Yesterday, at work, with a regular client - a man in his sixties who always greatly appreciates my literary advice - I was having a chat about climate change and the various related issues.
At one point I talk about overpopulation and the discussion shifts to yes / no children.
I never go into too much detail about my cocks - nor those of others - on issues like this, so I solved it with a generic "I don't have any".
So he, I also believe in total good faith and believing he was paying me a compliment, exclaimed "Think again! With these maternal hips you have! You are the prototype of maternal female beauty".
Today I discovered that since I have no children, I implicitly do not have a purpose in life nor a way to use my time and therefore I can sacrifice myself for the company and "work 24 hours a day" (sigh)
There would be many things to say about it, of how the problem is not the men themselves, but the system they have created; how apart from the numerical disproportion, within the system there is a certain homogeneity of intent; how it is perfectly indifferent whether power is acted upon by a man or a woman because the woman, in order to snatch that power from the hands of a man, has somehow introjected the system better than him; and a thousand other things, but I don't want them anymore now.
Any wave of demand, if it acts within the capitalist-patriarchal system, has no chance of changing the present.
The whole fuckin 'system is wrong.
For many men a woman is still just a body. A body to be used sexually or to have children
 But are we still living in the nineteenth century?



You are always squeezed in a corset, made up, on a diet, and all this always to make a man love you, men desire you, conquer your soul mate. You are always spreading creams on your face, hands, feet, hair. But what do men do? No corset, no girdle, no heels, just a shower and a little gel on your hair. And you squeeze into a tight dress and don’t breathe and choke. And you would like to get away from it all because you always have to please everyone, be perfect, well dressed and pretty. They don’t ask themselves if anyone will like them. They just take. They take everything.
Poor woman, made up, retouched, photoshopped, to look her best, to capture likes, to conquer looks. And the men? They show the pizza, the console, their star wars collections. How many hours of the gym for what? To then discard them all and remain alone. Poor men, obsessed with their own chest, with raised eyebrows, with redone lips. No hair and no love.
You are beautiful. You don’t need a man there to remind you. You are beautiful, alone perhaps even more. You look beautiful even if you don’t have a man who takes the lipstick off your lips, even if you are disheveled or without make-up. Even if you’re in a hurry and forgot something at home. You look beautiful when you leave the house to go get yourself an ice cream. You look beautiful in pajamas and with messy hair, you look beautiful with sleepy eyes. You are beautiful when you have rivers of words to hunt and when you want to be silent. You are beautiful when you get excited by a sentence, read on a book or on a wall. you wear make-up, wear the most beautiful dress you have, sprinkle your favorite perfume and then go out even if you have no one waiting for you outside the door, even if there is no one to tell you that you are beautiful. You do it to feel good about yourself. And this is the only thing that matters. You go out and then you will make the world fall in love. You look beautiful when you walk alone with headphones in your ears. And you think. Images. Dreams. You project yourself elsewhere. And it all reflects in your eyes. You are beautiful and you don’t know it. You are beautiful and someone is falling in love with you at that moment. You are beautiful because you are a great person, because you love so much that you almost self-destruct, because you bend over backwards for everyone even if nothing comes back .. because, for you, the important thing is to give. You are beautiful because you always believe in it, even when you shouldn’t, and you can see it in your eyes.
She’s good, wear makeup as well. A little mascara, a bit of pencil, put a brush of powder on it and be careful not to forget your dear friend blush. Put whatever you want in it, and then get out. Have fun, drink, laugh, joke, scream, don’t care, live! But then you will have to go home and take off that mask that you created yourself adapting it to your face. You didn’t think about that, huh? You can’t wear it forever, it’s a mask destined to be taken off, sooner or later. It is one of those masks that make you look beautiful at first, but then its beauty gradually vanishes and all that remains is your true beauty, the one you have never noticed, because it lies in simplicity, in small gestures, in the most hidden details. That true beauty that you have never shown to anyone, that that nobody knows, that that nobody knows exists. Maybe because you don’t want anyone to see it, or maybe you believe that, once it is revealed, nobody would appreciate it. And the funniest thing of all is that others do the same thing to you, without your knowledge. Because this is now a world of masks in which the actors who wear them are none other than the protagonists of this film called “Life”, where appearing is more important than being, where the story of being beautiful inside , no one cares. Where nobody ever thinks that perhaps it would be better to be hated for who they really are, than loved for that stupid mask that we insist on wearing to please others.


