#men don’t have a these self esteem issues because they are largely INDIFFERENT towards even handsome men

[iceyrukia]

Women’s self-image is as negative as ever despite the “body positivity” wave of choice feminism. Why?

I think one of the biggest reasons as to why women’s beauty standards and self-image are worse than even is because you can preach about unfair beauty standards all you want and tell women not to make fun of another woman’s looks but you can’t take away the social status and praise that women who are “beautiful” get from society (both men and women). You give them clout and praise them. Something both “body positivity” and “body neutrality” feminists do btw despite all the talk about acceptance.

It’s like saying you don’t support the ethics behind a product and yet still consume and buy it. In this case “beauty” being a luxury achieved via consumerism where women become the products (objects) that other women admire and obsess over. There is a demand so there is a supply PERIOD.

Women might not directly pursue beauty (“I do it for myself”) for men but nonetheless it’s definitely ingrained as a sign of status and that’s enough to cause a negative self-image in women who don’t participate. Men might have been the original perpetrators of installing unrealistic beauty standards for women but the victims (women) have also turned into perpetrators who can’t let go of the misogynistic status symbol of having value from appearances because it’s considered “culture”.

[ripleyink]

Disgraced Deviants - Tommy Conlon

Author’s Notes: I have more of this written and saved but I wanted to post this to see if it was for anyone’s interest. If there’s anything particularly triggering in here--besides what’s already mentioned and my bad grammar--let me know. Sometimes I miss things. Length: Longer than my John Shelby fic--not as long as I originally intended it to be (seriously this was almost 10 000 words, I cut it back a lot). Rating: For adults. Definitely for adults. WARNING: Violence, a woman does get physically attacked in this so be warned, strong coarse language, and mentions of PTSD, implications of domestic abuse.

Someone was shouting at another outside but no one inside was paying attention.

The erupting noise of a bang filled the enormous space of the boxing gym, its sound fitting to that of a large sack of meat being slammed forcefully against a cement surface. It wasn’t far off from that image conjured in the majority of the attendees heads since their attention was dragged to one of the three boxing rings; entranced by the fight going on in that ring rather than their own business.

In the ring that had captured the attention of the others, Tommy Conlon had his opponent pinned beneath his weight, only partially aware of his elbow digging deep into the younger boxer’s already bruising side. Tommy couldn’t recall his name, couldn’t bring to mind what he said about where he came from or what his reason was for wanting to fight Tommy. All Tommy managed to remember in the heat of his oncoming victory was that the guy was left-handed; he grabbed with his left, swung with his left and dodged to his left and this observation made by his more experienced opponent was ultimately his downfall.

The ex-soldier held him down without struggle, his arm wrapped securely around his opponent’s neck while he waited—the trapped man whipping back and forth like a desperate animal—for him to tap out. The longer Tommy held him, the more frantic the younger man became, and soon he was grabbing the back of Tommy’s neck, sloppily throwing unseen punches into any part that would cause momentary weakness. The more he chose to struggle and fight against his inevitable defeat, the harder he was pinned into the floor of the boxing ring. Tommy was getting fed up with how stubborn this kid was choosing to be and glanced over at his coach, Paddy, for some assistance in persuasion.

Paddy, donning a beige flat cap in the gym with his matching ensemble of casual beige and white clothing, nodded in understanding and stepped up to the ring. He crossed his arms and perched them on the edge of the ring’s platform, lowering his head to meet the younger competitor’s eyes. It was time for a little heart-to-heart with one of the younger souls.

“Hey kid,” Paddy rasped, attracting the pinned boxer’s attention. “Tap out, okay? There are no heroes here.”

The boxer who was practically merging into the ring’s floor by the undeniable force of Tommy Conlon couldn’t have been older than twenty-two. While he was muscular like all the other men present in the gym at that exact moment, there was no life experience in his eyes; life ages a person, experience ages a person, but his olive-toned skin, jet black hair, strongly-defined jawline, and dark brown eyes kept any trauma he may have suffered perfectly concealed. There was no puffiness to his face, no blemishes, and no little flaws that gave character to the likes that walked in and out of the boxing rings. He was identifiably fresh, new and extremely naïve to go up against Tommy Conlon who was known for knocking his opponents down within the first five minutes. Unless this guy magically turned into Brendan Conlon, Tommy’s brother, he was screwed from the get-go.

