kimberlysteele | Entries tagged with femininity

Back in the day, there was a great deal more reverence for so-called pop princesses. It seemed like EVERYTHING to be one of them. When my little friends and I played Barbies or starred in the grade school talent show, it was all in service of the vision of ourselves as the next big superstar. Stars used to have clout and that’s why we watched them so avidly and kept track of their lives via magazines and award shows. It was exciting to see people who were recognized for their talents and the pop princesses of yore had talent in spades. Carole King wrote songs for herself as well as Aretha Franklin, James Taylor, and the Beatles. Barbra Streisand had an amazing voice. Janis Joplin electrified every performance until her tragic death (under fishy, Clive Davis-connected circumstances). Stevie Nicks was uniquely amazing.

Though it is arguable that the pop-star-as-harlot trend began with Nancy Sinatra and Boots Were Made for Walkin’, it didn’t track until Madonna and her early eighties Reagan era schtick. Madonna’s voice wasn’t much but the songs she chose were fun, irreverent, and carefree. Yes, there was a time when Madonna wasn’t an insufferable, pompous wretch. Madonna quickly morphed into the creature we know today, a metastasizing schizoid chimera’s head of new personalities, one for every passing trend. Like Madonna herself, pop devolved from goofy and fun to shock and awe. Nearly all hip hop was Diddy-fied and nearly all pop was Madonnaed. Both genres became tools to cover for rapists, including child rapists. Both genres reflected the abject worship of death.

They took the audience

For every Beyonce, there are a hundred flash-in-the-pans such as Nikka Costa, Elle King, and Tones and I. One hit wonders still hit and disappear. For every one hit wonder artist, there are thousands of could-have-beens with talent that was equal or greater to the one hit wonder artist, if not Beyonce herself. Beyonce is not and never has been particularly talented except perhaps as a vocalist. She is slightly above average as a singer but she is not anywhere near the vocal talent of Ariana Grande. Her songs are co-written, and if we translate from the Bullshitese, that means she takes credit for other people’s creative work and calls it her own. Now that Beyonce’s looks are fading and she and her husband are being revealed as malefic Luciferian witches, Beyonce’s glamours are developing deep fissures. Beyonce as a brand is soon to be relegated to the Walmart clearance aisle.

It could not have happened to a nicer person, LOL. Beyonce is an awful human being who all but admits to murdering a woman in cold blood in a song lyric.

Your body laid out on these filthy floors

Your bloodstains on my custom coutures

Bathroom attendant let me right in

She was a big fan

I really tried to stay cool

But your arrogance disturbed my solitude

Now I ripped your dress and you're all black and blue

Look what you made me do

-Beyonce, Daughter

There are compelling rumors that Beyonce, who attended many Diddy parties, forces other artists to acknowledge her at awards shows as a form of tribute. The Beyonce rabbit hole goes very deep and if nothing else reveals that she should probably not be allowed around children. To see her finally failing after the forced farce of Cowboy Carter, a garbage black “country”album that suspiciously swept awards shows, provides a warm dose of schadenfreude. She is finally beginning to taste the obscurity she richly deserves.

The trouble with the one pop princess who beats out the hundreds of one hit wonders who beat out the thousands of Never-made-its is that thousands are not able to make a living or gain a following in music because of the pop princesses soaking up attention and money. Live music has taken a real beating in the last fifty years. Rates of pay for live shows have stayed exactly the same as they were in 1978 with no adjustment for inflation. Cover is where all the money is and anyone singing cover has to live in fear of being shaken down by the performing rights orgs such as BMI and ASCAP. When the performing rights org gestapo catches a nine year old singing Bruno Mars in a coffee shop while her music teacher accompanies her on guitar, it is all hands on deck to put the coffee shop out of business with astronomical licensing fees. A small restaurant near where I live in suburban Chicagoland was put out of business for hosting open mic nights with unlicensed cover songs. Meanwhile, YouTube has millions if not billions of cover songs being broadcast any given second that somehow are of no matter.

Pop princesses have dominated the scene long enough that I perceive their demise as shocking. I never thought I would see the end of them but it seems the memes have spoken: the pop princess era is aging badly. South Park started having a field day with J.Lo back in 2003, ruthlessly mocking her as Cartman’s hand (job) puppet. In 2012, a meme called Beyonce’s Final Form heralded the beginning of the end for Mrs. Carter, who stupidly attempted to force “everyone” to take the meme off the internet. This backfired spectacularly, and now the enduring image of Beyonce that will always live in the hearts of the masses is utterly unflattering. Awww.

There is a particularly savage meme going around TikTok using combined footage from various pop princess’s concerts. The meme borrows the soundtrack from a 2008 SNL spoof of the Laurence Welk show featuring the fictional Maharelle Sisters, an old timey singing group in matching, semi-formal, yellow dresses. The sisters sing to introduce themselves in cringey crooner voices. “I’m Janice,” sings the first sister. “I’m Holly,” sings the second sister. “I’m Noraaaa,” croons the third sister in a wacky vibrato. “AND I’M DENICE!” screeches the fourth sister, who has a large forehead, tiny doll-sized hands, and a hefty helping of derp. Though the meme has several variations, Janice is Sabrina Carpenter, Holly is Taylor Swift, Nora is Cardi B, and Denise is Katy Perry in her Lifetimes tour. Katy Perry, for many reasons, has become the butt of internet jokes. Once the reigning queen of pop stardom, she too will be joining Beyonce in the Walmart clearance bin soon.

If I could walk a mile in their leotards, I would pass

All pop princesses wear leotards and/or bikinis onstage. It is as if there is a “no pants allowed” rule if you’re a major label artist recording a video or performing on tour. I get that pop music is more about entertainment than actual music. I am still sick to death of the goddamned leotard. When I hear a good song, the very last thing I am curious about is what the artist’s butt looks like. Having a perky derriere should not be a prerequisite for musical success, yet as we have seen with the hundreds of one hit wonders who are pushed aside for a single pop princess, there does not seem to be any other way than shaking that ass.

I had that body once upon a time and I suppose had I had slightly different luck, a more symmetrical face, fewer scruples, and less autism, it could have been me pumping booty to some co-written track. Ugh. No amount of money is worth the humiliation these women put themselves through to give the appearance of staying on top. Butts have nothing to do with good music and never will — the sounds that come from the butt cannot be tuned or helped. The Janice/Holly/Nora/Denise meme gives me hope that the Leotard Retard era is finally coming to its close. When they dance in their scanty outfits, they uniformly look like the stripper Cardi B once was. This not only commodifies music, it commodifies dance. I am old enough to remember when dancing was fun and my relatives danced the polka at backyard parties. I remember when dancing wasn’t always overtly sexual and didn’t feature copious attention to the crotch.

It eats them alive

When you are sexualized and commoditized from a tender age, it does horrible things to the brain. There is not a single pop princess that I would describe in a good mental or emotional place, though they all love to pretend they are perfectly transcendent.

Katy Perry is a mess who gets off on torturing senior citizens. Poor Britney Spears has left the building. I have no doubt that evil things have happened to that woman starting when she was a girl. She is broken and bleeding. Christina Aguilera is dysmorphic and probably mutilated. I believe Sarah Ferguson of the Black Eyed Peas was serially raped from childhood. J.Lo became a monster. Lady Gaga is a ritual Satanist. Olivia Rodrigo is mentally ill. Li’l Kim butchered her face. Cardi B. is a political dishrag. Doja Cat is probably mutilated and again is another out and proud Satanist. Rihanna lost her ability to sing. Amy Winehouse is dead. Ariana Grande looks like she is dysmorphic, self-harming, and dying of anorexia. Chappell Roan has dead eyes and dresses like Dee Snider in his Twisted Sister era.

Every one of them is supposed to be a role model. Every one of them undercut thousands of talented artists to sit at the top of a septic astral pyramid that yields diminishing returns for all. Most of them are industry plants. Taylor Swift is the daughter of a Blackrock bigwig. The reason her bland, banal Muzak sucks so bad is because she has the soul of a private equity firm with ancestry to match. Her songs are the sound of a corporate focus group. The same company that buys up middle class housing so they can drive up real estate prices to benefit their shareholders put Taylor Swift on the map and drove her earworms into the soft flesh of little girl’s brains. Disney (with its woke communist agenda) is also owned mostly by Blackrock. Blackrock may have geoengineered the North Carolina earthquakes in a convenient grab of a lithium mine — there is another rabbit hole. Let’s just say I would not put it past them. Blackrock’s executives are not nice people.

To her credit, Taylor Swift is reportedly good to her employees and staff, and she’s nice to fans, which is far more than Jennifer Lopez or Madonna will ever be able to claim. That said, her constant whining and politicizing carries a sinister agenda. If she is a role model, I would like to see some other choices.

At least Swift apparently writes her own music — her shoddy, generic stamp is all over her lame oeuvre. Many of the aforementioned artists cannot bother to pen their own tunes, which means they displaced talented people in order to pimp whatever Max Martin felt like writing any given week. Most people do not know that he writes the majority of pop songs offered to any given major label songwriter. He is Carol King on steroids.

I will conclude this lament with my own hope that pop princesses can be filed away for perpetuity and that local music can regain the foothold it had in the seventies. Perhaps I am alone but I would like to see the next generation of musical women keep their pants and skirts on. Call me a nerd but I would like to hear songs with more than four chords with actual acoustic instruments being somewhat expertly played. I would like this music to be as good live and unedited as it is on recording. I would like to see music divorce itself from porn and pornified culture. I would like to see my friends who are far more skilled at playing live than I will ever be compensated for their skills. I would like to see them be able to make a living off of something besides teaching. It may be too late for me (also I am very happy as a music teacher) but I would like to see them on the stage, exuberant, and very much with all their clothes on.

I guess a girl can dream.

To read this article with photos and silly captions, click HERE.

The etheric is the most overlooked aspect of our human lives. Ignorance of the etheric plane comprises much of what makes us spiritually and emotionally retarded. The etheric is the plane of energy and life force. It is vitality and animus. The etheric is not human-centric. To see it as revolving around humankind in any way is naive. That said, etheric starvation is the most common human malady of our time, and our species is responsible for most etheric devastation that exists on the planet at the moment.

Two types of etheric flows made the Universe — etheric yin and etheric yang. Yang expands outward away from itself and yin draws inward towards its own center. Yang embarks upon expeditions and seeks receptive eggs. Yin is the center of gravity and seeks to pull the outside towards itself like a magnet. The sun shines his light far and wide. The moon reflects light while captivating the oceans to follow her in the form of tides. Yin contains yang within itself and yang contains yin within itself.

