Whiney Women

Question: why whiney women? I’ll spare you the ten minutes of your life needed to read my average 1500 word post. The answer to “why whiney women” is clicks. Complaints make good copy. Good copy gets clicks.

I’m guilty of this. I make money grabbing your attention for a few minutes. Writing reasonable and safe content doesn’t make me money. Crazy, triggering content makes me money. So this space writes about lies, damned lies and complaints about the news. I have a Japanese casino located in the remote Nevada desert. There are magic doors that transport you thousands of miles just by walking through them. And I voted for Trump, among other sins.

There is a trigger for this post. One of the whiney women in my feed stated with confidence that women don’t need men. All men are useless wastes of air. Poor thing. Plus one woman captivated by demons. One more feeling 陰 as truth and 春 as lies.

Whiney Women Say This

Not yet. It’s not just a girl thing to feel this way. There are guys on Substack sure that they are fucked. The god-kings they devote themselves to are merely men with feet of clay. He who occupies the Resolute Desk turns out to be a demented fool. The true holders of the levers of power hide from view. So these men compete with the girls for the most click-worthy tantrums. Because enough meltdown will put things correct.

That . . . and my feed is dominated by whiney women. All of them scratch my Papa itch. I want to comfort them, tell them it’s ok. It is ok. God created night and day. His creation is both 陰 and 春. Crucially, He gave us free will. So staying morose is a fungible choice.

It’s before dawn. The old regime is pretending they are not lame ducks. Bag Man Bite Me is taking his last days to save the fear and money kingdom from its looming demise. But he’s demented and his royal court ineffective. So it’s not going well.

Sunrise

It’s the morning of Christmas Eve as I write this. Winter is a rough season for me. My life follows the season, becoming cold and foreboding. This year is better than some. My bills are mostly paid. The damage to my digital presence last spring is healing. The shoulder injury and discovering I have arthritis in my neck is also healing.

It’s not all puppies and chocolate, though. Winter seldom is. I’m not sure how I’m going to pay my car insurance, electric and water bills this month. I have about half of what I need in the bank. Life as a writer is awesome!

So I’m not feeling as dour as in the past. I’ve been saying for a couple years that each time I fear the worst it never is as bad as I fear. This year I added, “it never works out the way I thought it would.” God has a plan for me. Trite, sure, but put me with all the other ones who have lived this.

All Y’all

In the heat of it this feels true–absolutes are fact. No men are useful. All men are toxic and abusive. White men are the enemy. And so on. Let’s not forget that Aristotle was white. His logic is heresy. The word heresy is racist because Neesha doesn’t know it. So when men throw, “generalities are false” and cite Aristotle they are wrong.

What’s true are feels. Feelings are true. The more emotional the feeling the stronger the truth. A felt generality is true because it feels true. Neesha has spoken.

Trump won. YouTube is in love with all the meltdowns posted by Progressive women. Or . . . my feed is anyway. All that confidence that the royal concubine Kumamalala had this election locked was deeply insulted by toxic, racist men.

@oliviapaige.22

♬ original sound – oliviapaige.22

Emo isn’t Sustainable

I love women. I respect their emotional intelligence. But . . . absolutes get us into trouble. This hateful thing, that if there is one exception to the absolute then the statement is false, is . . . fact. Some absolutes lead us to ugly places.

It’s almost Christmas day. We evil enemies of the empire won an election. Neesha and other Progressives are not taking it well. Stinks to be them. High arousal emotional states eventually run out of gas. The politicians that used fear as a leadership tactic have run out of steam. We have reached full IDGAF.

My red diaper creds are strong. I voted for Trump because the Progressive’s of my youth are dead. In their place are whiney women addicted to outrage. Not a woman (SHOCKER!) and my serenity is maintained by practicing 耶穌的方式 (the Jesus Way). My five pillars are not impressive. I am chill because I went to jail and had to survive a criminal record caused by my conviction for domestic battery.

The Whiney Women Way Fails

I ran out of gas. More outrage, more sustained arousal states, just hurt me. I make stupid choices when I am wound up. So I work at being gracious and calm. Meanwhile, my feed is filled with whiney women chasing more crazy feels to get that endorphin fix. It’s not working.

Substack started with a noble vision. It would be a safe(r) place for sane writing. Moderators would be tolerant. Writers who keep home shrines to Ayn Rand and Rand Paul wouldn’t be shadow banned. Shrill, whiney, Maoist women would be openly banned as heretical, dangerous voices. We would have our suburban white utopia forever.

I was an early adopter. My first post published September 19th, 2022. I thought the honeymoon would last longer. The whiney women and their soy boy cohorts have arrived on Substack in force. Oh well. It was good while it lasted.

We Are Winning

The whiney women move is to throw enough tantrums, act out enough, that we will accede to their demands. How about . . . no. Toddlers try that until the parents learn how to shut it down. The other problem: these women are addicted to the thrill of the tantrum. They need the attention and rush from melting down. Best thing you can do is make it fail while minimizing the reaction they get from us. In plain language, the worst reaction for them is, “meh.”

We are tired. All that fuss wore us out. The thing that feels best right now is a warm beverage, some good company, and down time. We worked hard to get ready for Christmas Day. It’s time to enjoy the fruits of our hard work.

Our new president won a battle. We won a battle. But the whiney women aren’t giving up yet. There are more battles to fight. More repair from the damage of this hundred year war for our hearts and minds. It can wait until the second week of the year. Let’s enjoy what’s left of 2024.

Merry Christmas

So . . . here is the point, 900 words later. First, thank you for reading this far. Next, the cure for your malaise is people. Spend time with people who give you joy. Yes, the holidays can be a battleground. My Dad’s favorite conversation starter, “are you a tree?”

We are not trees, obvi. But his unspoken point was that overzealous insistence that the Bible is word for word literally true is stupid. Then the holiday table would get awkwardly quiet until my Mom broke the silence with, “would anyone like some pie?” Every year.

Try, though. Your ruminations on past miseries, present challenges, and all the things oppressing you don’t make good holiday company. You say a little joy might kill you? There are worse ways to die. Instead of dying, maybe give up attachment to some of that misery and permit yourself a little joy around people.

Me? I’m good. I tend to feel down in the winter. But I know I’ll be ok. Last thing. I’m in all the expected places on social media.

Of these, the Arts Fire RVA Store, Substack and Patreon are places to buy merch or subscribe to support this space. Money talks. I’m much more flexible for paying fans than I am for a whiney woman who feels entitled to making demands for free.