I don’t want to try to live any life again. I got bastardized and the home is worse for me than the cauldron of cannibals. every day too many people ate my best meat and every day I fed their thoughts with succulent ardor and multicolored hopes. This lane no longer belongs to me, I am out of the white lines, I went beyond the yellow lines, I deleted the blue lines and I took possession of a space that has nothing to do with men. I jumped out of the lines of men and women ready for the handkerchief race. I saw my prize and refused it, even though it shone like pure gold. I am never the one who dwells in this non-existent rent. I sell myself to my thoughts. I sell myself to my breath. I sell myself to the stranger who lives in my houses. he has an immense need for inhuman pleasures. he is the worst of the inhuman demons. unfolds me on white sheets and folds my corners without hesitation, an origami of crowded evenings. I go to find the silence of the marble angels. I go where life no longer lives. I don’t bring flowers to anyone, I walk among my buried souls, I mix wet lands, replant dried flowers … I look at the photos of my deceased sisters, my soul mates … the others who were not as lucky as me to live despite my apparent death. They call me a vampire, they tell me a scribe, they think I’m alien. I can’t stand people paved with knowledge. reducing billions of sadness into sonic explosions leaping the pit of pain by stabbing black stars that fall like ash confetti. the apocalypse of sadness makes the angel more terrible and the trumpet sounds like thunder. the din of the mind increases, the detachment from human people increases, I am extinguished. I feel in the last non-stellar sky, on the top floor of inhuman pain, I feel myself going up and down for no reason, my love runs on black ice stairs, on roads that penetrate impossible, fearful darkness. fingers of flesh and wind slip into my torment. fingers of cardiac losses accumulate and open my chest. I open the doors of my feeling and immediately afterwards I regret it. I got a devil in every hair, a devil in my brain, a tiny tiny black elf that rubs itself on white surfaces to write his curses. two horns come out of the dream, two very long sharp golden tinsel. they turn to my power, they enter me without seeing any other direction. they come out of open walls, from walls of forgotten art, they come out of nights pierced by incomprehensible dreams. pearls come out of the darkness of nostalgia, they twist into pointed horns and I stare at endless nights. swamps smoke, the sun goes down, the pain disappears. the abysses fall! incredible crash of pieces of glass, of crystal wings, of metal hearts. my angels dance with dagger blades that become stems of roses without corollas. my angels protect my brain from the depths of steel, from the seas of gold, from cruel power. my angels crash into the walls of my pain, strangled by the love of living. they flee and return to their purple skies. voices intertwine, voices are released, from within and everything comes out, in a moment, in a single second, the world is torn apart and the killer enters the scene. no one knows his past, no one knows his pain, no one knows the subtle pleasure, the need, the desire … the instinct to kill. hidden inside is what triggered the bomb, what triggered the blow, what caused the nefarious fury, the sublime revenge … scenes and other scenes revisited in the imagination, scenes and scenes acted without script … what do you want to know? what do you want to know about a killer or a killer? Is the thinking distorted or is it in the world that everything goes wrong? when the hand is thrown choosing to give death it is the power of the man that holds the heart of the murderer in a grip of sublime pleasure and that makes him feel like any god, renegade or not. what thirst for knowledge burns in your veins? what do you want to know about the pleasure of killing? what brings you on the path of the unspeakable sin of the human mind? silence awakens me and silence doesn’t make me sleep. a crowd throngs inside my heart and I’m ready to strike again. is it me you were waiting for? here is the explanation for all of you, a confession opened from a cell without a lock, a superhuman torture because those who know the journey but never the destination! I didn’t know what I was doing, I didn’t remember I was another person … I was using another name maybe I was there and maybe I wasn’t there, a memory gap, for no apparent reason, something that you feel inside, something that doesn’t add up .., and yet it was I who had done everything, I had decided it a long time ago … or was it even before? I don’t remember, a memory lapse. but why understand? why ask again? there is no explanation for the pleasure of dying inside others. it’s another person, it’s not me. I was not there. I’m not… no voice, no voice anymore … from my silence. a word broke my voice, a word that doesn’t break my silence. never again no voice will come out of my throat. no voice, no voice. he killed the voice, he didn’t kill the silence … and I will kill him in silence … I’ll take away the one thing he doesn’t have … life. no voice, no voice I will give to my silence … nobody wants to know, nobody has to know the torment of being a killer. no more voice will tell you which is my favorite weapon, no word of mine will tell my wound, no voice for those who do not want to hear or hear … no confession beyond all daring! never again do men deserve to know, to know pain … no voice of me, no voice of me … it changes like a fish. no voice for those who do not want to hear or hear … no confession beyond all daring! never again do men deserve to know, to know pain … no voice of me, no voice of me … it changes like a fish. changes like an executioner inside his victim!


