35-Year-Old Childless Slut Freak-Out: “I’m Broke and Mostly Friendless, And I’ve Wasted My Whole Life”

Octavio Rivera
Daily Stormer
December 3, 2018

From time to time, women have short moments of lucidity and self-awareness.

A used-up old woman looking back on her life wrote a letter to an advice column at The Cut:

I feel like a ghost. I’m a 35-year-old woman, and I have nothing to show for it. My 20s and early 30s have been a twisting crisscross of moves all over the West Coast, a couple of brief stints abroad, multiple jobs in a mediocre role with no real upward track. I was also the poster child for serial monogamy. My most hopeful and longest lasting relationship (three and a half years, whoopee) ended two years ago. We moved to a new town (my fourth new city), created a home together, and then nose-dived into a traumatic breakup that launched me to my fifth and current city and who-knows-what-number job.

By “a couple of brief stints abroad” she means she’s now a living “Male Sexual Organs From Around the World” encyclopedia.

The thing about serial monogamy and playing nest is that going through the motions while artificially preventing or avoiding reaching their intended goal in a twisted “the journey is the destination” is so alien to human history that our instincts and mind get entangled in some kind of cognitive dissonance where the conscious tries to convince the subconscious that the software it’s running has blue check-marks but the subconscious is having none of that kikeness,

Relationships between males and females, sexual attraction, affection, and love have a clear purpose: producing babies. The continuation of your bloodline. In some ways, this also means fighting for the survival of the species, which is closely related to your own survival instinct. These are very primal functions.

If a man and a woman continue to have sex over time without any babies to show for it, feelings about fertility become the elephant in the room of their minds. The woman’s subconscious wonders if the man is defective, sterile, then wonders if she is the problem instead, and the instinctive and historical way to answer that is to try with another man and see if any baby pops out. By that time the self-destruction sequence of the relationship was already entered.

Women are intended to spend their fertile years in a constant state of pregnancy.

Anything else is detrimental to their minds.

For all these years of quick changes and rash decisions, which I once rationalized as adventurous, exploratory, and living an “original life,” I have nothing to show for it. I have no wealth, and I’m now saddled with enough debt from all of my moves, poor decisions, and lack of career drive that I may never be able to retire. I have no career milestones and don’t care for my line of work all that much anyway, but now it’s my lifeline, as I only have enough savings to buy a hotel room for two nights. I have no family nearby, no long-term relationship built on years of mutual growth and shared experiences, no children. While I make friends easily, I’ve left most of my friends behind in each city I’ve moved from while they’ve continued to grow deep roots: marriages, homeownership, career growth, community, families, children. I have a few close girlfriends, for which I am grateful, but life keeps getting busier and our conversations are now months apart. Most of my nights are spent alone with my cat (cue the cliché).

I’m kinda surprised she didn’t drop “finding myself” in there too.

I used to consider myself creative — a good writer, poetic, passionate, curious. Now, after many years of demanding yet uninspiring jobs, multiple heartbreaks, move after move, financial woes, I’m quite frankly exhausted. I can barely remember to buy dish soap let alone contemplate humanity or be inspired by Anaïs Nin’s diaries. Honestly, I find artists offensive because I’m jealous and don’t understand how I landed this far away from myself.

She used to consider herself an artist, now she says she finds artists offensive. She hates them.

Keep in mind, by “artists” she means “younger women.”

Older women have no way to win a fair competition against younger women.

Also, within the past year I’ve had a breast-cancer scare and required surgery on my uterus due to a fertility issue. On top of that, I’m 35 and every gyno and women’s-health website this side of the Mississippi is telling me my fertility is dropping faster than a piano falling out of the sky. Now I’m looking into freezing my eggs, adding to my never-ending financial burden, in hopes of possibly making something of this haunted house and having a family someday with a no-named man.

I’m trying, Polly. I am. I’m dating. I’m working out and working hard. Listening to music I enjoy and loving my cat. Calling my mom. Yet I truly feel like a ghost. No one knows who I am or where I’ve been. I haven’t kept a friend, lover, or foe around long enough to give anyone a chance. What’s the point? I don’t care for my job. I’m not building toward anything, and I don’t have the time or money to really invest in what I care about anyway at this point. On top of that, society is telling me my value as a woman is fading fast, my wrinkles require Botox (reference said poor finances), all the while my manager is asking for me to finish “that report by Monday.” Why bother?

Let’s unpack the “society is telling me my value as a woman is fading fast” phrase.

Why do women exist? Why are they women and not men?

Stuff has a purpose. The purpose of women is made explicit by their baby-factory organs. The purpose of her short-lived beauty is to get her a man and a family, lots of babies, not a never-ending stream of useless orgasms.

The things we like about women are markers for fertility.

When a childless career woman loses her fertility, she loses what made her a woman, and ends up a crippled cartoon of a man.

When a mother loses her fertility, she’s still a woman, because women are mothers and she’s a mother, and she’ll also be a grandma, and she’ll have a big family sitting with her at the dinner table in her birthdays with plenty of little kids running around that find her wrinkled skin funny and lovable. She’ll die of old age with a smile on her face thinking about each and every one in her numerous family, satisfied because she knows that big, happy family exists because of her. She did it. She won.

My apathy is coming out in weird ways. I’m drinking too much, and when I do see my friends on occasion, I end up getting drunk and angry or sad or both and pushing them away. And with men I date, I feel pressure to make something of the relationship too soon (move in, get married, “I have to have kids in a couple of years”; fun times!). All the while still trying to be the sexpot 25-year-old I thought I was until what seemed like a moment ago.

In a couple of years she’ll be 37. Is she trying to produce Down Syndrome monsters? She should have had kids 20 years ago.

I used to think I was the one who had it all figured out. Adventurous life in the city! Traveling the world! Making memories! Now I feel incredibly hollow. And foolish. How can I make a future for myself that I can get excited about out of these wasted years? What reserves or identity can I draw from when I feel like I’ve accrued nothing up to this point with my life choices?

What women think they want is not what’s good for them in the long term. We’ve done a disservice to them by letting them vote and treating them like equals. It makes them miserable.

Reported female happiness has dropped significantly below reported male happiness during all of these Jewish “liberations.”

Why are we making women suffer instead of keeping them chained, naked, and preferably inside a kitchen?

Cages work too.

Don’t forget to tape her mouth shut when you finish using it.

The columnist Heather Havrilesky then gives this poor slut a convoluted Jewish answer, which is quite long and boring.

These are the highlights:

Age 35 is not an expiration date on your beauty or your worth. It doesn’t matter if every single human alive believes this. It’s your job to cast this notion out forever.

If you want to build a life with a partner, and have a more satisfying career, and maybe have children, you need to treat yourself like a treasured child starting today.

Yeah, now that she’s 35 she should act like she’s a princess and pretend to be a child. Makes sense.

Learn to treat yourself the way a loving older parent would. Tell yourself: This reckoning serves a purpose. Your traveling served a purpose. Your moving served a purpose. You’re sitting on a pile of gold that you earned through your own hard work, you just can’t see it yet. You can’t see it because you’re blinded by your shame.

The poor slut is aware that all of that served a purpose, Heather. She wrote to you to complain about that purpose.

If you look at it from the correct angle, you can almost feel sorry for these soulless, bloodsucking monsters called “women.” You gotta watch that.

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