A few days ago, I did a post entitled “This is Why You Don’t have a Boyfriend.” This post struck a chord among many of my readers. This weekend I went out. While I was out, I met an incredibly good looking man.
And the longer he talked, the less good looking he became.
See, his problem was that he had obviously read one of those ‘how to pick up chicks’ books and was working every bit of material he could. Around the 15th magic trick and the 17th time he light-heartedly touched my elbow, I was just about ready to punch him in the throat.
Instead, I took a deep breath and clued him into the following.
#1. You are asking way too many fucking questions.
Are you writing my damn biography? Look, I know that every single book you read about the opposite sex tells you women are vapid, self absorbed creatures who are desperate to tell you every single detail about themselves in the first 15 minutes of knowing you.
Granted, I am incredibly self absorbed, but once we hit question 15 in as many minutes, I decided it was time to start fucking with you to see if you were even paying attention to my answers. I mean Jesus, I told you one of my hobbies was collecting Nazi memorabilia…and you’re Jewish. You didn’t even bat an eyelash.
#2. Ditch the magic tricks.
Yes, I know the guy in the fuzzy hat tells you that chicks love magic, but what he didn’t tell you is that those chicks are usually under 12. No, I’m not impressed with your ability to pull a quarter out of my ear. If my alcoholic, borderline retarded uncle Karl can pull that off, I’m pretty sure anyone can.
#3. Never touch me without my permission again.
Yes, I’ve heard of kenos too. Supposedly, the more you casually touch a woman, the more she becomes used to you touching her and more willing to let you take it further.
Here’s the real deal. We are living in the age of date rape, stalkers and dudes who keep girls locked in their basement for ten years. When you touch me, I automatically assume that you’re testing my skin elasticity for a skin suit. The next time you lay a hand on me, even if you’re caressing my pinky finger, I’m going to donkey punch you.
#5. Buying me drinks does not somehow ‘rent me’ for the night.
I’m not one of those idiot girls who goes bouncing around, demanding that every guy in the bar buy her a shot. I actually have my own money, and more than enough to keep me lightly buzzed. I don’t need you to ply me with alcohol in an attempt to get my inhibitions down. In fact, I’m almost sure I could drink your ass under the table.
Buying me drinks doesn’t somehow obligate me into sleeping with you. If you’re looking for a hooker, I suggest you just cut out the middle man and offer the money directly. Trust me; I am going to charge a hell of a lot more than $5.
#6. Did you really just tear up when talking about your dog?
God, nothing kills my lady boner like man tears. Again, I’m sure those books are telling you that girls love ‘sensitive guys’. Here’s the thing…not all girls do. Especially insensitive ones like myself. Girls are like guys. We all have different desires in our men and there is no one-size-fits-all approach. Sensitivity is not on my list of nonnegotiables and the second that you teared up, my vagina actually sealed itself shut.
#7. Stop following me!
I go outside, there you are. I go upstairs, there you are. I go downstairs, there you are. I go to the bathroom, there you are waiting outside the door. Damn it man, I could have been pooping in there! Do you know how creepy it is to think about you listening to that?
Following me like a tiger stalking a gazelle isn’t going to somehow make me cave in and go home with you. Instead, it’s far more likely that I’m going to call security…or donkey punch you…or both.
Listen, you can’t learn how to pick up girls from books. The only people who have any success from those books are the guys who wrote them. The only reason they’re successful is because they got rich taking all your damn money. Even the ugliest guy becomes much more attractive when he has a 7 figure net worth.
Ditch the books and be yourself. Yeah, some girls won’t like you, but no girls like you right now, because you’re coming off as phony and desperate. And phony, drunk and desperate is no way to go through life.
Occasionally, I do blogs about dating because I believe I have a unique perspective on the general human psyche. This comes from being a silent observer, and a crazy recluse who regularly listens to the people outside her window bitch and moan as they smoke weed.
No judgment people in apartment 241, but you should know that the Febreze isn’t covering up the smell. Move to the 21st century and get a vaporizer for fucks sake.