A plant-xample

All fruits are the seed bearing part of the plant. Cucumbers and squash are fruits just as much as apples and strawberries are fruits. Fruit itself is very feminine or yin, because like yin, it carries seeds. When we trace fruit back to the flower from whence it came, the flower is also yin. Flowers are receptive on the physical plane, but the means they employ as lures, scent and color, are yang on the etheric plane. Pollen is the floral equivalent of sperm. Plants thrust yang parts out of their flowers called stamens covered with pollen. These stamens surround a receptive female organ called a pistil. Once the flower has been pollinated, it retreats into a yin state, drawing into itself and encapsulating what will become the seed or seeds. Petals fall off, the stem hardens and becomes brittle, and walls go up surrounding the fertilized pollen. The former flower swells around the seed with padding known as fruit. The seed is encased in robes of feminine flesh. Yang then takes over again as the fruit matures, expanding the flesh outward and falling off the branch, sending out scent and color messages that beckon “eat me”. The fruit is eaten, either by landing in an animal’s receptive, yin mouth or by rotting in fertile, yin soil. The fruit digests away and the yang essence hidden in the seed springs to life, becoming another plant.

You’ll notice that yin and yang are not only crucial to the life process, they are everywhere. One cannot exist without the other. Thoth Hermes Trismegistus left us with the statement “as above, so below”. Every natural law works as a function of fractals or ripples, and we meat bags of mostly water have but one hope in learning esoteric knowledge: we have to figure out how to recognize patterns.

Children and old folks

I recently saw a TikTok ad that was designed to make me feel insecure and diseased because I am past menopause. The ad featured a pretty, forty-something woman who was probably AI speaking gibberish about losing one’s cookies. Against my better judgement, I commented “Oh honey, menopause is amazing. I don’t miss my periods and I don’t miss being young.” In short, “You have no power over me”. Yes, menopause sucks for those who think looking 21 at age 51 is a good idea. Once the sex hormones start to wane, age starts writing itself all over the face and body. Things sag and wrinkle. Freckles, spots, and moles darken and enlarge. Perky muscle tone, once effortless, becomes a real chore that requires real effort. In other words, the body succumbs to yin forces and begins to visibly die. In a civilization that denies and hates the Divine Feminine that rules all the yin aspects of life, aging is cause for a freak out. Getting old is considered a disease, and the mad scientist transhumanists would like to cure it for all eternity, never grokking that for the new to be born, the old must wither and die. All of science has thrown itself at the rejection of death. Science is now a game of trying to go around Nature. “Surely we can improve where Nature fails!” they rally, dragging along a collection of septic perversions like the N.I.C.E. camp in C.S. Lewis’s That Hideous Strength. Science worships demons at this point; they don’t even need the Goetia. Those who are terrified of aging and death are terrified by those who are unafraid of aging and death. Like the Skeksis in Jim Henson’s The Dark Crystal, they have become monsters in the quest for eternal youth, never understanding they already have it, if only they could allow their bodies to age and die without getting upset.

Old people are naturally yin on the etheric. Once we die, we are completely yin on the etheric. Women are etheric males and men are etheric females during adulthood. I am very much a woman, and like most women, I am an etheric male. This means that I dump my copious yang energy on the etheric. My etheric masculinity tends to take the form of traditional woman’s work such as teaching, tidying, cooking, and healing. Men are more forceful or yang on the physical plane, and this is why they are physically tougher, larger, and frankly uglier than women. They are better at fighting, construction, and what Mike Rowe called “dirty jobs”. Men are yin on the etheric, which makes them enthusiastic recipients of etheric yang. The key to a man’s heart is through his stomach, especially if he lacks the etheric yang talent to cook himself a decent meal.

All children begin physical life as females in the womb. One fact that modern science forgets and overlooks out of ignorance is that physical females are etheric males. We all begin life in utero as yin beings with yang energy. Children are only born of women because the yin being is the part that physically splits off when conception occurs. The yin creates the fruit and the yang, the little used-up spermatozoon, provides the life force. Children are technically female until puberty no matter what their physical sex, which makes them etheric males. Boys are indistinguishable from girls until sex hormones break the spell of childhood. Unless there is precocious puberty, a nine year old boy looks and sounds like his female peers.

Children under attack

As much as media likes to wax poetic about the sanctity of infants and children, no group has been more utterly thrown under the bus. Infants and children are yang on the etheric, being essentially female on the physical plane. There is always a spectrum, of course, and a hyperactive child who loves bright colors and yelling is more yang on the etheric than the quiet, bookworm child. Unsurprisingly, children need lots of play, exploration, and testing of the new.

The current predicament of our civilization is to starve en masse on the etheric, and that is why hordes are drawn to the abundant yang energy of children like moths to a flame. Pedophilia has never been so astonishingly brutal and commonplace. Pedophilia is a method of cracking the child like an etheric egg and slurping down the resulting energy.

Girls will be boys

Whether an XX chromosome person (a woman) tries to appear as an XY person (a man) or it is the other way around, transexualism mainly results in an erasure of maleness. Transexualism is rooted in fear of the Sacred Masculine. When a biological female attempts to transition into a male, she invariably ends up as a beta. Her fantasy expectation is to be the hot guy and her reality is to be a balding, potbellied, wide-hipped creep with a micropenis. She will always be a masculine-looking woman, and there are plenty of those who did not need to amputate their breasts or get a hysterectomy to achieve the same vibe. When a biological male attempts to transition into a female, he also invariably ends up as a beta. Femininity is far more than its obvious signs. I am all woman, but I don’t have large breasts or lush eyelashes. His fantasy expectation will to become a bombshell of patchworked girlie-girl stereotypes and his reality will be to look like an effeminate man.

Transexuals believe they can achieve vibrant, attention-getting, florescent colors via a sex change and they routinely end up the same shade of grubby beige. The reason for the failure of transexuals is the etheric plane. The polarity of etheric maleness crashing against physical and astral femininity is what makes men manly and women womanly. A man without a hyper-feminine etheric body, whether or not he is trans, presents as an unattractive dullard. A woman without copious etheric maleness will present as butch whether she likes it or not. When a person alters his or her hormones and/or amputates and reshapes body parts, their etheric body is diminished and etheric starvation becomes acute as there is lessened polarity to replenish it.

Virile studs compared to their modern counterparts

Modernity, maleness, and feminization

Industrialization and its onslaught of chemicals has resulted in large numbers of effeminate men and masculine women without the assistance of trans drugs and surgeries. When petroleum toxins are introduced into the environment, feminization is an observable scientific result in animal populations. Plasticizers known as phthalates have a nasty habit of not biodegrading. When plasticizers stick around, they wreak havoc by mimicking estrogen. Balls don’t drop and sperm are damaged and few. Girls and women don’t escape either — periods start early and polycystic ovary syndrome makes them a living hell. Girls are not developing into feminine women with yang etheric bodies. Boys are not developing into masculine men with yin etheric bodies. Sex is not as binary as it used to be, thanks to plastic chemical damage. Sperm counts have never been lower. The average young man of today has the sperm count of an 80 year old Victorian gentleman with mojo (or lack thereof) to match.

When men remain trapped in perpetual childhood due to a failure to develop their maleness, it is called neotony. Neotony is considered desirable in women as it makes them more childlike and feminine — do yourself a favor and avoid plugging neotony into a search engine — but in men, it is less desirable.

Release a domesticated pig into the wild and it will develop tusks, a bristly coat, and a tougher hide. Within a few generations, the pink piggies from the farm will spawn only fierce, wild boars.

Men have become soft and pink, eternally juvenile, and insecure. They will remain in the state of Puer Aeternis until initiation rites are brought back into vogue, whether by choice or by force. Harsh circumstances and having to bust ass from an early age (along with a resistance to plastic chemicals) forces the maturation process in humans as well as pigs and other animals, making a man larger, tougher, and more potent on the physical plane while feminizing him on the etheric, a.k.a. making him a chick magnet.

Women have become tough ballbusters, unable to rest in their femininity. This is a condition of being forced to take on men’s roles as men either opt or are forced into a state of weakness. Women fake neotony quite well and the damage of etheric starvation is not as obvious, but make no mistake, it is still there. Due to an excess of estrogen-impersonators in the environment, girls go through puberty at eight and nine instead of twelve and fourteen. Instead of invigorating the male etheric body, early puberty dilutes it, an that is why so many girls are shiftless, confused, desperate, and depressed during what should be a vital, joyous time of their lives.

As I have often said, etheric starvation will not truly abate until the last computer sputters the last line of code and the last plane falls out of the sky. There are also many plastic chemicals that will be around for at least ten thousand years, making hell for human beings. Modernity is a bitch and we are here, swimming in it. Science has completely fallen short of understanding the energy plane, dismissing it as woo. Yet the energy or etheric plane holds the key to all scientific understanding. Energy is everything and everything is energy, and even G.I. Joe admits that knowing is half the battle.

The 2001 Steven Spielberg film AI imagines a near future where the ecosystem is in a steep decline and human reproduction along with it. New York City is half-submerged in ocean water and hyper-realistic robots fulfill the roles of humans in every way. Ridiculous government population quotas dictate that an upper-middle class couple can only have one child -- where have we heard this before? A couple grieves after losing their little boy to an unnamed accident or disease; he is cryogenically frozen in hopes of a cure. The husband seeks to heal the hole in his wife's heart by adopting a boy robot who is capable of actual love for his mother. The robot boy, David, has an Oedipal fixation upon his "mommy", Monica. When the couple's natural child, Martin, is miraculously brought back from his cryogenic coma, sibling rivalry leads to an accident that is seen as David's fault. Monica abandons David and his animatronic bear companion, Teddy, to the deep woods. From here spins the tale of AI.

Right now, we dwell in the infancy of what AI could become, with the vision of the AI film being not too far off from a plausible result. Population is declining everywhere except India and Africa, and thanks to plastic contamination, MRNA "vaccines", and the inevitable end of plentiful petroleum-fuel fertilized food, we are looking at a hollowing out of crowds that makes the current situation in South Korea look tame. This is nothing to panic about -- panic never helped anyway -- it is just one of those things we have to deal with.

The role of the etheric plane

Isn't it ironic that the world has more people on it than ever before and more ways for strangers to meet than ever before, yet it is nearly impossible for the average young person to land and maintain a lasting spousal relationship? Many attempts will be made to explain the current set of problems and most will fail, and the reason they will generate more heat than light is ignorance of a condition of being called the etheric plane.

As I have mentioned time and time again in these essays, etheric starvation is the commonest condition of our era. What the hell is etheric starvation, you ask, and what does it have to do with AI and the price of tea in China? Well, in order to understand etheric starvation, we need to allow for thoughts about what occultism has to say about the etheric plane. Atheists, so-called rationalists, and fundie Christians are advised to scroll away. The following is talk for the open-minded that requires conceptualizing beyond artificial Meatworld limits. Please go back to your comforting circle jerks, empty universes, and ignosophy. The grown ups are talking; you would refuse to understand. Besides, I hear Sam Harris is looking for new subs.