When Paddy saw that this guy was stubbornly refusing to tap out, the older man swallowed a harsh lump forming in his throat and leaned in closer. “Listen, he’s already been to prison—I’m not fond of him going back based on charges of murder of a stupid kid who didn’t want to hurt his ego. Tap out now or get choked.”

Those few seconds of rushed contemplation was enough for the younger boxer to really consider his situation. Frantically, he slapped his hand—not tapped; slapped—against Tommy’s swelling bicep that seemed to be closing little by little against his throat. Tommy’s arm weakened, releasing his defeated challenger from his vice grip. There was an obvious sense of indifference he displayed when the man gasped as he inhaled the musky but welcome air of the gym, his forehead pressed against the dirty floor of the boxing ring. The champion—glistening beneath the white lights as if his own sweat had formed a protective sheen—pulled himself to his feet, tearing his mouthguard away from his teeth and spat into a blue plastic bucket left on the side below the platform. There was no crimson swirls of blood mingling with the saliva; something which Paddy Conlon considered to be a win for health more than rank.

But what it also meant was that this guy, the one who naively went up against his son, wasn’t a challenge. Tommy had only been out of prison for a couple of months yet there was something rippling inside of him; a heat, a desire to burn and war against anyone willing to go up against him. Since the fight he had with his brother and the witness of what level of power the Conlon brothers could drag from their damaged souls to use in a boxing match, no one had been tempted. No one wanted their heart to stop working because their opponent’s aim was a little too good and the force of their punch a little too severe.

But Tommy wanted a challenge. He wanted someone to throw him off, to make him forget his own existence and simply be in the present of the fight. Whatever this man’s name is or was—if he had told Tommy it went right over his head—he wasn’t good enough. He was too young and very stupid.

Paddy eyed his son moving to the edge of the ring, resting his arms on the rope while he continued to spit out saliva that had built up in his mouth. His father dropped down to collect the water bottle left on the floor, pulling the cap for Tommy before he handed it to him. Studying his son, Paddy grew concerned that Tommy wasn’t resting because he needed a break but because he was giving the other guy one. Had Tommy gotten worse while being in prison? Had he become more aggressive?

“Tommy,” he fixed Tommy with a calm yet intense look. “Hold your position but give them some room to breathe, alright?”

Tommy nodded at him, but it didn’t seem very sincere. Still, Paddy wasn’t going to push it at that moment in particular, since he was concerned about the kid who had boldly, and arrogantly, decided to go up against his son. In his defence, he didn’t know Tommy had been training even in prison; keeping himself in shape and focused under the watchful eyes of military prison guards. Maybe that was why Tommy had been so ruthless in this fight; prison had really made him learn what it meant to survive in a harsh environment.

The older man returned to where the younger fighter was; he had collapsed onto his back, breathing rapidly with his eyes squinted shut and protected teeth clenched at the inevitable agony he was feeling. Paddy leaned closer to the man clutching his side, hearing him grunt and groan through the overwhelming sensation. Once again, Paddy crossed his arms over and rested them against the edge of the platform, barricaded by the ring’s ropes from the man who would need a stitch or two above his left eye. The man’s bled through five different wounds that Paddy could see from his angle. There was probably more and definitely some internal bleeding to add to this guy's medical bill.

“Well, I can’t say you don’t have some balls, kid, but there’s a thin line between holding your own and being stupid. Learn to let your pride and ego go and tap out earlier next time.”

With that being said, he reached through the gaps in the rope to give a supportive pat on the young man’s arm. He was probably one of those kinds of people who fight others because they have self-esteem issues.

“WILL YOU FUCK OFF!”

“Why?! So you can run circles around me?!”

“—fucking following me to the gym now, what is wrong with YOU?!”

“YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO FUCKING PAY ME, YOU ASSHOLE! THAT’S HOW THIS SHIT WORKS!”

Everyone in the gym was dragged abruptly into the sudden commotion occurring inside the walls—Tommy and Paddy being of no exception when their eyes and ears were called to the attention of the two people having a shouting match inside. Natural curiosity and instinct toward the out-of-norm was enough for all the coaches, the fighters and general visitors to pay attention to the drama. Tommy’s brow furrowed while he watched.

Without any confusion stood a man and a woman arguing with their voices raised. The man was someone familiar to all whether it is more so to some and less to others. His name was Bobby Fisher; a frequenter to this particular gym and an all-round irritating sort of character with spiked, copper hair, a patchy beard, tattoos of naked women marking every inch of skin his torso could provide and dark brown eyes that always had a feverish glimmer in them. It was the kind of stare a rabid dog might have but because Bobby preferred to punch a bag than a person, he was relatively harmless to the other fighters. Tommy had never spoken to him nor had any interest in him until this moment.

