Museless

I have now passed the half-way mark on my least productive year in a decade. Even when I was practically homeless and actually starving a ways back, I was producing more work than I have this year. I know what the problem is.

That itself is the problem.

I’m going to not-so-humble-brag for a bit here, so if that bothers you, feel free to check out. I have learned not to take rejection personally. In fact, I’ve learned to live with rejection. In rejection. If I hadn’t, I’d have snapped like a twig by now.

My last serious girlfriend had a face that was like a perfect fusion of Sarah Polley’s and Lesley Ann Warren’s, and, without exaggeration, a body like Tessa Fowler’s. (That’s “Tessa”, NOT “Tess”. I cannot emphasize this enough.) Often, during the time we lived together, I would wake up in the morning to her breasts caressing my face. She is the inspiration behind my theory of mammary bioluminescence; the idea that some girls can take their top off and literally make the room brighter. For example, Alexandra Daddario, in the second episode of True Detective. See, now you know what I mean.

I actually don’t intend to brag here, I’m putting this down for posterity, not because I’ll ever forget, but to provide proof that it can happen for someone like me. This woman inspired me enough as an artist to do the following, mostly on my own:

(It’s a full-length animated movie that won a festival prize, just in case you don’t feel like clicking past the age-restriction.)

“Behind every successful man, there stands a woman.” They used to say that openly, but they don’t anymore, because America is so beyond fucked right now that we can’t attach any benefit to heterosexuality, or risk glamorizing it. I can flip through a mental Rolodex of females I’ve been with whose bodies were so splendiferous, so excruciatingly desirable, that I honestly had to fight the urge to shake my head mid-coitus and ponder how I could have ever gotten so lucky. There is no drug or substance on earth that can beat the endorphin deluge provided by the close presence of a beautiful nude woman making purposeful eye contact. Nothing. Men kill each other over less.

Every woman I’ve taken to bed, and in truth there’s only so many, they were there for me. Because of who I am. If there’s a better reward in life than sliding into a female who loves you, I am wholly ignorant of it. Take the greatest Christmas, birthday, or New Year’s, multiply it by a billion, and you’re still nowhere near it.

So of course, in the 2020’s, it’s a dead end.

Every girl I find attractive now is a hostage taker who ransoms her natural charms for some impossible cause. If I’d like to see her naked, I must weather some media-narrative hermit-crab shell she’s crawled inside, for social protection and clout. If I want to fuck her, I have to compromise my personal identity publicly, or risk humiliation on a global scale from her and her “clique”. It’s not like before, where I merely had to tolerate a hot girl’s typically shitty taste in music and movies. I accepted that as the reality that attractive females are never, ever confronted on their awful choices in idols. Why would anyone dare? It would make them go away.

This is key. Now women hold everything desirable about them hostage, so they can get what they want. If they can’t get it from you, they’ll go get it from someone else. If you’re hurt by this, get over it. Women don’t care. They don’t even have to pretend to care. The world will beat a path to their door anyway. Because duh: vaginas.

See, men and women are “equal”, except women have vaginas, so they get the benefits. Women cried and wailed so loudly and convincingly, that a massive treasonous crime was committed in November of 2020, America is basically ruined, and we’re all supposed to somehow take women seriously and not hate their lousy guts. Anything women can’t control, they annihilate or malign. Holy fucking mother of God, I hope my saying this makes you mad. If you’re not mad right now you’re fucking stupider than shit. Moths burning alive in candle flames have more smarts.

Women act like all men are a “team” against them, like we’ve been pals throughout history and not killing each other to succeed, or over turf. Anything dominated by males has to be infiltrated and weakened by females; in the same breath, women will tell you that they should dominate, not because they’ve earned it, but because they’ve never been given a “fair shake” in a country where they’re treated like priceless, easily-slighted gems. Oh, but things were bad before they were born, which is the rallying cry for those who want something for nothing. Every conceivable flaw in women is entirely men’s fault.

Women don’t get together for anything, unless it’s to label a man a rapist without evidence, and the entire world takes it as fact. Or, women will conspire to ignore a man’s history as an actual rapist, if they decide that the rapist in question is politically or financially valuable.

“Harvey Weinstein is a wonderful human being and a good friend.”

–Michelle Obama, at a 2013 White House event

No living thing expects a human female to lie, so again, the entire world (read: “news” media monopoly) takes it as fact etched in marble. Women will tell you, to your face, that America’s present administration is superior to the previous one. Women will tell you that a senile pederast and literal racist makes a better world leader than a guy with funny hair who said mean things on social media. If you don’t support their approved candidate, or tow their chosen party line, women will leave you. Even if you’re lawfully wedded. Laws are for men, to keep them from raping.

Women will tell you that all world leaders should be female, while pointing to the most demented, egregiously incompetent examples as proof. Women will support women in the media who behave like disrespectful imbeciles and call it “bravery”. Women will rally behind women who are murderers, molesters and mutilators, without even a moment’s introspection. Women will gleefully and freely advertise the most abhorrent music, the most moronic films, and the worst TV shows as long as those things specifically place women above men. Better yet, if those things are bereft of men altogether.

I know and have known many women who either enjoy the company of men, or at least, don’t seek to eradicate them. You should somehow thank them all personally. They are literally the only reason I don’t simply consider women stupid.

Look around you, at all the things currently prized by women in entertainment media. Let’s start with a personal peeve of mine; the goddamn fake fingernails. Suddenly every woman is trying to outdo the female cast of The Sopranos. I left New Jersey partly to escape that shit. No man likes long fake fingernails. Wanna know why? How much time do you have?

Let me hit you with some fast fingernail facts. You know who typically has long fingernails?

