I Am Not Every Woman

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I came across a piece of word vomit by terribly self-aware young writer.  Until that moment, I’ve never heard of her.  Trying to discover something about her is like hammering lime Jello to the wall. She is apparently a feminist who is into self-discovery, spewing out words about her body and every woman.

Sisterhood is toxic.  I have a sister.  I don’t need additional ones. I have cousins aplenty. I have several nieces.  I don’t care to embrace every woman on the planet.  I don’t really like women.  I don’t want to be one with them, to discuss bodily functions, diet, exercise, puking, yoga, coffee, and mindfulness.  The beauty of self aware spewers of word vomit is they know how to connect words into run-on sentences that would make the Apostle Paul quite proud.  One of the hallmarks of his work were his run-on sentences.  He disparately needed a good editor, but I digress.

Mindful word vomit helps to unite ‘sisterhood’.  An honest person will sit there and look at the spew of words.  If it is in print, you may want to turn it upside down, over, under, and like the old preposition of old, anything an airplane might do approaching a window. It is so profound in its flow that it must be important.  It is terribly representative of post-modern feminism, totally and completely vacuous and empty, overly self-indulgent, with just a hint of that lovely pink daggert being poised right between another woman’s shoulder blades.

As a whole, I don’t like most women.  Then again, I refuse to be every woman.  I refuse to see myself in this narrative of the eternal struggle of women trying to unite against the oppression of patriarchy.  Any woman who knows anything about social and political history knows women have always used men as puppets. True women of power have allowed men to stalk around like popinjays.  Real women understand how much power we have always had.  Patriarchy is an illusion we have allowed men, in order to feed their fragile egos.

Real women understand the concept, and allow the strutting, posturing, belching, pissing, and farting because we allow them to do the annoying work of life. They are fragile little creatures, who need stroking, affirmations, and complements. They do things we don’t want to be bothered doing, like squashing spiders, reaching for top shelves, and changing the oil.  If that sounds like a sexist division of labor, well, frankly, I don’t give a damn.  I don’t need to pretend I’m strong.  I’m not going to go lift a fifty pound bag of anything, let alone one that is twenty-five.  I have nothing to prove to myself.

Do I find sisterhood with the battle of the bulge? Heck no.  Sisterhood is for lovely young women who are fit, thin, and despise themselves for that stray two pounds.  They simply must give up gluten and do extra spinning.  They find solace in their eternal sisterhood of deprivation and self-loathing.  You see, pseudo self-loathing is good for one’s image.  It works well over a health drink at the gym.

Their loathing of women who aren’t perfect of form is abjectly contemptuous.  They are allowed to vent, opine, and wax poetic over body image. They simply don’t know how they can face the world in a size eight, let alone be stuffed into a size twenty-eight.  That’s where the concept of sisterhood ends.  It becomes vicious, cruel and toxic.

Sisterhood, being every woman is about some primitive tribal goddess where she howls at the moon while holding her gluten-free, organic, non-toxic, bio-gradable tampons upward on an onyx tray to be blessed by a libation of free-trade, sustainable coffee.  One must never use paper or plastic, rather recycled bags which are grand repositories of disease one usually only finds at a non-offensive, chain version of some form of Mexican food.  It is about being one with Mother Earth, living a carbon-footprint free life, cruelty free, except when dealing with those who are beneath your notice.

One must never betray toxic sisterhood, no matter what the cost.  Sisterhood is so important, a oneness with all women, that need to be every woman that morality is optional.  Basic human decency is optional.  The ends justify the means.  If a few men are sacrificed on the altar of patriarchy, their still-beating hearts cut out and held upward for the sun goddess, as that perfect altar, so be it.  Then, according to one highly educated feminist, those white, patriarchal men are to be castrated, hung, and their manhood fed to pigs.

It’s all about sisterhood and ridding the world of toxic masculinity.  In order to do this, many of them have joined together in a mindless mob that, ironically, resembles the witch hunts of the Spanish Inquisition.  They are willing to suspend the Constitution, destroy anyone in their path, to ruin lives and futures in order to protect their sisterhood.  It is a mindless exercise in group think.  It is evil.

I am not every woman.  I refuse to regress into toxic sisterhood.  I don’t need self discovery.  I do not wish to unite with the world of women on a selfish voyage of self-discovery which is nothing but a broom flight to Never Never Land where all men are Captain Hook, and they are Tinkerbell, just adorable pixie perfect.

Good men, real men are not perfect.  They raise their voice.  They get angry.  They have righteous indignation and know when to call down the thunder. They do not do what we want them to do, when we want them to do it.  They have their own strange timing and schedules.  They are basically far more fragile than we are, doing dumb things, not realizing they did something wrong, which, in a normal world, would not be wrong.  But, in this hyper world where everything is politically correct and men are the enemy, nothing they do is right.

Sisterhood had decreed that men are evil personified.  Well, forget that. The object of sisterhood is to support one another, even when it is about lying, and destroying lives.  There is a reason for all of those unattractive myths and legends about women.  Trust me, the feminine species has earned every one of them.

I do not chose to identify with all women.  Frankly, I can’t stand them.  I have no tolerance for their self-absorbed, martyrdom, their voyages of self-discovery, and their ability to destroy anyone who gets in their way.  Hell hath no fury, and trust me, it’s true.

Please, excuse my word vomit.  There is a point, though.  Women should not be lured into the insanity that every woman’s story is their own.  It isn’t.  We are unique.  My story is not yours.  Your story is not mine. There are times when they might intersect, but there are several billion women on the planet.  Every single one of us is unique.  By trying to say that our stories are the same, that we are all one deprives us of our uniqueness. It does a disservice to us.  It is harmful.  I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to be part of this tribe of women. I find the idea of a tribe to be primitive.  There is nothing primitive about me.  I am not some goddess worshiping spinning shill for pseudo intellectual scribes who think they speak for everyone who is not male.  They don’t.  Sometimes, I think they don’t even speak for themselves.

There is another problem with sisterhood.

It is incompatible with the teachings of Christ.

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