To add further character to his appearance, Bobby was also a tall, broad-shouldered man. He towered over others easily and the woman he was screaming at the top of his lungs at was no exception. In fact, she was about average in stature but far more simple in appearance than Bobby. Her blonde hair hung long in a rather boring style, her nose was tipped upward at the end, the shape of her face was round but not unattractive, and while her eyes were wide in the heat of her emotions the colour wasn’t identifiable to Tommy. He couldn’t tell. His eyes snapped to the movement beside her jean-covered leg, slightly stunned to see a large German shepherd pacing to and fro behind her. Tommy could see it was on a leash; but it growled and barked whenever Bobby took a step closer to its master and that made Tommy concerned that a leash won’t hold it back.

The young woman’s breathing shook, her fingers combing through her hair while she tried to calm herself down. “Bobby, you owe me five months rent… I’ve tried being understanding of your situation and everything but I’m not doing this anymore… I need to survive as well…”

“You followed me to the fucking gym—what part of that is fucking reasonable?! You fucking stalking me for money now, like, what the fuck is wrong with you?! You’re a fucking psychopath!”

“You want a place to live,” she whispered vehemently to him, “you have to pay the fifteen hundred for it or else I’m going to throw your shit on the street and lock you out.”

It was so abrupt that it didn’t process anyone’s mind for a moment—not even Tommy’s or Paddy’s. In a mere millisecond, Bobby’s arm came up and his closed fist connected directly into the side of the woman’s face. She doubled back, tripping on her booted feet while Bobby stomped forward, gripping her by her hooded jacket and bringing her closer just as he slammed his fist once again back into her face. The second punch was what snapped everyone present out of their shock.

But no one acted as quickly as Tommy did.

Tommy gripped the rope and jumped over, propelling himself toward Bobby as soon as his feet touch the ground. His peripheral vision fell out of focus as his directive became clearer to him; gone was his thought process, replaced by military training and basic human instinct mingling together with a rage that only ever emerged in the controlled environment of mixed martial arts. It overwhelmed Tommy and pushed any other sense out of his mind, out of his concentration.

His palm connected violently with the side of Bobby’s head, tightly clutching the gel-soaked strands of Bobby’s red hair and dragging him off of the woman whose screams were not missed by Tommy. The familiarity of the circumstances had caught Tommy Conlon in a trance of memory and the only thought screaming the loudest through the red fog was:

Get away from her.

“Get the fuck off me—” Bobby demanded, clawing at the side of Tommy’s arm with what tiny fingernails he possessed to use in self-defence.

Though there was a man bigger than him clawing at his arm, begging him to let him go, Tommy couldn’t hear any of his cuss-ridden pleas or the attempts to break through the fuzzy haze which clouded Tommy’s judgment. The voices, the yelling; all of it was a blur, blending into incomprehensible noise in the background which filled his ears but failed to reach his brain. In a swift, jutting movement, the fighter threw Bobby to the floor, far away from where he was safe. Bobby attempted to recover quickly enough to make an escape before any damage was made to his own face, but he wasn’t fast enough; bigger than Tommy, definitely, but not the kind of warrior he was. Tommy’s knuckles connected sharply, violently against the side of Bobby’s jaw. Then he hit him again, and again and another punch.

Every action he made was being spurned on by the sound of a dog barking… and the screams of the woman still ringing in his ears while she tried to shield her face from the blows…

On the outside was Paddy Conlon. He had seen Tommy get into a state but nothing like this; this was something animalistic, something buried so deep only now did it surface and it was appearing with a vengeance. He couldn’t comprehend the level of violence he was seeing, but his son, as cruel as it sounded, had put himself in a really terrible position. Tommy was on parole from the prison and a fuck-up as great as this would get him screwed over—possibly house arrest and another incident would lead to a return to prison. Paddy hurried over to his son, failing to move as hastily as he once did.

“Tommy!” Paddy rushed to his son, startled by the sheer ferocity on display. “Tommy, quit it! Tommy! Tommy, the fucking cops are gonna think you started this! Tommy, you’re on fucking parole! Let him go!”

The strength of the punches began to split skin apart, darkening the area of attention for the assaults as they swelled and would soon bruise, and all the while Bobby seemed incapable of kicking Tommy off of him. After some deliberation to risk their safety to break the fight up, the other fighters and gym attendees snapped into action. Several of the bigger guys wrapped their arms around Tommy’s stomach and arms, seeming to actually have difficulty tearing him away from Bobby’s beaten self. Each of them, all knowing Tommy well from his daily visits to the gym, restrained him as best as they could until they waited for the inevitable sense of rationality to clear Tommy’s clouded mind.

