Kimberly Steele

http://buymeacoffee.com/kimberlysteele

Your prayers of blessing to the deity/deities of your choice are welcome whether or not you can donate.

http://buymeacoffee.com/kimberlysteele

Your prayers of blessing to the deity/deities of your choice are welcome whether or not you can donate.

From what my guides tell me, Clarice wants to reincarnate as one of my future pets, and allegedly she wants to try to cram herself into my final years as Kimberly Steele, being unwilling to wait until I am reincarnated as somebody else. I am not sure why she is in such a hurry and I have expressed this. 

It is always difficult to lose a pet and no matter how many times it happens to me, it always rips my heart out. What is so odd about a companion animal dying is that it is, in a perverse way, harder than losing a human family member. Pets are eternally children and never have any of that nasty guilt we humans accumulate for ourselves, even when they are truly bad. One reason watching an animal die is so hard is that they cannot speak to us in our language. I don't know what I would have done without my Ogham (Ogham is the divination system I am most comfortable with) because they gave me play-by-plays of the afterlives for several pets that passed. They gave sage advice and reassurance in a way that no human could provide or understand. 

I believe dead pets speak to us through dreams and divination, and that is why it is so important to do the work of discursive meditation to decipher dreams and divination. One of the worst things about being alive right now at the bottom of the Kali Yuga is that most people dwell in spiritual ignorance. As a person who communicates with the dead and occasionally acts as a psychopomp -- a being who eases the transition between the worlds for the dead and dying -- I am a freak and a weirdo. There are eras of this world where my talents would have been no big deal, the equivalent of being able to strum a guitar and sing along. In this Dark Age of the spirit, I am a unicorn of specialization. Yet I will always maintain that we can all speak to the dead. All of us have the talent to do this, but the main problem is most of us lack the discernment to figure out to whom we are actually speaking. There are beings called impersonator spirits that I discuss in my book Sacred Homemaking who are the creeps of the unseen world, tricking humans into believing they are Grandma, Napoleon, or the spirits of innocent children. Those who have not done a ton of discursive meditation and regular banishing rituals are prey to these predator spirits, along with a host of other nasty things from the lower astral who take advantage of grief and narcissism. 

The dead are gone and also not gone. This is Meatworld, the dirty, disgusting, heavy terminus and butthole of existence where ideas literally go to die. It is not easy to be here, but if you are here, you chose this and must work within its confines and limits. Oddly enough, to die is to live. Physical death frees us from expressing ourselves in matter, and when that part of existence is cut off, the consciousness retracts and heals itself from the open, festering wound that is Meatworld. Yet you always see me out here pimping for gratitude for Meatworld things and nagging people to clean their toilets. Why? Because to do so is to stubbornly focus on the lightest, least dense parts of Meatworld and to pierce the illusion of beauty to plumb the truth behind the veil. The truth is that all beings wish to be recognized for their goodness and what they did right. Clarice loved being seen for her fire and she loved being protected by a mother who wasn't willing to abandon her, even if she was doomed. 

Today my husband came into the house with a praying mantis on him.  He was a little freaked out at first. He got over it quickly and was then very happy as he believes a mantis hitching a ride is good luck and a good omen. In my case, I heard the mantis's voice in my head. This mantis wanted to live on our porch. I said "Absolutely not", and put him or her on the hydrangea. Though I don't believe the mantis was Clarice, I believe it is another sign from her. She is extremely strong willed and I have no doubt she will be my pet someday, though to her chagrin, it might not be as Kimberly Steele with the long black hair. 
 

As we speak, there are entire camps of idiots trying to seduce the gullible into attempting to skip the reincarnation process. These modern neo-Gnostics would have you believe that Earth is a prison planet, and God is a malevolent demiurge who wants you to suffer for eternity. The solution to winning the video-game-like construct, they claim, is to die and hop off into the eternal, holy Void so you can live out your hedonistic fantasies in a pristine world where everything is beautiful and nothing hurts. This Heaven or Promised Land is the Good Place with more exciting adventure and just enough trauma to allay boredom. In neo-Gnostic Heaven, you can do all the drugs you want and never get addicted, you can enjoy all the technological conveniences and never create an ounce of plastic waste, and you can guzzle resources in a Candyland Eden where all is constant sex and approval. I am one of the few who judges such a heaven as lame, but then I have never been adverse to hard work. Personally, I am fine with them flying to whatever Void/Heaven they think is out there. My main request is that they stop advertising it out of obvious insecurity and prove it awaits us all by joining it early, as in right now. They need to bite the bullet and put up or shut up, so to speak. All it takes is a sturdy rope, a ladder, and a sufficiently high ceiling beam.

We are all being punished

Christianity gets one thing right and that is that we are all sinners through and through. Cancel culture is funny because we have all done at least one thing worthy of being cancelled, deplatformed, disenfranchised, and cast out into the hostile wilderness. If we did not do anything terribly sinful in our present incarnation, such as in the case of little babies, we likely did terrible things in a past one. In at least one of my past human incarnations, I believe I was a serial murderer and a compulsive cheater. I was an alcoholic and a wife beater. I have been awful in this lifetime too, though not as awful as the serial killer for sure, and that is why in this lifetime I strive to identify my transgressions and say “I don’t do that anymore” with sincerity and resolve. I work with what I have, as it is eventually (very eventually) preferable to the rebellious alternatives and slightly faster.

