Part One: Context
Nov. 26th, 2023 04:49 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
zeppelinI need to work my way through this, through a decade and a half of garbage, so bear with me. It's heavy stuff, and I'm out of practice with this whole long-form blogging thing.
It used to be easy; I started blogging twenty and a half years ago, when I was 13, on a dead and wonderful site called LiveJournal. By the time I met the man this post is about, I was an old hand at blogging - but not, alas, an old hand at understanding humans.
I am about to make oldschool blogging look really bad, so I want to take a moment to try to convey to the Younger Generations just how excellent the old internet was. You could meet anyone and talk about anything, and achieve genuine intimacy in a way that isn't possible on tumblr, the site that ultimately replaced LJ, or anything with an algorithm. I recognize I sound old, but back in the day this thing really was better.
Which is not to say things were perfect; just because you could form genuine social connections doesn't mean that they were valuable or edifying. As Dr. Jeckyll, who became an old and dear friend, likes to say: it doesn't take all sorts to make a world, but that's what you find there.
We met when I was nineteen or twenty. He is my father's age.
You can see where this was going.
Being nineteen and a social freak, I didn't. As I told Mr. Hyde, one valuable function of the old style western patriarchy was to protect virgins from disreputable and feckless men. I had no such protection, and if I'd ever thought about it, which I did not (o youth!), I would have thought I was rendered immune to masculine nonsense by my homosexuality and afemininity (o hubris!).
Like me, Dr. Jekyll suffers from congenital melancholia. I've since come to terms with this vampire, but at the time I had no idea what was going on. I think he didn't know what was going on, either. We bonded over this life-sucking destructive force - or maybe it's not really a force, inertia isn't - because we were similarly crazy. We also both have ADHD and at the time I was also a libertarian (some mental illnesses can be cured).
There was always a lot to talk about, at least theoretically. In practice, Doctor J had a truly nasty streak lodged somewhere in him, and it was always there. I suppose you could call it a chip on his shoulder, but I think of it as shrapnel frozen near his heart. Or possibly in his brain. Less rose-colored glasses for his peepers and more acid-green filter for his tongue.
See, he hates women.
Understand that he doesn't think of it this way. He has a utopian(?) view of the relationship between the sexes, and it's deranged but not something he regards as hateful. It goes something like this: women are moral, physical, intellectual, and emotional children, and it is a man's role to love and cherish them. In return, they honor and obey them. (I invoked the BCP there, but he isn't a Christian. He isn't interested in actual children, and one is left to wonder what the point is.)
We will use Natalie, a then-22 year old coworker he was romantically (and, ah, less romantically) interested in:
And what life would this child, whose face he has posted multiple times alongside her real name, lead in his utopia (which he refers to, sometimes, as 1969, when he would have been about five, or, sometimes, as 1965, when he would have been an infant)?
Guy who's only read John Lange, looking at world: I'm getting a lot of Gor vibes off this
The reason reality doesn't mesh with Mr. Hyde's flawless understanding is that the KGB invented feminism and took over America in a calculated dysgenic kind of long term strategy thing.
(Translator's gloss: he does, like Sanger sadly did, mean Negroes - or, as he calls them, the "visibly microcephalic." For a guy from Ohio, he's really at home with secesh thinking.)
These two themes - evil feminism and stupid women - are synthesized thus (taken from a representative entry entitled "Gendercrime"):
The risk in question was that someone might file a second sexual harassment complaint against him at his box store. His account of the first sexual harassment complaint filed by a retail clerk he spent more than a decade viciously excoriating in the most ungentlemanly terms has always baffled me, even when I was on his side, so we'll leave it be.
He had this weird thing going with her twin sister for a while:
Incredible that neither of them fell into his arms, eh.
When she actually got into a relationship:
and
and
I'm not cherry-picking; he went on like this for hundreds of thousands of words for literal years. I can currently see 56 entries tagged with the pseudonym he gave Natalie, but there are by his admission more than 368.
She was also not the first: before Natalie, there was Chrystle (34 entries I can see). Chrystle's a very interestin' story, but he's filtered the important bit - her eventual rejection of him, a version of the same OH MY GOD DUDE I eventually sent him - from my view and I can't get the exact order of events right. At some point into their friendship, she went radio silent and he sent her a package (I encouraged him in this: I don't have many regrets, but moral failure always stings). After she got it, she came back to LJ, saw the kind of things he was writing about her, and went off on him.
And, in between Chrystle and Natalie, there was me.