As I am a sucker for drama, I enjoy eavesdropping on their conversations. One conversation I hear a lot of is from a young lady who I will refer to as ‘Hopeless Hilda”.
Hopeless Hilda has a problem. She wants a boyfriend. I know this because it gets mentioned every twelve seconds, along with the phrase ‘what’s wrong with me?” Her well-meaning friends keep telling her ‘nothing is wrong with you. You’re beautiful. You just haven’t met the right man yet.”
Her friends, while kind, are 100% wrong. I will agree that Hilda is gorgeous. She is after all, a professional model. However, that is just about the only thing that Hopeless Hilda has going for her. So I’m writing this blog post, in the hopes that Hopeless Hilda will take to the internet and stumble upon my blog, so she can become a little less hopeless.
#1 – Never used the phrase ‘All men are (insert slur or generalization)” again.
Before you spit out the phrase ‘All men are assholes” I want you do something. Replace ‘men’ with any ethnic group. For example; “All men are assholes” becomes “All Hispanics are assholes.”
But you wouldn’t say the second one because that’s racist, right? Well, the first one is sexist. Stop being a sexist bitch. It is not an attractive quality. Not all men are assholes. Some men are assholes, as are some women. When you go around bitching about all men, you just look like a bitter hag. When was the last time you saw a headline on Match.com stating ‘desperately seeking bitter hag’?
#2 – Stop over-sharing
Hi Hilda. I’m Essa, the blond girl with the 9 pound dog. Seems weird that I’ve lived underneath you for like two years and you never even knew my name.
You know what else is weird? The fact that you just learned my name, but that I know you were molested when you were five, have an eating disorder, cut yourself when you’re depressed, have an abusive ex and you might be addicted to diet pills.
How do I know all this? Because you say all these things to every single guy you date. I know this, because you share it all, usually while breaking down in tears, right in front of my window.
Weirdly, the guys you say all this shit to never seem to call back, because I never see them again.
Here’s the thing Hilda, you need to work on your first date material. Tears and skeletons in your closet should be saved for when you are actually in a monogamous committed relationship. I know you read a lot of romance novels, and you just want someone to rescue you, but trust me babe, it isn’t gonna happen. If romance novels were real, we’d all be married to handsome billionaires.
#3 – Stop over-complimenting
One compliment is nice. 2 is getting a little weird. 3 reeks of desperation. When you spend a night telling a dude how smart, handsome and strong he is, eventually he starts thinking ‘wow, I could have any chick I want. Screw this bitch; I’m gonna go find a rich heiress.”
Ok, so not entirely accurate, but think of it this way. Have you ever had a guy repeatedly tell you how pretty you were during one date? Was it flattering at first, and then started to wear thin? After a while, didn’t you start to think that you were too good for him? Trust me; he’s thinking the same thing.
Good rule of thumb? Return a compliment with a compliment. No more, no less.
#4 – He doesn’t care about your hair, shoes, makeup, etc.
Save the girl talk for your girlfriends. Just because he compliments your shoes does not mean he needs a 45 minute lecture on why you always buy designer because it pays off in the end, because the leather is stronger and the shoes last longer.
#5 – Getting a boyfriend should not mean getting any boyfriend.
Girl, you have brought some real prizes home. I especially liked the unemployed guy with the neck tattoo, who you gave money to so he could take a cab to Orlando and buy some meth.
I wonder why he never came back.
Oh yeah, because he’s an unemployed meth head. You should be glad he didn’t come back, rather than bitching to your friends that he screwed you and never called again. I know Cosmo tells you that you should be married by now, but you should never base you life on what a magazine says.
Next time you go on a date, do me a favor. Instead of falling all over yourself trying to impress the guy, actually pay attention to what he says. If it talks like a douchebag, walks like a douchebag and acts like a douchebag, it’s a douchebag. Stop trying to fake interest and instead fake food poisoning so you can end the date early.