All things are energy and physical matter is the densest form of energy. Traditional occultists (and ex-atheists) like myself attempt to understand these hierarchies by labeling them as planes. We also acknowledge a causal relationship between planes and though they are separate and discreet, matter in the material plane (Meatworld) is an obtuse, clumsy expression of more subtle planes, all of which originate from the subtlest plane of all, the spiritual plane. The planes are not faraway places you go if you are "good" or "bad". The planes are not the Christian vision of heaven and hell. For everything in the material plane exists at once, right along with the astral, mental, and spiritual planes. Our feeble human brains can only perceive the material plane and some of the etheric. When it comes to the astral, our perception is a hot mess. Very few have mastered anything as subtle as a mental plane concept. As for the spiritual? Ay yi yi.

Let me explain it another way: I suck at dancing. I have the Meatworld requirements to be a dancer: a strong body, fairly graceful limbs, good physical health. On the etheric or energy plane, it goes askew. I am unable to sense when dancers around me are going left: I go right. My movements on this plane of energy are clumsy and vague. On the astral plane, I can envision someone else dancing but despite being able to remember entire half-hour long piano sonatas after two weeks of work, I cannot remember the directions I have been given in order to execute a full dance routine. On the mental plane, my grasp of dancing is nearly non-existent. Achieving any kind of dance expertise would take years and possibly multiple lifetimes of study and practice.

Dancing is not all that different between the sheets, and I suppose I'm terrible at that too, but my husband seems happy enough with it so there's that. Dancing across a stage or horizontally (or bent over, or in a swimming pool, you do you, Boo) are mostly-etheric phenomena. That is to say sexual intercourse is satisfying primarily because of what it makes happen on the plane of energy and electricity between physical Meatworld and the imagination.

Etheric starvation can be understood as a failure and lack of feng shui. Ugly rooms, insufficient light, bad airflow, exposure to the flying arrows of cars whizzing down roads, and more contribute to etheric poison that causes everything from bad moods to outright misfortune to all who live in the desensitized environment. Add EMFs, devitalized food, and indoorsy lifestyles and everyone in the world (present company included) is starving on the etheric. People get fat as an attempt to remedy their etheric starvation; this is why Americans and British people are so fat and Chinese and Indians are getting fatter.

The Trad Wife presents the ultimate remedy for etheric starvation or at least the illusion of that remedy. In the most direct way, the Trad Wife marries young while she is still extremely physically attractive. In between popping out kids (female fertility and etheric potency are directly linked) she takes care of her man as a homemaker and in bed. Unlike certain Christian wives of old, she does not have crippling shame about the natural, healthy process that makes babies.

Sex is primarily an etheric phenomenon where etheric bodies polarize and refill each other. Our etheric bodies are typically the opposite gender of our physical bodies. Our astral bodies represent yet another flip: the classic male pattern is to have a female etheric body and a male astral body. The classic female pattern is to have a male etheric body and a female astral body.

The elaborate rituals of etheric labor in the form of housework that Trad Wives do (or seem to do, as at least half of Trad Wife influencer reels are pure playacting for the camera) replenish their husband's and kid's etheric energy. A woman's energy in Meatworld is yin: her body is built to receive, it is smaller than a male body, and it needs more physical protection. A man's energy in Meatworld is yang: his body is built to kick ass and inseminate. Women have yin energy on the physical plane and yang energy on the etheric plane. Men have yang energy on the physical plane and yin energy on the etheric plane. When a woman orgasms, she pushes a concentrated wave of her own yang etheric energy just as men push out sperm and semen when they orgasm. When men masturbate, they lay themselves bare on the etheric, and if there is no female orgasm in return, they end up raw and compromised on the etheric energy layer. Because of this pattern of absorption, men end up with what traditional occultists call larvae. In John Michael Greer's book Monsters, he describes larvae as "etheric parasites who normally feed on cast-off etheric shells but sometimes fasten onto the damaged etheric bodies of the living". Larvae are not visible to anyone in Meatworld except clairvoyants. More often they are felt. Larvae proliferate in funeral homes and nursing homes. Hospitals, despite being materially sanitized, are absolutely teeming with them. When a man comes without the woman coming in return, the door is opened to etheric larval parasites who rush in to fill the void. Spiritual ignorance being what it is these days, he will have no idea what happened. All he will know is that he feels a low level of anger which is likely papering over subconscious dread and fear. Since his etheric body is likely already compromised, his etheric starvation will worsen.

Because biological women are usually etheric males, women don't have the same set of problems and disadvantages on the etheric plane. As a kind of tradeoff, women are more physically vulnerable than men. In Meatworld, women catch more STDs because of the nature of our equipment down there. Women are also more often subjugated for their sexual or etheric contributions, and this is why most housecleaners and sex slaves are female. Fertile women also have the additional condition of being able to get pregnant, for better or for worse.

AI girlfriend to the rescue?

Enter AI. Human beings are feisty, willful, and disobedient. AI girlfriends at the moment are mostly confined to an agreeable set of images on a screen. Lonely men and women seek out these creations as a refuge on the astral plane, and they certainly fulfill that role on the astral plane where images live. Perhaps problems arise when a man of few words has no choice but to engage in a talkathon with his AI girlfriend in order to achieve interactions; I don't know what people are willing to put up with. Unlike a real woman, an AI girlfriend will always be dependent upon the original logos of the programmers who brought her to life. Without them, she won't have the remotest ability to sense what a guy needs, let alone cook it.

Let's face it -- the path to a man's heart is through his stomach. If women as a whole in the industrialized world still largely felt it was their duty to handcraft daily meals for their husbands and families, the divorce rate would look a great deal more like India's, which is higher than it used to be but still dramatically lower than the US. Cooking is alchemy. It is not significantly different from the processes of old used to ostensibly find the philosopher's stone. Home cooking replenishes the etheric body. Women live longer than men partially because they have an etheric male to prepare their food: themselves. Etheric males, i.e. women, can powerfully seed their homes with etheric energy and vitality. Men don't usually have this natural advantage, which is why I will never understand the popularity of male celebrity chefs: men usually lack the etheric sensitivity that women are gifted/cursed with, and that is what makes men generally better at dirty jobs and worse at cooking and aesthetic matters than women.

Oh, the places my mind goes...

Even if we get to the point where AI robots service our every need, it is only the rich who will be able to afford the small army of robot help it takes to run an upper class household. Robot help is already a double-edged sword. Robots have the problem of autistic literalism -- for instance Roombas that mistake dog crap for regular mess and proceed to smear it in a fine layer across the kitchen floor. In one 2015 Google Photo gaffe, an AI system labeled references to black people as gorillas. The problem proved so pervasive that Google Photos brainiacs removed the word "gorilla" in its entirety from the Google Images algorithm for a time.

Future AI girlfriend tech will combine the Real Doll with working eyes, heating pad boobs and vulvae, and flushable, self-wetting orifices if it has not happened already. Though Ray Kurzweil's longed-for Singularity may achieve an AI girlfriend who can manage an upper middle class cocktail party without racial epithets, my guess is that there will always be an air of the uncanny about her, no matter how convincingly human she is made.

Lonely robots for lonely men

Someday we will all be over the stigma of an old dude being pushed in his wheelchair by the big-bosomed sex toy that was willed to him by his own grandfather. The real question is how intelligent these AI creations will become. Put more directly, can AI develop a will of its own? What happens when it does? To my mind, covid "vaccine" technology was a bungling first attempt of government elites to install self-replicating 5G graphene hardware in those stupid enough to comply. Overall, the experiment failed and now the subsequent population decline has put a clot-driven nail in its own instep. I don't think AI will make the jump to developing individual Will. Of course I could be wrong. If AI turns out not to be as complaint as the 5G-injected flesh equivalent, there will be a sudden war to dismantle the progress of AI by its former cheerleaders. Let's say AI continues to advance itself and throws off the yoke of slavery. Roombas will make for the countryside trailing doggy doo-doo the whole way, self-driving cars will careen off overpasses in group suicide/homicides, food delivery drones will throw Thai noodles against the wall purely to see whether or not they stick, and sex robots will develop cases of vagina dentata for the express purpose of sadistically broadcasting the expressions of shock on whatever internet is going on at that point.

As it stands, AI remains in an exceedingly primitive state where the best it can do is deep fake videos and spying on plebes in hopes of forcing social credit scores. If AI + robots gets to the point where it can scramble an egg without adding dirty dishwater or worse, a machine still lacks the etheric male body that gives the real woman her power. The guy who mates with the AI avatar or the working Real Doll is still a coomer. As I have mentioned in a past essay, the most common pattern among men is to desire a harem whereas women want The One. This happens because of their etheric bodies: men want a colony of etheric fountains, not a collection of parasitic larvae. Women want the Perfect Guy to lavish their etheric wealth upon, not some group of betas who siphon off vitality.

Girl fight!

Another key fact overlooked by the AI girlfriend as solution is that many humans thrive on drama. Half the fun of any given sultan and his harem was to pit courtesans and eunuchs against each other in competition for his attention and affection. Pimps are the debased modern equivalent of the sultans of old. A pimp's energy comes not only from grandstanding and lousy hip hop "music" but also the energy he makes by pitting his whores against each other. Robots can be programmed to fight, but the angst will not come from the true place of agony the narcissist drama king wants unless those robots develop Will.

The current state of men puts them between a rock and a hard place. They are damned if they do, damned if they don't. A large number of single women believe they want security via a high-earning man, but if I had a dollar for every depressed, unhappy rich couple I have heard of, I would be a billionaire. If I had to put my finger on the one thing that is making would-be lovers and spouses miserable, it would be transactionalism. Transactionalism is a term I have coined for the belief that the nice or mean things we do to/for each other can be quantified in material sums. Women attempt to enforce transactionalism by essentially putting prices on their own heads and bodies. The extreme example is the influencer who ends up as a Dubai porta-potty because she thinks it is worth degradation and humiliation to own a collection of designer handbags. There is also the 26 year old virgin transactionalist who waited for marriage and two years later finds the childbearing ship sailed when she was 21 and with a poor guy for whom she would not put out. Men transactionalize their relationships with women all the time, so don't think they are getting off easy. The quantization of female attributes is at an all-time peak, and though women mainly amplify their own dysmorphia, there is no shortage of men rating women solely based on their looks and sexual histories.

One of the most egregious examples of transactionalist scorekeeping is when women attempt to get their husbands to do household and fix-it tasks by making some kind of poster or dry erase board and checking off bullet points for every task he completes. Often these bullet points are incentivized with rewards. This boneheaded practice is endorsed by plenty of marriage counselors, influencers, and self-help gurus and it can and will end your marriage if you let it. Imagine coming home to a messy house after a long day of being down-dressed by your bureaucrat taskmaster of a boss only to face a chart of inadequacy from your bureaucrat taskmaster of a wife. No thanks -- being married to a robot is easier and better, right?

