs with the enthusiastic and appreciative cooperation of his lady a vile rapist, as well as his lady a victim of rape too stupid to realize her victimization, is an act of incredible rudeness and character assassination.

Forsooth, vile lady of the night! Thou hast insulted mine honour as well as mine ladies honour! I challenge thee to a duel. I chose rapiers at dawn!

For some strange and inexplicable reason, I can hardly imagine that these vile cretins will ever be successful in having people stop fucking. Might as well tell us not to breathe, for all the good it will do. The quest goes on, of course – the eternal quest to make people stop enjoying the very simple, yet profound, pleasures of sex.

Instead of it being rape by definition, it is now men being too selfish in bed. Men doing this wrong or doing that wrong, never once acknowledging that perhaps and perchance the woman should do more than just lie there and expect the man to do all the work, as well as reading her mind because she can’t bring herself to tell him what she does or does not enjoy. It is always and ever his fault and only his fault.

And the fairer sex is just so much more complex and complicated than the primal beast which just so happen to share her bed, and as such he must learn how to please her, and she need not learn how to please him. Because that would be an act of uncivil barbarism – that would be subjugation to the patriarchy, and we can’t have that, can we?

Of course, he must not find pleasure in pleasing her as this article from Cosmopolitan so eloquently lays forth for us: “ https://www.cosmopolitan.com/sex-love/a9169991/why-guys-love-female-orgasms/ ” .

The article also states that there is nothing wrong with finding enjoyment in making your partner enjoy herself/himself. But it is wrong because the article has deemed it so. More of that doublespeak, please. I have not reached my double-plus-good limit yet today! It is phenomenal in its ability to blame and shame men, no matter what.

Clinical insanity would be my term of choice, were it not for the fact that we already have the proper term “feminism” to describe this level of delusion, entitlement and wretchedness. She is entitled to an orgasm. He is not entitled to enjoy her having an orgasm. Because reasons. And here I sat, thinking that sex was supposed to be just as much a give-and-take as relationships are supposed to be, a little tit for tat – heh – a little game where both parties win some and lose some in a perpetual cycle of cooperation and communication. But, nope, of course not. The feminist hive-mind of decrepit ineptitude have decided that fucking has to become a competition just as much as any other relationship has to be a competition. Men and women are not supposed to cooperate. They are supposed to compete, in every facet of their lives. The personal is, after all, supposed to be political. And the political is supposed to be personal. And therefore the feminist gobble-de-gook see no issues with bringing their politics into the love-and-sex life of other people.

There is no need to cooperate, no need to contemplate, no need to talk and to come to terms with one another in the relationship. She must have all, and he must have none… And even if she should get all, he must still give more because what he does is wrong, no matter what he does or how he does it. And she must not be expected to tell him clearly and concisely what bothers her. He must be expected to read her mind and know, without fault, what is wrong. Because that is how communication works, is it not? One way street, one way town, one way shit-show staining the entirety of human civilization and tearing away at the foundations of relationships which ought to be mutual cooperation, mutual respect, mutual consideration, mutual love, mutual adoration and mutual god-damned fucking compromise. And that is mutual god-damned fucking compromise, even if it refers to fucking.

And I find myself wondering; for all this talk that women and their sexuality is so complex as opposed to the supposed simplicity of male sexuality… for all this talk that men need to learn how a woman’s body functions, what all the different levers and buttons and switches do, and how they do it… How many of these women have bothered to learn how a man’s body operates? How many have bothered to ask their man what he enjoys, what he would like, what he would want to try, what makes him tick? Or are they simply lost in the clogged up drain of nonsensical propaganda promoting, simply, that men and the sexuality of men is so simple, primal and – at heart – violent that there is no need to learn or understand it? One does not need to understand primal violence. One needs to fear it. And that is the picture feminism have painted of men and of male sexuality; a primal, simplistic, reptilian force to be feared and shunned. In so doing, they have elevated feminine sexuality and debased masculine sexuality in a way that sounds remarkably traditional in its view of both men and of women. Who would have thunk it? Feminism being traditionally gynocentric, reaching back into our shared history of the sanctified woman whose honour must not be despoiled by the undignified male! It is almost as though feminism is manipulating the very nature of humanity, our very biology, which they of course claim is not real. Who would have thunk it, indeed!

See, I had absolutely no issues with learning what made my wife tick. Quite the contrary – I found it a very pleasant exploratory experience. Granted, we have been together for twelve years so there have been plenty of opportunities to learn. The thing is that I expected of her to learn what made me tick as well. Which, of course, was an equally pleasant exploratory experience. Because that is what a relationship is supposed to be; communication, exploration, and loads of fucking fun while doing so. As well as, hopefully, loads of opportunities to do so.

As the thing is at the moment, in our current cultural fever-dream, the focus is solely on her wants and her needs, and his wants and his needs being disregarded completely due to the demand for supposed equality. Forget his needs, ladies – but demand your needs be met. And then complain that he is a sexist piece of shit for enjoying himself while meeting your needs. Making sex less enjoyable, one confusing and jumbled mess of an article contradicting itself constantly at a time. What a way to stick it to the man! The most eloquent case of confused nonsense I have ever seen this side of a European Union debate.

So, boys, next time you are with your lady – just don’t bother giving her an orgasm. Because that act is in itself wrong. Or, well, you may give her an orgasm. Just don’t enjoy yourself while you’re at it. But, of course, make sure she enjoys herself. Even if she’s not supposed to, really, enjoy it, despite sex being liberating. And don’t expect her to do anything to please you and you only, of course, because that would be rape. Which consensual heterosexual sex is anyway. So why bother with the thing at all? Just check out completely, and await the inevitable articles of “where have all the good men gone?” Which, of course, already exist in plentiful supply.

Legion. For we are many.”

One could almost be inclined to believe that the sole purpose is to complain about men, and in so doing making men feel bad about themselves no matter what men do, urging them to constantly be and do better and in so doing driving themselves into the ground and into an early grave for never meeting the never-ending demands placed upon them, whilst being considered a vile and misogynistic cretin for daring to place the slightest of demand upon her.

Realization dawns, of course, that living in a culture in which complaining about and demonizing and ridiculing and belittling men as a group is not only tolerated, but expected and celebrated will cause crazy bitches to constantly complain about, demonize, ridicule and belittle men as a group while crying foul “sexism” at any objection to their clear and blatant sexism. All the while being cheered on as supposedly strong, brave, courageous and empowered women by society at large and the mass-media en masse for having the solid steel ovaries needed to assault the plague of the patriarchy.

