The words “I love you” have a physical effect on me: The blood drains from my face, I start to sweat, my throat dries up and I run from the room. It’s a guaranteed conversation killer. Of all the four letter words, “love” is the most odorous and foul of them all. It is a garbage truck that pulls up to your curb under the premise of removing your trash then, instead, dumps its load on your doorstep.
A declaration of love draws you into a contract in which you can never repay your assumed debt. It turns lithe, sturdy shoulders into a guilt laden hump. It flattens the arch of your soul, offers a saddle blanket intricately woven with blame, starched with promises, washed in tears and tumble dried with misplaced faith.
Romantic relationships are narcissistic, selfish affairs. It’s rather ironic that the inception of romantic relations was promptly followed by women becoming repulsive parasites. As soon as a woman acquires an emotional commitment, her previous lack of happiness transforms to become the result of her partner’s inattention, her frustrated career become a helpless condition of her partner obstructing her path. Where she had to take control of her destiny she can now foist her fears and foibles onto her companion’s hapless shoulders because she believes “all you need is love” so your love must suck.
Romantic relationships create a kind of insanity that can’t be cured. It is a fraud. Snake oil in a ribbon wrapped box of chocolate fudge. Supporting this neurotic, delusional state will never recover the sunk costs of our investment. Even as the tower of illusion groans with inevitable collapse and every spare moment of your time is spent patching the holes in the mortar of your mangled heart we are assured that it was not due to the faulty foundation of the structure, it was a result of poor maintenance of the roof tiles.
In case it hasn’t become clear, I’m a WGHOW. I’m boycotting women. As a bisexual, I lucked out and have an alternative but I still live in the same world with the wraiths of walking wounded, struggling in a sea of insecurity and brandishing my wit as my only weapon.
The sociologist Erich Fromm wrote that “mature love is union under the condition of preserving one’s integrity, one’s individuality.” That’s the Dijon of mating mustard for the connoisseur of commitments. I reject all relationships that ask me to sacrifice my well being for the sake of making someone else feel better about themselves. I am not a commodity. I’m not a happy pill to be kept capped in your vanity cabinet. People that make their happiness your problem are coaxing a co-dependency where there ought to be mutual self-respect.
MGTOWs are accused, among other things, of being selfish but self-love is something entirely different. Someone who doesn’t love themselves is incapable of loving another and, additionally, will warp all relationships into vampiric feasts for their feckless facade. But we don’t owe them an explanation.
“If other people do not understand our behavior—so what? Their request that we must only do what they understand is an attempt to dictate to us. If this is being “asocial” or “irrational” in their eyes, so be it. Mostly they resent our freedom and our courage to be ourselves.”
I’ve met two self-proclaimed relationship experts. Both were in the business of teaching people how to put their own needs aside, cater to the whims of their partners, and support their partner emotionally even where they disagreed with what their SO was doing or saying. They were coaching their clients how to make symbiotic two person cults. They transformed individuals into a barnacle on a whale, a cleaner fish in an aquarium, a fly on a lump of dung.
While the experts insisted clients always focus on their own insufficiency in conflicts, both of these experts eagerly explained their personal marital failures as an inability of their partners to follow the rules of relationship. Taking responsibility for yourself is a great idea but it’s somehow been manipulated to demand you fuse yourself to another until their emotional state becomes your own. This obliteration of individuality can not support meaningful life.
Contrary to what feminists claim, these farces are not played out because any one gender controls the world. The strife exists because both genders experience a legitimate lack of control in the world. When you inspect the rabbit hole of relationships it turns out to be a microcosm of the human battle to overcome insignificance. The macrocosm is much more trouble to deal with so we’ve been railroaded into blaming each other instead.
Ernest Becker, a sociologist, psychologist, and anthropologist, spent his life trying to understand and solve the problem of human evil. He arrived at the concise conclusion that we are ultimately all driven by a shared need to feel like a significant being in a world of meaning.
Since we can’t overcome death, merely hope to put it off, we busy ourselves with what he called “immortality projects” in order to satisfy that compulsion. Some people achieve fame, others are satisfied with being known and admired by associates, and some just reproduce like bunnies until they feel their number of ancestors will successfully carry on their legacy until one of them manages to hit the immortality jackpot on behalf of all preceding generations. You might have noticed genealogy is a rabidly growing obsession and there will soon be more family tree graphs in existence than we have of the bark variety.
While “evil” seems a dramatic word for folks that are crouched over the search page results of people who share their surname, the consequences of these death denying quests do not remain as harmless. The study of human evil is not new. The same fears that fuel the furious fires of our love lives feed the flames of nationalism, racism, genocide, bigotry, and war. Our immortality projects aren’t hobbies and despite needing our companions to validate our significance, these drives put us in direct conflict with the competing projects of our consorts. This is the human tragedy. Our Divine Comedy.
“Nobody was very happy with the way history and civilization had turned out, and many thinkers of that time supposed that if the first steps in the process of the oppression of man by man could be pinpointed, then the decay of civilization might be arrested and even reversed.”
Becker didn’t want his final work, Escape From Evil, published because he thought it was too cynical but the only way to dispel a darkness is to turn on a light. What makes Becker’s work significant is that, though he practised “soft science,” Terror Management Theory (TMT) has now progressed his ideas and accumulated empirical evidence that his assessment of the human condition was correct.
People have learned to fetishize perceived evil, giving it a killable form, in order to gain false security in an uncontrollable world in which they find themselves immersed. This is where feminism comes in with a jackhammer and pulverizes the residual cement that held marriages intact. When they declared men to be the source of evil, feminists created a bonding group to which women could cling while they set about exterminating the threat. It’s absurdly unique that the movement demanded that the threat remove itself then blamed the enemy for abandoning their stations.
Men fight a different battle, they are on the true hero’s journey.
“The usual hero adventure begins with someone from whom something has been taken, or who feels there is something lacking in the normal experience available or permitted to the members of society. The person then takes off on a series of adventures beyond the ordinary, either to recover what has been lost or to discover some life-giving elixir. It’s usually a cycle, a coming and a returning.”
The condition of loss or lack is shared but the mode of travel is strikingly different. Where feminists used blame and shame demanding men fix their problem, men are just asking obnoxious women to fuck off. The MHRM doesn’t hate women who take the hint.
The question that remains to be answered is whether or not women will become something to which we wish to return. Unlike many in the MHRM, I’d fuck a feminist if only to see the look on her face when I googled up my articles on AVfM in the afterglow. (Amateurs should not try this at home.) The problem with actually bedding the bitches is that the moment a feminist opens her mouth she gets less attractive with each sentence. The mouth that had me longing for a kiss takes on the appearance of two worms wriggling around a crusty crack in the sidewalk. It’s hard to make it to the bedroom when you have to keep saying “this isn’t going to work if you talk.”
I’m a satirist. Laughter is what gets me through the day but do not mistake the nature of my comedy. It is dark and expresses a message though it stops short of offering a solution. As a woman in the MHRM it is not my place to tell men what to do. I spread my message with humour because when people are laughing they open up to information they might otherwise reject. Satire is a form of social criticism that uses sharp tongue to incite improvement in the behaviour it mocks. It is not nice.
Honesty and courtesy are rare bedfellows. When it comes to tolerating stupidity I’m a cold-hearted bitch and proud of it. As a WGHOW I won’t tell you what to do because I’m not in the business of fixing people the way I like them. What I can do is lend my voice in an accountable, responsible way with the passion and commitment required to reach as many closed minds as possible.
Going your own way doesn’t have to mean giving up on the human race.