Hilda, you seem like a nice girl. I’m sure that deep down inside, you don’t think that all guys are assholes. I’m sure deep down inside that you really know there is something wrong with you. In short, life isn’t a romantic comedy. Neurotic, high maintenance girls who complain about men all the time don’t marry Gerard Butler after getting proposed to in a hot air balloon. They die alone and get eaten by their cats.
You don’t need to change who you are. You just need to really consider the words that are coming out of your mouth before you state them. Because the real ugly truth is nobody wants a train wreck.
When you ask someone what they think of as the most romantic movie scene, you can generally expect a pretty cookie cutter response. They might mention the prow scene on ‘Titanic’. They might mention Harry’s speech in “When Harry Met Sally.” They might mention Noah scaling the Ferris wheel in “The Notebook.”
For me, the most romantic movie scene I can think of occurs at the end of ‘Hannibal’.
Clarice finally thinks she has Hannibal cornered. The cops are on their way. With sirens screaming in the background, she handcuffs Hannibal Lector’s wrist to hers. But Lector has one last trick up his sleeve. He pulls out a meat cleaver. It raises high in the air…fade to black over the sound of one distinct chop.
In the next scene, we learn that Hannibal did escape. We assume that it is because he cleaved off Clarisse’s hand in an attempt to free himself. Then we see him on a train, sharing a boxed lunch with a small boy. The camera pans down and we see his left hand is missing.
Hannibal cut off his own hand, rather than hurt Clarice. Now that is fucking love.
In case you can’t tell, my opinion on love can be pretty extreme. Chasing me down at an airport, singing a stupid song to me, or sending me flowers isn’t going to win me over. If you want me to swoon, you need to be willing to sacrifice a body part.
I always assumed that my extreme nature would result in my dying alone. Then I met you, internet stalker.
We met about a year ago. I’d just posted an article that included three pictures of me. You sent me a long rambling message. You said you were a fan. You told me I was pretty. I thanked you.
The emails kept coming, and they kept getting weirder. One spanned paragraphs and paragraphs. It was long, rambling and incoherent. I have to admit I didn’t understand much of it, but I got the general gist. You loved me…and you wanted to wear my face as a mask.
It was the nicest thing that anyone had ever said to me.
Most women are freaked out by stalkers, but I’m not most women. I spend a lot of time alone. I have nightmares about dying in complete obscurity. I have dreams that I disappear and no one ever notices. Those nightmares go away when you send an email.
Because as long as you’re around, I know there is one person out there who is obsessed enough with me to want me dead…and who fears my death like the apocalypse at the same time.
To me, that is just fucking beautiful.
As long as you exist, I will never cease to matter. For one person out there, I am their whole world. I am the love of their life and a ‘soul sucking, bitch, whore cunt’ all at the same time. I am the girl sending you coded messages in all my posts. My eyes really are looking right at you in my gravitar picture…even though it’s a profile shot and I’m actually looking somewhere off to the left.
I heard somewhere that stalking isn’t about love. It’s about power. I don’t believe that, internet stalker. The balance of power in our relationship is purely one sided. I am the sun by which your universe revolves. You are the guy that sends me weird obsessed messages that actually improve my self esteem. I ignore the threats and I accept the compliments.
Internet stalker, our dysfunctional relationship might be the healthiest relationship I’ve ever had. Know that in my own way, I love you. I don’t love you like a lover, or like a brother. I think I love you in the same way Jodie Foster loves John Hinckley Jr. Through his obsession, he made an average looking girl with subpar acting skills a household name.
He made her Clarice…not the one in Hannibal, but you get my drift.
So thank you internet stalker. Most people would tell me not to engage with you, but half the reason you love me is because I never listen to people. You make me feel good. You make me feel relevant. For that, you deserve to be recognized.
And if you ever hit the Orlando, Florida area, there is an empty apartment right across the breezeway where you can see right into my bedroom.
Leaving the blinds open for you,
I think sometimes, people don’t really understand how special a real sense of humor is…
I see this phrase get thrown around a lot. I see it in internet dating ads. “Looking for a sense of humor.” I see it in employment ads. “Must have a sense of humor.” I even see it when I’m looking for new ghostwriting projects. “Need a writer with a sense of humor.”