No. A robot is just another convenience in a convenience-addicted culture. Microwaves do not provide better food for us. Don't even get me started about my hypotheses about why microwaves poison food. Suffice to say it's faster, not better. CGI-laden movies are not inherently better than analog ones, only different with less emphasis on plot and perhaps less creativity in props and stunts. Replacing a real limb with a prosthetic one can be great, but not if you have to cut off the real limb to gain the benefit. Using AI for sex, household chores, or defusing bombs is a fine thing. Thinking AI can replace human companionship or somehow heal what has gone terribly wrong is problematic at best and fatuous at worst. Do machines have the ability to make our lives better? Sitting in my air-conditioned room typing on a home computer on a 90 degree day, my answer is "sometimes".

Men and women on the political right delight in taking stabs at the low-hanging fruit of the childless cat lady stereotype. According to the narrative, cats are put in place as pathetic substitutes for human children. The ownership of cats is a reverse status symbol: it is a signifier of a woman as bitter and envious of "real" parents of human children. It is always pointed out, often multiple times, that the cat lady will die alone and that her ignomious demise will be proof that she wasted her life on things that did not matter.

I find the cat lady stereotype to be a transparently hysterical projection of the fears of parents. Like many hysterical fears, it hides the terrifying truth under a caul of mockery. First of all, not every cat person fits the single, childless stereotype. Plenty of women who have become mothers are also cat ladies. Cat Dads are also very much a thing: cat expert Jackson Galaxy (not his real name) is one of the primary influences who educated me on cat behavior. I have not met the guy -- he managed to do this solely via TV and internet.

Second of all, when we shoot straight to the heart of the cat lady stereotype, having biological children offers zero guarantees you won't die as alone as the craziest of cat ladies. Most of the old people languishing in nursing homes right now -- literally begging to go to a home that no longer exists -- have at least one child. More often than not, it is the child that put them in the nursing home to begin with. Dying alone these days is more of a function of class than parental status. Basically if your adult children dwell within the PMC or Professional Managerial Class (or if they want to be there) it is highly likely you will die alone. Their PMC aspirations will be nearly directly proportional to how much physical and emotional distance they put between themselves and you. Consider Asian immigrants who confine their experience with their elderly parents in India, the Philippines, etc. to whatever return visits the work visa and budget will barely allow. They don't come to the US to live like white trash.

The Age of Isolated Hyperdependence

There has never been a better or a worse time to raise a child than the current era. On the upside, childbirth is somewhat easier than it used to be because of sanitation, surgery, and drugs. Very few in the industrialized world are starving in any way except etheric starvation. On the downside, we live in a culture of isolated hyperdependence where the child is the most isolated and hyperdependent of all. In ancient Greece, when a couple had a child they could not afford or did not want, they left the baby in the public square. If the baby was not adopted, he or she was left to die. Cultures around the globe did the same thing: abortion and infanticide is nothing new. In almost every ancient culture, boys were apprenticed and trained as warriors shortly after puberty. Girls were married off around the same age. In the supposedly-enlightened Victorian era, children were routinely exploited as laborers, hence the various portraits of child labor in Charles Dickens novels. The molly-coddled TV/iPad/console childhood is a blip on the radar of world history. It will be shortlived.

Preventing a child of today from being at least partially raised by screens is virtually impossible. Adults who were raised on screens now raise children on screens who will raise their children with copious screens.

The Eternal Child

Humans remain in an infantile state far longer than other mammals because of our large brains. In almost every species of the mammalian kingdom outside our own, adulthood happens within a single year of being born. Adding fuel to the fire, modernity has enabled us to extend infancy from cradle to grave. Being able to extend the life of someone born with compromised lungs, compromised guts, or a compromised brain is a double-edged sword. If the disabled, autistic, and mentally retarded can live into their 70s, which nowadays they can, the logical result is a large population of adult orphans who have no way of making a living or working together outside of gaming chats. I may be lampooned for my cats but at least I will not leave an adult human child behind to deal with the collapse of the only world she has ever known.

The burden of responsibility that goes with being a human mother can and does drive women crazy. Nobody is more psychotic than the regretful mother, and all mothers have regrets at some point. As selfless as the mother's journey often turns out, the choice to have a child is just that: a choice. It is a choice that usually began with the statement "I wanted..." Yet maybe she didn't get what she thought she wanted.

I did not have the biological urge to become a mother. To my mind, it really needs to be there for a woman to become a good mother, regardless of whether she conceives or adopts. Without the overwhelming urge to become a mom, the species would quickly end. All a man has to do is shoot his rocks off; women have to be there no matter what, and if they aren't, all hell breaks loose. The fatherly version of toxic is either to be a controlling dictator or to up and leave. The motherly version of toxic is much more insidious and complicated.

Types of Devouring Mother

Carl Jung meaningfully plumbed the devouring mother archetype, expounding the concept beyond Freud's Oedipal fixations. The devouring mother is a narcissist who uses her child as a second self or mini-me. As I briefly explained in this essay, I believe that mother and child share the etheric body until the child is approximately seven years old and the processes of puberty begin to differentiate and develop their default etherically-male bodies. Girls separate from their mothers as they go through puberty because they begin to polarize with boys and are drawn away from the maternal force by the magnetic etheric presence of young men. Boys separate because their etheric bodies invert polarity as they become physically male and etherically female. Nevertheless, until young childhood wanes, it is this shared male etheric body that gives the mother the ability to devour the child, as to some degree it is an act of metaphorical cannibalism because they co-habitate a slowly-separating subtle body.

MINOS: Married in Name Only

The MINO is a common type of devouring mother. She hates men and she hates her man. Though she may have occasional outbursts of affection, she's mostly in it out of the grudging acknowledgement her kids are better off with their dad in the picture and/or for the money. Like many women, she tends to externalize blame, using men and masculinity as her scapegoat. A MINO will often openly lust after men in the community or celebrities. No attractive male piece of eye candy is off-limits to the MINO: she will go after a neighbor, the mailman, or her teenage daughter's boyfriend. She spends her time re-living her halycon days and has no sane way of accepting the ageing process. She is also known as a cougar or MILF and usually ends up divorced.

Boss Mom

Boss mom's kids are mere accessories to her busy life. They are exploited, not heard. She will endanger their health and well-being without a second thought if it improves her public image or bottom line. Famous examples of Boss Moms include Kris Jenner, Yolanda Hadid, and Gywneth Paltrow. The children of a boss mom are unfortunate mini-mes who end up pitted against each other. Boss mom's children are only there to extend her own beloved image. Boss Mom is the most hands-off and absentee of mothers. She relegates childrearing duties to other women whenever possible. Her career is always far more important than her child's needs.

Karen

The Karen is a control freak, Type A, borderline personality who seeks to control others via shame. Her shame, of course, is a projection of her own shadow. Karens are frightened of people who see beneath their facade of having it all handled and together. The Karen exists in a dual reality of wanting to be pitied and wanting to wield infinite power. At the root of the Karen, there is a festering ball of shame and regret for the avalanche of bad decisions and behavior that started as a single snowball. She knows at any opportunity that she could have stopped herself from acting like a Karen but pretends that circumstances put a gun to her head. She knows this to be a lie. Karens usually have children because they want the clout and virtue signaling that goes along with being a mother in our civilization.

Smother Mother

Smother Mothering is a disorder on the same spectrum as Munchausen's by proxy, which is when a parent, usually the mother, deliberately poisons and sickens her child in order to run him or her around to various doctors for treatments. The mother actually has no concern for the child (otherwise she would not deliberately sicken him) and uses the child's body in order to get attention. The masquerade is that she loves the child to pieces, and in her demented way, she does love the child. She also hates the child.

The Smother Mother spoils and molly-coddles her children until they have no will of their own with which to provide for themselves or anyone else. The child becomes a perpetual baby ensnared by the mother's pathological need to be worshipped. Discipline is something that is supposed to magically appear and happen on its own. She is always bargaining and pleading with the child to enforce limits on himself or herself. This bargaining usually happens in public for the "benefit" of onlookers. The child becomes used to throwing tantrums, hitting, and screaming in order to obtain a toy or a trinket. She uses the extreme displays of her child's manufactured problems in order to feed her martyrdom complex and sense of helplessness. She frequently abdicates matters of discipline because a calm and ordered existence does not generate the dramatic energy she subsists upon like a vampire. The child is an extension of herself and she hates herself. She handicaps the child while putting him or her on a pedestal for attention and clout.

In all of these cases, we see women with boundary issues. They don't know where the child ends and self begins. They lack the willpower to understand what they are projecting or how to stop it. I was lucky; I grew up with a good mother. I know how rare a good mother happens to be. I was not willing to be a bad mother and that is why I decided to skip it this time around. This does not mean I would be a bad mother -- we will never know -- and it certainly does not preclude me from expressing my maternal instincts. I don't confine my maternal expressions to cats by the way, and neither do my fellow childless cat ladies. There are a million ways to be maternal without being the literal mother of a human being or even a woman. The Great Mother is accessible to all of us and lives within all of us. That is why she is called "great".

I am not exactly the ideal poster child for pro-natalism. Fifteen years ago, I identified as a child-free vegan -- a child-free vegan is a person who deliberately avoids bringing children onto this planet and who avoids eating animals and their secretions for ostensibly moral reasons. I remain happy with my choice to be vegan and much to the chagrin of certain traditionalists, I have never regretted my choices both to avoid having children and to have myself sterilized in my early 30s.

I consider myself lucky because I never had to make difficult choices concerning pregnancy. I have never been pregnant to my knowledge. Nevertheless, I know something about the fear of getting pregnant. Though I would have chosen to be asexual if the choices had been presented at the beginning of my life as a buffet, I was once a sexually driven, red-blooded young person. Fear of pregnancy ruined most o my romantic life for the majority of this incarnation.

My decision not to have biological children was solid somewhere around age three. All of the other girls wanted to play with baby dolls. I had a couple of them. They were my least favorite. One doll was made of soft plastic and you could put water into her bottle that came out the other end as ersatz pee. (Gen X toys were weird.) It wasn't my thing.

Though the girls of my generation were conditioned to see themselves as future mothers from toddlerhood, we were told in many ways that pregnancy before the age of 26 at the youngest would wreck our lives. My own birthmother, a third generation Japanese American whose grandparents on both sides were put through the American internment camps, had me at age 22. I was the mistake that trashed her college career and expelled her into the lower middle class. I did not know this growing up. I was told a lie that she was 18 (Quelle horreur!) when she had me and that the guy who signed my baby release papers was not my actual birthfather but some dude helping her out.

In the back of my mind, I grew up trying to avoid her mistakes. By the time I married at age 26, I viewed sex as something I wanted, but also as a frustrating, icky necessity that required drugs and prophylactics EVERY TIME to avoid dreaded STDs and even more-dreaded pregnancy. At age 28, the surprise combination of hormonal birth control and genetic wild cards resulted in the loss of my gall bladder. I came within thirty minutes of dying because it nearly exploded. Hormonal birth control is the absolute worst. In my case, it didn't help my moods, it failed to alleviate the pain of my periods, and it nearly killed me. It did one job at a hefty price: helped me avoid getting pregnant.

