This is my take on Feminism, particularly the Radical varieties of today:

It isn’t about cat calling, or rape, or women’s liberation. It’s not about sex, violence, or discrimination. It’s not even about reproductive freedom, abortions, or some supposed sexual revolution.

It’s about hating men, and blaming them for their own unhappiness. It’s about using men as a scapegoat for all the poor decisions they’ve made in their lives, for their own moral failings. It is their own subconscious shame spilling over into a conscious mind filled with so much solipsism and narcissism that it cannot continue to exist without projecting the shame onto a perceived “other.”

When such women come into contact with one another, they reinforce their own delusions, creating the notion of an all-powerful male force for evil, dogging their every step, holding them back, creating this consuming shame and depression. They don’t understand that their unhappiness is their own fault, that if they truly desire self-responsibility, they must exercise it on their own rather than petition the very supposed evil force they decry with every other breath to do it for them.

Someone told these women, once upon a time, that being women, and feminine, was somehow a great injustice. That biology made slaves of them, and that the life of a woman was filled with misery and subservience. Children, caring for others, family life… these were great evils at worst, and inconveniences at best. But their equal hatred of men prevented them from finding pleasure in the masculine sense, too. The dirty jokes and foolish acts that, paradoxically, often bond groups of men together were denounced by them as sexist-racist-homophobic. Notions of hard work and meritocracy, usually paramount among men, and the satisfaction of achievement were not enough.

So nothing in life, whether masculine or feminine, could ever make them happy. Their sole remaining purpose, the only thing that gave them even a shadowy reflection of satisfaction, became to destroy the happiness of others. To hate upon the house wife, to become angry with the nurse, to call all men rapists and pig-dogs. Even women who thrived in the world of men were decried as internalized misogynists. Even men who worshiped at the altar of feminists were to be scorned and spurned as lower than slime.

And when a woman is broken, and a man penniless, they can feel a moment’s pleasure at having shared their misery and spread their poison. Misery doesn’t love company — it craves it. But like any drug, its pleasures are fleeting, and ever-greater amounts of the drug are required to obtain the high.

Only when the entirety of civilization is brought low, and humanity reduced to barbarism will they be satisfied. Of course, when that happens, they, themselves, will finally be put out of their misery.

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