To make matters worse, we are all incarnated in the worst, densest era of materialism ever to exist. No group of civilizations has ever been subject to the kinds of physical obsessions and possessions that we are a party to every day. Never has it been harder to do the kind of spiritual work that renders physical incarnation a choice. Personally, though I have done lots of spiritual work in the last decade, I believe I will be incarnating for at least the next 300 years, and not by choice. I believe I am going to be a man in my next life, specifically a gay, mostly asexual, Mexican musician who will be born in Mexico City. After that, it’s looking like one or more turns as a Colombiana or Colombiano, and in my final incarnations, it will likely be as an Alaskan shaman. I will be surprised if it does not turn out this way but not upset. I am fine with whatever happens because I will have partially caused it.

Notice my use of the word “partially”. Just because I was a serial killer in my past life does not ensure I will be killed in a future life. Nevertheless, in my own case, the result of being a sadistic serial killer who enjoyed leaving victims to rot in my oubliette was subsequent experiences of starving to death in the lifetimes afterward. As far as I know, I starved to death three times in past lives, though the serial killer himself died well fed. My starvations seem to indicate that I am done with that particular karma, but honestly I have no idea. I am not saying that starvation victims or victims of any other sort deserve it. I am merely providing examples of what I believe happened to me in previous lives.

Neo-Gnostics especially hate hearing that we all chose to be here.

The trouble with not admitting you could be wrong

India’s caste system is based both in the profound, endemic belief in reincarnation and that one’s station in life is predetermined by karma from past lives. Caste is secretly communicated among those in the know via surnames. For instance, the surnames Iyer, Patel, and Choudhary are connected with higher castes. Dalits or low, untouchable caste members are often not given surnames at all. The sickening aspect of this system is that it offers no path toward karmic redemption. Once a Dalit, always a Dalit, and you had better know your place as a Dalit and do the dirty work that nobody else will do, slave.

Never does the Indian caste hierarchy (and plenty of other Asian societies exhibit similar structures and beliefs) ask “What if we humans are wrong about the way things are supposed to work?” No, there is only mindless backsliding into the status quo without question of its fairness or whether blindly stumbling along to its beat has any consequences for the Brahmins, Kshatriyas, and Vaishas who reaped the benefits of the system in unearned wealth and conspicuous indulgence in material delights.

In the West, we have an equal and opposite form of retardation known as being saved. No matter what you do in your supposed one shot at human incarnation, if you repent and kowtow to Jesus as your personal savior, you are absolved of all the consequences of your actions. You could be a serial killer, addict, rapist, and all around nasty piece of work, but as long as you cuck to the final boss, you can sit at the right hand of God for all eternity. It is like the neo-Gnostic’s fantasy beyond the Void but without as much hatred.

For the atheist, being saved is being swallowed whole into the Void from whence once came, which is the same as nonexistence. Atheists are cleverer than Buddhists, because they jump right into the Void without having to strip away the desires and passions that keep them earthbound. And if you figured out that I am lying about atheists jumping into the Void, then congratulations, you have figured out some of my sarcasm.

A brief guide to your life post-death

After you die, you are likely to see yourself peel away from your mortal body. There will be two yous, the one lying dead on the Earth’s surface and the you that was always trapped inside that meat suit who suddenly feels anywhere from 1-600 pounds lighter. A gate will open and you will be drawn towards it. For some, this will look like a tunnel. For others, it will be a bright light. For others still, it will be a black hole. Whatever, it’s a portal, and your perception of it is with your mind’s eye. Your brain will be dead, but your mind will not. Even if you died of advanced Alzheimer’s, your mind will be right there, telling you to go towards the light like the Poltergeist movie. With luck, this article will get you to be conscious of your two guides ahead of time. There are usually two guides — I am not sure why. Maybe they look like angels. All I am told is they feel like very smart friends. They will help you out of here into the first gate.

If you are a neo-Gnostic who has recently hung herself, you will at this point run away from your guides. You will go anywhere except where they lead you, convinced that they are the minions of the evil God-demiurge who wants to farm your loosh. Since your Heaven is probably not waiting, you will then remain earthbound, your astral body tethered to the lower part of the astral plane that you vibrated to in life. You will be stuck haunting the nightmares of other people as a hungry ghost. You will spend copious time lingering in boredom for what will seem like an eternity but will only be a blip in geological time as others move on. You will stall your evolution and become part of what is making this Earth so unbearable at the moment, so thanks for that in advance.

For the rest of us who are not in such a hurry to excarnate and are willing to go through the long process of ascending out of the material, there will be friends, relatives, and pets waiting at the end of the Rainbow Bridge. These are not our Meatworld material friends and relatives. They are the higher selves of those beings who exist in the place beyond space and time.

Once the shock of dying wears off and the relatives, friends, and pets have helped us cleanse ourselves of Meatworld a bit, it is off to hell. Hell is where we take a good, hard look at all the stupid things we did as humans and where we are judged by the grace in which we accept the personal consequences of what we did. There is no avoiding hell. When a baby dies and goes to hell, it is not the infant consciousness that deals with that hell but the higher self that can process that hell from past experiences as an adult. That is why it is called purgatory, because it is impermanent. Hell is not eternal. It is a place where we can look at our reactions to the copious negative parts of life through a clear eye. The more you vibrate in sympathy to your own hell energy, the longer you will stay. The righteous Christian who shouted about hell from his pulpit and got off on visions of the wicked burning for all eternity will feel his own flesh melt off several times, and the more he cries and curses and refuses to admit what he wanted to happen to those who disagreed with him, the further his punishment will stretch. If we react in hostility to our hells, or worse, somehow enjoy the pain, we will be there a bit longer, but not for eternity because Nature abhors a vacuum. The apparent vacuum of deep space is actually chock full. The Void was never empty.