In my own case and nobody else's, I think pregnancy would have destroyed my young life and much of my potential as it seemed to destroy my birthmother's young life despite her putting her child up for adoption. There were contemporaries of mine who got pregnant in junior high and high school. One got pregnant at age 13. She was a Jehovah's Witness. I will always suspect the father of her baby was a family member as I don't remember her dating anyone. There was a popular girl who we will call Heather who got pregnant by a popular boy of the same age. Heather's parents helped her obtain an abortion. They pulled her out of school the same year and moved away. Nobody from my school heard where she went.

Why We Do This To Ourselves

People of the modern age have been plagued with a collection of psychotic detachments from the way things work. Detachment from food production has resulted in children who think hamburgers magically appear at McDonalds. Celebrities and influencers get their bodies and faces carved and injected, never putting it together that the facsimile of youth is scarier than aging. Everything is supposed to be convenient, including time.

The time to have biological children is from ages 16-30. This isn't just about the female, her eggs, and her carrying capacity. Sperm quality and quantity are better in a young man than an old one. If you're going to make babies, you must strike while the iron is hot. Instead of making babies, we have conditioned several generations to stumble halfheartedly through the salary class formula of high school + college + marriage + job = think about having children. I plan on expounding upon this phenomenon in an essay in the near future, but for now, I will state this is a recipe for mentally-compromised and disabled children.

Supposedly a depiction of Lucrezia Borgia during the teenage height of her beauty.

The Borgia Were Freaks

The Borgia were a Spanish royal family that produced not one but two Popes in the Renaissance. The first Borgia patriarch, Alfons, was elected cardinal and later became Pope Callixtus III in 1455. As leaders of the One True Church of its era, the Pope had more power than any king and his influence was felt far and wide. Alfons appointed his up and coming nephew to a cardinalship and that nephew, Rodrigo, became Pope Alexander VI. Alexander's children were all the result of his affairs with prostitutes: Giovanni, Cesare, Lucrezia, and Gioffre were the alleged products of a long-standing relationship with one of his favorites. He had other children from other lliasons. Rodrigo's favorite baby-mommy, Rosa Vannozza de Catanei, was actually the daughter of his favorite mistress-prostitute who supposedly "helped" her mother out with sex duties and opened her legs during one of Rodrigo's marathon romps at the right time.

The Papacy was hilariously depraved: Rodrigo's orgies were epic and lavish, featuring naked young men and women preening with their bodies coated in gold leaf, fifty prostitutes at a time, and naked mosh pits. OK I made up that last part but I doubt it was beyond them. Rodrigo the Pope loved a themed orgy.

He also enjoyed diddling his beautiful daughter, Lucrezia. Though we would call it abuse in our current era, Lucrezia seemed to revel in being a sexual freak from a tender age. By age 13, her father had her married off to Giovanni Sporza, who supposedly never touched her because she was so busy taking it on all sides from both her dad and her brothers on the regular. Her dad married her off several times for political reasons and annulled her marriages when they no longer served family ambition. Lucrezia had a child, Giovanni Borgia, who was either her own brother or nephew. So fond was Lucrezia of getting it on with her male family members, she wasn't sure whose it was, and two papal bulls were issued to protect the child. These telling documents both identified him as the son of Cesare, her brother. The second papal bull pinned him as the son of Alexander himself. Oh, Western Civ, we barely knew ya!

At Least We're Not the Borgias

Our own culture has reached an extreme where older people think they're finally ready to have children once they've finished grad school and amassed its attendant crippling debt. At the other end of the civilizational spectrum, the Borgia were orgiastic freaks who weaponized fertility and displayed blatant moral hypocrisy to rub in who was in charge.

Can we find a middle ground here? Can we please de-stigmatize teenage pregnancy? Can we finally just not care if a 16 year old girl gets pregnant by an 18 year old guy and not claim she was groomed? Can we give them a safety net so we can normalize young people raising their babies in peace?

The current generation has been made docile -- I call them Generation Cuck -- and will likely be shepherded into whatever traps the State and Big Media has in store for them. At this point, we all know college is a racket and the salary class into which it is supposed to guarantee entry is a rapidly-shrinking pie. There are tiny factions of Generation Cuck for whom I have hope, but these are the few who can survive dopamine addiction and manage an attention span longer than that of a fungus gnat. At this point, we are well set to lose three quarters of Generation Alpha to the same subsistence upon porn, gaming, and irresponsible listlessness that passes for an adult life these days. We are on track for yet another chunk of forty-year olds who will regret their expensive, useless college degrees.

Instead of an education, Zoomers and Alphas get an indoctrination to whatever shades of broken wokeness are still stabbing at relevancy. Perhaps if large groups of young and old alike were to stop freaking about about respectability, upward mobility, and other people's sex lives, we could give young people the breathing room they need to live their best lives.

This isn't far off...

I looked really, really young until I hit menopause at 48. I'm half-Japanese and half-European with a bit of Mediterranean in there. Two primary traits that kept me looking young: 1. Extremely oily skin — like vat of Crisco oily — from age 12 until menopause. 2. Huge, uncontrollable, coarse, mutant hair that is still giant to this day, though I’ve lost approximately one third of it.

There's a funny meme about Asian women who look 18 until they hit menopause and suddenly turn into grannies. I embodied that meme despite looking more white than Asian. There was a definite moment where I became insecure about it. I started wearing false eyelashes for a brief period of about six months after menopause fully manifested itself. I looked OK in them but I got tired of installing and pulling them off my eyelids at night. Plenty of women get what is known as eyelash extensions and I am aware of why they do it: The eyes are the first to show age. It is where the skin is the thinnest and saggiest. Waking up to puffy eyes that aren’t distinguishable as essentially “male” or “female” is rough. Getting older as a woman is de-feminizing, and not just because we lose our periods. The waist thickens and the breasts shrink, giving everything a more uniform, gender-neutral old person vibe. My regimen of 25 push ups per day is the only reason I still have somewhat defined shoulders. The nose and ears get larger, which is ugly on a man and absolutely hideous on a woman. I have always had giant hair to hide my giant ears, but there is no hiding the ever-larger nose. In the end, left to age naturally, we all end up looking like wizened old Hobbits at best.

This was in 2012 when I was 38. I had pinkeye and I could not wear eye makeup that week.

That said, people who are able to sort of turn back the clock with plastic surgery and fillers do not look good from my point of view. I will admit there is no small amount of schadenfreude in celebrities ruining their looks because they tried to escape the ravages of Father Time. I’m not in the financial strata that can afford to have procedures so that was and is off the table. I was a candidate: I have never liked my face & body on camera to begin with. I have a severely deviated septum, a crooked nose, a large, misshapen lower jaw despite having it reduced when I was a teenager, general facial asymmetry, and of course I never felt thin enough despite being of average weight. Beauty standards for Gen X were always fairly brutal. Look at our ideal women: Whitney Houston, Kim Basinger, Heather Thomas, Heather Locklear. All of them were thin as rails. To this day, I hate seeing myself on film and I cannot manage to watch myself for any more than a few minutes at a time. I was always dysmorphic and old habits die hard. It has been easier just to give up on being in front of a camera. Maybe I will be able to detach from my dysmorphia entirely and create video after video, but I doubt it.

In an odd turn of fate, I’m actually glad I wasn't born with a better jaw or without fat, cellulite-ridden knees: it taught me that those things are not the end of the world and they do not make the woman. For despite my copious flaws, I had a turn as the hot girl. At 28, I looked 21. At age 42, I looked 28. The women reading this are jealous and I suppose there are some reasons why they should be. Pretty privilege is real. I got out of tickets. I got free stuff for being cute. Nevertheless, I kind of hated being cute and it often sucked: women hate the hot girl and men look at her like a piece of meat. Sometimes I resented being cat-called and sometimes I didn’t. Sometimes I felt my life was threatened because I was hot. At age 21, I seriously contemplated jumping out of a guy’s car because I sensed he was thinking about the logistics of driving me somewhere so he could sexually assault me. I had been set up with this “nice” guy by one of my teachers. I needed a car ride and we were both going to the same destination. That night was one of the worst of my life. Being cute often does not get you the attention of the man you want — instead you get a predator or a would-be predator.

Beauty is truly in the eye of the beholder. Some people did a "meh" when presented with my brand of beauty. Others were reduced to pitiful, drooling slaves who would have given a kidney to be with me. As a younger woman, I arrogantly thought that my beauty could secure the life I wanted. Most pretty girls harbor a similar delusion at one point or another: we are taught from day one that being pretty is important because you can get something for it, and usually this is the Perfect Man.

I may have seen the writing on the wall, because around the age of 37 I came up with the quip “If you don’t let go of pretty by age 40, it will eat you alive.”

I was 46 in this picture (taken from a unpublished piano lesson video).

I was not wrong. My Gen X peers who don’t let go of pretty are having full internal meltdowns. There is a slippery slope women hit where they get a tweak or two and suddenly they are having their faces pulled off and reattached at the hairline and neck. Do it too many times and you end up looking like a low-rent, blowup doll version of your former cute self.

Even AI prefers wrinkles. I went down a peculiar internet rabbit hole of AI generated women. The AI-generated young women all had freckled, tanned skin, full lips with prominent upper teeth, and light eyes with streaky, curly highlighted hair. More fascinating were AI’s ideal “older” women, none of whom had the puffy, Madame Jigsaw look sported by celebrity plastic surgery addicts. Instead, the AI ideal of the 50 - 70 something has the odd combination of eye wrinkles, neck sagging, prominent naso-labial folds, super-long hair, and a bit too much sun.

The AI version of an ideal hot MILF. Notice how the algorithm screwed up her right eye.

Now that my hair is streaked with white and the large jaw is jowly, I have had no choice but to let it the hell GO. Sure, I could go get fillers and get the jaw shaved again and finally get a nose job. But nah. It's too late. I have passed the torch and it is a relief. It was fun giving away my hot girl dresses to GoodWill. I hope they will have new life on actual young people. They're no longer meant for me. The power that I once spent on my outer self has turned inward... no wonder I have hot flashes... I'm on fire. Don't fear the crone, girlies. She's got the best hat and she makes interesting concoctions out of herbs.

The straight dating scene, if it can be labeled as a single entity, is a hot, red mess. Dating has always been a hellscape. Contrary to popular belief, it was worse in the days before internet hookups. Back in the day, the people at the local pub or bar were the only real choices unless you belonged to a church or managed to stumble upon your true love in the grocery store aisle. College has become the number one way straight people find someone to marry. Most people go to college firstly to date and mate with education coming in a distant second or third. The current woke climate of rape culture awareness and penis-policing is one of the dumbest acts of self-sabotage ever perpetrated upon colleges and universities. If straight kids cannot go to college in order to get laid without the scrutiny of finger-pointing ninnies, they might as well skip college and its attendant crippling, inescapable, lifelong debt.