Do you all realize what a generic requirement that is? Everyone has a sense of humor. There is no person out there that has lived past the age of 3 and not laughed one time. Honestly, senses of humor are like assholes. Everyone has one.
And every one is different.
To me, a ‘good’ sense of humor is the ability to laugh at something, even though it might offend someone or even you personally. Let me tell you a story about one of the finest senses of humor I’ve ever seen.
It’s summer in Sierra Vista, Arizona. Me and my friend Tina are on gate guard duty at the back gate of Fort Huachuca. It’s a boring duty, but we make the time pass by making fun of the tourists that pull up, after mistakenly pulling off the highway too soon on their way to Tucson.
A blue Sedan with Nebraska plates pull up. Inside is a middle aged white couple. They make immediate eye contact with me and avoid Tina entirely.
Let me explain why. I’m white as the day is long, not very big, and extremely non-threatening. I’m soft, squishy and harmless looking. Tina is a midnight black, daughter of Africa, 150 pounds and 5’8” of pure muscle type. When it comes to nervous white people, there’s non threatening black, like Will Smith, and there is threatening black, like Tupac. Tina is Tupac black with extra neck tattoos. Tourists tend to avoid her, especially the white ones.
The Nebraska couple cracks their window a quarter of an inch and screams to me for directions. Here’s the deal, I blow at directions. At this gate, I’m bad cop. I’m in charge of telling tourists to turn around. I’m not the nice one who gives them directions.
She walks up to the car and I literally see the woman in the passenger seat flinch away from her as she leans over the cracked window. She gives them directions and they drive away. She walks back to where I’m standing, shaking her head.
Tina nods. “Yeah, but I can’t wait for the letter the commander is going to get.”
“Yeah,” Tina looks ready to piss herself laughing. “The one that says what a nice, eloquent, colored girl I am.”
That, my friends, is a sense of humor.
When you advertise for a ‘sense of humor’ you might as well advertise for some who ‘knows how to paint.’ Everyone can work a paint brush, but there is only one Picasso.
When you’re a dude looking for a girl on an internet dating site, who has a sense of humor, what I read is ‘I’m not that funny, but I’m not that attractive either. I need someone to tell me I’m special by laughing at my dumb jokes.”
When you’re an employer who tells me you’re looking for a good sense of humor, what I’m seeing is “my last secretary wouldn’t screw me. So I made a bunch of mean jokes at her expense. Then she sued me. I’m really looking for a bitch that will just take it and not fight back.”
A good sense of humor is a special thing. It’s like having a special palette, where you can taste all the flavors of something, even when some are weird. It’s like having the eye for detail that allows you to create a special dress design, which is both flattering to a woman’s body and aesthetically interesting.
A good sense of humor is rare. Stop advertising for it like you’re looking for typing skills. Generally, those of us with a true ‘good sense of humor’ would rather die than work in a cubicle anyway.
Does that mean never getting offended over anything? Hell no. My friend Tina was probably extremely offended the day those people treated her like she was about to car jack them. But she found a way to laugh about it.
Does that mean being intentionally offensive? Absolutely not. I’ve never found Andrew Dice Clay funny. It’s not because I’m an uptight bitch. It’s because his act wasn’t funny. Nothing he said was actually humorous. He was just being offensive for the point of being offensive. That’s not humor. That’s just being a dick.
As far as I’m concerned, George Carlin was the only human being with a sense of humor sophisticated enough to pull off a rape joke.
When you are a truly funny person, offending people is a side effect of your act. It isn’t the goal. You make your jokes and you hope they land. But you accept the fact that eventually, somewhere, someone will get offended. When they do, you brush it off.
Because you know not everyone has a good sense of humor.
Look, I’m never been one of those ass sniffing artists who talks about my ‘art’. I don’t write angst filled poetry or paint pictures of my anger at my father, or some other such bullshit. I’m never going to be literary. I’m never going to win a Pulitzer. I’m cool with that. But I am a god damn artist. I have a true good sense of humor, and it’s a bit rarer than you all think. If you question how important a good sense of humor is, I strongly recommend you check out “A Modest Proposal.” Never underestimate the power of funny.