Simultaneous realization dawns as well, of course, that living in this very same culture as a young man does nothing but harm him immensely, making him withdraw into himself and check out of society completely, losing himself in video games and in video porn, in drug-and-substance abuse, thinking that he does not fucking matter anyway, so why bother trying to make himself matter? Why bother, really, doing anything at all? Just waste the days away until death. It’s not as though there is something out there for him anyway.

All the while he is doing so, he keeps feeding the exuberant joy of articles from holier-than-thou journos proclaiming loudly the death of men and of masculinity as a victory for equality. Equality is only equal when she comes out on top, of course.

Because war is not about compromise or cooperation, but about victory. And feminism declared war on men and on masculinity, completely neglecting what normal human beings want and need because feminism is the one true path towards enlightenment and full-scale societal meltdown. All other voices be damned – they do not know what they want, really.

Forgive them. For they know not what they do”, they whisper as the machines of war roll into town; a machine being fed by, and having its wheels greased with the blood and wasted lives of young men.

And, clearly, I am sexist against women for stating this. I am a horrible misogynist for daring to show empathy for men and for demanding the feminist hive-mind start getting to work on treating the genders equally, as they claim to do. Because one can not demand preferential treatment based on gender and claim this to be equal treatment. One can not treat one gender as shit to such an extent that it is commonplace; commonplace to such an extent that people do not see it because they are so incredibly used to seeing it. One can not label one genetic group as sub-human under the guise of equality and expect people to not catch on to the bigotry and supremacy at show. One can not force someone naked into a blizzard and then complain when they knock at the door, demanding to be let in.

If you want to be treated as a queen, you damned well better treat your man as a king. Mind you, the same goes for men. This should go without saying, but since we are in the midst of a manufactured gender war, it has to be spelled out. Because some of us actually hold true to our heart that men and women should be treated equally and given equal consideration in all aspects of their lives. And those of us who do this, do not label ourselves as feminists.

At the end of the day, I don’t believe that labels should matter. Actions should. That is where the action is. Actions speak louder than words, and for all the talk of the feminist skull-fuckery that they are only seeking equality, their actions show – very clearly – that their intent is the opposite. That is, if one has eyes willing to open instead of ears constantly lapping up the propaganda; if one has a mind willing to analyse the actions and see how the actions clearly contradict the words, instead of just going with the flow of the social zeitgeist under pain of social death.

Since up is down and down is up, since black is white and white is black, as opposed to just being aspects of the whole, in our present moment of confused and jumbled myriad mumbo-jumbo equality-hoaxes brought on by trickster-goddesses of academic craptitude, any empathy shown to boys and to men need be spelled out as not being an attack on girls and women. Equal treatment no longer equals equal treatment. It equals traditional expectations from men times a thousand, and full frivolous freedom for women from any and all expectation and responsibility and consequences of their actions. If one is to treat the genders equally, one would not be amiss to consider that women and men should both be responsible for their actions, and as such also be responsible for keeping the other party happy – as well as keeping themselves happy – in a relationship. A relationship consists of more than one person, and when only one person gets the message that only this person needs need be met and the other person gets the message that only the other persons needs need be met, the relationship can never function. Because one party will always be subject to expectations and demands galore, and the other party will always be subject to their expectations and demands galore be met unquestioning, lest they be considered oppressed.

This is the society which feminism has built, where relationships are considered a battleground, not a diplomatic and peaceful conference, and where one party has the upper hand from perceived oppression which in turn causes severe entitlement that her needs be met and him having needs and expectations at all is painted as him being oppressive and abusive, even if all he wants is room for himself in his own home.

On a side-note: I actually got verbally assaulted once upon a time, by a feminist who had no business what-so-ever saying anything about our relationship, for daring to say that my then-girlfriend was pretty. This was, apparently, a horrible affront. And I wonder, if men were to stop telling their women that they look good, what would happen then? After all – telling them that they look good is, apparently, a bad thing to do. Since that, to their warped mind, means that one does not see any other qualities but aesthetics in ones woman. Because feminism is incapable of nuanced thinking. (Whilst claiming other people lack nuance. Projecting much?) There are layers upon layers upon layers in every person, and complimenting one layer does not mean, to anyone but the feminist hive-mind, that one disregards the other layers.

I’m sure my wife would love it if I stopped paying her compliments on her appearance. From now on, it will only ever be clinical, cold and professional compliments from me. “You are very good at mopping the floor, dear wife whom I consider equal in all things.” Or is that misogyny as well? “You are very good at letting me mop the floor, dear wife whom I consider equal in all things.”

There, that’s better. After all – she must not do housework under any circumstances, as that emotional labour is a tool of the patriarchy. Or could it be that both parties do housework and that how one shares this god-damned thing is up to the people in question to decide, not the feminist busybodies from up high?

Not to mention, of course, the incredible rudeness in trying to control the dynamics of someone else’s relationship. Now, we should all know that feminism consists in large part of moral busybodies; the constantly complaining neighbour always peeking over the garden-fence or through the curtains, following what their neighbours do with severe efficiency and bombastic judgement, ready, willing and able to, at a moments notice, give them a piece of their mind for no other reason than personal disapproval. And this is personal disapproval filtered through nothing but their own tumultuous inner world of personal grievances projected onto other people existing within the world as nothing but empty vessels projected by her own uncertainties. I can see no other explanations for this behaviour, for this inability to comprehend that other people chose to live their lives in a different manner than they do, than severe difficulty in comprehending that other people simply are other people making other choices and finding joy in other things.

To think that people who make small and, in many ways insignificant, choices different from ones own in how they live their lives must be told to live differently is very totalitarian thinking. It is the notion that only one way to live is the correct way to live, and that micro-managing the relationships of other people must be done so other people – in this instance a women who had to suffer the horror of me telling her she was pretty – shall be free of the tyranny of men.

This is immensely frightening.

Not only was I painted as something of a tyrant for doing nothing but giving my girlfriend a compliment, but she in turn was painted as a weak and pathetic victim, unable to speak on behalf of her self and so needing someone more knowledgeable, wise and powerful to speak on her behalf, even if she did not want or need anyone to speak on her behalf because she was happy being given a compliment on her appearance.