Like I said: you know how this goes. He encounters a woman in her late teens or early twenties. She's cute and innocent, but generally very stupid and crazy, in need of a saving and a spanking (these are the same thing). Their friendship goes on. After a certain point, always after he's expressed sexual interest, and always after she's matured to some extent, she becomes a baddie whom he simultaneously resents for not appreciating his good qualities and pities for being doomed to wallow in the horrible morass her manless, feminist-crafted world has created.
The element of comeuppance is a key part of the story, one I never pieced together until a few hours ago (and which I am writing these two entries in response to). The women who friendzone him are always worse off, somehow: Natalie drinks and is with a bad man ("Dustbin" Dustin, how clever).
And
Ashe, a British shut-in whom he wanted to save but couldn't and who seems to have cut contact with him the same way Chrystle, Tiffany, both twins, Melissa, and I did:
Regarding Melissa, an ancient! shriveled! woman in her middle thirties!! who did not take him up on his proposal of marriage!! and now her two children will grow up committing fatherless behavior!!! and on the day of judgment!!! she will be called to account for her actions!!!!!
I didn't really understand what I was seeing, when I was nineteen. I did not understand that one day he would force me to make him reckon with the fact that lesbian means lesbian and that his attentions were unwelcome, and that the horrible shrews (witches, bitches, and crazies he calls American women) would one day include me.
The signs were there, of course, and if I'd turned my intelligence (I'm smarter than him, by, like, a lot - I wouldn't ordinarily say such a thing, but he talks about other people like that and what's good for the goose &c) and skills from my powerhouse education (which I'm not sure he ever really acknowledged!) to analyzing the text I would have seen them.
He really hates lesbians, though this seems to be because he thinks political lesbians like Saint Andrea were actually homosexuals. Regarding Natalie (whose shirt slid up a tad while she was stocking at a Wal Mart):
and
Hum. Sometimes I think hets who use "partner" are doing a little bit of stolen valor, but I guess it's pissing the right people off.
Okay, did you get all that? That's the background.
It used to be easy; I started blogging twenty and a half years ago, when I was 13, on a dead and wonderful site called LiveJournal. By the time I met the man this post is about, I was an old hand at blogging - but not, alas, an old hand at understanding humans.
I am about to make oldschool blogging look really bad, so I want to take a moment to try to convey to the Younger Generations just how excellent the old internet was. You could meet anyone and talk about anything, and achieve genuine intimacy in a way that isn't possible on tumblr, the site that ultimately replaced LJ, or anything with an algorithm. I recognize I sound old, but back in the day this thing really was better.
Which is not to say things were perfect; just because you could form genuine social connections doesn't mean that they were valuable or edifying. As Dr. Jeckyll, who became an old and dear friend, likes to say: it doesn't take all sorts to make a world, but that's what you find there.
We met when I was nineteen or twenty. He is my father's age.
You can see where this was going.
Being nineteen and a social freak, I didn't. As I told Mr. Hyde, one valuable function of the old style western patriarchy was to protect virgins from disreputable and feckless men. I had no such protection, and if I'd ever thought about it, which I did not (o youth!), I would have thought I was rendered immune to masculine nonsense by my homosexuality and afemininity (o hubris!).
Like me, Dr. Jekyll suffers from congenital melancholia. I've since come to terms with this vampire, but at the time I had no idea what was going on. I think he didn't know what was going on, either. We bonded over this life-sucking destructive force - or maybe it's not really a force, inertia isn't - because we were similarly crazy. We also both have ADHD and at the time I was also a libertarian (some mental illnesses can be cured).
There was always a lot to talk about, at least theoretically. In practice, Doctor J had a truly nasty streak lodged somewhere in him, and it was always there. I suppose you could call it a chip on his shoulder, but I think of it as shrapnel frozen near his heart. Or possibly in his brain. Less rose-colored glasses for his peepers and more acid-green filter for his tongue.
See, he hates women.
Understand that he doesn't think of it this way. He has a utopian(?) view of the relationship between the sexes, and it's deranged but not something he regards as hateful. It goes something like this: women are moral, physical, intellectual, and emotional children, and it is a man's role to love and cherish them. In return, they honor and obey them. (I invoked the BCP there, but he isn't a Christian. He isn't interested in actual children, and one is left to wonder what the point is.)
We will use Natalie, a then-22 year old coworker he was romantically (and, ah, less romantically) interested in:
I was also advised that “she is my equal.” Tho' the statement was well meant, yet there is no factual basis for this optimistic claim, no sense whatever in which it is true, neither legally, physically, intellectually, educationally nor experientially. In the foremost she is more than equal, gifted by accident of birth with an irrevocable place among the new Victim Aristocracy (though only of the second rank, for she is white; being black counts for more than being female, as Hillary Clinton found out in 2008!) and in every other way the notion is farcical - and to claim that I am her equal would be a scathing put-down.