I’m not a huge fan of the idea that men and women are fundamentally different in what they value and how they approach relationships.
To me, the ‘men are from Mars, women are from Venus’ mindset seems as outdated and irrelevant a way to understand men as ‘The Rules’ – the ones that say you should never call a guy, never accept a Saturday date after Wednesday, and in general, play hard to get. Both of them stem from books that were on the bestseller list more than twenty years ago; haven’t we come a long way since then?
Here’s the thing, though. The Rules work. And many men really do operate on a totally different playing field than women do, when it comes to relationships. As much as I’d like to deny it, and not to pigeonhole men and the way they behave, it’s true that there are certain things about men that seem to be true across the board. If you try to deny it, you’re likely to end up frustrated, with a string of failed relationships to show for it.
I’m not saying you have to subscribe to every theory out there about how men and women.


For starters, a woman’s first relationship is with her father. If he treats her well, shows her how to be treated, advises her on the games men play, instills confidence and loves her endlessly; he is teaching her how to be treated by a man. If, on the other hand, her father abandons her, neglects her needs, mistreats her, abuses her, doesn’t teach her anything about men, etc, well he’s also teaching her how to be treated by men. In psychology, we call all behavior “learned behavior”. How you experience life, people and what you learn conditions your reaction to people and conditions your behavior. We are also reinforcing behavior whether we know it or not.

That’s first. A woman learns how to be in relationships, based off of her relationship with her father. A positive relationship with father, will more than likely influence the decision to have positive relationships with men. A negative relationship with father, and the message you interpreted from that experience will also determine how you choose to allow that to negatively influence your relationship with men.


Men can neglect themselves, dress poorly, 
and have bloated bellies. 
Nobody will point this out to him. 
Many nerds are like that and are well accepted by society.
On the other hand, if a woman neglects herself or becomes fat then she is misjudged.
Even today there are such prejudices in judging a 
man or a woman.
Also, an anorexic woman 
can work on TV and other
places. A fat woman is not. 
The fat shows. 
Instead, thinness can 
be disguised.
This is something that 
increases anorexia and people
keep saying that being thin is good and fat is bad. 
So fat women destroy 
themselves even more because
they don't see themselves 
valued by society.



Hitler is the nickname a husband 
uses to define his caring wife. 
A wife who has made sacrifices 
for many years. 
A wife who for many years has 
cooked, cleaned, tidied up, 
done laundry, raised her children 
by giving up her career, and having 
nothing but love for everyone.
Hitler is the name that defines 
her husband after so many years 
and just because she likes to 
arrange things, have a certain 
order and try to keep her personal
After so many years a wife who 
does not even receive gifts 
and who must also suspect 
her husband's virtual betrayal, 
hears him called her Hitler!

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