This is the feminist view of relationships and of men and of women. And for some reason these people are the ones we are supposed to listen to in regards to all thing sex, gender and relationship; the ones painting everything in a relationship as a man doing something to a woman and a woman passively, albeit reluctantly, submitting to what he does. Even when she is told she is entitled to everything, and he is entitled to nothing.

In my view, it is very simple: for a relationship to function, all parties within must be functional. And for all parties within a relationship to be functional, each must talk, each must listen and each must be heard.

…If I am preaching anything in these long-winded and hop-scotching rambles of mine, I like to believe that mutual respect, cooperation and compromise is at the core of it all; that my message is one of balance, of individual freedom, individual choice and individual responsibility. Even – or probably especially – when it refers to the dynamic between men and women. We are meant to compliment and to fulfil each other, not to constantly be at each other’s throats as the feminist hive-mind has crafted the narrative.

There is no war between men and women.

The whole notion of this is, to my perplexed eyes and fracturing mind, nonsensical. There is a war instigated by feminism upon men and upon masculinity, and it has ben raging for quite some time, meeting close-to no pushback. It is about damned time that this changed. And this, I think, can only change through feminism losing its stranglehold on the discourse, through tearing down the monopoly feminism has gained on the subject of all things gender. In essence: to allow other voices to talk, to expect society to listen and to make damned sure the voices of men and of women that do not conform to the ideological purity of our day and age are heard. Until this happens, I fear the future of relationships – and of our entire world – is doomed.

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   – Moiret Allegiere, 06.04.2019

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Lashing out, lashing in, let me begin:

transcendence 2 a3 lowres

Ill: «Transcendence #2», A3, 2019, Moiret Allegiere

 

This is going to be a relatively long one. Grab a drink, buckle yourself in and get comfortable.

Last night, (14.01.2019) I woke at five in the morning with the horrible sensation of not being able to breathe properly. A reasonable person would probably have taken this as a sign of some difficulties with the heart; a cause for great concern and an immediate evacuation to the halls of healing provided by our health services. Not me, though. I engaged in deep breathing until it passed, and then I fell asleep again, and woke with the mindshattering sound of my alarmclock going of three hours later. A reasonable person would probably consider my actioan in this instance to be of some concern; a sign that I am not taking my health seriously. The truth of the matter is that I am used to waking up like this. There is a lingering subconscious panic and dread somewhere in the dark recesses of my unconscious psyche still; a vague voice whispering that I am not yet, for lack of a better word, fulfilled.

Of course, these nocturnal bouts of panic and doom has lessened immensely over the course of the past two years. Prior to this, it happened every night and was far more severe. Every night for two years, I woke with what can only be described as night-terrors, and could not get back to sleep no matter how much I tried. The confusion and pure panic in those moments made me fear and avoid sleep as much as I could; sometimes not going to bed at all, but clincing to being awake as though my life depended on it. And maybe it did. At the very least, I belive my sanity – or what little was left of it in those fabled days of yore – depended upon it.

Sitting like that, alone at night with nothing for comfort but youtube and my own random, racing thoughts gave me a lot of room to think. Probably too much room to think. It also granted me the ability, over time, to control my thoughts and fracturing mind. Not as good as I would wish, but better than it ever had or has been. Some good came of it, even if I spent three years, give or take, in a state of constant agitation and panic. It put me on a path I desperately needed to be put upon, though I did not know it at the time.

For a multitude of years, I had been going to therapy. And their way of helping me was to put me on drugs, drugs and more drugs. I was given drugs to counteract the sideeffects of the other drugs I was on, and new drugs to combat the effects of those drugs which were meant to combat the effects of the other drugs. An entire, multicoloured galaxy of uppers, downers, screamers and streamers to keep me sane. That is: to keep me numb and burnt out. To keep my mind from being my mind. Due to the amount of drugs, and the relatively young age at which I was given these, they halted my emotional development and put my life dead in its tracks for several years. Nothing happened. I was sitting in stasis – gaining weight and gaining pessimism and gaining an everexpanding sense of frustration in regards to my life – or lack of life. This frustration was very much subconscious, but manifested in several severely selfdestructive ways. Which, of course, made the psychiatrists give me more drugs. The circle was complete. And the damage was done. And the damage still lingers.

At the time, of course, I believed that the fault for my life going absolutely nowhere was that of my own and my mind, fractured and ruined as I had been told that it was, from seeing shrink after shrink since I was fifteen years old and my teenage temperament, all gloomy depression and confused anxiety, was treated as a severe mental illness. Thus, being told half my life that there was something wrong with me meant that there had to be something wrong with me.

In essence, I was brought up into illness by the hum-diddle school of psychology. This is, of course, not to say that I am not responsible for the poor choices I have made. Because of course I am. My actions and choices were and are my own. There are contributing factors, however. And a lot of those contributing factors stemmed from the psychiatric dissolution of my self through drugs supposed to help me along the way, but who at their core halted my core from growing and developing roots which would gain sustenance from myself. Instead of aiding my growth, they halted my growth. Instead of making me better, they made me worse.

Diagnosis after diagnosis was thrown at me, and nothing seemed to stick. No diagnosis was correct, and yet I was given medications to treat the diagnosis which I did not have, time and again. Faulty diagnosis – medication – faulty diagnosis – medication. And then, of course – medication to combat the effects of other medications. Whenever a certain diagnosis was shown to be wrong, they did not halt the drugs given for that diagnosis. They conjured forth a new diagnosis and gave me drugs for that as well. My medical journal is a confusing mess. As was my life at the time; mirroring it perfectly, all jumbled and confused and frustrating. I could go on about this, but I won`t. I think I have gone on for long enough. I plan to expand on this, and my experience in quitting medication and psychology, at some later point. Maybe as a book, maybe as a series of blogposts. Probably both. Suffice it to say; I learned a lot from this experience through clawing my way through hell.

Now, the reason I am bringing all this up is very simple: it has to do with the mental health – or lack thereof – of boys and men. Or, more to the point – the lack of proper mental health services for men and boys. In particular since traditional masculinity – that is to say, masculinity at all – is now considered both pathological and as an ideology, whatever the fuck that means, by the powers that be. How, then, can a man trust to a mental health service when it deems masculinity itself to be at the root of all issues a man face?

What men are told, then, when seeking counseling, is that he is ill for the simple reason that he is a man. That if he only stopped being masculine, as nature has made him, he would be better. I can not conceive of how that would help him in any way, shape or form. Picture this scenario:

Therapist: So, what`s bothering you?