It was as if a blindfold had been removed the eyes of a raging bull. Tommy’s intense stare, not glancing for a second away from Bobby, softened into one of bemusement. He scanned the rest of the gym, seeking out something, but seeing it was nowhere to be found. The woman and her dog: where were they?

“Where is she?” Tommy mumbled, slipping his arms out from his restraint. He felt deflated suddenly; the same way air would come out of a tyre after puncturing it with a sharp object. He felt like someone had taken almost all of the energy from his body.

“She ran off! Girl had a swollen eye and was bleeding all over her face so I imagine she’s fucked off to the hospital or something,” one of the shorter, thinner gym attendees, Marlon, replied. He shrugged his shoulders when Tommy glanced over at him, clearly feeling safe standing in the boxing ring far away from where everyone else was.

Meanwhile, Paddy approached Bobby’s grunting, bloodied form lying awkwardly on the floor of the gym in a thickening mixture of crimson and speckles of saliva. The sight was truly saddening to see; probably appalling for someone who wasn’t accustomed to these sorts of brawls being carried out by unthinking, ferocious men behaving like wolves.

“Get back to what you were doing,” Paddy addressed the remaining attendees in the gym while glaring down at Bobby, “maybe Eddie won’t pull the shotgun out on you if you act like nothing happened.”

“What about the blood?”

He waved his hand, grumbling. “There’s blood in these kinds of places all the time, what’s a puddle of it going to do?”

“Give Eddie a seizure,” Marlon replied, shrugging his shoulders.

“We’ll have to risk it, won’t we?” He chuckled harshly, lifting an arm to point at the lockers. “Tommy, go have a shower and get dressed. We’re done here for the day.”

The small crowd eventually dispersed. The tension in the massive gym fizzled into an uneasy simmer but everyone remained on edge for another possible outbreak of anger. Some of the men laughed sheepishly to clear the anxiousness from their tightened muscles, others slipped back into systematic ritual of their training routine without another word, and some decided to head to the gym showers and probably spend the rest of their day and evening getting drunk. Paddy swept the back of his arm across his wrinkled, leathery forehead doused in a nervous sweat from before. He glanced over to find Tommy pulling the tape from his blood-coated knuckles, nudging the locker room door open with his shoulder. His opponent—who refused to tap out for as long as he could manage—far away from where Tommy was.

The older man sighed heavily, turning his attention back to Bobby. The ginger boxer was managing—though poorly—to lift himself off the ground, specks of blood spitting from between his blood-covered lips and scarlet-stained teeth.

“What the fuck—” Bobby mumbled sinisterly, trying to see through the one eye that wasn’t swollen. “Which fucking cunt did this?”

Paddy sighed even heavier than before, his eyes rolling. He, with a bit of difficulty, bent into a crouch beside the beaten man.

“I recommend staying down. The one who beat you has done time and well,” he laughed hoarsely, “frankly, you look like a prolapsed asshole.”

Bobby spat again onto the carpeted floor, levelling himself onto his less bruised side; supporting his weight on his forearm. “Where is she?”

Remarkably, Bobby seemed to have missed that conversation occurring just a moment before. The coach shrugged his shoulders, gesturing to wide space empty of any women at all. The gym itself, made up of grey and alternating shades of blue, was filled with only sweaty, putrid-smelling men who had been there for no less than a couple of hours. But no, no blonde with a German shepherd was there for Bobby to see or find. If there was one thing Paddy was going to learn from his own past, it was that Bobby was never going to see a blonde with a German shepherd unless he wanted cops on his ass and prison in his vision.

“Fuck knows,” he chuckled humourlessly. “But I have a good feeling your shit is gonna be on the sidewalk when you get home this evening.”

The copper-haired fighter gave Paddy an irritated but acquiescent stare. “Yeah, that’s probably what’s going to happen… I rent out a room from her…”

“You know what you’re gonna do when you see your shit on the sidewalk?” Paddy’s voice darkened threateningly, his hand snapping to clutch the back of his spiked hair in a harsh grip. “You’re going to take your things, leave the money you owe her, then fuck off and not contact her again. In case your dumb ass didn’t notice, there are at least twenty men who witnessed you beating the shit out of that poor woman and saw your ass get kicked for doing so. Really thin about your choices next time.”

