Technocracy’s Alternatives to the Real World (example: the paradise of online
Once upon a time, after getting her favorite Harry Potter quote tattooed on the inside of her flabby arm, a blue-haired “monogamous” she-scientist signed up for an online dating account at okcupid.
The childless 36-year-old decided not to mention her age — not in order to cope with the self-hate and embarrassment that she masks, to herself and her enablers, as avoidance of “narrow-minded haters,” but rather because a little mystery really spices up online dating (and all the other alternatives to the real world provided to the endless cavalcades of lab assistants in the technocracy).
She filled in a series of boxes, each of which was headed by a prompt; and she provided, as answers, a series of glimpses into the progressive version of happy, healthy character that she had earned during her lifelong social-salat at various alters of alternative living:
About me, My self-summary: “If you’re intimidated by a strong, independent woman (it’s okay, it’s actually pretty common), please move on to the next profile. There’s no princess needing rescued (sic) here. Unless you have hot wings… I may pretend to need rescuing long enough to eat some hot wings.”
By her “about me,” she endeavored to establish that she is silly, sassy, bossy — and is addicted to a pretense of being strong and independent: whereas men, who paved the paths which she as a younger ewe was coddled through, were taught “No man is an island” — the advice to acknowledge and appreciate the interconnectedness of members within a society; she, on the other hand, had been indoctrinated — by those intent on genetically disappearing undesirables such as her into the memory-holes of history — into the self-sterilizing penis-repellant of ceaselessly indulging in vapid braggadocious bleatings. And she learned to believe, as much as anything else in the world, that such bleatings are the sign of a strength of which society had hitherto deprived all the loser women who had come before her.
Aspirations, What I’m doing with my life: “I’m a nerd. Actually, the correct title is ‘planetary scientist’ or ‘astrophysicist,’ but nerd will work. And my job allowed me to go to Iceland, Colombia, Japan, Mexico, and Hawaii (multiple times for the last one). Yeah, it’s that cool.”
By her data-driven pseudo-aspirations (i.e. the corporate merit-badges which she earned by sitting still and, so to speak, digging holes then burying them), the flabby and fading feminist again (albeit unknowingly) while thinking she was raising the white flag of “save me from the nothing I’ve become” — in fact, she was raising the red flag of, “Here lies a proud liar, dimly dawdling on, desperate to dig up someone—anyone—willing to save her from the nothing that she has become.”
Talent, I’m really good at: “Being me. I’m sure people would say I’m good at many things, but that’s not why I do things.”
Such was the drivel, in the winter of so many discontents, that a dystopian author would do well to invent, and to assign to a less-developed plot element, if they were not so readily, popularly, and unashamedly splayed before him, her, xim, or xer.
My Traits, The first thing people notice about me: “That I’m pretty down to Earth, but a bit out of this world (and that I tell cheesy jokes and then laugh at myself).”
It was a time when Human Rights included the allowance to be so boring and delusional as to make drying paint lose hope and commit suicide.
Hobbies, I spend a lot of time thinking about: “The problem isn’t having new curiosities, it’s knowing that I really don’t have to know the answer to everything….”
…she quipped, holding fast to her faith that there is immense power in providing mental-flatulence so ridiculous as to defy, among anyone, even enough interest to begin describing the roots of its inanity.
Secrets; If I were sent to jail, I’d be arrested for: “Punching a Nazi who tried to get handsy with me. Seriously, don’t be a Nazi or Incel…”
It was a time when good goy she-scientists knew that rape-prone nazis were the worst people, matched in their evil only by incels (involuntary celibates) — low-class men whose mating prospects had been rescinded by the various socialist policies that installed a blue-haired feminist into a position which, traditionally, would go to a man who was working towards affording a wife and kids, aka a family — the ultimate f-word among the cyclical cyclists sprinting to early death in vast rows of the technocrats’ soft, soothing human-hamster-wheels.
Dating, You should message me if: “You’re not a total creeper and/or murderer. Also, I’m not a one night stand, nor is this a competition to turn me into one.”
For this flash of progressive successes, if there was one thing as off-putting as a murderer, then it was a creeper, aka a man who says or does anything that poisons a strong and independent woman — by fright or offense — into glimpsing the hell of humility and introspection.