Patient: Well, I am feeling suicidal. My life is going nowhere. I can`t find employment and I can`t find any field of study to enter.

Therapist: Why do you think that is?

Patient: Well, they have these gender qoutas that is favouring women in my chosen field. And due to this, I can not find employment or somewhere to study despite being qualified and having tons of experience.

Therapist: Do you think this is a bad thing?

Patient: well, yes. I think the ones that are the most qualified should get the job.

Therapist: Do you not think women are qualified to work in your field?

Patient: Not when I am more qualified than they are, no.

Therapist: That, I think, is your male privilege speaking. You are so used to getting the world handed to you on a platter due to being a man, and now you are struggling to comprehend this loss of privilege.

Patient: what? No – I don`t think that is…

Therapist: Why are you so scared of gender equality?

Now, of course, this is probably a case of hyperbole on my part. But it drives the point home. Imagine seeking help due to self-loathing and suicidal tendencies, and then being told that your very nature is the cause of your issues. And then being told that it is not even your nature, but a social construct – a supposed ideology of masculinity – that has sown the seeds of your discontent. Now imagine being a young man. Or a boy. Seeking counsel and guidance for the same, impressionable as all hell and confused from the raging tide of hormones which only puberty can bring. This therapy and poor counsel can only breed more confusion. You are not you, they seem to say. Your nature is not in your nature. Moreover – that which is not your nature and which is not you, but which you still cling to and which still defines you – is toxic and destructive at its core and need to change. And this change, it seems, is not to help you grow, but to help the rest of the world grow.

Through counselling you are beat into servitude, one phony concerned sentence at a time, smooth as a serpents hiss, all forked tongue and whispered promises of betterment; if only you would understand your inherent toxicity and privilege, all would be well. Considering that men are the group most at risk for suicide, this does not bode well for the future of men.

This is not science. This is ideology parading around town masquerading as science. It is beautifully crafted; vile hatred of men and masculinity clothed as great concern for boys and men. I can not even begin to fathom how telling a young man who is struggling with suicidal urges – or a grown man, for that matter – that the fundamental reason for his suicidality is, in essence, his fundamental being, his very core. Couple this with the constant reminder – through massmedia, through social media, through schools and education, politics and parliament, through jobs and through parents, siblings, friends and family – that men are inherently bad, that there is something wrong with men, that men need to change for the betterment of all… You`ve got a recipe for disaster. Either individually, personal and private, or socially, public and societal.

Not only is a man told that he needs to change, he is told that he needs to change for the good of all, not for the good of himself. That his own emotional wellbeing takes the backseat to the emotional wellbeing of the world. And that his hurt hurts the world more than it hurts himself. He does not matter. Even when it is his wellbeing that he pays with blood and sweat and tears to be guided towards. What he is supposed to say is quite simple: «Serviam».

I will serve.

At the expense of myself, I will serve.

Which is, honestly and funnily enough, the traditional expectations levvied at men all the way from the beginning of time. What was that about the ideology of masculinity; the toxicity of traditional masculinity? Hah! It seems we have gone full fruitless circle once again. Now, imagine a girl or young woman going into therapeutic sessions and being told this; that her very nature is what is wrong with her. Can you imagine what levels of foaming-at-the-mouth-and-crotch outrage we would have seen then? And, I would like to add – rightly and justly so.

My school of thought is that everyone should be treated equally, regardless of gender or sexuality or colour of skin or what-have-you. This, it would seem, is not the school of thought which these self-proclaimed fighters for equality and justice for all is following.

This is, of course, not to say that people should not strive to be the best they can be. Bettering oneself and growing as a human being is of incredible importance, and gazing ever inwards deeply and labouriously is a important tool in doing just that. Know thy self, as the saying goes. When we have a cultural zeitgeist telling men – and only men – that they are flawed and need to change, however, we are at a loss of balance. Selfimprovement is not gendered. Nor is faults and flaws. Every individual, regardless of gender, has faults and flaws and room for improvement. Letting the faults of the world rest solely on the shoulders of one group is disingenuous at best and pure viscious malice at worst.

The outrage at claiming there is something wrong with the very nature of women would be immense. Of this, I think, there is little doubt. Claiming that there is something wrong with the very nature of men, however, is equality and justice made manifest; a social justice feverdream conjured forth from a mass-brainwashed collective psychosis, enginereed and finely crafted over decades. The genders should be treated equally. And so, we must teach men that there is something wrong with men – we must teach our societies that there is something wrong with men and nothing wrong with women. In the name of equal treatment. Summed up thusly: Men bad, Women good. For equality, for justice, for truth and mad pathology. One for one and all for one.

***

Now picture a young man. Confused by the hormones coursing through his body at the peak of puberty. Confused by a troubled upbringing, perhaps, or the loss of a loved one, or a lack of direction. Maybe only confused by life itself, and in need of some guidance and some help to overcome some obstacle or other. And so he seeks counselling. He seeks therapy. If only to gain some perspective, or to vent his frustrations to someone who`s job it is to understand and lend an empathetic and helpful ear. Someone who gets paid to help someone overcome difficult obstacles. And he vents. He opens up. He tells all. And is told that the reasons he feels like this is that he is conditioned to not feel – that he has been cast in the mold of oppressor and tyrant by a society which, apparently, only has his best interests in mind. That he should cast aside his notions of who he is and replace it with who his therapist thinks he should be. And who his therapist thinks he should be is far detached from the reality of who he, by nature, is. And who his therapist thinks he is – tyrant and oppressor, privileged and pampered – is far detached from the reality of who he, by nature, is.

Now, would not this cause more confusion? Would not this fester in his mind like a tumour; growing and growing more and more the more he is told that he is at fault for his own issues by virtue of his birth? Mix the condemnation levvied at men and masculinity by the educational system which he is forced through into the mix, toss the misandry imposed upon him through the news which he absorbs and the girls in his class into the cauldron, stoke the fires with politicians telling him that he is evil incarnate and that he has no real issues to worry about and that he should bend the knee to help girls and to help women overcome the obstacles which he is directly or indirectly responsible for by privilege inherent from birth. And now, bring it to a boil with a family which tells him the same.

Burnout.

Washout.

Done and dusted.

Cleared, cleaned, clinically insane.