And what life would this child, whose face he has posted multiple times alongside her real name, lead in his utopia (which he refers to, sometimes, as 1969, when he would have been about five, or, sometimes, as 1965, when he would have been an infant)?
“Vanilla power exchange relationship with BDSM overtones”: [...] That is what I would like to enact with this girl, if I could. That's why I said that I wished that I could be her boyfriend - not 'that she were my girlfriend.' Because I was thinking, tho' I didn't realize it, in terms of what I would have offered her versus what I would want for it.
Just so, I managed to really hack off a good friend of mine when I said that the only way I could “take her in hand” as matters stand is if I could buy her at some slave market of history or fantasy. This would be a forcible enactment of the freedom from / freedom to exchange [yet] I would so cherish her! And I suspect she'd be happy!
Guy who's only read John Lange, looking at world: I'm getting a lot of Gor vibes off this
The reason reality doesn't mesh with Mr. Hyde's flawless understanding is that the KGB invented feminism and took over America in a calculated dysgenic kind of long term strategy thing.
This was, of course, the primary long-term goal of feminism, the KGB's most unusual “National Liberation Front”: Targeting higher-intelligence females at Western universities and persuading them to first, become impossibly ugly and obnoxious, and second, to abjure normal families and be “childfree” - in short, to delete themselves and their intelligence from the Western gene pool, leaving only the “Marching Morons” that Margaret Sanger and others rightly feared would inherit the ruins.
(Translator's gloss: he does, like Sanger sadly did, mean Negroes - or, as he calls them, the "visibly microcephalic." For a guy from Ohio, he's really at home with secesh thinking.)
These two themes - evil feminism and stupid women - are synthesized thus (taken from a representative entry entitled "Gendercrime"):
She is not in command, even when no one else is either. I wish I was!
Okay, she isn't the sharpest knife in the drawer; she's a brunette, a “little brown-haired girl” in the literal meaning, but her functional intelligence is Scandihuvian blonde. So?! She's low-octane, low maintenance, humble, easily confused, chronically nervous, and totally adorkable.
I really wanted to drive her home - I could have picked her up this evening, where her car would have simply sat through the day in the parking lot, no big deal - but I couldn't leave work and it would have been both “inappropriate” as feminists have redefined that term, to refer to any expression of even implied heterosexuality, and on the same grounds it would have been a stupid, pointless risk.
The risk in question was that someone might file a second sexual harassment complaint against him at his box store. His account of the first sexual harassment complaint filed by a retail clerk he spent more than a decade viciously excoriating in the most ungentlemanly terms has always baffled me, even when I was on his side, so we'll leave it be.
She doesn't need brains. She needs a husband who understands his job. Unfortunately, lately the natural order of things has been sledgehammered by litigious psychotics with an agenda, and that Dumb Blonde, like all the “New Aristocracy,” has been given undeserved and ridiculously arbitrary power - a loaded weapon in the hands of a child.
He had this weird thing going with her twin sister for a while:
Twins, not clones: In terms of role-playing games, Mouse put points into Appearance that Dormouse diverted to Intelligence. The result was unmistakable as soon as they came of an age to be noticed: Dormouse is cute, pretty, discernibly more intelligent, while Mouse is smokin' - and dull. The difference is trivial; in practice, what's between their legs has always mattered far more than what's between their ears.
Incredible that neither of them fell into his arms, eh.
When she actually got into a relationship:
N B: I'm curious to know how long she's been lying through her teeth to me, and using my generosity while cynically telling me she doesn't like David and certainly doesn't want a “relationship” with him. I'll ask her in a day or so… Does anything MORE need to be added to why I detest “Millennial” American women?
and
“I don't deserve to be with anyone else because I'm a rude, heartless bitch - that's exactly what my ex-boyfriend said,” and y' know what, he was spot on.
and
I understand the concept of the Little White Lie. She did not want to say, “Get lost you creep,” because after all we are co-workers and must get along. Quite so. [...] My opinion of her intelligence has risen. It's not a compliment.
I'm not cherry-picking; he went on like this for hundreds of thousands of words for literal years. I can currently see 56 entries tagged with the pseudonym he gave Natalie, but there are by his admission more than 368.
She was also not the first: before Natalie, there was Chrystle (34 entries I can see). Chrystle's a very interestin' story, but he's filtered the important bit - her eventual rejection of him, a version of the same OH MY GOD DUDE I eventually sent him - from my view and I can't get the exact order of events right. At some point into their friendship, she went radio silent and he sent her a package (I encouraged him in this: I don't have many regrets, but moral failure always stings). After she got it, she came back to LJ, saw the kind of things he was writing about her, and went off on him.
