God loves everybody. However, God doesn’t pay taxes.
Simply existing ought not to be reason enough to be subsidized. I’m not talking about investments in one’s retirement that eventually pay off such as Social Security. I am talking about forcing taxpayers to subsidize the nonproductive. I’m not even certain that it makes sense for the working and middle classes to subsidize baby-making. After all, such provides a downward pressure on wages by increasing the pool of excess labor.
I have some controversial views, it is true, that make it difficult for me to tolerate small talk, particularly among women or those men who somehow believe that women are “goddesses.” Naturally, I have my own biases to include the notion that there may still exist a man out there who I am capable of worshiping myself. Am I jaded? Does my jaundiced view go with my acid tongue?
Such is a good enough reason to mandate that I be taken off of the internet and otherwise cease to write this blog. Instead, I could be indentured into servitude. Should my taskmaster be one who I admire, this situation would likely magically transform my outlook into radiance and encouragement, because that’s what servitude has done for me before. Or it could result in my relatively new dental implants being knocked in, because, that sort of situation was where the events occurred which eventually necessitated their installation. That was thirty or so years ago. My conclusion is that there is something about my bearing which infuriates certain men and women who are so beaten down by life that they seem to find it a good idea to transmit that experience to me.
I suspect that this aspect of my bearing that incites certain people has to do with my mother’s own diva bearing, as a soprano of some note. Some people thought that I would take after her in that regard however there was room for only one diva in our household.
I chose instead to deliberately scratch up and deepen my own voice rather than to compete with my mother on her turf. I have no regrets there. Neither do I have regrets in not pursuing a lounge singer career myself because there’s only so much of “artists” (like my mother) who I can tolerate.
My former avid weightlifting persona has made my posture even more formidable than my mother’s. The result of this posture makes me look like a physical threat even if I don’t have a track record of it except in self defense. This is just one reason why I’ve decided not to keep up with the weightlifting and otherwise allow some of my own gravitas to recede. I still work on posture exercises though, not just to appear attractive and feel good about myself but to look a little less like a victim in this world of ours.
At various times in my life, I have found myself in relationships with certain highly-charismatic men, such as Axel, such that I could comfortably recede into the background of their radiance. Obviously, it was my mother who “trained” me for this sort of role in my relationship to her. It is unfortunate that some of these men would occasionally transform their high-wattage personalities into violence, which, of course, is not the same as BDSM which, is supposed to enhance everyone’s life rather than degrade it. Enhancement and degradation are in the minds of the participants not the observers.
I think that I would be willing to adopt a brighter “celebrity” sort of role in life if I had some sort of behind-the-scenes director who would demand that I do it in service to him. However, I am talking “big fish in a small pond,” rather than anything that would get me into Who’s Who. Even better would be some sort of partnership, where we could “switch” between whose public persona brightens and whose recedes depending on our individual needs. In private, however, I only play in one direction. In public, I would probably require a kick under the table now and then, when my mouth starts running faster than my own survival instincts.
An infant, on the other hand, is the “celebrity” of a family. Expecting to perpetuate one’s infancy is sort of how the welfare class behaves. It is a curious paradox how someone who provides no value to speak of other than existing would assume that simply behaving as if one owns the world entitles one to it. The “Lottery Winner Effect” illustrates this phenomenon further in that few Lottery winners have anything to show for it down the road.
It would seem to me that Feminism is sort of like a Lottery where one keeps buying tickets (or buying into Feminist talking points) and then comes to feel entitled to winning. Those who “win” are likely to lose their gains, and those who never “win” but keep playing may or may not ever lose their idealized view of the Lottery. Instead of demanding that the Lottery be abolished or even just walking away from the Lottery, they demand that the pool of Lottery ticket buyers increase, as if that will help.
Persons possessing this view are not deserving of the franchise of the vote, and cannot handle the responsibility thereof. Slavery is too good for them but perhaps the only reasonable civic administration of their survival, assuming that they are not helpless sacks of lard incapable of accomplishing a single blessed thing.
It is these sorts of thoughts, to include my desire to repeal the entire spate of Progressive Era Amendments to the Constitution, which inhibit my ability at small talk. These are just some of the challenges to my own existence.