And this is what our culture celebrates – a constant demonizing of men for the perceived benefit of not the men in question, but the world around them. And we dare paint this travesty as being of benefit to boys and men. We dare paint it as a major benefit, which sees boys and young men dropping out and burning out, not participating nor launching, but washing up on the dust-and-cobwebbed-bedecked shores of our cultural wasteland.

Any voices raised – by the boys and men in question, or by others concerned – in opposition to the proposition that boys and men need to be socially enginereed into useful objects, helpful to all but themselves, is shouted down and held forth as a shining example of exactly why we need this misandric turn of page and phrase, this hatred disguised disgustingly as concern. It is a lose-lose situation. For boys and men.

What the claim is is of course: oh, no, it`s not all men. (Excepting, of course, when the same voices shine through the fog with a beacon saying #yesallmen) It`s just the bullies and the rapists, the harassers and the violent carriers of toxicity, of the virus of masculinity. If you should feel offended by the message, it means you are one of them and so you prove the point of the message. Clever. Very clever. It`s that worldwide emotional manipulation poking its bedazzled head out of the sand again, turning the victim into the victimizer. Agree with the message, and you are a good man and it is your job to stop other men behaving toxically. Object to the message, and you are one of the bad men and proof that the message need be told. One man is responsible for the actions of all men, which is to say that all men are responsible for the actions of one man. When that action is bad, that is. Flip the script, and you will learn that one woman is not responsible for the actions of all women and that all women are not responsible for the actions of one women. If they are bad. If they are good, it is a cause for celebration of all women. Women good, men bad. The bad done by one man is proof of the wickedness of all men. The good done by one woman is proof of the kindness of all women. Nuance is dead. Both men and women have the same capacity for both good and evil. This is forgotten in the gender-wars and the propaganda of the language therein.

A man can not win either way. Either we need to change, or we need to make other men change. To serve and to please, to serve and to protect. Or to kill ourselves in the process; to fail at life and withdraw into the nothing, into the ether. To be drugged unconscious and met with naught but disdain in the public and the private sphere, and being met with naught but distrust and blame-and-shame when we seek therapy and understanding from medical professionals who`s very job is to help and aid. And then to be forcefed a multitude of drugs to suppress our nature, quite literally being turned into mindless inactive zombies incapable of participating in any way, shape or form.

The result is a generation of boys and men turned away at the gates of life; denied the respect and compassion, understanding and empathy which they deserve. An entire generation of boys and men being taught from birth that there is something genuinely wrong with who they are at their very core. This, one would assume, is not proper behaviour towards any group of people. And one would be right in assuming this. Such as it is, our societies need their sacrificial goat – their idol to be shouted at and despised and blamed for the ills of the fracturing world we see before us, and simulatenously being told to fix it: both God and Devil. It is a mass communal unleashing of frustration and the Jungian shadow of humanity itself. The evil and vindictive force within us all. Men are the only group in society upon which this vindictiveness, this hatred, this frustration and this perplexing shadow of our souls and psyches may be unleashed with impunity. And they dare label it as compassion and concern for boys and men!

Don`t believe it? Try throwing the same vile abuse and everchanging demands for change at any other group in our splintering culture, and see how far that gets you. Try telling women as a group that they need to change. Or blacks. Or muslims. Or jews. Or homosexuals. Pick and chose, and see how far you get before the armies come marching at you from the virtuous anthill of the chronically concerned and offended.

This hatred and abuse get internalized by the boys and young men in question. Creating ever more need for therapy and psychiatric assessments of their being and of their ruptured psyche. Yet another of those viscious and vacuous circles manufactured by our daycare-societies. And being met with drugs, disbelief and disillusioning tales of their inherent privilege and propensity for oppression and toxicity in therapeutic sessions from beyond the wide-eyed wonder of the massmanufactured concern-trolling of this noxious fume of feminist indoctrination, they come to believe in the evil of their being. And the mood changes, the mood spirals ever downwards and, in lew of understanding, they are given more drugs. Causing the mood to descend further into the abyss. And the abyss opens wide to engulf them and swallow them whole. Perpetually lost boys floating aimlessly in a continuing vacuum; emotionally flatlined by neurotoxins and with a growing rage and resentment for which there is no release, no understanding and no help.

And as men are drawn towards action in times of personal crisis, they reach a breaking point and lash either outwards or inwards. Drawing from the core of their being; the masculine call to action which has been supressed and denied and labelled as inherently toxic. They snap. As one does, who has stared into the abyss for far too long. Manifested most often in selfharm and selfdestruction – or – more visibly destructive to society as a whole, it manifests as them taking others down with them in a blaze of fire and fury. This is where you get your mass-shooters and mass-murderers, your posterboys for toxicity and hatred.

And then, refining and re-engineering the circle once again, this is a call for the media to write articles on what is wrong with masculinity, holding these individuals forth as definite proof of the fact that there is something fundamentally wrong and defective with boys and men; not showing the least bit of concern for the tragedy which happened and having no qualms in using it as a tool to push ever more anti-male sentiments, stoking the fires already burning under the feet of the young boys and men which are doomed to failure and bound to lose in a society who`s blatant hatred of them is veiled as concern for their wellbeing!

Imagine for a moment what would have happened if these young men were shown compassion, understanding and empathy instead of ridicule and scorn. Instead of being labelled as incels or virgin-losers by feminisms doctrine when they voiced their opposition, or being marked by birth with the sign of the devil; a swinging cock and balls eternally flagellating the poor oppressed under their naturally oppressive nature.

Ave, Ave, Feministas.

This doctrine creates men there is something wrong with. Men ruined and broken by a society which claims to care equally for all, but which shows time and again that it cares nothing at all for men and for boys; a society in which men and boys are told to man up in order to help women and to attack their brothers for perceived trespasses on the virtue of women. Men, you need to help women. Women, you need to help other women. Noone needs to help men; they can help themselves by bending the knee and helping women and only women. That is to say, as stated time and again: by helping feminism and only feminism. Not only that; they are also told that manning up is proof of toxic masculinity; the suppression of feelings inherent in the toxicity. So man up and help and don`t man up and help by not manning up. Only express your feelings in a way suitable to feminisms gold standard. Meaning: express our feelings about men and masculinity, and share our emotions.

