I was standing there at my job site, an utter hellhole which had never been ready for my contribution to the renovations; I’m a flooring installer, and I require the general construction to be complete before I add my professional touches for the leisure class; needless to say, the renovations hadn’t even begun, but I didn’t know this at the time; it turned into an utter sideshow of agony, akin to trying to have sex while giving birth; why would you do such a thing?
It started out innocently enough, the guy was going to remove two hallway closets, a bedroom closet, and use the space to expand the bathroom. As all the necessary spaces were in the same area, and somewhat out of the way, it wasn’t terribly inconvenient; but it cost me two days of prep-work, because I had to prep two halves of the house at separate times, and being an hour drive from home, this it also cost me in gas. It snowballed from there, going from changing the direction of the vinyl plank to diagonal, to ripping out drywall in an area I was about to enter. What would have been a two week job, turned into a four week job stretched over two months; and the only reasons I kept plugging away at it was, I needed the work (usually not a major driving factor in my tolerance for retardation, but…), and the guy’s wife was due to give birth and they were hoping to be moved in before that happened… it didn’t.
So there I am, at the final stage, the most ignorant part of the job without the rest of the hang-ups involved, ready to burn the house down, smoking a cancer stick and staring at the chains on my van which were required to get up the icy driveway. It dawns on me the inane importance of having kids; I have three of my own, all girls (guess I’m not man enough to have a boy), and I’m pragmatic enough to understand that those girls will be my only real contribution to humanity. In my job, I bust my body all day, not for my customers necessity, but for their luxury; my customers literally walk all over my best work, and there’s no real benefit to them that I do this; unlike carpenters, plumbers or electricians, my customers won’t suffer by making do with plywood floors.
I’m reminded of a little fridge magnet my mother has which has a charming feminist sound bite, “Well behaved women rarely make history.” This of course brings to mind several connotations that the feminist who wrote it didn’t think about; first, that neither do well behaved men; second, in order to make history, you actually have to DO something, either for or against humanity; third, most people don’t care to make history even when the opportunity is handed to them, more often than not, they make history by accident.
There will never be a flooring emergency which I will miraculously solve in the dead of the night in forty below weather, which will somehow save lives; nor will I ever acquire the skills necessary to solve some great humanity mystery. I will never do the flooring in the White House, Buckingham Palace, Parliament Hill, or even so much as a three star hotel. My job is one of invisible luxury, in which case, should I be doing my job in the house of anyone of any sort of fame, they will never know who did the floors, only that something doesn’t seem quite perfect enough for them to tread upon. So much for the down sides, Patriarchy hurts men too, right.
So why is it I actually do my job. First and foremost, every job is different, therefore it’s a constant challenge; even cookie-cutter homes are slightly different. Second, it keeps me in reasonable shape, maybe not “good health”, but that’s mainly due to other life choices (smoking and energy conservation). Third, I work in women’s houses; people ask “who controls the money” well, who chose the color of the floor, it ain’t cheap, and neither am I; as an added bonus, I have a foot fetish, and women are comfortable being barefoot at home; I’ve also had some experiences that any blue piller would envy, but would suck the breath from any sane red piller. Fourth, it puts food on the table; when there isn’t a recession, I make damn good money, which exacts a hard toll on my body (if women are “taking over” during a recession, why am >I< not working?
Because the money they use to afford me, come from husbands pockets). Finally the fifth reason, it’s a happy medium; it’s above the minimum wage status, yet below the responsible status; that is to say, I won’t be viewed as someone stuck in a “no-where job” at some fast-food joint or gas jockeying, or packing groceries; but I’m also not responsible for any flaws which may endanger the inhabitants of the house after I’m gone: carpenters build houses which hover over the homeowners, plumbers install pipes which will hold water in lines hidden in and under the house, and electricians install inherently dangerous wires in all the walls and floors and ceilings, and those trades are responsible for any “accidents” which happen after; I… am responsible for something peeling up off the floor and scratching a toe, yet I will hear more grief about how my job looks, than any of those guys together, cuzz cosmetics are of almighty importance, but a cheap plastic shower stall is… “prudent stinginess”.
So now I’ve assessed my worth to civilization and humanity in general as little more than a sperm donor and parasite feeder; yay me. The sad thing is, this is the reality for most men in general; our greatest contribution to humanity, having kids and
raising them enabling adulthood. Even IF, through some miracle of “good parenting” we inflict the next great mind which MAY change the world as we know it, we will be nothing more than a footnote as “son/daughter of Mr and Mrs who cares…”; yet that is good enough for us, we can wear that with pride, “that’s my child!”
The people, who have impacted the world the most, have had few – if any – kids of their own. It seems strange to me, that a man’s life can be summed up as such, “I made it to old age, I paid my taxes, and I’ve had kids.” I’m not knocking kids, I love my three girls and hope the best for them, they are my… everything; there’s no other way to state it, they are literally, the sum total of my contribution – as just another cog – to humanity, and that’s just plain reality.
When I came to this realization, as I flicked my butt across the icy driveway, my heart sank. It’s not that I’m ashamed of amounting to very little; I’m pragmatic enough to understand that the world can only handle so many Albert Einsteins, Nelson Mandelas, Richard Dawkins’, etc. No, it’s because us cogs, whose only contribution is our kids, who are willing to invest our blood sweat and lives, to ensure those kids see adulthood with the best chance we have the means to provide. Those kids are the very weapons which can be used to decimate us in a matter of heartbeats; for blue pillers, it is abject blindness that they have kids in the quantity that they do; for us red pillers, it is profound courage under a Sword of Damocles.
An interesting tale that; The Sword of Damocles. Damocles was pandering the fortune of the tyrant Dionysius, who offered up his throne; Damocles eagerly accepted, but Dionysius had a sword hung over the throne by a horse hair; Damocles soon gave the throne back as “too much fortune for such a humble man as himself”. A powerful story for the MGTOW community.
I am saddened, that so many women would eagerly cut the horse hair on a whim. Not only would they cut it without a moment’s thought, but ridicule the man’s demise; and then have the gall to wonder why other men aren’t rushing up to replace him, and shaming them for not having the balls to meet her desires.
And yet, while kids become the shackles and tools of torture and execution for women to use against men, they represent a life “do-over” for women. What I mean to say is, no matter how terrible the life choices a woman makes, when she has a kid, it’s like she’s considered to be reborn; tools of her redemption, to remake their mother’s lives. I don’t get it. I remember often hearing “kids are blessings from god”; and when I still believed, I always wondered why nuns never had children, and yet the sewage of society bathed in brats.
I can understand why men would risk their lives for their children, after all, they are in fact, their lives, the whole point of their continued existence. What I can’t understand, is how we let our kids become the legislated tools of women; kids are kids, not tools… aren’t they?