Once the hell process is over, we all go to Heaven. Once again, we reunite with our soul swarm and fly with our flock. If we vibrated towards healing and compassion in Meatworld life, we will be reminded as that vibration grows stronger and stronger. We will bounce further away from material existence and it will seem like a distant memory, even though part of us will still be deep within it. The place beyond space and time is exactly that — it isn’t beholden to space or time.

A few more processes will happen and then Boom! We are born again into different bodies to repeat the same process again until material bodies are no longer needed to learn any soul lessons. I look forward to being born into a time when there are no more cars on the road and no more planes in the sky. I relish laughing about the idea of someone being so enchanted by a screen that he walked off a cliff or crashed her car. Some day that is going to be funny. Right now? Not so much.

Karma is vibration

Everything is vibration. We are in the densest part of vibration in the material plane. We are all tracks in space, all of whom began with a single intention we mislabel as God. To become a better version of yourself, you need to vibrate that way. You can start by identifying the worst parts of yourself and refusing to wallow in that realization. For instance, I am naturally lazy. I totally understand why someone would sleep until noon or 1pm every day, get a cat but not clean his litter box, and subsist upon the charity of others. I used to do these things as a young girl — my father cleaned my cat’s litter box as I slept until noon and I wasn’t exactly bringing home a paycheck. (In my defense, I was 9 years old.) Had I gone down that established road of laziness and entitlement, I could have turned into what I call a Paris-or-bust, someone determined to live the life of Paris Hilton despite not having access to that kind of money. Instead, I chose to vibrate to the pattern of workaholism, self-sacrifice, and dogged determination to clean my own toilet and sweep my own floor until the day after I die, because I hope to clean my own toilet and floor on the literal day I croak. I choose to clean my cat’s litter boxes (they have 4) multiple times per day. I am lucky that 3 of them live outside.

Why doesn’t God heal amputees?

I don’t know. This is actually a rephrasing of the question “Why isn’t life fair?” It is possible there is no God. It is possible that the pain of missing an arm or leg is retribution or a lesson for hurting someone in a past life. It could be because God is an evil demiurge who keeps us on this prison planet in order to harvest our loosh. The best answer I have is that I do not know, but I do know how to control my own reactions to life’s seeming unfairness. I can be fair even when life is not. I can admit that any assumption I make could be wrong. For these reasons, I do not make snap judgements about amputees or disabled people in general, presuming they did something to create the karma they currently deal with. Religion does this all the time and it is seriously gross.

Chemtrails

There is a special class of people who feel entitled in their attempts to cull the other 8 billion. They already take up an inordinate amount of space with their private jets, superyachts, and underground cities, but instead of enjoying lives of leisure, they are currently trying to surveil and destroy the majority of humans on this planet. Many of them are in government and private equity. In order to systematically destroy as many humans as efficiently as possible, they organize fleets of planes that dump toxic chemicals into the air.

The result is on any given beautiful day, you will see the sky crosshatched with plane excrement that is not a result of commercial flight emissions. Wait long enough and the sky will turn a leaden gray. The chemtrails spread out and block the sun: that is the goal. We cannot have the big, bright shiny ball in the sky giving the hoi polloi a sense of hope.

The ostensible goal of chemtrails is to modify weather patterns, and they do this. Creating rain with planes has been a thing since before the first world war. They are mostly intended to poison regular people and to give them cancer. Healthy people who eat clean food and drink clean water do not put money into the medical-industrial complex. Healthy people do not buy insurance or go to the doctor.

Someone has to pilot the planes. Chemtrail pilots cannot be reasoned with, as they are the comfortably numb soldier type who follows orders and do what they are told. They blast away on their missions, not putting together that their children can also die of cancer. They go about their business and they are handsomely rewarded. They go on vacation to the yet-unspoiled places where their own planes do not fly. They eat delicious, expensive food, never questioning that they are directly causing climate events that prevent food from being grown around the world. They cause a great deal of mischief, and chances are they will live and die thinking they have gotten away with it.

If you think the chemtrail pilot gets away with murder, then wait until you meet the billionaire. There is no such thing as an ethical billionaire or multi-millionaire. Does not exist. There is no way you can amass a billion or multiple millions via earning that wealth, and all wealth must be earned by someone, including the wealth the Earth ostensibly gives away for free. Jeff Bezos has a superyacht that has a second, just-in-case yacht that trails behind it. Donald Trump made over two billion dollars in market trades in the month of June alone. Both Bezos and Trump will probably die as wealthy as they lived.

Of course I could be wrong. I believe Bezos and Trump will be earning every cent of money they took away from those who earned it. Bezos, who got his ill-gotten gains by pushing his workers until they had to pee in bottles for lack of time to properly go to the bathroom, will face many, many lifetimes and deathtimes of being poor until he understands why you don’t treat your workers that way. As for Trump? It’s probably the same. He who broke his promises to the working class will most likely end up in the working class, and there is no shortage of exploiters willing to take advantage of the working class.

As for our chemtrail pilot, he will see many lifetimes and between-life hells of being poisoned again and again while forced into a position of impotent rage, because this is what he did to others.