I have stared into the abyss of selfloathing myself. For years upon years; indoctrinated into the eternal victimcult, being reminded over and over that it is me and only me that is at fault. That my being is wrong, defective, destructive and hateful. I have been told that we live in a society in which women are oppressed, and I have seen time and again how this is not the case. Yet; I could not see through the veil across my eyes nor break away from the chokechain around my neck. I considered qoutas and affirmative action a necessity; proof of womens oppression when it is, in fact, proof of quite the opposite. Preferential treatment is not proof of oppression. One being treated better than the other – at the expense of the other, I might add – is not proof of the other oppressing the one. It is proof of the one being treated far better than the other by the other, which is claimed to treat the one worse. And, yes, the words «One» and «Other» are used with a purpose in mind. We are othering boys and men, turning them into second-class citizens to be treated with mistrust, and if not mistrust, then downright fear and loathing. And we are turning women into the One, a saving force and perpetual grace; an aristocracy which we must never contradict, never oppose, under pain of social death.

As with most boys and men, I lashed inwards as the abyss stared back into me. And as a result of lashing inwards, I was drugged into oblivion, balancing on a razorblade and tiptoeing through existence with no goals, no mind, no motives, no nothing. Psychopharmaceuticals scorched my neural pathways and burnt a hole into my mind who`s damage still lingers with me, running through my mind and my body in white scorching lines manifesting as chronic pain and chronic fatigue. Still burnt out; four years after ending my days as a drug-mule for the pharmaceutical bliss of our un-empathetic psychiatrists offices. And I am pissed off. Rightfully so.

My days of lashing inwards is drawing to an end. I employ the pen and what little energy I still have left to explore ideas and to lash outwards in a more cerebral manner; employing what explosive energy might linger in the core of my being in an attempt to change minds and inspire others to do the same; to partake in the battle of ideas we are caught up in.

We need to show that we deserve respect and understanding, compassion and empathy. And we must stand still and strong in this storm. And in standing still we move ever forwards on our path to make our societies understand that boys and men need to be met with empathy and understanding, not ridiculed, shunned, feared and blamed when opening up. We need to turn this tide and we need to stand together to do so. What differences we may have in our core values – traditional or non-traditional, conservative or liberal, etcetera, etcetera, need to be forgotten and put aside for the moment so that we can focus our energies towards a greater good; showing that masculinity is inherently good and that men are inherently good. Cooperation across the board is what we need.

There is a mass-awakening to be done. Imagine if boys and men were met with empathetic ears and, through action, shown that it is in fact our current cultural zeitgeist that is flawed at it`s core, not them. We would see far less mass-shootings. Far less men snapping. Far less men committing suicide. Feminst doctrine have created a self-fulfilling prophecy in their toxic masculinity narrative. And, I suspect, they are intensely pleased with themselves about this fact. Men and boys need to support other men and boys. And we need to stop internalizing the constant feedback-loop of hostility and negativity we are met with. Make the feminists live by their own rules by stating, quite simply: «If you belive that the genders should be treated equally, then you ought to start treating the genders equally». Or do not engage at all; there is no use in debating someone who has no interest in listening; who`s only concern is to speak and to have their voices heard at the expense of the voices of others.

If something is OK to be said about men in general, then it is OK to be said about women in general. If it is not suitable to be said about women in general, then it is not suitable to be said about men in general. Use their rulebook against them. Do not internalize hatred. Be strong. Be proud. Be yourself. And never let anyone condition you into believing that your masculinity is toxic. Stand still, holding a candle of self-respect to your heart and whisper to yourself: «Non serviam».

I will not serve.

For the sake of myself, I will not serve.

– Moiret Allegiere, 19.01.2019

______________________________________________________________________________________________

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You can do better: on crybully asphalt rites and peace without peas.

coffee a3 lowres

Ill: «Coffee»,A3, 2019, Moiret Allegiere

 

A wild, wandering schoolyard bully comes of age through asphalt rites of gravel, mud and tears. She grows into the festering mold of mad, rupturing mycellium and hides her own insecurities in the safety of her projection that others are just as rotten and useless as she is. And through her veil of tears we are baptized in the gravel of her cottonmouthed words; a lingering foul odour of death and decay from her abysmal baptismal claws and painted cheeks. Grown up lost in the space-time continuum and seeking no solace in the self, solace comes only from reminding others of how she perceives them to be rotten, not seeing that she only recognizes the rot within herself.

Grounded not in reality but in a frantic mirage of her own design, she realizes that her own faults are not faults within herself but without herself. And so, the entire world needs to change to suit her needs. These needs change according to the flight of migrating birds, or according to the position of certain heavenly bodies of astrological significance, for instance the position of the moon, heaving and pulsating within her tremble-mind of virtue lost yet flashed dead-pan to an unsuspecting public.

And never growing past the point where she believed boys to have cooties, she lingers in statefunded institutions to teach others that boys have cooties still. And to teach her insecurities as objective fact, the closeted close-minded bully constructs gargantuan magical diagrams showing as objective fact that there are no objective facts; that only the subjective experience matters. And that is objective fact, no matter what her preaching choir sings about the dissolving of objective fact. All is subjective, except this which is objective by her design and hers alone.

And her disciples grow and flow along the same asphalt rites in which she herself was baptized in blood and tears and snot and snow; a fearful flight from introspection. The blame lies always somewhere else, and if it is not boys, it is a construct which boys created in ol` boys clubs fifteen thousand years ago, in the beginning of recorded time, subjective as the pitter-patter of tears streaming down the crybully-cheeks of her frail and delicate countenance, showing signs of shaming tactics and of shaming tacticians with magicians words that scream unfounded accusations as brilliant truths, hard as melting snow, solid as fog.

Within her own realm where nothing is truth, no truths will ever spring to mind but the truth that she is, in some way, shape or form oppressed terribly by the powerful cooties that be. The same powers that tremble and shake the very forces of the universe itself to make everything tailored to suit her everchanging needs and whims and flights of fancy. A spoiled child evaporating from the lack of the rod; never being told no and thusly never conceiving of the fact that other people have different needs and different opinions and personalities different from her own, spun round the thimbleneedle of her simpering baby-voice and childlike act.

A muttering, stuttering, perplexed and devouring parent stands over her in moonlit madness preparing ever-and-ever her bed and bedroom-stillness, checking every mattress to see if there is no pea underneath to disturb her slumber and much needed rest, frail and weak as she is. There is no pea, and yet she insists the pea is there, bright as day and clear as the bonefragments in her mirror-brain: there is a pea. If she insists, it must be true. Sorry princess, sorry – we shall bring new mattresses for you and we shall move you to a different room with a different view where no peas exist. And so it is done, and still there is a pea, conjured forth from her subjective manic pathology where all specks of dust grow into cobwebbed multitudes of trials and tribulations to be overcome by her and her alone, which she alone must face, and pity her in the grimness of this nightmare world which she must travail in horrid and deplorable whimsical fancies.