He shoved his head roughly away, pushing himself out of his crouched position, turning on his heel.

“She—” Bobby began, being cut off rapidly by an aggravated Paddy.

“Listen, buddy, whatever excuse you’re gonna make—I’ve fucking done it already. Whatever excuse you’re gonna pull out of your ass to justify yourself, I’ve already been there. I know all the fuckin’ excuses. Don’t fucking try it.”

There was a pause filled mostly by the noise of Bobby breathing through his mouth. There was one thing hanging on Paddy’s mind about the whole incident: it was about money.

“How much do you owe the girl?”

Bobby clicked his tongue. “Fifteen hundred… she keeps fucking reminding me every fucking—”

The older man held up a hand to stop him. “Yeah… you have this impression I’m sympathetic. Do you have the money?”

He didn’t reply. The older man cocked a brow at him, snorting incredulously.

“You do, don’t you? You could’ve avoided getting your face punched in, you know.”

“The money’s for someone else. I owe a couple of people money. ‘s why I do ring fights and shit.”

Paddy snorted again. “Can an old man with a former alcohol problem give you some advice?”

Bobby glanced up at him. The fighter’s face was swollen and visibly sore, his lip was split, his left eye the size of an avocado seed and his black wife-beater singlet stained with his own blood.

Paddy didn’t blink.

“Get your shit together.”

[mgtowmemes]

Men Don’t Exist

Link: https://selfknowledgedaily.com/men-don-t-exist-society-s-indifference-towards-male-suffering-3f580ef6b21d#.ex2mi788t

Men Don’t Exist: Society’s Indifference Towards Male Suffering

“A woman cries and everybody rushes to give her what she wants, and a man cries and everyone scorns and looks away embarrassed.

We no more think of warming our hearts towards the warm hearts of boys than we do of imagining changing the position of the sun by twisting the dials on our clocks. To suggest it is insane. To imagine it’s occurring is deranged. We are that far from the emancipation from the isolation of the human male child.

We raise men COLD, FROZEN, BRUTALIZED, through the cold Medusa eyes of indifference and then, you see, we complain that the hierarchy, the Patriarchy of Men is not very nice!” — Stefan Molyneux from the YouTube video How A Man’s Heart Is Murdered

Besides the incredibly large collections of data that have been organized and presented in YouTube videos such as “The Truth About Male Privilege,” “The Truth About Domestic Violence,” “The Truth About Rape Culture,” “The Truth About Violence,” or the plethora of social experiments that truly show the extent to which society simply doesn’t care about men, which I’d recommend watching if the idea that men having any significant issues in the west sounds completely absurd to you, I can scarcely think of a better way to validate the thesis that society (especially women) does not care about men and boys than to try this simple experiment:

Simply talk about the very real issues that males face today. And, if you can, try talking about them to a woman. Make sure they are adamant about not just taking your word for it; show them the facts. Show them the facts about spanking, which reveal that mothers spank more than fathers and that boys are more likely to get spanked than girls. Talk about how between 60% and 80% of rapists, sex offenders, and sexually aggressive men were sexually abused by a woman in their childhood. Mention to them the devastating short and long term effects of circumcision as well as how three-quarters of American adult men are circumcised. Or, share the underlying data which show that women are as physically aggressive, or more aggressive, than men in their relationships with their spouses or male partners, yet despite this fact, there are no shelters for men.

Talk to them about these issues and see how they respond. From my own experience, the sad truth is that even the most heartfelt attempts I’ve made to evoke sympathy and understanding towards the suffering of men and boys through some of my most carefully crafted sentences fall completely on deaf ears. The sheer number of futile attempts I’ve made to evoke even the smallest iota of understanding and compassion towards the suffering towards men and boys is enough to drive one to despair.

Take this brief exchange I had in the comment section of an anti-circumcision (anti baby boy genital mutilation) Facebook picture that was being shared. The names I’ll make up.

Bob commented by saying:

Men have a right to be extremely angry about what is being done to them. This is child abuse of the worst kind.

To which I replied:

We are mutilated as babies, hit by our parents as children , yelled at and humiliated by our teachers as adolescents and teenagers, only to then be told that we the oppressive ones, that we are the spousal abusers, the rapists of society and if we are single and live alone, possibly due to the low self-esteem that occurs as a result of this incessant scorn, then at the very least, we objectify others through our video games.

It’s no wonder the suicide rate for men is so high.

