One consequence of the capitalist cult of hyper-industrialization was massive misogyny — where no woman was more than the sum of her parts, and the value of those parts depended entirely on the needs of the patriarchal leviathan.
In that living hell, each woman was commodified, then cannibalized — then let to heal just enough to fatten her for the next gnawing.In some sectors of the hyper-industrialization cult, such as China, the social-planners simply mass-murdered women by the tens of millions. In all sectors, the cult’s clerics concocted various poison-grade medications to prevent women from becoming fully human — to prevent them from becoming mothers.
One medication which the cult provided to its woeful veal was “feminism” — the frantic, fumbling façade that pretended women wanted, deserved, and benefited from abandonment by men.
One subsection of that medication was the mass-murder of children, as perfected in China with the targeted mass-murder of children who would later have been able, in their bodies, to build still more children.
Another subsection of the feminist medication was the creation and mass-proliferation of musical mantras that amounted to suicide-anthems, told through a shift from Minnie Riperton’s “Loving You” to Lana Del Rey’s “Born to Die” — a shift which arose to cull, finally and fully, the large swaths of trapped, trampled women who never quite transitioned into being swept off her feet, protected, provided for, and loved — after an early life immersed in endless mantras which hissed to her that she, and every other woman, was an island and needed no one but herself.
By the end of the ending, the songbirds were croaking tunes of such woe and mania that the feminist veal who first pledged their gender to the patriarchs’ death-march decades earlier would, hearing only the musical consequences, have shuddered, shut up, and swiftly gotten back into the kitchen.
Meredith Brooks, in her 1997 song “Bitch,” screeched proudly of her co-dependence with weak, masochistic men: “I’m a bitch. I’m a lover. I’m a child. I’m a mother. I’m a sinner. I’m a saint. I do not feel ashamed. I’m your hell. I’m your dream. I’m nothing in between. You know you wouldn’t want it any other way. So take me as I am. This may mean you’ll have to be a stronger man. Rest assured that when I start to make you nervous, and I’m going to extremes: tomorrow I will change, and today won’t mean a thing.”
Four years later, another iteration of the cult’s insane, helpless heroines, Amy Lee, simplified the feminist message to, “Save me from the nothing I’ve become,” in her suicide-ballad “Bring me to life,” which she was mansplained and bullied into changing to a rap-rock song, so that her patriarch handlers could use her wailing to appeal to veal who enjoyed seeing a manly rapper take charge over a small, weak, whining woman.
A decade after that, with feminists continuing to flail listlessly in all directions, Ken Caillat’s unattractive daughter took aim at the bane of expectations in her song “Try,” reminding unattractive girls, homosexual men, and other cultural failures that “you don’t have to try” as long as “you like you.” The video for “Try” featured unattractive female celebrites who, in the video, left off the makeup that had misled their fans into believing that the women were attractive enough to help the fans live through the celebrities during the fans’ long, slow, self-hating suicide.
On and on it went: the social cannibals in the capitalist cult of hyper-industrialization, through massive measures of misogyny, tortured as many girls as possible, as often and completely as possible, during the girls’ fertile years, to instill fear and anger in the girls, in order to prevent each girl from answering the aching call between her legs and in her heart that everyday screamed to her that she would be happier as a mother.
And once the girls were no longer fertile, they were each discarded to a lesser man (or to a man-hating, woman-abusing dyke) for each to use the other as a masturbation tool, whereby the lesser man would pitifully and impotently leak into the lesser woman as often as he was still able, and as often as her stiffening, dying hips and hopes would still allow — while both failures daydreamed frantically about what it could have been like to have been fully human — to have been a parent.