And as one, all voices rise to meet her demands, and proclaim that all peas shall be outlawed, lest they disturb her slumber. That some people might prefer to eat peasoup and object to this banning of all things pea-related is proof without doubt that there is a vast conspiracy to ruin her life for her and only her. Clearly, these people are out to get her and clearly they can not possibly like peas. Clearly, this is some madness they have been told to believe by the cootie-riddled boys of ol` boys clubs which she could not enter in the schoolyard years of her growing and developing temperament. Ban all peas: they are hurtful to her and others like her. And the objections to this banning is proof of this. If you like peasoup, you hate her. And by hating her, you hate all women. Liking peas is likened to hating all who do not like peas, and all who do not like peas are only her and those like her; her tribe of clean and sober right-thinking haters of peas, both personal and public. The logic is infallible in its infinite infantile infrastructure.

Orobouros shall be the symbol of the new dawn. Grand peaburnings are afoot. All cheer and marvel at this wild and tribal magic: the peas go up in flame, and now the world shall know peace at last, and our schoolyard bully, ravaged and ruined by the peas, shall be left in perpetual peace in this lack of peas.

That is, of course, until she notices that there are monsters in her closets when she sleeps. These monsters peak in at her while she is sleeping, and they disturb her sleep and her slumber and her peace of pealess mind. And so, they to must be removed by some stroke of some brush or some sledgehammer-justice doled out to crumbled cabinets and closets lurking in the corners of bedrooms world-over. And the whole thing starts over again. Her subjective knowledge trumps the clear objective fact of the matter. There are monsters in her closets, so we must ban closets. All must be banned, all the time, all over the world, to rid the world of monsters and cooties and emptyheaded disturbances infringing on her rights to sleep in her bed in complete and utter peace, with no peas and no monsters and no peace of mind but the piece that left with the peas and the monsters in the closets.

And who would have thunk it; the ol` boys club to which she protests and objects, which she claims hate her and all the others like her, wriggle in their seats in terror at her terror and, with a wish to protect her as much as her doting, overprotective parents did and do, they conspire to rid the world of her grievances as much as humanly possible. Peaburnings and closet-and-cabinet smashings are now written into law, mandated and enforced by violent thugs marching in uniform synchronicity through streets illuminated by the constantly combusting flames fuelled by her internal combusting engine; the burning of all things which offend her delicate bully-sensibilities and the enforcement of her will by the powers to which she object ever so much; the long violent arm of the ol` boys club which also must be torn down for their constant ignoring of her pleas for pealess peace in perpetuity; her clinging to catatonic cravings for a constantly cabinet-and-closet free cosmos.

Through her wishes and through her immaculate visions of peace from her psychologically projected rot, the world turns clinically clean and sterile. A cleanliness maintained through force via the evaporating deathgrip of a crybully choking the life out of everything; a boot stomping on a human face forever and ever, maintaining an illusion of freedom through freedom being gradually eroded by a voice whispering in cold shivers: save us from ourselves: we can not tolerate disagreements.

Moiret Allegiere, 12.01.2019

Intersecting bodies at the intersection of madness and gibberish: a rant

happyslapped by the godhead a3 lowres

Ill: «Happyslapped by the Godhead», A3, Moiret Allegiere, 2019

 

Feminism dictates. The world bends its knees. Then it tumbles, then it rolls. Lost in the vast vacuum of space for a while, beat down by the weight of heavy-handed assumptions, assertions and mandates dictated by bodypositive nonsense caught in the throes of orgasmatronic ecstasy. Woe unto the world, lest feminists have spoken. And so they spake, and so they shrieked.

It is a peculiar arrangement we have gotten ourselves into, is it not? We listen and we believe. And we bend at the middle until we break. Words of wisdom from the mouths of feminists dictate the course of society, deliberately dedicating dictatorial decisions on womens lives and bodies: women should be free to do what they want to do with their lives and their bodies, with no questions asked and no judgements passed. Hark; the choir offended sings – falsettoes rise with trembling vibratos. Or was that vibrators? I can`t remember.

Vibrato or vibrator – it doesn`t matter much, in the long run. It`s just silly illusions of literary talent coursing through my neural pathways, gathered from whatever strange force of inspiration I am currently channeling. Or challenging. The tides are rising again, the fever peaking again, the choir of offense touching upon the pinnacle of control. Tremble before the falsettoes and the feminist siren song of women being victims of their own choices! Again.

For uncounted years, the feminists have been telling us that womens bodies are womens bodies and that womens choices regarding womens bodies are their own to make. And no judgement should be passed, be that legally or socially. They seem to have forgotten, in the heat of the moment, or by their own design, that everyone is judged on their actions, be they male or female. They are astray within their solipsistic worldview in which only their own binocular projection of the world around them matters. Logic is only logical when viewed from within their current framework; the prismatic lens of the only gender that matters in the quest for equality between the genders.

And so they tell us, with forked tongue and eyes sewn shut, that their bodies are their choice. And we bend. And they rise. And they dare us, they doubledare us, to pass judgement on a womans choice to do what she wants to do. And so we don`t pass judgement, lest we be judged ourselves, lest we be thrown to the wolves and passed through the meatgrinder of feminist destruction of anyone who`s opinion is deemed by them unworthy to be held in the maniac limelight of the current year, whichever current that may be. Ok we say, we cleanse, we rinse, we repeat the mantra: her body her choice. And we pass judgement upon what men do, but not upon what women do. Because that is peak equality!

Then come the crossroads; the intersection where madness meets gibberish and is, somehow, considered sanity.

And I have forgotten, due to cosmic vibrations and solar storms, what the current year is. Have I been struck blind by the beast of interchangeable restorations? Have we gone full circle? Are we not in the current year anymore? Did the world end and noone remembered to tell me? I mean, I wouldn`t blame them if they did. I would just like a heads-up. That`s all.

Fine.

I`ll just try and remember that it is always the current year somewhere; that the currents of time will lay down the foundations for the current year, so that we can pick it apart at a later year to make it, once again, the current year. Because, after all, it is the current year and that should tell you all you need to know about our current year and the societies which dwell both within and without the current of the current year.