Then a woman I’ll call Sherry joined the discussion with:

See, but hasn’t the ‘stigma’ of living alone changed a bit. I view any male in my age bracket who doesn’t live at home, more of a responsible adult. Just sayin.

And we can tie in what you are saying to the need to be accepted. Ie: Bruce/ Caitlin Jenner. Why have I always felt so out of place? “why don’t you act like a pretty girl?” “why do you like the Dukes of Hazzard? You’re a girl. You should be playing with dolls” Fuck you. I like cars and dirt and camping and fishing. I like to play in the mud. And I like to get my hands dirty… Even when I have my fucking nails did…

Accepting who we are is important.

She later wrote:

See and I’ve never met a guy who was unhappy about being circumcised. And I have met a few who weren’t but to ‘fit in’ they wanted one….

Reactions like Sherry’s are incredibly frustrating for men like me because men are often shamed considerably for lacking sensitivity and have been told repeatedly about the superiority of female empathy. Yet, when it comes time to demonstrate this superior empathy, when you begin to talk about men’s issues, you get these kind of indifferent, annoying, and irrelevant knee-jerk responses that have become all too typical. Almost inevitably will somebody (often a woman) come into a discussion about how an issue specifically effects men and boys and immediately move the conversation away from men by saying something like, “Well, it’s a human being issue! This ties into something larger, like the over all human need to be accepted, which is experienced by men and women alike!”

Could you imagine if I said, “I’ve never met a women who was unhappy in the kitchen all day! But, if they are suffering from near catatonic depression, we can tie that into the need of wanting to be fulfilled. Gosh, I hated being expected to like sports as a guy!”

And when they do finally bring the conversation back towards men, it’s when something negative about women such as female aggression towards children is brought up, in which case you will hear the “Yes, but men too!” response as if to again remind us of how terrible men can be.

“Yes, I women are violent, but men are violent too. And they rape more.”

Of course men are violent too! It’s not too interesting to say men can be aggressive, jerks, rapists, murderers, and child abusers. Nor is it terribly interesting to say that women can be victims of aggressive male jerks, rapists, murderers and child abusers. It’s uninteresting because it is blatantly true. It’s so true that stating it sounds more like an observation than a criticism.

Besides, the statement that "women play a role in the cycle of violence" does not mean "men do not play a role in the cycle of violence," any more than the statement "cats bite about 750,000 people a year" implies that "dogs don’t bite people at all as well.”

But when women's capacity for aggression and female responsibility is talked about, it's so often the case that people respond as if that's exactly what you just said. Now, there are probably many reasons for this, some which might involve propaganda or even biology, so I’m not saying I think that these reactions are the result of “women’s inherent badness” or “women’s inherent stupidity.” After all, men do it too! … No really. I’m not being facetious. After one post I made about the abuse I suffered from my mother, a guy responded:

“What is causing you to feel so angry? I understand the frustration your are feeling in your life and about your mom, but you said you are going to sit in anger now. Is this a recent realization?”

This is largely the purpose for talking about how certain issues specifically effect men and boys at all; because these are things that people are still largely indifferent towards, ignore, or even inappropriately turn into subjects of humor, whereas this is not the case with women’s issues. And not only does that mean men’s suffering is overlooked, but so is female evil, and to ignore or excuse female evil is highly sexist towards women as it puts them in the position of an infant by taking moral responsibility from them, which in turn only enables the cycle of violence to continue.

So, when people respond as they did in the previous examples that I had given, it only further confirms and validates the thesis that compassion towards men and boys is so rare as to be practically nonexistent, which is why it’s so important to speak up for them.

The truth is that the violence in men we see today is a symptom of and is directly proportional to the lack of love from women in the world. It is the lack of love from women that is killing the world, not just male violence. When I see a male dictator, or rapist, a pedophile, a thief, a gang member, a murderer, I see a cold, emotionally incestuous, distancing, and/or violent mother.

This isn’t my mommy issues or my hatred of women speaking. It is just an empirical fact that women play role in the cycle of violence. In addition to male violence, beyond reasonable doubt, beyond serious doubt, beyond sane, informed, intelligent doubt, beyond doubt it is a fact that the lack of love from women is also killing this planet.

We’ve spent decades attempting to heal the world through pointing out male violence. It hasn’t worked. It doesn’t work. It will never work, not unless we talk about that which is under-acknowledged, ignored and overlooked — female evil.

As a friend of mine once said,

“The degree to which we can have empathy for girls and not for boys, is the same degree in which we lack empathy.” — Patrick Chapman