Sweet Nothings

I can’t help it. I think it’s funny when men get angry at me for not reacting in a predictable manner in terms of what they’ve come to expect from women. I feel sorry for him too in that apparently his experiences with women are sort of in the “I can’t win” category and then I come along such that everything he thought he knew about women has to be thrown out the window. Some guys are just more invested in their framework on women than they are in being receptive to an exotic like me. That is not only of course their right but the norm.

Being an odd duck is not just about the things I say and the thoughts I have which do not fit most popular narratives. The “popular narrative” is such because it is easy to swallow. The truth, however, is problematic. It is unacceptable and that makes it unsexy, by most people’s sexuality.

The truth scares me. I admit it. It’s also not terribly respectful, with “respect” (thanks to Aretha Franklin) some sort of entitlement of birthright not borne out of merit. It is not respectful to say that the degradation of society is largely the fault of men who acceded to their base desires to please women rather than rule them with their superior intellect and physicality, while meanwhile being utterly fooled by the popular narrative (because women are) on how to please women.

It doesn’t matter how many failed relationships or divorces might clue him in that some patterns of his just might need breaking. Most of the time, by the time reality takes hold, his sex drive and overall drive to fucking change things is gone, and so, for the sake of peace, he merely capitulates.

When most men come after me they’re usually operating under the assumption that since I’m super “intelligent,” then I can be reasoned with such as to see life their way and then fit comfortably in the space for women they have devised in their lives, comfortably compartmentalized, with a brilliant career, a gaggle of girlfriends, and otherwise fully self-contained without a man, and therefore unquestionably faithful.

The other option is that they assume that I want to be complimented and put on a pedestal. They therefore are more concerned with pleasing me than showing me that a) they can handle the truth; b) they are unafraid of their own male power because they are their own masters.

Of course there’s also the assumption that I not only have drive and means to support them in a way they would like to be accustomed but that my own achievement is my primary motivation for living. Well yes, there’s money, but no, I can’t get a hold of it. Getting it will require access to power that I don’t have. Maybe I’ll get lucky and someone within international banking, the U.S. Government, or German Government will decide to be my advocate, but, given my views, such assistance isn’t likely to fall into my lap. Would I subsume my views to grovel for it? Sure if I thought it would do any good (and I have). Do I assume that some well-meaning but woefully inexperienced lawyer has what it takes? No. I don’t. It’s fucking complicated and not terribly believable until one takes the time and the attention span to fully comprehend the impossible web my missing international con artist husband and the above institutions have woven for me. So yes, a patient problem solver with access to power would be hugely helpful to me. Whether such would even be attracted to me or be merely motivated by a portion of the proceeds is the dilemma. It would probably be the latter, unless he can be wholly appeased by cigar fetishism. I can sit, talk, sing, swim, dance, drink, and eat for fucking hours while looking incredibly good doing it. I can also type, read, research, and all that stuff well, I’m just having trouble motivating myself to act in my own interest if the payoff is merely that I can sit, talk, sing, swim, dance, drink, and eat with men who do nothing more than affirm me, ply me with more, and then beg me to allow them to worship me.

I suppose there are worse purgatories. Change “men” to “women” however and I am going to need some seriously strong drugs.

But even writing a book on the complexity of the issue isn’t likely to solve it because it’s the tip of the iceberg of an international scandal that has a high probability of causing massive amounts of panic among nice people such that, they will either refuse to believe it or blame me, the messenger for imposing that impossible information on their brains like some sort of virus. On the other hand, I could even inadvertently teach men on how to do this thing to other women which would be like the most negative, karma-debasing, horror I could imagine for my legacy. Therefore, it has become abundantly clear to me, that this information needs to be either quarantined or set forth like a bomb within a population that needs to be neutralized (and this effect has probably already begun). I therefore need to be shut the Hell up.

Meanwhile, there is something I can do, and that is I can educate in terms of the interpersonal, intersex dynamics of the broader, germinating issue of gynocentrism. But only those who are open and can handle it and aren’t bent on eradicating it in favor of fanciful notions of equality. However, such education isn’t likely to lead to any particular satisfaction for me. It’s merely exercising my skills as a writer and my grasp of the issue. I would way rather be cooking for and pleasing a man. Second choice would be distractions of a more personal nature. That last is what most men think that they are up for even if they usually make the mistake of attempting to grasp my dilemma rather than merely compartmentalizing it as not dangerous to the enterprise.

However, if that second choice is my life going forward then I probably should forgo most of such tame and “safe” opportunities for “fun” and “socializing” in favor of just going out and getting a job in some form of international law or finance that ideally won’t turn me into a target of American Princess Catfighting. To avoid that otherwise apparent inevitability, it would behove me to start looking and acting like a male who thinks he’s a female, who, apparently, I can already currently pass for in some quarters (but not to the discerning).

So, what do I want out of a man? I’ve made it pretty clear in this blog in terms of the basic qualifications. In terms of the time required in order to be given the blueprint for the “fun” parts, that isn’t something I even know yet, but that blueprint is deceptively simple, subject to vast individual reserves of creativity and customization, and isn’t something that can be “trained,” because he either has it in him or he doesn’t.

For what it is worth, I have determined that I can work with either a youthful and vigorous man or an old and mentally strong one however a loss of faith in humanity would be a positive not a negative even if such a man need be capable of supporting himself with ideally a little extra left over but maybe we can come up with something together to develop that little bit extra.

It took Axel three dates to figure out that a session together would be a challenge he was prepared to undertake. However he was largely informed by his experience with far more volatile women than I, was ready to completely discard his idealized vision of womanhood, and was up for both the challenge and the likelihood of a reward that was up his alley in terms of what I offer. He also met me when I was far less intellectually expressive than I am today and furthermore experiencing psychological phenomena that I could not describe adequately except in terms of terror and grief, not to mention fainting at inopportune moments. Therefore, my mind wasn’t the obstacle that it is today. Besides, he gave me an opportunity to demonstrate my character and truthfulness with actions, and even allowed me to entertain him.

Long before he had met me, Axel had sailed through a hurricane with his much larger physically and verbally abusive father, who was a lousy sailor, but insisted on being the captain until he was thankfully injured by his own hubris. The lives of the two of them depended wholly on Axel whose strength, resourcefulness, and knowledge of physics and biophysics allowed him to not only neutralize his father’s vicious tongue, but save them both, even if, for a moment Axel realized that he could probably save his own life and the boat, if only he could kill his own father. Perfectly physically capable of such a horrible deed, Axel chose instead to sacrifice the boat, humiliate his father, and become a legend with the local U.S. Coast Guard.

Oh how I wish I could do justice to Axel’s telling of that story.

Axel had more courage, wisdom, and heart than most. He determined that even though I’m big, strong, emotional, and in crisis, I wasn’t a danger to him or myself, and so he set the sails, as he explained, grabbed hold of the ropes, and captained me to calm waters.

Unsurprisingly, he did not do these things by engaging me over the phone or anonymously and rhetorically over the internet.

3 thoughts on “Sweet Nothings

  1. Pingback: Sweet Nothings | Manosphere.com

  2. Pingback: Hello World | caprizchka

  3. Pingback: Dear Harry Smith | caprizchka

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