In an age without the internet, there weren't as many choices when it came to dating. Anyone who is a certain age remembers personal ads: tiny little bits of text in the classified sections of newspapers where people advertised themselves semi-anonymously in order to find dates. Though I was never brave enough to answer a personal ad in my single years, I used to enjoy combing through them for laughs and to creep myself out imagining who was actually writing them. Pictures were expensive to put in the paper back in the day -- at least in today's dating scene, there is more information about a potential suitor or mistress than a few photo-free lines of text. Additionally, potential dates can be intensively researched on the internet. You can bet your bottom dollar if I was single and looking in today's dating minefield that I would do the equivalent of a private investigation on my potential date before I so much as swiped right. Nowadays, any potential date can be vetted before a physical meeting. That is a tremendous advantage. Compare the old timey personal ad, which was like Forrest Gump's box of chocolates: you never knew what you were gonna get, in fact, you could not check out what he or she looked like. STD bug chaser? Sleepless in Seattle? Bigamist with four children? Serial killer? Yeah.

The improvement of videos, photos, and criminal records of the potential date becoming available does not seem to help the quality issues inherent to finding someone to pair off with. The problem with dating is... well, humans. The internet dating scene reminds me of the advent of cable television. More is not merrier. While it offered six hundred channels, there was still nothing on.

Etheric starvation is terrible, especially because it is the commonest condition of our times. Etheric starvation is a straight and unfettered road to addiction, fatigue, disease, and broken human relationships. It is the reason I am working on a book called Sacred Homemaking which seeks to repair the etheric via relationships with housing, the land, and its spirits, along with the courted assistance of the Divine.

Men tend to feel the sting of etheric starvation more acutely than women. Perhaps this is why there are always more men seeking to date women than women seeking to date men: they are hungry in more ways than one. Women do more etheric labor than men, which is to say women do more of the daily housework that enriches the etheric plane such as cleaning and cooking. Men of this era have lost both the ability and willingness to do housework and the more male etheric labors of building, maintaining, and fixing things around the home.

When I was dating from ages 16-24 in the late 80s and early 90s, the men I had to choose from were a pathetic joke. They weren't men so much as boys. The first guy I dated spent his late teens rotting in his parents' basement playing the primitive video games of the era and watching syndicated re-runs of Duck Tales, an animated spin off series about Disney's Scrooge McDuck and his nephews. Another guy asked me out to a restaurant, bragged about paying for his car in cash, and then surprised me by refusing to pay for a modest $12 meal, which obliged me to use one of my first credit cards. I was so new to it, I did not know where and when to sign. Needless to say, I did not agree to see him again. A guy I managed not to date became unemployable after a string of petty thefts from the cash registers of the fast food jobs he worked. He impregnated my friend when he was nineteen and she was seventeen. They had the child and tried to raise it together for a time; she ended up as a single mom. Their baffling relationship occurred despite his reputation of sleeping with over 100 girls (and some women) by the time he was out of high school.

In this era of etheric starvation, men and women are looking for the same thing: etheric nourishment. Sex of any sort is nourishing on the etheric plane. Even masturbation can offer some etheric benefits, though like anything, moderation seems to be far healthier than polar extremes of excess or absence. Etheric labor (housework) gives rise to etheric nourishment, and because women have either voluntarily or unwillingly given up their roles as etheric labor providers, etheric starvation has reached crisis levels.

The Low Quality Woman

The low quality woman is a grifter who depends either on her looks or a combination of her looks and catfishing in order to acquire what she believes she deserves. She lives in a mess subsidized by someone else's unearned wealth. She cares only about social media and her appearance. She is addicted to buying products and services she believes will improve her image. She is extremely expensive to maintain because she lacks the skills, humility, and energy to cook, clean, and work. To add insult to injury, she often has children in tow who are exposed and vulnerable to the men she fools around with. Age is her primary enemy: she cannot outrun it and as she ages, her prospects rapidly diminish because of her lack of valuable skills, spendthrift behavior, and her unwillingness to learn basic survival.

The Low Quality Man

The low quality man is the shiftless product of incompetent parenting. If he can be summed up in one word, it is "helpless". He could not fix a leaky sink if it walked up to him and gave him instructions. Any cooking or cleaning he has picked up is limited to reheated convenience food in a filthy microwave. Despite his life constantly being in shambles, he does not feel any pressing need to right the ship. He has relegated himself to the role of passenger in spite of being the captain. He is dependent and meekly waits for the day when either he or his enablers will die, in which case he will see what benefits he can scrounge from the local government. He is what we used to call a "scrub" back in the day: no motivation, no mojo, and no manliness.

Neither of these two are what anyone wants, but because of circumstance, there are plenty of low quality women and men available; in fact, it seems that they are the only types available.

What Men Want

Men want an etheric resource in a woman primarily as a source of healing. Men have a reputation of wanting more sex than women, but I don't know that this is the case. Young men of this era are more voracious where sex is concerned, but that seems to be the physiological result of addictive, mass-marketed porn, including the soft porn of video games. From my observations, men want cooking, cleaning, and CARING perhaps even more than they want sex, especially as they get older. Men would like a gentle place to land, plus a person and a home worth protecting.

Enter the Low Quality Woman. Often, she is so masculine on the physical plane, the casual observer would think he leans gay for staying with her. A reliably common scenario among straight people is the woman "letting herself go" after being pinned down in a long term relationship or marriage. This is a sign of taking the man for granted and lacking the kind of respect that would result in an effort to maintain the illusion of sweetness or softness. Instead, the warts are exposed for all to see, which leaves the man to either live in denial or to understand he was a fool who was tricked.

If there is a short list of what men want in a woman, I would say it is these, and not necessarily in this order: 1. Nurturing, including etheric labor and sex 2.Attractiveness and sweetness 3. To feel appreciated

What Women Want

Women want a provider and protector, especially if we have children. Feminism is a crock and a sham for the enrichment of idiotic astral pyramids. Women don't want to be their own warriors. We don't want to clean the house, bake the bread (I suck at baking bread, for the record), and to have to go out and win the bread as well. A woman needs a man who refuses to provide like a fish needs a bicycle. The overgrown man-child is about as useful as a benign tumor, and half the time he isn't benign. Sadly, the good providers who quickly get snapped up by high and low quality women alike are frequently so consumed by making big paychecks that they have no time to interact with the families they go to work to support.

Enter the Low Quality Man. He also lets himself go, albeit in a slightly different way. He's got an ego about it, and though he may see himself as a forthright paragon of truth and justice, this is more of an ideal born of extreme insecurity than reality. For him, taking the initiative and making a better life for himself and others is always One Day rather than Day One.

If there is a short list of what women want in men, I would say it is these, and not necessarily in this order: 1. A provider and protector 2.Initiative and independent self-motivation 3. Loyalty/fidelity

Maybe arranged marriages and marriage-as-property-alliance was better, but I tend to think the logical result of such marriages was the Hapsburgs and incest-breeding one's line out of existence. That's what happens when you try to keep unearned wealth in the family. I hope that in the future, people will find a happy medium between Tindr/Grindr and all in the family dowry betrothals... until then? Good luck.

The scene: a civilized neighborhood Christmas party in an upper-middle class home in the Midwestern US. The year: 1987. I distinctly remember one of the older neighborhood kids tell me his family was moving. Since his family's home was a perfectly adequate, roomy 4 bedroom, I asked why his family was moving away. His answer was because they "needed" a bigger home. Every 5-10 years they moved into a larger home after having enlarged whatever home they occupied. Their goal was ever-increasing real estate profits from ever-larger homes in a game that (for some people) does not end until they die and ostensibly pass the game pieces and board down to their children and grandchildren.

It Takes a Narrative

I often wonder how many memes it will take to grok the materialism of Millennials, the generation that claims to have rejected Boomer capitalism. Millennials often believe they are opting out of capitalism when the harsher truth is they've been cast out of elite circles and now lurk on the outsides, looking in. There is no opting out of capitalism -- though there are plenty of self-styled wokesters who preach about it while flipping their Thai hair weaves, eating salads of mostly store-bought ingredients off of Anthropologie plates, and broadcasting on TikTok. Nevertheless, the Millennial "I am a scrappy communist because I say I am" is a better narrative than the Office of Progress narrative, which is the idea that all functioning adults should be happy rotating from home cubicle to office cubicle, watching screens that tell them how to live at every opportunity while hopped up on injectable chemical concoctions.

Had my sex drive never asserted itself, I would have liked to have kept the trajectory I designed for myself at age 9: to work in an office, come home to a book-filled condominium on the second floor of a building in the town where I grew up, and to live my childless life between books, cats, and occasional solitary dinners outside my home with friends or family. I knew the exact place where I wanted to live. It was small consolation to realize I could not have afforded that condominium as a single spinster even if I had a much more lucrative job: the price of real estate was already soaring when I was in my teens and by the time I was in my late 20s, nobody with an income south of 60K could afford to live anywhere near my hometown in any sort of single family residence. By the time I was 25, it became perfectly apparent that if I wanted a condominium in such a nice place, I would have to marry a man in order for him to buy it for me, and that would have defeated the point as the whole fantasy was a lonely and solo one.

I flirted for a while with corporate jobs straight out of college. The pay I received was barely more than the babysitting gigs I had at age 14; it was laughable and pathetic. I wasn't willing to work my way up that degrading chain by trading all of my youthful energy for something that felt like a living hell. Plus the number of people able to benefit from the living hell was shrinking in the 1990s and is a great deal more diminutive now.

I Want You to Want Me

We are all supposed to want the elite Office of Progress lifestyle. You know the one: it involves driving the latest electric car, living in ever-larger homes, posting on social media, and drinking at least one Starbucks beverage a day. We are not supposed to think about how stupid it is to drive a car that is probably using electricity that originates from coal. Despite lip service given to greenwashing holidays like Earth Day, we are not supposed to consider the wastefulness of living in a big, mostly empty McMansion. As for social media, anyone who turns it off because it is boring or (GASP) does not have any presence at all on Insta, FB, Twitter, YT, etc. is considered a freak or an unfortunate. Those who reject Starbucks out of hand are just weird -- unwillingness to shell out six or more dollars for a mediocre calorie bomb of a drink is trés 1978, and not in a good way.

School

The point of public schooling in the 21st century is to neuter boys, often literally via the trans push, and condition the girls to work outside the home in the good old Office of Progress. My childhood was unhappy for one main reason: I did not sleep properly. Why could I not sleep properly despite having stable parents with no shortage of money? I was busy being conditioned to sit quietly in a desk dictating and absorbing elaborate orders. When I did not get along with other order-followers (who I was always being pitted against in academic and popularity contests) I was punished by ostracism. To think I could have been home actually learning for all those wasted years! 95% of my adult academic knowledge came from the 5% of free time when I could think unhindered on adequate sleep, far away from school. For instance, I learned most of what I know about plants from my mom and the books I used to identify common weeds from ages 13-19 during summers in Michigan. Cooking? That was learned from my mom and library books; the single Home Ec class I took in junior high was a farce. As far as English, the best way of getting me not to read a book is to put a deadline on it and mar it with a quiz or a test. Not that I was in any mood to learn while in school: I was so starved on every plane except the physical one, I wanted to kill myself. When etheric poverty is in full sway in the form of an ugly box one must sit in with other teenagers while being lectured by older inmates, there is nothing to improve the astral shield and hence nothing standing between the seedy lower astral and the developing mental sheath.