And, in between Chrystle and Natalie, there was me.
Like I said: you know how this goes. He encounters a woman in her late teens or early twenties. She's cute and innocent, but generally very stupid and crazy, in need of a saving and a spanking (these are the same thing). Their friendship goes on. After a certain point, always after he's expressed sexual interest, and always after she's matured to some extent, she becomes a baddie whom he simultaneously resents for not appreciating his good qualities and pities for being doomed to wallow in the horrible morass her manless, feminist-crafted world has created.
The element of comeuppance is a key part of the story, one I never pieced together until a few hours ago (and which I am writing these two entries in response to). The women who friendzone him are always worse off, somehow: Natalie drinks and is with a bad man ("Dustbin" Dustin, how clever).
While she goes home and drinks herself blotto damn near every day now, lonely and bored and ignored by her indifferent clod fiancé. I remember when that would have mattered to me - when I could have done something about it.
And
She has changed, matured. Objectively the changes are an improvement; she is stronger physically and emotionally. Yet she is still the “rude, selfish, heartless bitch” her then-ex-boyfriend (now fiancé!) named her, and now she has lost the sweet artless schoolgirl charm that so captivated me in 2015. Even that luscious hair is gone now, and the collar-length remnant is dyed “Soft Black” and shouldn't have been.
I suspect that she is depressed, chronically unhappy. Really. The poor thing. How terrible for her.
Ashe, a British shut-in whom he wanted to save but couldn't and who seems to have cut contact with him the same way Chrystle, Tiffany, both twins, Melissa, and I did:
Ashleigh is self-destructing with both hands. She's gone back to smoking weed, she's drinking 'badly,' and she left home (again) to stay with a 'friend' - her quotes. We no longer talk on the phone; she doesn't answer my texts. (Doesn't, not can't - she sent a casual five-word reply just yesterday.)
Nothing's going to happen there: There's no rabbit in that hat. I wish her well - but she is doomed, and so is a very foolish, indeed stupid idea I had…
Regarding Melissa, an ancient! shriveled! woman in her middle thirties!! who did not take him up on his proposal of marriage!! and now her two children will grow up committing fatherless behavior!!! and on the day of judgment!!! she will be called to account for her actions!!!!!
but for all her sanctimonious, conceited, vainglorious certainty on the matter, when the Roll is called Up Yonder Melissa might have some explaining to do herself. [...] She met and felt an inexplicable connection (odd, that) to a man who [...] would have employed her with or without quotes as his housekeeper, a quid pro quo rental arrangement similar to the “earn your keep” arrangement she (says she) has now, allowing her to homeschool her children; as her employer and landlord, would have enjoyed (and how!) a flagrantly, delightfully unprofessional relationship with his beautiful, clever semi-live-in housekeeper tenant [...] Eventually he might have asked her The Question. But practically it would already be settled [...] Instead she used her Golden Ticket as kindling paper, paying no heed to how weirdly long the Ticket lasted, this never-before-and-never-again chance to get out in style, with a place to live and a caring friend both laid on for her [...] Decisions have consequences. She will stay there. Her children will grow up there - mercifully, they will probably never know what she did to them.
I didn't really understand what I was seeing, when I was nineteen. I did not understand that one day he would force me to make him reckon with the fact that lesbian means lesbian and that his attentions were unwelcome, and that the horrible shrews (witches, bitches, and crazies he calls American women) would one day include me.
The signs were there, of course, and if I'd turned my intelligence (I'm smarter than him, by, like, a lot - I wouldn't ordinarily say such a thing, but he talks about other people like that and what's good for the goose &c) and skills from my powerhouse education (which I'm not sure he ever really acknowledged!) to analyzing the text I would have seen them.
He really hates lesbians, though this seems to be because he thinks political lesbians like Saint Andrea were actually homosexuals. Regarding Natalie (whose shirt slid up a tad while she was stocking at a Wal Mart):
She wore her hair loose, free-flying, tho' not “brushed out to shimmering &c.” - and it was beautiful; she wore no makeup, just her own face - and she was beautiful… Despite her attire, which was the plaid-shirt-and-blue-jeans boy-clothes dictated by lesbian feminists for young single white American girls since the 1970s.
and
She is as far from the FemiNazi propaganda image of the “independent, empowered (and Correctly heterophobic) wo-person” as you can get, for all that she is stuffed into imitation boy-clothes. She needs not a “partner,” the lesbian term toxic feminists have rammed down America’s throat, but a husband.
Hum. Sometimes I think hets who use "partner" are doing a little bit of stolen valor, but I guess it's pissing the right people off.
Okay, did you get all that? That's the background.