Women are flawed human beings who usually marry for love. Yes love, we love men, flaws and all. If you’re going to try and understand women with scientific theories, flow charts, and evo-psychology, well let the Divine Comedy begin.
Oh, absolutely. I think that, after reading the butchering of truth the author of this article engaged in, only a comedy fit for God Himself would be capable of making me laugh again. Call forth the grotesque, haggard harlequins that whisper the blackest ironies learned in the deepest pits of Hell, the fanciful jesters who perform in the Temple of the New Jerusalem, and the pierrots of Earth who have learned to balance the biting wisdom of the former and the soothing warmth of the latter. We'll need the assistance of all three to so much as giggle after having been exposed to the very human tragedy this author confesses to without even being aware of it. Which, I suppose, makes her entire little screed infinitely more tragic still.
Our author declares herself, as well as her sisters, immune from the spell of wicked hypergamy. That they've been bewitched by this particular curse is an abhorrent idea to her, something she dismisses outright with all the proper indignation of one accused of a crime she didn't commit. How could she be guilty of wanting the superior man when she wants the exact opposite? She doesn't lust after the wealthy man with his hoard of resources, and I would be more than willing to believe that. She doesn't, with her eyes closed and fingers stroking her clitoris, fantasize about the noble man who can provide for her offspring. I'm more than certain this is the case as well. She doesn't dream of jewels or titles, fancy cars or pretty dresses in the throes of her masturbatory sessions. No, quite to the contrary. She dreams of the rogue, the pirate, the outlaw.
Any outlaw, though? Any criminal who's dashing and daring enough to blaspheme the laws of society which has, through its blessings, kept fragile mankind intact far longer that it had any right to expect? Now, we know otherwise, don't we? The rogue in question who makes love to her during her flights of fancy isn't some old, grotesque abomination with wrinkles creasing his face. And he certainly isn't obese, with a ponderous gut spilling over his belt. No, the protagonist of the romance novel she's conjured up in her head is young and handsome. She works herself into an orgasm imagining him because despite his poverty, cruelty, and antisocial tendencies he is lovely.
Long before we learned to draw wealth from the earth and pound it into currency, beauty had been the coin of the realm and, for all of our supposed sophistication, it has remained such and will continue to do so as long as both Fate and Nature permit our sad little tribe to exist. Kings who had nations at their beck and call, in their possession and under their control, squandered hoards of wealth as patrons of alchemists who promised to produce the Philosopher's stone. Not because such an object would grant wisdom or virtue but because it could, at least in theory, transform leaden ugliness into golden loveliness, it could undo the ravages of time and aging, could redeem the flesh of fallen man because the sacrifice the Christ they purportedly worshiped, powerful enough cleanse souls and make them righteous again, simply wasn't satisfactory. What is a legion of men crying devotion to you compared to a woman softly sighing your name? What is the nobility of ugly old Socrates compared to the endless erotic exploits of Alcibiades?
The Eternal Feminine has instructed the author no differently than She has any of Her other daughters which is, I suppose, fine insofar as what is simply is. So why lie about it? Why cobble together clumsy arguments to suggest that what is most bestial in her is actually divine when there is no inherent fault in any beast for behaving as it must?
The answer is simple but horrifying for all of that. If she can be faulted for pursuing beauty for its own sake then those denied the joys it confers have some rightful claim to their sorrow and, yes, wrath. As long as songs celebrating beauty are sung, the mournful dirges of the repulsive will continue to be screamed in concert with them. The straining of the monster's cock becomes just as real, and thus just as legitimate, as the ache tormenting our writer's cunt and, with that terrifying admission, the existence of the former becomes no less inevitable than that of the the latter.
So let's have ourselves a bit of a laugh. Let's clasp each each other on the shoulder, holding each other up lest we lose our footing and fall. After all, Nietzsche once suggested that Lucifer, that angel most distant from God and thus best able to recognize both His evil and that of His creation, fell from grace because he lost the ability to laugh at the horrors orchestrated by the Lord. It was through the force of gravity that Satan was ultimately damned. If we monsters continue to laugh, indulging in Nature's absurdity because that's the only portion of Herself She's willing to reveal to us, we may accomplish what Lucifer never could and prevent ourselves from becoming devils...if for only a little while longer.
Let the Divine Comedy begin.
