California frantically criminalizes the body and mind of each fresh-faced social-landmine: reality trumpets that, for life, she is ready; she, herself, achingly agrees; yet she cannot choose her sexuality until she is 18 — not without knowingly risking the life of any real (male) love-interest whose age exceeds the line assigned by arbitrary, anti-life decree: the only options in which she has any interest.
Instead, “On with the harems!” (that are increasingly less co-ed).
Meanwhile, years earlier than a right to life, California law gives her a right to death: she receives an allowance to choose abortion years before she receives an allowance to choose insemination, procreation: motherhood.
Rather than a right to reality, Western law gives girls the privilege of various mind-numbing distractions, subtly deputizing her with the responsibility of slowly, steadily, politely, quietly ending her life before it ever starts.
Thence, her denim diaper, to remind all around her that only pedophile predators would show sexual interest in her: they are trying to rape a baby;
thence, cotton crammed up her front-hole, to prevent reality from interrupting the only labor that her handlers would ever encourage her to undertake;
thence, her forays into safely masochistic homosexuality, with its %100 rate of crippling anxiety;
and of course the digital feed-bag and auditory blinders snugly strapped always to her pallid face, as she limps stiffly and swiftly through her town’s daily parade — ping-ponging from one oasis of mental seclusion to the next — while reassurance buzzes by the gentle mental syringe sting of her dopamine slotmachine:
preempting, moment to moment, her natural, sociopathic desire to interact with the world — atrophying her curiosity about reality, until she is nothing but a sum of silly, surly, sardonic storylines that she listlessly gnaws upon at troughs online, in a society which groups solemnly: rape, murder, teen-pregnancy.