Did they not tell us that a womans body is her own to do with as she pleases? Why, then, pray tell, do the feminists tell women what to do with their bodies? A womans body is her own to do with as she pleases. As long as that woman does with her body what the feminists would have her do with her body. If you are a stripper, you are not allowed to do what you want to do with your body. Or if you are a gridgirl, or find yourself in any profession where you make your living of your looks in a way that would make the victorian-era enlightened feminist sniff and swoon, crying «poor me! Fetch me my sniffing salts, boy!» Or was that Bathsalts? Meh, never mind, no matter. The difference between the two are probably insignificant.

I should like some sniffing salts. Or some bathsalts, in order to understand this doublethink. Maybe that would put me in the frame of mind that these feminists exhibit when this topic comes up; make it possible for me to talk out of both corners of my mouth with my tongue gently licking and caressing the cavernous emptiness of my cranium.

Understanding this strange phenomenon is, to my eyes, impossible if one has a mind that is firmly put in its place and functioning on more than a baselevel of consciousness and conscience both. But, as stated before, all is possible in the feminist world of illogical logic and unreasonable reason.

It is not men that dictate what women do with their bodies. It is feminists. Under the guise that certain womens actions are actions that no woman in her right mind would take, were she not forced by men to do so. And so the feminists force her to not do so. And they label it equality. And they label it fairness. And they take away these womens jobs and incomes and consider it progress for womens rights. All the while chanting «My body, my choice!», all the while disregarding what these women whom they have deemed as being in professions unworthy of women have to say about the matter. Womens voices don`t matter much to feminism. Only feminist voices matter to feminism. It is almost as though one would be inclined to believe that feminists believe that all women are one and the same and that all women have the same goals and aspirations in life; namely – feminisms goals and aspirations. Which is… well, who the hell knows anymore? Everything is a feminist issue. Even the things which contradict the other things. All things are true. Even false things are true.

You need only listen to how feminists speak to, or about, these women whom they deem unworthy to see how quickly they pass judgement on what a woman choses to do with her body and her life. Tear the veil from your eyes and your ears and look and listen. Don`t repeat the mantra that it is only about equality. Don`t resort to pointing to the dictionary definition. Look, and listen, and all shall become clear.

It is a hodgepodge of moronic diatribes and astoundingly rude and disrespectful behaviour towards women. This coming from the same set of ideas that tell us that we should respect women by virtue of nothing but vagina. Of course, it is quite clear that they don`t mean we should respect women, but that we should respect feminist women. Or merely the concept of feminism itself, totalitarian ideology that it is. Respect women, or perish. Meaning: respect feminism, or perish.

Why is it that feminists can tell women what is proper conduct for women, and yet lambast anyone other than feminists who dare critique a woman? And that is not even women as a group, but one single woman. Here come the cries of harassment, here come the cries of misogyny and violence against women. Because women are so weak and frail, according to feminists, that they can not handle criticism. Unless that criticism is coming from feminists towards women who are not – in their eyes and goblin-minds – real women. «Don`t sexualize yourself. Go find real work instead.», they say. And so remove their jobs so they are forced to find some other area of employment. It does not matter what women want. It matters what feminism wants.

Over here, in the frozen wastes of Norway, one of our prominent radfem-groups are protesting BDSM. Because they, in their allembracing benevolence, consider it domestic violence. And so, they try and infiltrate our bedrooms. All the while claiming it a move for equality and liberation of women. It is astounding. This group protested the cinematic screening of 50 Shades of Grey; a series of books and movies mainly enjoyed by women. And written by a woman. For its supposed promotion of domestic violence. Do they not know what fiction is? Do they really believe that everyone apart from them are so simpleminded that they are incapable of separating fiction from reality? Or is it that psychological projection again; that they can not separate fiction from reality so noone else is able to either?

One of these feminists, when asked what they thought about women stripping for their partner, answered something along the lines of «Well, we don`t want to tell people what they may or may not do in their bedrooms. But it is a shame to see that the pornculture has seeped into our private lives like this.» Women are victims of their own choices. And a woman must never, ever, do anything to please her partner. If that partner is male. A male pleasing his partner is a good thing. A woman pleasing her partner is misogyny. Well, in all fairness: a male pleasing his partner is probably misogyny as well, according to the corrupted minds ruling the church of feminism.

Meanwhile, us sane and reasonable individuals consider it a good thing for a man to please his partner and a women to please her partner in a fair and functional relationship built upon cooperation and trust instead of enmity and competition. Bugger it. Millenium hand and shrimp. There is no reason to be found here, within feminisms fractured walls and ravaged halls.

Sexual liberation is a great thing! As long as women fuck in a way deemed suitable by feminists; under the covers, with the lights off and a copy of the Scum Manifesto clutched firmly in one hand, and the Communist Manifesto in the other. Or celebrate their sexuality in a way that is not offensive to the eternally offense-seeking minds of feminists. And there`s sex-negativity and sex-positivity and doublethink and doublespeak and doublestandards and not one semblance of reason amongst them.

The great feminist revolution claimed to be about liberation, but tears away our liberties and dictates our lives, making the private political and the political private, attempting to dictate what we do with our privates in the privacy of our own homes. Noone is free from the allseeing eye of feminism. A great eye, enveloped in flame, gazing ever hither and dither, eternally seeking more power, more might, more influence, more control! One ideology to rule them all, and in the darkness bind them.

Moiret Allegiere, 05.01.2019

Happy new year 2019!

2019 A4 lowres

Ill: «2019», A4, 2019, Moiret Allegiere

 

Happy new year! As is tradition, I spent January 1 being severely hungover. This means, of course, that 2019 will only get better from that point onwards.

Considering the strange and unknown horror that lurked in the corners and then came to the forefront of 2018, one can only hope that 2019 will be a better year. Mayhaps this will be the year where the pushback against the new totalitarians and their collective psychosis will gain momentum; a year where more people will wake up to and subsequently protest against the «enlightened» push toward thought-and-speech control.

Maybe, just maybe, we will remember how to sing, dance and laugh again. Not being allowed to do so by the soc-jus hivemind of virtue impeccable, but doing it despite and in spite of their veiled move towards tyranny; a move hiding in the shade of «justice» and moral superiority. Remember laughter. Remember dancing. Remember singing. And then do it, delivering a monumental middlefinger to the inquisitors knocking at your door, all the while grinning and dancing and singing and laughing as if there were no tomorrow.

Moiret Allegiere, January 2, 2019