A good sense of humor isn’t a given…it’s a god damn gift. Stop advertising for that shit when you don’t really mean it. Generally, you can get any idiot to laugh at anything. But only the truly gifted can laugh at something that upsets them.
And only the artists can make a good joke about it in the first place.
Hey people, surprisingly, after last nights post, I’ve stopped getting emails from Manosphere idiots! However, I have gotten a few messages, and one comment, from people who were intrigued by the two color contact manipulation method.
Because I am an all around wonderful human being, I’m going to explain it in more detail right here.
Have you ever seen an old hypnosis movie, where the hypnotist was waving a watch back and forth in front of someone? That’s not just a prop. It’s actually based in science.
The goal is to force the subject’s eyes to move back in forth, to eventually bring on something called REM (rapid eye movement). REM usually only happens when you are deeply asleep and dreaming. REM is a point where the human mind is at its most vulnerable, because the subconscious is wide open and has taken over the conscious.
When REM is induced while someone is awake, they are very vulnerable to manipulation. It’s easy to implant suggestions in them and make them believe what you want them to believe.
Of course, you can’t just go around waving a watch in front of a girl’s face at a club. Instead, you need to be more subtle. That’s where the two different color eyes come in. Once someone notices that they are looking into two different color eyes, they will start to focus on one over the other. They’ll realize what they are doing and try to make direct eye contact again, but they’ll actually just start switching their gaze from one eye to another.
In many cases, this is enough to trigger REM, making the subject vulnerable to manipulation.
Now how much to you all want to bet that the next time I go to a club, it’s going to be filled with guys sporting two different color eyes?
I’m working on something for one of my clients right now. It’s a bit emotional, so I do what I always do when I need to get emotional. I get shitfaced and pray for the god of ‘beer tears’ to help me out. Unfortunately, sometimes, I go a bit the other way and get kind of snarky when I drink. This is one of those times.
This article is kind of one of those ‘power of the universe’ type deals. In it, my reader is supposed to picture her ideal man in her head. The more complete a picture she paints, the more the universe knows what to deliver.
Because that’s how you get what you want in life. You sit around and wish for it.
Anyway, I decided to see how accurate this ideal man thing is. Here is my description universe. Now go ahead and deliver it. I dare you.
Essa’s Ideal Man
My ideal man is 6’4” and 200 lbs…of pure solid gold bedecked in precious gems. Every morning, he arrives at my home promptly at 7:30, and (being very careful not to wake me up) deposits a large bag of money next to me in bed. He then makes my coffee and sets my Roku to play old Charles in Charge reruns as soon as I wake up. Then he leaves.
My ideal man has emerald green eyes. His eyes are emerald green because they are actually made of emeralds. He does not mind when I pluck his eyes out and use them as earrings, or pawn them when I need to buy weed. He’s cool like that.
Ever night, while I’m sleeping, my ideal man comes to my apartment and does my dishes. After that, he cleans, vacuums (completely noiselessly) and does my laundry. My ideal man knows how to fold my shirts in the exact same way that the people at the Gap fold shirts. He also never runs out of hangers.
I rarely see my ideal man, but I can tell he’s been to visit me because my house is filled with bags of money and it’s always clean. My ideal man is a lot like Santa, only he’s not fat, or old and he never leaves socks.
And also he’s made of solid gold.
There we go universe. There is my ideal man, described in as much detail as possible. According to The Secret, all I need to do now is sit on my ass and wait for him to be delivered.
I wonder how much UPS charges for shipping on solid gold men?
I think we all know about my deep disdain for online dating. A lot of this comes from being a writer and a judgmental bitch. If someone can’t be bothered to capitalize or punctuate a sentence, I just assume they’re as lazy in bed as they are in their writing and move on. I’ve actually never found a ‘screwable’ during any online dating session and have decided to continue doing my predatory style pickups at bars for the foreseeable future.