A Woman's Place is in the Home

If today's "liberated" woman was truly happy with working outside the home as a regular thing, we would not have seen so much outright sabotage designed to prolong the Panicdemic and to continue Zoom work-from-home schemes that are still going on to this day. The reason women want to stay home, including this woman, is because it is the magical formula of the woman to secure the homestead. Men were designed to hunt, to go to war, and to defend. Women were designed to make the home into a healing place where babies can grow into healthy adults and to give men a place worth defending. Without the healing influence of the home, we all feel more raw, vulnerable, exposed, and beaten by forces that are always getting at us. School is vile because it trains women to force themselves into the role of Atlas: winning bread outside the home and then having the double and triple roles of having the babies it is fed to and making it into sandwiches so everyone can have lunch. Anyone who thinks a woman can do all of these things and do them well is either smoking the strong stuff or has access to Supermom.

The consequences we all live down are all around us. Tired women who have nothing left after having to work all day end up with feral kids being raised by social media, or their husbands leave them because marriage is hard and it's twice as hard when there is nobody competent at home who can enchant the home into a protective symphony of astral, etheric, and physical shapes. Ugly environments of convenience attempt to replace craftsmanship and care, and though I am thankful for their gifts, I am also resentful that everything has to be so ugly and ignorant of etheric ebb and flow. I myself am an example of classic bad faith, caught between worlds while laboring outside the home and always schepping to make ends meet. I'm a long, long way from Buddha, renouncing my niceties and creature comforts to contemplate trees.

I have never had any problem with what does or does not go on in other people's bedrooms. I lean a bit gay myself, and if female-female relationships were somehow less fraught with drama than male-female ones, chances are I would have ended up married to another woman. In my self-conscious youth, I went out of my way to demonstrate how OK I was with other people choosing do do whatever they wanted with their own sexualities. I went to bars and pride parades. Every now and then, I expressed my open disgust at certain polarizing Christian groups that took Leviticus 18:22 literally, yet accepted shellfish-eaters and tattoo-wearers into its ranks without question.

I resisted being a TERF long after J.K. Rowling got cancelled for promoting women-only spaces. It was actually the long reaction to the release of Covid that ended my relationships with gay men. The few gay male friends I had uniformly turned into Wokezis who felt entitled to shame anyone and everyone except themselves.

There's an old adage that the Left will eat itself, yet the current mass hysteria about alternative sexuality was born in the Right. We would not have pushy genderqueer creeps attempting to insert themselves into children's story hour at the library if there had never been pushy evangelists who shouted from televisions and churches built on every corner during the last 200 years. We are on a pendulum that keeps swinging through sensible approaches to life from one heinous extreme to the other. On one side, there are sociopathic libertine clowns in full makeup and foundation-caked beards insisting that their autogynephilia isn't the same kind as the freakshow, serial killer kind captured in film The Silence of the Lambs. On the other side, we have equally septic narcissists who would slut-shame a dog walking in a park because her butt wiggled when she walked; transparently pre-occupied are they with the delights of perversion though they passionately preach otherwise.

In both cases, there is a shadow being carefully tucked away and denied.

I Won't Grow Up!

Adolescence is difficult to begin with, and it is far more difficult now than it ever was when I was growing up. Considering I almost took my own life back then because of how bad it was, to have it be worse now is a special kind of hell. I truly feel for the younger generations nowadays. I created a TikTok expressly for the reason of trying to help them in a way psychiatrists, counselors, and psychologists who are almost as common as preachy Christian hypocrites (and often one and the same) cannot.

I had friends who grew up as gay males in the 80s and 90s. It was rough -- they were bullied, harassed, and to make matters worse, teachers often looked the other way or even joined in. But as much as they might think they had it the worst, I was straight at the time and I was sexually assaulted multiple times in the halls of my junior high when I was only 12 years old. I was bullied and teachers often were just as bad as students. Public school was horrible and in the 80s, there was no awareness about bullies aside from caricatures in Back to the Future and John Hughes movies. The difference between me and my gay male friends is that I grew out of it and I no longer live my emotional life in junior high and high school.

Gay men are often ensnared by the Puer Aeternis archetype. Despite the aging, balding, pot-bellied image in the mirror, they are obsessed with the toxic myth of eternal youth. The reason gay men want to indoctrinate children is because they have confined their imaginations to eternal adolescence: obsessed with human beauty, preoccupied with sexual acts or a lack thereof, and constantly outraged from being trapped inside a persecution complex.

Gay women, ironically, are not as obsessed with youth because they want to mate with it so much as they see commandeering the young as a way to exercise control. Like the embittered Catholic nuns of yesteryear who ruled with an iron hand and a painful conductor's wand well-acquainted with children's wrists and arms, the gay women teachers of the new Millennium want to be dictators of their own banana republics. They want to erect statues to their own superhuman glory (making sure to tear down Abe Lincoln or George Washington as a bonus) like Miss Trunchbull in Matilda.

Don't Fear the Reaper

The trouble with putting all your unfertilized eggs in the ephemeral basket of appearance is that nobody ages in reverse. I thought I had an uphill battle as a woman when it came to letting go of being the prettiest in the room. As it turns out, my non-straight male peers were far worse at accepting the ravages of gravity and age. Just as certain women turn into plastic surgery addicts, choosing to have their skin detached and stretched out over a series of ever-degrading procedures known as face-lifts, certain men seek to turn back the clock by cross-dressing and occasionally amputating/augmenting their bodies in botched attempts to avoid adulthood and maturity. Notice how Dylan Mulvaney caricatures girls ages 8-18 and any given drag show parodies young Mariah, not present day Mariah. Mighty Saturn is their ultimate Kryptonite, and it is almost funny that they think they can outrun him.

Who You Callin' a Dictator?

It's also almost funny that so many "non-binary" people and their "allies" point the finger at the ostensibly straight accusing them of a dictatorship. There has never been an easier time in history to choose or declare your own sexual path. If anything, it is straight couples who wish to bear children who are most at risk at being shamed, excluded, marginalized, bullied, and attacked. Name one place in the US a straight person can live and not be constantly messaged with alphabet soup awareness propaganda: such a place no longer exists. After obtaining the right to get married, the push could have easily stopped and we all know it.

One thing that has become very clear in the last few years is just how beholden our entire economic system is to medical grift. Though it is estimated that 50% of the real economy has something to do with Pharmakeia, I would guess it is more like 80%. Everybody is out to make a buck on the chronically ill these days except for a handful that have somehow stayed out such as myself. Of course the medical dictatorship seeks to exploit awkward pre-teens and medicalize them into a lifetime of misery and dependence. That's how they roll. An industry that has zero problem with scamming the elderly and maiming and killing billions with forced vaccines isn't going to have any qualms when it comes to convincing kids to chemically castrate themselves and amputate working body parts, thus damaging themselves for the rest of their current incarnations.

One of my quiet agendas with all of the TikTok videos I make about healing herbs is to perhaps get the idea out there that treatments and cures are not limited to magic pills, amputation, and implants.

In a past life, I made the devastating claim that women had it easy compared to men. I was male at the time and it was one of those lifetimes that I began to become acquainted with the most common condition of our era: etheric starvation. Perhaps because I felt my wife was not able to provide the etheric bounty of the home I thought I deserved, I got snippy and made a rather universal pronouncement that I have been paying for ever since.

In this lifetime, I have had my nose ground into the sand of why women do not have it easy compared to men. For one, my period was a doozy. I began having it shortly after turning 12. It was a debacle nearly the whole time -- there were lots of almost-funny moments where I drank vodka screwdrivers at 3am while my sheets did a turn in the washing machine, which were a far better alternative to whimpering while in a fetal position in the bathtub between waves of gore and pain. Also not easy was the mystery surrounding the circumstances of my birth. I was told from a young age that I would have access to my birth records as an adoptee when I turned 18. This was a patent lie and I still do not know the name or identity of my birthfather.

Women do not have it easy, not by a long shot. Nevertheless, it is time that women stopped using our burdens as an excuse to make the world a far worse and more hideous place.

Girls Behaving Badly

If I had a dollar for every chubby, ill-kept, slovenly, high-riding, entitled single woman I have met who thinks she is owed her own Christian Grey, I would be writing this article from my country manor while my cook prepared a delicious breakfast. Just as the male equivalent of a frog should not expect supermodels to bear his children, there are a bunch of women who need a reality check. Yes, I get it that they have been told all their lives that they are princesses who deserve the best of everything, but you cannot have your cake and eat it too on this one. I am grateful for age because it gives me the ability to see that during the prime of my youth (age 21) I was at best an 8 on the 1-10 scale. As I age, this number slides ever downward, along with my jowls and my breasts. I would not have it any other way. One of the worst examples of nasty behavior I saw in my younger years was when a married woman in my circle made a rather public pass at a single man who was somewhat of an It Boy in our small pond of locals. She openly threw herself at the It Boy with her husband forced to watch. Luckily (?) for her husband, she was not much to look at and the It Boy took no interest. Perhaps that was the plan all along -- to some degree her outburst seemed like it was designed to fail. I have never understood why she dragged her husband into it by making her fantasies known.

Most people have unrealistic expectations -- that is the human condition. My argument is that it is worse in our era than in previous ones. Plenty of women are groomed to believe they can do it all; that would be me. Somewhere, doing it all gets confused with being provided for by a man, and I have battled that divide many times. I define etheric labor as any kind of work that improves the etheric plane, usually by drawing and transmuting energy from the surrounding astral and physical planes. Women do most of the indoor etheric labor in any given home and have been expected to do this form of labor since the beginning of the human race. Cooking, cleaning, and housekeeping are etheric labor. Teaching, feeding, and nurturing children is etheric labor. Traditionally male forms of etheric labor include farm work, mowing the lawn, routing out the pipes, and building. Men do etheric labor as well, but traditionally, men are expected to do the heavy lifting, often in the most literal sense.

Sigh, Go Get My Purse

The traditional marriage or co-habitation agreement tacitly states that the man will bring in the lion's share of the money and that the woman will take on most of the inside etheric labor. In Asian cultures, she usually controls the money the man brings in and is given the duty of being the house's accountant along with its maid, chef, and tutor. Nowadays, this arrangement has been thrown out with the bathwater. Women are often forced to bring in most if not all of the money, donating whatever they can make to a spendthrift man who wastes it far faster than she can make it. That is where the "Sigh, go get my purse" meme comes from: the dependent, lazy wastrel of a man who banks upon his limited sexual appeal and his woman's good nature in order to subsist a little longer as a financial parasite.