1. Unhygienic or indolent people, and/or people who refuse to groom themselves, like Howard Hughes when he was saving his piss in jars like lemon preserves.
2. Gross old ladies who hate how old their hands look (and inadvertently make them look older and grosser).
3. Men who dress up like female stereotypes, whatever the fuck they’re called this week.
4. The revolting people who grow four-foot-long nails that look like curled bug cocoons, for freak shows and Ripley’s Believe It Or Not.
5. Elvira, Mistress of the Dark, because she’s literally the sole human being upon whom it looks great. Plus, she’s supposed to be a ghoul of some kind, and they’re not really that long.
6. That reminds me; dead people. (Your nails continue to grow after you die for a short time, because human beings are inherently yucky.)
7. People who, unless they happen to own a bidet, cannot properly clean their own ass after shitting.

You know who doesn’t have long fingernails? Literally every single female depicted in classical art. Ah, but of course, all those brilliant painters and sculptors were men, so I’m sure it was because of some “misogynist” inclination, and not a desire to render the feminine form beautifully enough for God. (Or if not God, whichever king might behead them if they don’t.)

Long fingernails indicate sloth and ill health. So when a guy like me is subjected to a repugnant, dim-witted porpoise like Cardi B waving her lime-green celery-stalk press-ons at the camera every time she speaks, all I can think of is:

1. She can’t or won’t do anything constructive using her hands
2. God only knows what kind of bubonic plague is infesting her fingertips
3. I sure hope she owns a bidet, or some expensive perfume to mask the smell of her own fat ass.

A bidet is an expensive European toilet (or attachment) that shoots warm water up your nethers when you push a button. It’s my understanding that it follows up with an air dryer; I wouldn’t know, I’ve always crapped in a regular ugly-American toilet. This is the sole reason that anybody with long fingernails would have a sanitary ass. If you can’t operate the register at the corner store, you sure as hell can’t use toilet paper.

So ladies, if you’d like to impress women who waste money on nonsense and can’t wipe their own ass, by all means, go for the long fake fingernails. Even better in neon colors that resemble jaundice, vomit, or bile. Be sure to tut them about vigorously while singing “carpool karaoke” with “the gals”, which, by the by, is another thing nobody likes. It’s what failed comediennes do when the world realizes they aren’t funny, and they need to make it clear that the world’s approval means nothing to them. They don’t work to become funnier; they spend all their energy trying to convince themselves they’re better than you. Being a woman behind a microphone on stage is enough, even if she’s treading water. “Funny” is for snotty little boys and dead white men. By and large, women understand funny like a fish understands a bicycle. It goes completely against their nature as women.

What do heterosexual guys do when they realize females dislike something about them? We change it.

The appeal of an “independent woman” is moot. What exactly is appealing about a woman who couldn’t care less if you lived or died, because you’re a man? What’s appealing about being unwanted on the basis of your gender?

If you are a woman reading this, you will go to your grave never, ever knowing what it’s like to be truly unwanted. Any rejection you’ve experienced personally is nothing compared to the rejection men enjoy. Every single fucking day we’re reminded that women don’t need us, don’t want us, don’t have any use for us, and can get along better without us. Every prized life goal we seek is vilified as “sexist”, or “patriarchal”. Any place we try to meet to support each other as boys or men, you self-righteously invade. We try our goddamndest to live happily with what we have, while you spend money altering your fingertips, altering your breasts, altering your face, altering your ass, altering everything God gave you because he’s male and you know better. You act like children yet still demand unquestioning respect. Excepting the times you “just can’t“, and want to be left alone until you decide you “need” others again. It’s all about you.

I’ve spent most of my life developing skills and status that would make me more appealing to females. I was a lead stage actor in a dozen productions, including Romeo & Juliet, where I played Tybalt, a role known to make the ladies light-headed. I did a comic strip for a local magazine for nineteen years. I’m known throughout Georgia as an artist. I self-produced a two-hour cartoon, trying to score a lucrative network deal. (I’d mention that I played bass guitar in a band, but as any bass player can tell you, it makes you invisible to girls, unless they happen to play bass. Even then, they’re typically trying to usurp you. They’ll be successful, too; isn’t a female bass player more interesting?)

If I can’t get along with women or other people, it’s an “issue”. If I’m frustrated or angry, it’s a “problem”. If I’m fed up with the world, I’m “in the wrong”. If I defend a social issue, it’s “problematic”. If I’m abandoned by a female, it’s “my fault”. I wasn’t “mature enough” to handle a woman. I should “grow up” and stop drawing cartoons and “playing with toys”. I should change and become a “better man”.

If a woman can’t get along with men or other people, she is “self-reliant”. If she’s frustrated or angry, it’s “pride”. If she’s fed up with the world, she’s “independent”. If she defends a social issue, it’s “noble”. If she’s abandoned by a man, it’s “his fault”. He wasn’t “worthwhile enough” to handle a “real woman”. He should change and become a “better man”. Meaning, someone who sacrifices his identity and desires and wholly submits to her needs, with the promise that he’ll maybe touch a titty at some point in the future. Even if he doesn’t, he’ll still be “happy”, and never try to get his gross carnal demands met elsewhere. That’s a “better man”.

If this is “equality”, I’m Queen Latifah.

I am slowly coming to accept that I will never be happy, contented, or fulfilled like I was in the past. It’s now statistically impossible. My nature, my modus operandi, has been systematically devalued. I am a man who needs a woman in a world where a woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle. Don’t bother arguing; you know I’m right. The American dream as I came to know it is dead, salted and buried. Somehow, I’m supposed to pretend that this is a life worth living, when deep down, I know it isn’t. There is nowhere to go but down.

No artist can carry on museless.