However, I am currently ghostwriting a book and I had to do a little bit of research on a section. This brought me to an online forum where I saw this little gem posted.
You have to be a muscle bound stud, with a nice car and a high powered job to get anyone to respond to you on these sites.
I tried an experiment out on a dating site once — I created a profile of a guy who fitted the above description, and 10/10 women were going fucking crazy to contact me — lapdancers, models, etc, etc. All were cybering me and throwing their numbers at me.
Then I created a profile of a fat bearded guy with glasses. I said I live at home with mum, jobless and love Star Trek. Fuck me, every single one — even the uglies told “me” to get lost.
And I immediately thought ‘holy shit! What an incredible hypothesis! A woman, when given the choice between a handsome man who is financially stable, over a creepy fatty with no job, will go for the handsome guy almost every single fucking time! I wonder if this guy has alerted Harvard to this amazing study! I see a Nobel prize coming for someone…’
Look, assholes who post fake pictures of hot guys and get pissed off when all the girls respond; get bent. Women are under no more moral requirement to be ‘beauty blind’ than men. We are just as entitled to be focused on looks as men are. Take a look at the last 10 or so girls you contacted on these sites before you start throwing stones. Was every single one of them more attractive than average? Then you’re a hypocrite when you complain.
Oh, and I don’t care if you think you’re an 8 out of 10. Apparently, all the girls you’re messaging disagree. You might want to recalibrate that number you’re assigning yourself. To give you some perspective, I have made yet another awesome chart.
Levels of Attractiveness
Yet another awesome chart brought to you by Essa Alroc
Using the scientific methods of measuring facial symmetry, skin tone, skin clarity, height, build and who I am most likely to masturbate to when I’m not thinking about giant piles of money, I think I’ve made a clear and concise list that anyone can use. So dude, when you’re running around saying that you’re an 8, what you’re really saying is that you are as handsome as Blair Underwood.
No, come on, look again. Really?
Because I tell you what, if you’re marching around, looking like Blair Underwood, you have no need for online dating. Women everywhere will be tossing their panties at you out of moving cars.
When I decide to pick up a guy, you know what I do? I approach the hottest guy in the club. It doesn’t matter that he’s a 10 and I’m a sober 6, drunk 7. I am being honest with myself when I do the numbers. Yes, I am conventionally pretty with a nice figure. That makes me slightly better than average. It does not mean that I could compete with Mila Kunis in a beauty pageant and win.
But it doesn’t mean I am somehow required by law to only try to pick up dudes that are also 6’s. I can go after a 10 if I want to. If he shoots me down, I move on to the next guy.
What I don’t do is go online and bitch that all guys are superficial assholes and fuck around with people on dating sites to prove my genius hypothesis. I wasn’t attractive enough for one dude. Big fucking deal. I’m not being a superficial bitch. I’m going after the guy who meets my current needs.
I.e. I need to have an orgasm and the guy who gives it to me needs to be handsome. The handsomer, the better.
A guy who bitches that women all flock after guys with big muscles is about as stupid as a person who complains that all the scholarships at MIT go to mathematical geniuses who got 2100 on the SATs. Um, duh.
Do you know why really attractive people are considered really attractive? Give you a hint; the answer is in the question. Because people are attracted to them, and they approach these attractive people due to that attraction. So, if you get approached by a lot of people, that means you are attractive.
Is does not mean that everyone who doesn’t approach you is a superficial asshole. They’re just not attracted to you. Which, based on my scientific research, would indicate you are not attractive.
Now that my friends, if a fucking hypothesis.*
*well, not really. But at least I made a chart.
I wrote this comment in response to one of the misogynistic assholes who frequent my site. Since I wrote it, that comment has stuck with me constantly. I can’t get it out of my head.
“Patriarchies are dead for a reason.”
That’s right people, I am such a fucking narcissist that I just quoted myself.
I’ve never considered myself a ‘feminist’. There’s really nothing that annoys me more than women bitching about stupid shit like how ‘policemen’ should be called ‘police officers’ or something like that. I hate arguments about semantics because arguments about gender neutral language distract us all from real issues.