The reason I don’t go after chemtrail pilots and give them a dose of fairness is because I don’t have time to waste. I have a very small set of talents and finite time to use them. Those talents do not involve proficiency in war. As a tiny, 4’11” person, I cannot throw a man across the room, nor can I handle the firearm that does the job for me. Instead of fighting this man I hate, including with the one thing I do have on my side, language, I ignore him and build my own strength. Someday, and it may be several lifetimes from now, I will have the energy to topple the forces that make him strong. That day is not today. 

Karmic drag and lift

The trouble with karma is that it isn’t a scorecard. It is a symphony in a multidimensional pond of sound. Your karma is my karma is our karma. My soul never wished for the existence of cars and planes as far as I know, but someone else’s did and I chose to be on this planet, so now I feel obligated to drive a car even though I hate driving.

I can wish someone dead or I can even Luigi him because I see him as a ruiner of lives. If I get my wish and he dies, all I get is the karma of wishing someone dead and succeeding. I will likely want to do it again and again, because wishing people dead and having it happen is the perfect crime. Since I vibrate to wishing for the deaths of others, I will gain a bunch of people and incorporeal forces wishing I would die. You are what you vibrate.

An entity once came to me as I was standing by the piano. I asked “What’s it like to be a god?” and it answered “It’s like teaching an amoeba to play the piano.” As a pianist, I look back a few hundred million years and realize that I had humble beginnings. Before I was a piano player, I was a singing sailor. Before that, I was a court jester. Before that, I was the aforementioned serial killer. Before that, I was a retarded child whose father taught him to hear the spaces between sounds known as intervals. Before that, I was a series of cats and geese. Before that, I was whatever evolved from dinosaurs to become geese. Before that, I was probably a lump of seaweed. Before that, I was an amoeba. A zillion cause and effects later, we have me, the pianist who writes about the occult.

If you are not smart enough to grok the process of how you got here, you are not smart enough to understand karma. In my own case, what little I know about going from amoeba to pianist is not enough to draw conclusions about the fairness or unfairness of the Universe. So instead of complaining, I try to find what is best about myself and amplify that. When I see the good in others, I recognize it so they can also amplify what makes them special and good.

If you want to clean up your karma, do not ask for it to be sped up so you can “get it over with”. Instead, clean it up the fastest way possible: by practicing gratitude in every act. My book Sacred Homemaking: A Magical Approach to a Tidier Home tells you how to do this with simple household items and chores. You can also do it by looking at your past and focusing on the things that made it good instead of doing the usual thing and marinating in what made it awful. I often say of various moments in my life that if I had a thousand years to thank the gods for one particular cross-section in spacetime, it would not be enough. When my husband and I get to go out to dinner together and laugh at a funny joke, that is a thousand-year moment. When I was a kid in the 1980s and my father obtained a real Christmas tree and we decorated it as a family; another thousand-year moment. Every thousand-year moment you identify and recognize in your life spreads that energy exponentially to those who need it where it actually matters: in the place beyond space and time. You can cancel out a great deal of your negative consequences with this kind of energy because positive energy also has consequences. 

In this Book Club, I hope to open some discussions about the far more real and hopefully less hyperbolic collapse that we are facing right now. I welcome comments anywhere you'd like to leave them on the Mandibles posts, but obviously more eyes are on the most recent ones. Here is the tag with prior Mandibles posts:

https://kimberlysteele.dreamwidth.org/tag/mandibles

In Chapter 4, Florence’s sophisticated sister, Avery, is shopping for a dinner party at her house. She obtains bluefin tuna, and though she knows it to be obscenely priced, buys it anyway along with dreadfully expensive French wine and Greek olive oil. She hides the record of her profligate spending by disposing of the receipts in the outdoor trash bin so that way her husband will not find them. Both Avery and her tenured university professor husband, Lowell, have yet to realize they are about to be utterly financially ruined, and their children have even less knowledge of what is about to happen. It is later revealed in the chapter that Lowell has been on a stock-buying frenzy that mirrors Avery’s tuna-wine-olive oil binges in hopes that he can buy low and sell high later when the economy rebounds. Obvious spoiler alert: the economy does not rebound in this novel.

Lowell, afflicted with an understandable cloud of worry over his head, dreads the dinner party. Lowell’s boss, middle aged hipster author Ryan Biesendorfer and his live-in girlfriend, 30 year old grad student Lin Yu, are to share the table with Justice Department lawyer Tom and his oncologist wife Belle, who happens to be Avery’s best friend.

We are afforded some character development with a scene between Lowell and his children before the dinner party. He stops by Savannah’s room, where she is contemplating the Rhode Island School of Design for college, and Lowell silently laments that it is $100,000 a year before room and board. His other two children (boys), the cringefully-named Google and Bing, chat with Dad about people being fined and imprisoned for gold hoarding. Lowell shelves his disgust for his sons, the elder of which (Goog, age 15) is a suck-up and the younger of which (Bing, age 10) is a Caspar Milquetoast.

As dinner parties among snobs go, this one ends up being unusually contentious, fueled by wine Avery and Lowell can no longer technically afford. Ryan Biesendorfer is an insufferable egomaniac and his sycophant, half-Chinese, trophy girlfriend is similarly annoying. Ryan is pop author of a book called Fair Game and an unironic 10 part documentary on inequality. He is a rich elite who makes his living on shouting down the 1 percent when he is part of the upper 20 percent who makes life for the lower 80 percent a living hell. He is clueless and vapid, as myopic about his own impending downfall as the rest of the dinner party crowd. Lin Yu spends the dinner party backing up her boyfriend’s delusions of superiority, playing the part of intellectual arm candy.

