Wednesday, July 31, 2013

The Pick-Up Artist's Cultural Conservatism

Roissy of Chateau Heartiste fisks "a skin-thin confessional-cum-rationalization wrapped in a transparent gauze of self-protective snark [in which] ur-femcunt Tracy Moore, sporting a testosterone-fueled gargantujaw that would be the envy of any excessively prognathic urban youth, unloads about the reality of women losing their looks, and thus their sexual market options, to the unrelenting tick tocking of father fuckyouupgood" — Another Chick And The Wall.

Roissy's insightful conclusion, in which he captures the hopelessness of it all:
    One of the reasons, maybe the primary reason, why you’re seeing an uptick in these lamentations from aging beauties nowadays is because the loss of religiosity and the concomitant bracing realization of the illimitable lightness of youth and the infinite darkness of post-life encourages a mournful nihilism about one’s happiness beyond serving as a visually appealing cum receptacle. When hope for something more transcendent, whether real or imagined, is gone, the pistons of sex are all that’s left to power the motor.

    Another reason for the wailing is the growing childlessness of the marginally-aware class of women. Fear of old age and regret for lost youth have always been with humankind, but never have they felt so acute as now, in our modern, pre-collapse society. Children, along with God, acted as decouplers that placed the sense of self at a safe, if still visible, distance from constant gnawing dread of one’s mortality. Being responsible for a child, and living through that child’s life, provides, I imagine, and especially provides for women, a distraction if not a redemption from sexual invisibility and the uglification of aging. But when you are a single and the city feminist tankgrrl with mimosas for blood, sexual invisibility is akin to an exorcism of your soul. You are shattered, empty, a nothing with nothing but regret to rapidly fill in your osteoporosing id.
Schadenfreude I cannot feel, probably because I have not had to deal with such women much on a personal basis, having spent a decade-and-a-half of my life in the Orient. They have never done me any harm. Pity is what I feel. They've been duped. Sold a bill of goods. Lied to. Offered "freedom" and "liberation." Sure, they should have known better, but the whole culture, or rather anti-culture is against them, plotting their destruction.

The Fifth Glorious Mystery of the Rosary often finds me praying lately for single women, in the particular and general. The Little Office of the Blessed Virgin Mary has us offer an intercession every Tuesday morning "for your holy people, for the clergy, and for all women dedicated to your service." But what about those women not dedicated to your service, Lord?

[Roissy's piece reminds me of a bit of the scene in Fyodor Dostoyevsky's Notes from Underground, with Liza, the prostitute, and "the Underground Man's attempts to make it clear that, really, her life is awful and, in fact, is only going to get worse," one of the most gut-wrenching passages I have ever read in literature.]

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