I.e. while we’re all arguing about how ‘firemen’ should be called ‘fire fighters’ Capitol hill takes away more constitutional rights. We, like dumb sheep, never even notice. Because we’re busy arguing about gender lines.
I’m not a feminist. I’m an individualist (and possibly a mid level anarchist). However, I agree with the feminists on one thing.
Patriarchies must die.
In case you didn’t know, a patriarchy is a traditional caste system where men are in control and where women are subservient helpers. Your average ‘Donna Reed” family, with a mom who stays home and has babies, while a man tells everyone what to do, is a patriarchy.
I actually came from a patriarchy style family, with a dad who worked as a forestry worker when they were still called lumberjacks, and a mother who focused all her time and attention on her kids. I always felt like my mom got the short end of the stick, because she worked and took care of us, while my dad just worked, came home and did his own thing. My parents divorced when I was in my early 20’s.
I still talk to my mom every day, but I haven’t talked to my father in years. Why? Patriarchies. As far as my dad was concerned, his job was finished when I turned 18. He’d done his duty. He’d had two children, a boy and a girl. He’d provided for them until they were adults but he had no emotional attachment to those kids.
As far as my mother was concerned, she’d grown attached to my brother and I. As a result, she still makes a point of talking to us every single day. Those phone calls are the highlight of my day and I always feel like I could tell my mother anything.
I’m pretty sure my dad doesn’t even know my middle name.
I have my dad’s last name. My mom did all the work, but in the history books, my dad will get all the credit. That’s why when my son was born, I gave him my last name. Strike a point for feminism on that one, woman can carry on the family name.
My fucked up family history aside, there is another reason that I think patriarchies need to be done away with and it is much more clinical. Population control.
Back in the middle ages, women would get married as soon as they had their first periods and start having babies right away. This was due to the infant mortality rate. Very few children ever saw adulthood, so the woman would have as many as possible to ensure they would have at least one heir. A woman might have 10 babies in her fertile years, but only see one survive to reach the age of 20.
As time went on, and medicine improved, women having babies so young became socially unacceptable. They started waiting until they were 18 or 19. Infant mortality rates improved. New diseases, like polio or malaria, started cutting down people in their teens or 20’s, when it was too late for the mother to birth more children. These diseases also caused infertility in a large number of men. Population control happened and the universe got its balance back.
Then, our scientists developed inoculations. In case you want to look it up, the baby boom happened after that. Children, millions of children, who would grow up to be millions of healthy adults, who would use up the worlds resources, came along.
And the universe decided that it must be balanced. Enter HIV.
In the 70’s and early 80’s, HIV came along, making people less likely to engage in promiscuous, unprotected sex. It was the first STD that was actually scary enough to stop people from screwing. Population control happened and the universe got its balance back.
Look up the statistics on Generation X. We were the generation born after people became fully aware of AIDS and we are the smallest generation in existence.
Gen X reached adulthood, but they were having a good time. They were enjoying the Seattle music scene and working on their college educations. They put off having babies until they were older but they still managed to have them. Advances in AIDS prevention made them more comfortable with having unprotected sex and they started having babies in their late 20’s and early 30’s. Difficulty conceiving resulted in fertility treatments that made multiple child births far more likely. The population exploded again.
Generation Y popped up and they were as big as the baby boomer generation. Scientific advances allowed their children to be born healthy. Even a mother with AIDS could give birth to a child without AIDS. Immunizations kept them from dying from early childhood diseases and regular advances in medicine kept them from dying from preventable diseases that came along when they were capable of having children of their own.
But the universe must have its balance. Instead of knocking us all down with horrible diseases, the universe decided to be cool this time around.
Generation Y girls no longer focused on having babies and supporting a family like their mothers did. Instead, they developed ambitions that didn’t include home and family. They learned how to develop dreams outside of being someone’s baby machine. When the Gen Y girls do decide to have kids, they will do it because they want to, not because that is what is expected of them. Instead of having 4 or 5 children, they will have 1 or 2.
And the universe will have its balance.
