All of the good people are in hiding, and there’s no escaping the idiots.
So there’s this astounding young woman on Twitter whose name I’ll spare you so as not to perpetuate any more of her syphilitic diarrheic mop vomit of an excuse for critical thought. But anyway, this woman once objected to a man in a dress by declaring, “Bring back manly men.”
Lucky for her, the mildly amused rest of us happen to be fairly well-versed in a figurative language device called IRONY. And so, we took her musings lightly and couldn’t help but think in response, “Bring back girly girls, too.”
But then I think back to this sniveling retch of an Auntie Tom and wonder, how does one become so maniacally self-absorbed and tone-deaf, after all? And alone at night, I pray to God that I don’t come off that stupid.
But then, life happens. And the mathematics of existence begin to compute. And it finally dawns on me that the only difference between me and her, the only reason I have the luxury to sit around and scorn this wretched little woman, is that she is suffering just a little bit more than I am. And that it could’ve played out just as easily the other way around. And that whatever traumatic terror is possessing this poor young woman, she can’t seem to find any other way to deal with it than to claw her way out of our guts.
Believe it or not, I pity her. It hurts to hate. It hurts to want. It hurts to suffer alone. Because these demons–whatever they are–are so much more monstrous than she is. If anything, she’s nothing more than a marble in their jar. I pray for her. I hope she finds her Way.
I wouldn’t presume, but I think what she wants is a real Man. Bring back real Men, so she can be a girly-girl again.
Back to chapter one.