The conversations open with Ryan and Lin gloating about the über-rich getting their cash confiscated at the airports, as if such states of desperation and comeuppance could never happen to them. Quiet, tactful Belle watches in horror as her husband Tom gets baited into economic arguments with Ryan, Lin, and Lowell. Avery realizes that both she and her husband have been playing fiddle on the Titanic where finances are concerned and their marital strain pops out of its seams. Tom and Belle, whose wealth was largely held in US Treasury bonds, have had the financial rug pulled out from under them because of the dollar’s devaluation. Ryan’s and Lin’s faux populism and glee about the “rich” getting equalized by current events is too much, especially for Tom. Ryan, whose investments are all in rental real estate and not in the market, considers himself safe, at least for now, and Lin is clinging to him like a dingleberry for that reason.

The disastrous dinner party nearly ends in a fistfight between Tom and Ryan, and Belle bitterly remarks that neither of them are man enough to solve their differences in blows. Little to anyone’s knowledge, the whole world of dinner parties being a thing is about to be cast to the four winds.

About 20 years ago, my husband and I bought a chunk of gold that was worth $2000. We sold it long ago, and at the time, we took a loss on it because we did not hold it very long. We have never been able to save money during our 26 year marriage, and that is too long of a story to tell, so I won’t go into it here. Investments, especially precious metals, have always been out of the question. The same chunk of gold today is worth $4500, and it would have only been $4100 a few months ago.

Trump has been a busy bee, and he disclosed making over 1000 stock market trades in June 2026 alone. He profited over 2 billion from these expenditures while middle class Americans scrimped and scraped to keep ahead of their credit cards and lower class Americans lived out of their cars and under bridges. Putting my faith in Trump and his disgusting, Israelifascist team of ghouls such as vile Epstein-bestie creep Harold Lutnick was one of the worst mistakes I have ever made. I am ashamed of how gullible I was and I am determined not to make the same mistake again.

Despite my hatred of the current and past governments, I don’t see Shriver’s predictions of their overreach coming true. I also don’t see the stock market as ever fully deflating in my lifetime and I highly doubt gold will be confiscated again as it was in the FDR era. Americans are too pissed off as a nation at this point and we have far too many guns.

Now, of course the fancy people are not OK, and it is nice to see Shriver writing in her element as she has clearly been to many dinner parties with insufferable boors. But what if I told you that unearned wealth does not have to be punished with sudden loss of said wealth in order to be a curse? There are more reasons than the threat of loss to avoid unearned wealth, and the most important one is that unearned wealth can and will be completely paid off by those who hoarded it over time. This is just natural law; I didn’t invent it, nor did any human. It’s like saying what goes up must come down — there is no morality that gets in the way, and if you don’t like it, tough titty.

The fascinating part of this chapter is how it shows us a mirror. One line that sticks out is uttered by Lowell: “Rich means anyone who makes more money than you do.” All too often, we cannot see our own riches because we are too busy presuming that others are doing better than we are, therefore we are poor. As a lower middle class person, I know that I am comparatively poor compared to the upper middle class in which I grew up. For one, I hold $400 in savings in savings accounts at this moment, and that is at risk of being vaporized at any time. I have whittled my credit card debt down to a scant $2000, and I am proud of myself because it used to be more like 10K as few as two years ago. My house is legitimately too small. It has no driveway which sucks and is inconvenient as hell, needs new electrical, plumbing, and a new furnace that I cannot and will not be able to afford anytime soon. I still see myself as rich beyond measure. I eat at least 3 square meals a day. I had homemade chocolate zucchini cake for breakfast (you could not tell it had zucchini in it, trust) and that is food that Roman emperors could have only dreamed about. I have not one but two flush toilets that I clean every day. I have clean water. I have so much clean water, I bathe in it every night. I have many large tree friends to say hello and chat with every day. I am able to afford the care and support of six extremely spoiled cats.

For Avery and Lowell, no glut of chocolate-colored living rooms, imported wine, or Ivy League educations for their children would ever be enough because the fancy people have a Wendigo. A Wendigo (some call it wetiko) can never be satisfied. You can have Trump money and a gold toilet and the Wendigo will only want more. I no longer choose to waste my time worrying if chocolate will become too pricey for me to make homemade chocolate zucchini cake or to become irate because I had to walk half a block to get to my front door. All the stuff in my life, including my own body, is mortal and doomed to become a layer of crushed dust. The only thing I take with me is my gratitude, so that is what I choose to cultivate. 

I grew up with work as a woman’s reality and I am not alone.

I had a father that one could depend upon. He literally worked until the day he died, still holding his position as a salesman-estimator when he went to the ground at age 85. Furthermore, my mother worked as a young woman until shortly before I was adopted. It was her seed money that put the down payment on the house I grew up in. My father, whose own father died when he was 15 and who was drafted into the army at age 18, had no money when he married my mother as a young man. My mother’s work provided the American dream back in 1969. This was never a secret.

I had two aunts, both of whom were single. They were my first female role models growing up. One was divorced and her ex-husband died young in a motorcycle accident. The other chose singlehood and never married. Both worked.

My two favorite teachers in grade school, both women, were apparently both childfree. I say “childfree” because in both cases, not having children seemed to be elected and not forced by circumstance. One was married. The other one, my favorite teacher of all time, had chosen not to marry at all. In my entire scholastic career, these two women stood out as the sanest and most talented at their jobs. The married-with-children teachers were distraught and unhappy. My 4th grade teacher, whom I will call Mrs. Mean, ended up apologizing to a group of parents and other school workers for her nasty antics. She was horrible, unable to motivate or control her students because she hated children and could not hide it. I believe Mrs. Mean was cornered into the apology, with the school board likely threatening to take her pension away. Rumor had it that she had kids of her own and was going through a messy divorce.