Population control is a necessary evil of the universe. When the planet couldn’t stop us with famine or disease, it found another way. It stopped us with reason and ambition. Men always had ambition, in an attempt to support their families. But now women have ambition too. They have dreams outside of being a mother. They focus on their careers and put their plans for families on hold.
And the universe gets its balance back.
The universe will always have its balance. It will never allow us to birth more people than its resources can support. When it couldn’t cut us all down with disease, it reasoned with us. It asked us to start seriously considering the decision to have children, rather than popping them out because that was what was expected of us.
Personally, I want to get along with the universe and I want to play by its rules. I don’t want to see half the world’s population die based on a virus the universe made up to keep our numbers down. Instead, I want to see people use reason to keep those numbers down.
Patriarchies are dead for that reason. They did not focus on individual satisfaction. They focused on a person’s ability to breed out a family. Unfortunately that caused way too many people to be born. The death of the patriarchy gave women their power back. They started deciding what to do with their bodies and they started deciding to not be baby makers just because tradition told them to.
So people out there, focus on your own satisfaction. Do not focus on how you’re biologically supposed to reproduce, because the universe doesn’t want you to do that. It’s giving us a chance here. It’s telling us “I will have my balance’ but it’s also giving us the opportunity to handle that population control ourselves. It’s never done that for us before; respect that.
Because one way or another, the universe will have its balance. If patriarchies had to die to keep it, instead of the majority of the world’s population, I’m totally cool with that.
The universe is watching and it is keeping count. Simply stated, think before you breed. Every last one of our lives may depend on it.
I’ve tried online dating in the past. I’ve never had any success and I blame that on the fact that I’m a writer…as well as a judgmental bitch. I am fully aware that there are many smart people out there who can’t write a coherent sentence to save their lives. At the same time, as soon as I read an incoherent sentence from a half assed email, I write a dude off entirely.
When the guy can write in full sentences, I head on over to their profile page to seek if it was a fluke. Whenever it’s not, and I read everything their looking for, I shut it down because I know that I’m nothing close to what they are looking for. Let me give you a few tidbits from some of the guy’s who have messaged me;
I’m looking for a girl who’s interested in getting into the outdoors a bit, camping, canoeing, rock climbing
I love anything outdoors, I call it my church.
I love the outdoors. … I don’t want a gym rat but you at least have to like hiking trail riding, some kind of outdoors activities
As an accomplished outdoors-man, I can literally survive in the wild with very few items
You should contact me if you love the outdoors
Yeah, because my idea of fun is traipsing through a Florida swamp in 105 degree weather, praying that the kinds of mosquitoes biting me aren’t the kind that carry malaria. With all these outdoorsy guys out there, I would assume that the Everglades are just plain filled with men living off the land, hiking, fishing, canoeing and participating in hand to hand combat with alligators.
They’re not, by the way. They’re filled with Ukrainian dudes in linen suits dumping bodies in the dead of the night.
I only know a very small group of people who are really into the outdoors. In fact, they’re so fucking outdoorsy, they spend all their time outdoors. They’re called homeless people and I pay rent every month to avoid being like them.
When I go to a man’s profile, and I see 11 paragraphs about how a guy is looking for a girl who loves the great outdoors, hiking, fishing, camping, etc., all I can think is “doesn’t sound to me like you’re looking for a girlfriend. Actually, it sounds to me like you’re looking for a lumberjack.”
I also love the fact that very few of these great outdoors lovers see any irony in the fact that they’re online dating. If they’re so damn outdoorsy, shouldn’t they be outside, living off the land and looking for their ideal mate squatting in a bush after she finishes off a hefty dinner of raw squirrel?
Half the time, I think these outdoorsy profiles are just a smoke screen to throw off gold diggers and high maintenance chicks. Regardless, I’m not answering because I believe in brutal honesty. And when a guy asks me if I enjoy camping, I’m forced to respond that sleeping outside on the ground is my idea of hell.
And I don’t really care if that makes me high maintenance. I guess I just wasn’t the lumberjack they were looking for.