So, I’m wandering around the feminist internet and found some interesting reading material. I found it amusing enough to share.
Despite the fairy tale, I don’t see a whole lot of middle aged men frivolously divorcing good women to remarry girls in their late teens.
What I do see are a whole lot of hateful feminist wimminz, who frivolously divorce their husbands, in order to “get even” for some slight, real or imagined.
It works, but only in the short term. After the man has been suitably broken, the faggot judge cuts him loose and declares the divorce final. Within a year, he’s healthier, wealthier, and better off without the dead weight. Suddenly (surprise, surprise) girls in the 19-24 year old set find him worthy to fuck.
These “new models” will shortly begin nagging him for marriage. He may trade up, but only if he hasn’t learned his lesson. Those brothers who are so short-sighted find their ex-wives suddenly have new stories to tell.
Someplace else, there’s an amusing letter in an advice column, supposedly written by a 35-year old skank-ho. It’s entitled:
I’m Broke, Friendless, and I’ve Wasted My Life
Even if the letter is a fraud (have wimminz ever been self-aware enough to write such a thing?) we can learn something interesting from it. So, let’s take it away…
I feel like a ghost. I’m a 35-year-old woman, and I have nothing to show for it. My 20s and early 30s have been a twisting crisscross of moves all over the West Coast, a couple of brief stints abroad,
I’m sure these “brief stints” included lots of brief stints with strange foreign dudes.
multiple jobs in a mediocre role with no real upward track. I was also the poster child for serial monogamy. My most hopeful and longest lasting relationship (three and a half years, whoopee) ended two years ago. We moved to a new town (my fourth new city), created a home together, and then nose-dived into a traumatic breakup that launched me to my fifth and current city and who-knows-what-number job.
At no time prior to the ripe old age of thirty-five did this bitch decide to laser off the skank-ho tatts, put on a dress, and start hitting up marriage minded men. It is only now that all her options have left the room, that she starts whining.
For all these years of quick changes and rash decisions, which I once rationalized as adventurous, exploratory, and living an “original life,” I have nothing to show for it. I have no wealth, and I’m now saddled with enough debt from all of my moves, poor decisions, and lack of career drive that I may never be able to retire. I have no career milestones and don’t care for my line of work all that much anyway, but now it’s my lifeline, as I only have enough savings to buy a hotel room for two nights. I have no family nearby, no long-term relationship built on years of mutual growth and shared experiences, no children.
I wonder how many nice dudes skanky nexted in order to chase promotions?
No one felt sorry for all the burned and dumped men she ran through. Why should we shed tears for her?
While I make friends easily, I’ve left most of my friends behind in each city I’ve moved from while they’ve continued to grow deep roots: marriages, homeownership, career growth, community, families, children.
Those women were smart enough to snag the same dudes you nexted.
They are the winners. You are the loser.
They are the victors. You are the victim.
They are the fit. You are the useless eater, begging to be culled.
They are the strong. You are the weak.
I have a few close girlfriends, for which I am grateful, but life keeps getting busier and our conversations are now months apart. Most of my nights are spent alone with my cat (cue the cliché).
You have a few other loser wimminz with whom you occasionally commiserate, but you all hate each other almost as much as you hate yourselves. As such, regular communication is unpleasant.
I used to consider myself creative — a good writer, poetic, passionate, curious. Now, after many years of demanding yet uninspiring jobs, multiple heartbreaks, move after move, financial woes, I’m quite frankly exhausted. I can barely remember to buy dish soap let alone contemplate humanity or be inspired by Anaïs Nin’s diaries. Honestly, I find artists offensive because I’m jealous and don’t understand how I landed this far away from myself.
You’re not Anaïs Nin. You’re an idiot who wants to be her.
You never “landed … far away from yourself.” You’ve always been a dull-witted skank. You’re only now coming to realize what everyone else could see immediately.
Also, within the past year I’ve had a breast-cancer scare and required surgery on my uterus due to a fertility issue.
Probably originating in HPV warts growing up there, or complicated Chlamydia. Glad you’re still enjoying those “brief stints abroad.”
On top of that, I’m 35 and every gyno and women’s-health website this side of the Mississippi is telling me my fertility is dropping faster than a piano falling out of the sky. Now I’m looking into freezing my eggs, adding to my never-ending financial burden, in hopes of possibly making something of this haunted house and having a family someday with a no-named man.
Don’t bother. No man of substance would want anything to do with you. He has options for authentic childbirth.
I’m trying, Polly. I am. I’m dating. I’m working out and working hard.
You’re fucking random old men you meet on Tinder, while shuffling papers at your dead-end job. I hope it continues to fulfill you.
Listening to music I enjoy and loving my cat. Calling my mom.
You curse your mother when she’s reminded that she gave birth to such a useless cunt.
Yet I truly feel like a ghost. No one knows who I am or where I’ve been. I haven’t kept a friend, lover, or foe around long enough to give anyone a chance. What’s the point? I don’t care for my job. I’m not building toward anything, and I don’t have the time or money to really invest in what I care about anyway at this point. On top of that, society is telling me my value as a woman is fading fast, my wrinkles require Botox (reference said poor finances), all the while my manager is asking for me to finish “that report by Monday.” Why bother?
You tell me.
My apathy is coming out in weird ways. I’m drinking too much, and when I do see my friends on occasion, I end up getting drunk and angry or sad or both and pushing them away. And with men I date, I feel pressure to make something of the relationship too soon (move in, get married, “I have to have kids in a couple of years”; fun times!). All the while still trying to be the sexpot 25-year-old I thought I was until what seemed like a moment ago.
You bother and annoy everyone who has the misfortune of coming into contact with you. No one can stand wimminz like you. We all hate you.
I used to think I was the one who had it all figured out. Adventurous life in the city! Traveling the world! Making memories! Now I feel incredibly hollow. And foolish. How can I make a future for myself that I can get excited about out of these wasted years? What reserves or identity can I draw from when I feel like I’ve accrued nothing up to this point with my life choices?
Like the fictional man who “trades up” by dumping a good wife for a 19-year old child bride, I never see any wimminz ever regret her life’s poor choices. What I do see are a whole lot of wimminz who know very well that their choices will lead them into the pit, and they don’t care. Their attitude is “it’s better to burn out, than fade away…”
Moreover, by the time they hit 35, these same wimminz don’t ever whine or cry about their choices. They blame their misfortunes on fate, or their fathers, or their abusive babydaddies. It’s always some man’s fault.
And how dare you judge? You don’t know her, or her amazing life!
To conclude: I know a professional journalist who has a job writing “letters to the editor” at a big regional paper, so I think this is a joke at the expense of wimminz like this, rather than an actual letter written by the one wimminz self-aware enough to realize that she fucked herself over, with a lifetime of bad decisions.
All that aside, do you have any advice for the poor bitch? Sound off below…