These examples and many more put the idea in my head that I needed to be independent, childfree, and working until the day I died because men were unreliable and having children by them was a one way ticket to Mrs. Mean’s Harridanville. Even though I had the most reliable man in the world as my dad, men could not be trusted to be steady providers, and working women were the norm, not the exception. Nobody had to tell me.

Imagine if I had been one of the many women whose parents were divorced or who had a deadbeat dad . . . had I dealt with those circumstances, my conviction that I am going to work until the day I die would be even more profound. When the Manosphere talks crap about how they fancy taking women’s rights away starting with the right to vote and ending somewhere between The Handmaid’s Tale and Afghanistan sharia, I find it laughable because I don’t see a world where men are capable of picking up that kind of slack. I can count the women I know who are housewives on one hand. At times, I have wanted to stop working, at least for a few weeks, just to unwind a bit and catch up on deep cleaning the kitchen cabinets and reading excellent books. At the time of this writing, I work seven days a week. I run my own business and that is why my schedule is mostly my own fault. I’m not unhappy. Nevertheless, it stands that I am a workaholic much like my father before me and I don’t expect things to change in this incarnation.

From girlhood, most women are programmed to believe that we are going to work and that we are never going to be able to stop. Consequently, some of us wind up entertaining fantasies of an easier life. I am sorry to say I am guilty of having this fantasy. When you’re young and still reasonably sexy, you can be overtaken by the notion that your body and your face can buy you nice things and better places on the socioeconomic ladder, and you’re really not wrong.

A girl’s value is quietly equated with the way she looks from a very young age. Pretty privilege is real. I know, because I have been both pretty and ugly. I am one of those nerdy people who was an awkward adolescent and an awkward teen and then had a glow up around age 19. As a former ugly duckling, I know what it is to be completely invisible. As a former swan, I know what it is to be fetishized for my appearance and overlooked for any genuine talents that actually made me special. I also know most of the states between the two poles of ugly and pretty. You figure out as a woman that manipulating your appearance can alter the way you are treated — you have to. This is unfortunately true for men these days, and that is why so many men are falling victim to the looksmaxxing trend. Women have been looksmaxxing for tens of thousands of years (at least). For the infection to have reached men is not a positive development. Men are starting to slurp the self-beautification poison, but we women have been feeding at that trough for a long time.

Our worth is tied up in our looks and it makes us insane. Jockeying for a better position is a trap. Refusing to play by being ugly is also a trap. No matter what one achieves a woman, she will always ultimately be a piece of ass and that is depressing and disheartening. We choose to work because it seems like a way out of the trap.

Everybody’s gotta hustle

We used to live in a more stable economy. If you went to work in the 1960s and 70s, you could make enough money to support a family. One person’s income was more than enough to support a little apartment somewhere or even an entire house, depending on your job. A single woman could work, go on regular vacations, and travel like my aunt did, and possibly even have a pension that paid for the rest of her existence after retiring. I used to imagine myself living alone in a book-lined condominium and commuting to Chicago to my job as a stenographer. When I aced my typing class in high school, wowing my instructor with 90 words per minute and perfect accuracy on an old fashioned IBM Selectric typewriter, I thought that lifestyle was waiting for me at the end of the college rainbow. Boy, was I wrong.

You didn’t have to hustle back then like you have to nowadays just to keep a roof overhead. You didn’t have to scrimp and save only to be ruined by medical expenses or college debt later on. You didn’t need to have every family member working 2-3 jobs and competing against illegal migrants and shrinkflation all the time. There was a fantasy among Gen X women like myself that as long as we worked, we could maintain a fine living. Instead, we got a long descent into demi-poverty and now we must all work.

How women became hoes

The question of the hour is how regular girls turn into working girls in nouveau iterations of world’s oldest profession? Or, to put it more bluntly, why are so many women becoming whores?

Answer: they are conditioned. For a long time, the media mafia a.k.a. the Tribe has been working to mold us into its inverted, eschatological vision of pure sin and irredeemability. The birth of the silent film in the 1920s gave rise to a Bolshevik, money-laundering class of ruthless manipulators who would proceed to get in bed with the CIA and create the greatest loosh harvesting scheme ever known: Hollywood. From the beginning, Hollywood and its baby, the television, were insidious and sought to plant their human-hating propaganda as far and wide as such propaganda was able to travel. The entertainment industry seemed to start off on a wholesome foot, unless you knew what you were looking at. Shirley Temple and Looney Toons were actually foils to normalize endless wars. Leave It To Beaver and I Love Lucy sold suburban sprawl and the abandonment of city centers to crime and decay. It Girls and It Boys marketed a buffet of anti-human agendas. Wars, divorce, smoking, pedophilia . . . there was no low to which they could not stoop in order to seduce members of the general public into depraved taboo-breaking. It was their bread and butter and still is.

The pedophile goons who elevated themselves out of the garment industry and vaudeville into the heady status of directors and CEOs of motion pictures are the not-so-distant ancestors of the freaks clinging on to the last vestiges of the psyop industry that is Hollywood. They are currently hoping that the tracks they have laid will be enough to continue the great hoax.