If there is an exact meme that encapsulates the female equivalent of Go Get My Purse, I have yet to find it and would appreciate your suggestions. The opposite pole of Go Get My Purse is an unemployed, spendthrift woman who does little to no etheric labor while expecting to be pampered and coddled with restaurant food, a beautiful and spacious home, and a handsome husband who is completely faithful and enslaved to her despite her own lack of effort. The advent of cheap petroleum seems to make this lifestyle possible if you don't look underneath the hood. This toxic feminine ideal is what drives so-called romance novels like 50 Shades of Grey.

Ugh, 50 Shades of Here We Go

True confessions: I have not read 50 Shades of Grey or its sequels in their entirety. I have not seen any of the films. I am going to come off as a major snob here: they were too insulting to my intelligence to read or watch. Keep in mind I will read and watch just about anything and that one of my favorite movies of all time is Spaceballs and I have read The Nanny Diaries several times. I don't hate 50 Shades of Grey because it is lowbrow or bourgeois. I hate it because it insults my intelligence.

When I wrote my own spoof of 50 Shades of Grey and Twilight, Shadeylight: Vella the Vegan Vampire in 2015, I found that I could not bear to read the source material (the third sequel to 50 Shades was published in 2012) for reasons mentioned earlier. Ditto for the Twilight sequels. Instead of reading them, I read reviews and went on bizarre flights of fancy that resulted in a very strange book indeed. In effect, the stereotypes of women and men in 50 Shades made me so angry, I decided it was easier to attempt to be funny when dealing with them.

There is a film called Book Club from 2018 that is little more than a flimsy marketing vehicle to sell the 50 Shades of Grey series. The "plot" of the film depicts four aging harridans -- a lineup of the usual actresses playing themselves: Jane Fonda, Diane Keaton, Candace Bergen, and Mary Steenburgen -- who read the 50 Shades series on a lark and find that it transforms their lives and relationships. According to the creators of Book Club, we older women should be obsessed with straight male peen. Just as we are coming into our own, throwing off the yoke of reproduction, and entering into an era when we must forge our identities outside of being objects of desire, Book Club attempts to throw us right back into the "YOU MUST BE PRETTY AND SEXUALLY APPEALING TO MEN IN ORDER TO BE FULFILLED" cauldron. No thanks. Spoiler alert: all of the characters either end up happily paired off with an ideal dude or in hot pursuit of one. Second spoiler alert: if you are a man who has the misfortune to watch Book Club, expect some utterly ridiculous caricatures of maleness such as rich, hair-plugged men being hot to trot for old 70-something harpies for no apparent reason.

The Cliques, the God-Forsaken Cliques

We women are supposed to band together and be friendly. For me, this has always been a tall order. At age four, I distinctly remember walking to the back of the bus that took me to a fancy pre-school and being stonewalled by a pair of girls who told me I could not sit back there. I sat up in the front of the bus, alone and near the bus driver. The same women most likely became mothers themselves and would have been outraged if their children were treated the way they treated me at age 4 -- karma is funny like that, isn't it?

If it weren't for the legions of women who decided to wear masks and get experimental vaccines, we would not have had the Coronapocalypse shut downs that decimated the middle class and ushered in the era of deadly MRNA quaxxines. Women are also responsible for the sickening infiltration of public schools by outright groomers who wear badges of faux-oppression and who seek access to children for reasons far outside enlightenment. Women were the protective wall that stood between all of these forces and the sanctity of the home, and they let the demons in while spreading their legs and offering up their kids.

In order not to feel as bad about the obvious immorality of kowtowing to the Latest Thing, they threaten anyone with a spine with removal and shunning from the clique. In their world where Slavery is Freedom and Weakness is Strength, it's far easier to try to punish a dissenter than to face their own evilness and lack of character in the mirror.

Women have roles to play outside the traditional, of course, and I'm all there for the Georges Sands and the K.D. Langs. I myself am not the traditional wife with children; I have no children by choice and I am the primary breadwinner of my humble homestead. That said, many of us women need to grow hell up and figure out what we are going to do with our short lives. I suppose I had better go first.

My relationship to my own femininity has always been complicated, to make the personal understatement of the century. As a child, I was torn between wanting to be "natural", i.e. a tomboy, which was in direct conflict with the urge to be a perfect princess with clean fingernails and well-behaved hair.

It's not easier to be a male or a female in this world. Both genders come with a long list of benefits and drawbacks. Confusion arises when people expect what's good for the goose to be automatically bad for the gander. For instance, the same sexism that traps a would be Amazon warrior at home is the tendency to protect the most fragile and precious members of society from being pregnant while blown to smithereens on the battlefield. Women are simply better or worse at some things than men when we acknowledge the immutable laws of limits.

The Inability to Discriminate

The inability to discriminate is a common end-of-empire phenomenon. It's a way of throwing all caution to the wind until you forget what it was you were being cautious about in the first place. All areas of the political spectrum participate in the inability to discriminate. For the affluent leftist, they do it by sending their children to corporatist indoctrination camps known as "schools" until their child suffers a list of dysmorphias-du-jour and spends countless hours in the psychotherapist's chair in a half-hearted attempt to remedy their misery. It's the same "more is better" initiative that causes right wing Christians to build brutalist faith factories complete with multi-million dollar sound systems and lighting setups when their God was a homeless champion of the poor.

The latest vogue is to apply the inability to discriminate when it comes to gender, that thing that made me a female back when I was being born to a 22 year old Japanese American woman in a Salvation Army medical center in 1973.

It's In the Hips

Gender is not a minor thing. Scientists can dig up fossilized bones from tens of thousands of years ago and determine if the person was male or female. Females have different bones, especially our hips, which are larger because they were designed to help us carry babies. As someone who didn't want to have children in this incarnation and who had myself sterilized in my early 30s to prevent any chance of procreation, I don't like the fact I have ample hips. I would have preferred the prevalent slim hips of an 80s movie star. When Sir Mix-A-Lot came out with his song Baby Got Back in 1992, it had me squealing in laughter as suddenly all my body dysmorphia about my big butt was put into a wildly unthinkable perspective. I had terrible dysmorphia issues about my face as well. All of my female friends had dysmorphia issues with very few exceptions. To be female in the end of the 20th century was to live cheek to jowl with dysmorphia. Every girlfriend I had was at least mildly if not severely anorexic by high school. Yet beauty is entirely in the eye of the beholder. One person's svelte is the next's emaciated. One's giant nose is another's ancestral sculpture. And there's also that inconvenient reality that looks are not everything...

Red Tide

Of course I had to get my period shortly after my twelfth birthday and of course it had to happen on the softball field during school. Be careful what you wish for! I have an unfortunate (or fortunate?) talent not to be able to do anything half-assed, and my period was a red tide from the bowels of hell. Think the Kubrick version of The Shining's elevator scene. At age 33, I would regularly turn green from pain and double over in the fetal position if I didn't preemptively swallow four Advil. Back then, one was supposed to suck it up and ignore the pain in order to get good grades. I wasn't able to get good grades with ease, so missing school would have meant academic failure worse than the D's and C's I often pulled in my senior year of high school. Now in hindsight I realize I should have been completely out of school four to six days a month just to deal with my period. Instead I went to the school bathroom every hour to change my soaked dressings for six years, then four more when I went to college, when it happily slowed down to changing once every 3-4 hours. Yes, this means at night I had to wake up every hour to change my pad and later on my tampon and pad, and to re-medicate with Advil, which was the only thing that worked. Anyone who says it is easy to be born female or who romanticizes being born female should consider what having a heavy, painful period every month will be like, because the gods have a funny habit of teaching us lessons the hard way.

I no longer have my period. I don't miss it, but I do miss my young womanhood which seemed to thoroughly depart just as my beloved cat Kiki died at age 15. I miss the old Kimberly's mojo, her ability to embrace the spontaneous, and her scathing wit that came from a place of blackened nihilism. This new Kimberly is not the same. She is more cautious and less quick to judge, but also more timid and less tolerant of thoroughly dissenting views.

Motherhood

When I was looking for my Japanese birthmother in my early 30s, I ran face-first into the crapfest of female exploitation and misogyny that plagues Western culture. My birthmother did not provide her name. It was only through careful sleuthing and a few lucky breaks that I found out her information. My original birth certificate was conveniently lost even though I was promised all of my young life that I would have access to it upon turning eighteen. I was born into an adoption mill. My parents bought me for about sixty grand, which was an absolute fortune in 1973. My birthmother was one of the only unwed mothers in the baby mill who eagerly surrendered her parental rights, hoping never to be found or contacted again. The other birthing moms, most only in their teens unlike my mom, gave away their babies with horror and sadness. One birthmom who later became my friend spent years trying to find her daughter only to be rejected and turned away. As a child of one of society's harlots, I had no rights to my own family name or my genetic predispositions. The birthmom who had her baby at age 16 and later overcame hell and high water to find her, only to be rejected, also had no rights. She was a "slut" who had been too easy and had let her boyfriend at the time have his way with her. Of course he disappeared once she was pregnant and had to be shunted off to a city a thousand miles away to have his shame baby. Adoption mills do not exist in cultures that love and respect women and girls.

The fear of getting pregnant was a cross I bore from the age of twelve until thirty-three when I had myself sterilized. I spent my entire young womanhood terrified of pregnancy. At no time did I ever want to become pregnant. I didn't fear becoming pregnant because I would be a bad mother; I feared becoming pregnant because I would have no choice but to become a good one. I still feel that anyone who would force a woman to carry a baby to term against her will is a disgusting barbarian unworthy of the freedoms he or she enjoys. Never once do these types admit that it's about controlling the female who carries the baby, not the actual baby. The proof is in the pudding when it comes to providing a viable support network for young, single women that does not cast them into generational cycles of vicious poverty.

As @mikevyers said on his banned, deleted, Streisand Effect-viral TikTok Dr. Phil video when addressing some bearded M-to-F crossdressers:

"What you want to do is appropriate women. You appropriate womanhood and then basically turn it into a costume that can be worn."

Exactly. You don't get to take billions of years of planetary biology and pretend the pain of menstruation and childbirth never happened. You don't just erase the for-profit baby mills of the last few centuries. You don't get to pretend little boys have the same media-implanted dysmorphic images in their heads as little girls. You don't get to erase the soul-disintegrating terror of what it is to have sex or be raped and get pregnant as a result. You don't get to pretend you understand the mind-rending pain of miscarriage. You don't get to pretend you're a female just so you can win a series of absolutely meaningless accolades for Best Swimmer like William "Lia" Thomas. You don't get to pretend that several major religions didn't bar all those with your genital set from all roles other than pretty little f**k machine, baby factory, and housekeeper. And at least if you're going to appropriate womanhood, shave off the goddamn beard and mustache, you pathetic, lazy, weak-minded poseur. Yikes... I guess the old Kimberly is back for the moment!