For a century, the deep state has been merged with elite producers who have gate-kept the creative arts and shaped them to the liking of Big Government. Atomization has been one of the big sells for the last hundred years. The deep state figured out at some point that it could make far more money off of small households than intact, multigenerational families. Televisions entering every living room in the 1950s sold suburban atomization, removing the elderly from the home and making filial piety into an antiquated and quaint practice. This is certainly the milieu in which I grew up: conditioned to believe that adult children always moved away from the family home and that not being able to establish a household outside of that home was the trait of a loser. The separation of elders from the family home paved the way for nursing homes, assisted living, and other schemes that routinely bankrupt families and force them to liquidate their assets to the government to qualify for Medicaid. There was more money to be made in private car ownership than public transportation, and that is why the Ford company was able to remove the streetcar system and why it takes most of a day to travel between suburbs 17 miles apart if you do not own a private car.

Divorce, once a taboo, turned out to be one of the most lucrative schemes of all. Every time I surf Facebook reels as a guilty pleasure, I am bombarded with messages telling me to leave my husband in order to live my best, single life. I seek cute ideas for decorating my front porch. I get a bunch of single mothers wielding power saws who don’t need no man to renovate entire apartments in chintz and kitsch. If I scroll a little too much, I end up in the dark part of the algorithm where a creepy life coach lady insists that I am overfunctioning and wants to sell me private sessions that groom me to bust up my marriage while saying she is doing the exact opposite. Long ago, Joan Crawford, Bette Davis, Humphrey Bogart, Cary Grant, Liz Taylor, and Marilyn Monroe normalized multiple divorces. Nowadays, social media tries to funnel women like me into the waiting arms of marriage counselors and life coaches who are not interested in the longevity of my marriage.

There is plenty of money to be made in marriages — the wedding industrial complex has not slowed down, and most divorcees remarry. There is far more money to be made in broken homes: marital counseling, divorce counseling, legal services, the sale of the family home and dispersion into separate homes and rentals, and travel/additional vehicles necessitated by new locations. The most important profit center that is opened up, however, is the children of broken homes. The System has been trying to get at your kids this whole time, and divorce opens the floodgates so they may harvest the emotional, physical, and spiritual energy of the children.

The ultimate goal of the government and Hollywood became to push as many children as possible into the foster care system, which is nothing more than a giant child-trafficking ring. A slew of pro-divorce movies inundated theater to further the agenda. Kramer vs. Kramer was It Boy Dustin Hoffman’s vehicle to glamorize custody battles and lionize the role of the working father. The Brady Bunch pushed the blended family into suburban living rooms during the 70s and 80s, never mentioning mom Carol’s status: was she widowed or divorced?

A sickening new layer was added to the divorce souffle in the 60s and 70s: the sexualization of the children of single mothers. Lolita (1962), a comedic adaptation of the grotesque Nabokov novel of the same name, was brought to life by Stanley Kubrick. Taxi Driver (1976) and its 12 year old prostitute played by Jodi Foster and Pretty Baby, with the 12 year old prostitute played by Brooke Shields. Divorce was now tantalizing because it freed up adolescent girls to old, perverted men via their inept and corrupt single mothers.

9 to 5 (1980) solidified Dolly Parton into the celebrity singer/actress firmament and demonized male bosses as incompetent and sexist.

In 1984, The Burning Bed sensationalized domestic violence by dramatizing the murder-by-fire of James Hughes by his battered wife, Francine.

In 1988, Working Girl, Melanie Griffith’s It Girl vehicle where Harrison Ford was the love interest and Sigourney Weaver was the competition, taught us that work was the way out of the lower class ghetto for women. Men are sidelined as faithless, being only a small part of the social-climbing fairy tale. Our virtue was to be held in being seen by the right powerful CEO by navigating the lies and deceit of the cutthroat, corporate universe.

The image of the sexy working girl was here to stay. Clair Huxtable of The Cosby Show was a lawyer — it wasn’t enough for her to hold down the role of calm matriarch of Huxtable home as a housewife. All the friends on Friends had jobs, even if some of them were only waitresses. Sex and the City featured not one but four working It Girls. From the opening, the four It Girls of Sex and the City existed to make us non-It Girls question if we were horny enough. They got laid every episode, often moving onto multiple partners in a single episode. If ever there was an advertisement for unvarnished hypergamy, Sex and the City is it, and there was not a single character who married down by the end of the series.

Tricking women into the unglamorous life

Pretty Woman (1990) normalized prostitution better than anything before or since. It Girl Julia Roberts was mercilessly shoved down every throat, her rail thin image the perfect vehicle for selling anorexia, divorce, and human trafficking. The Disneyified tale of a prostitute who preferred dental floss to heroin and who somehow ended up giving BJs to one of the world’s handsomest and richest men struck a chord with many lonely, frustrated women, including myself at the time. The thing is about Pretty Woman is that it is a good film. It is entertaining and funny, especially considering its extensive run time of over 2 hours.

Pretty Woman said in the quietest and most powerful way that prostitution is not all that bad. You could end up with the love of your life, like Vivian Ward. Pretty Woman said that prostituting yourself as a woman could end up being a fairy tale, even though it almost never ends that way. Most prostitutes are addicted to drugs. Most are tricked into it. If you’ve ever seen those ads that promise glamorous work in modeling, acting, or singing that promise open auditions, it is likely you have seen one of the many lures pimps use to get more hoes. Nearly every single strip mall massage parlor is a front for human trafficking. You can get a legitimate massage, but if you’d rather get your rocks off using a woman who was sold into the industry via a variation of the ad I mentioned above, you can do that. Most women are tricked into prostitution, which is by nature a drug-fueled lifestyle. Many prostitutes are straight up duped or sold into the industry as children, often as children. It took an It Girl powerhouse of the magnitude of 1990s Julia Roberts to sell the idea that prostitution is fun, easy, and potentially lucrative. We were not told that prostitution is rape, regular beatings, sexually transmitted disease, and drug addiction. In the original Pretty Woman script, the plan was to tell a grittier tale of a hoe that ended up abandoned back on the street corner by the rich guy character when she went back to her first love, drugs. This went over like a lead balloon and we got the sanitized version. In reality, prostitution lacks the high of picking up a rich, influential john. Instead, prostitution seems to be like waitressing at a breastaurant such as Twin Peaks or Hooters except with more regular fatalities and copious rape. Like other sanitized fairy tales, Pretty Woman’s appealing pablum swaps out horror for feel-good. In doing so, it removes the concept of actions carrying consequences, and that was always the plan.

Moore the whore

I have not begun to cover a small part of the catalog of programming that powerfully influenced young women to become divorced whores. Demi Moore, It Girl of the 90s, instigated a public visual assault in 1996’s Striptease, a freakishly awful comedy about a single mother who becomes a stripper in order to pay for a custody battle against her ex-husband. We were gaslighted into believing that the view of Moore’s bolted-on implants was worth the 1 hour and 55 minute run time. Three years earlier, Moore was used to sweeten the image of high class call girls in Indecent Proposal, a cringe fest where her character is married to a guy played by Woody Harrelson. An aging Robert Redford buys the Girlfriend Experience with the wifey so the couple can afford their way out of a real estate investment gone horribly wrong.

By the 1990s, women everywhere had a picture of sex as transactional. We were also supposed to be horny all the time like Samantha in Sex and the City, who barely slowed down during menopause, epic hot flashes, and breast cancer. We were conditioned to bang everything that moved and was also male, assisted by hook up culture and its attendant apps. We were supposed to have active sex lives for our entire lives, including as middle aged proto-hags. We were working anyway. As long as we were giving it away the goods for free, we might as well use them somehow to eventually marry and divorce up or to sell ourselves until we stumbled upon true love, like Vivian Ward.

Monetizing the working girl

In this brave new world where influencing is seen as the new way out (even though only 7 percent of full time influencers make more than $50K a year, mostly from brand deals, and the average OnlyFans model makes $165 per month) prostitution is merely seen as another type of influencing. Women who are financially desperate these days perceive men as not wanting, willing, or able to take care of them. Some women believe that OnlyFans is easy money. Media has them believing that OnlyFans will be fun. The choice to do OnlyFans is part desperation, part malice, and part naïveté. If you’ve ever fallen for a multilevel marketing pyramid scheme, and I am sorry to say I fell for more than one when I was younger, you know the drill of being convinced to believe you’ll be one of the few who will make money and who won’t be raked over the coals by those higher up in the pyramid. The desperate hoe goes in thinking she will be the one who flips the script. She suspends her disbelief despite the warning signs. Boom, she’s in.

The malice element present in the OnlyFans creator is the caricature of all men as simps. Look at the men who were stupid enough to pay $30 for Belle Delphine’s dirty bathwater. Belle Delphine, who is supposedly in her mid-20s, is now a full on OnlyFans creator.

What could possibly go wrong when you torch your legitimacy as a young woman via the claim that prostitution is empowering? Perhaps we should ask Belle Delphine, a.k.a. Mary-Belle Kirschner, who started out with a makeup tutorial on Instagram and can now be viewed spread-eagled like a frog on a dissection tray via OnlyFans and a billion leaked screenshots from her loyal collection of chronic Gamer-Girl wankers. By age 30, I suspect she will be doing bukkake and gang bang. She will probably frequent yachts as a human portapotty if she is not doing so already.

OnlyFans is a trap, especially for those few creators like Delphine who pull in a decent amount of money on the platform. The approval of other human beings is addictive, even if it is for negative reasons.

Is it possible for us to reverse course?

Prostitution is already illegal. There is no set of laws, no matter how draconian, that you can push on women that are going to help us out of the current predicament. Pandora’s box is wide open and is accepting hundreds of applicants at once for her next livestream. Prostitution was never above ground. This new, fresh hell is to be expected where a single human being cannot make a legitimate living in a single, non-side-hustle assisted job.

Even in a radically better environment, prostitution as a side hustle (or main career) would not go away. We know this because there were plenty of prostitutes before OnlyFans and there will be plenty after it is gone. The pussycat is out of the bag. For many women and girls, prostitution as a career is a fascination for which the only remedy is FAFO. Lamenting it or legislating it is not going to help. In fact, the opposition provided would only serve to make it worse.

What would help

The only potential remedy I can see is the education of adolescents to the It Girl and It Boy psyops encountered in every day life. For the open-minded, bright adolescent, being able to see and recognize shenanigans is half the battle. If the intrepid young mind can be trained to ask “Who benefits?” and “What is actually being sold?” whenever he or she encounters a psyop, it would go further than any amount of post-traumatic counseling or therapy. Teaching young people discursive meditation would also help in the analysis and dismantling of psyops. If you can think through these traps, you might be able to avoid them. I wish I had been told some of this stuff or had figured it out before such a late period in my life. It would have helped and it may have changed the trajectory of my course. Meditation and understanding are the answer, not laws.

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http://buymeacoffee.com/kimberlysteele

Your prayers of blessing to the deity/deities of your choice are welcome whether or not you can donate.