I don’t know why, but nearly every insecure little slut I have ever known has one thing in common with all the rest—they have this falsely philanthropic notion of saving humanity with their newfound knowledge of what works to have a better life.
Well, I take that back. I do know why, I think; women (and it’s usually the women) suffer from low self-esteem on the deepest levels. Be it a bad body image or a feeling of being inferior while not being able to make and sustain relationships, these marred women or girls give themselves away early in life and make it a habit to keep on doing so. They become sluts taking dick from guys they barely know in a vain effort to feel happy.
Women are what keep the world going with or without beauty, but if you want to see something ugly, look at a broken, hurting woman. It’s a sad sight to behold. A woman who hates herself can never be pretty because she can never feel pretty. All the flowers in the world sent with the most well-worded cards of deer drinking from ponds will never come close to making her feel any prettier.
So, in despair, a broken girl will become a slut, and before long, she’ll be so used to it that she convinces herself they she is happy taking in 8.9-inch, uncircumcised black cocks. You won’t be able to convince her otherwise because part of being a marred, stupid little bimbo means having to learn everything from scratch and on her own. There is no imparting wisdom. I have known enough of these little failures to know that what I’m saying is true.
On the loneliest of nights, after a few drinks – feeling rejected by her boyfriend after an argument – this little trollop will once again consider suicide (and she may have tried it multiple times already). It is in these moments of gut-wrenching, suicidal despair that she sees clearly: She isn’t really happy and she suspects she will never be. But then the tears dry up and the next day dawns.
The sun is out and the problem is back—the stupid little tramp thinks she’s happy again and has a purpose. It was just a bad night. Being a dumb girl means being insane—assuming that given the exact same choices made, the results will somehow be different. That’s the textbook definition of insanity.
It won’t take long for reality to come crashing back down, but in that time, she’ll forget again because defense mechanisms are what keep us going. If she doesn’t bleed out in the shower from slitting her wrists, she’ll keep the cycle going until she’s old, weathered, and still unhappy as shit, hitting up dudes at smoke-filled bars looking for the midnight meat from some guy who smells of cheap vodka to make her happy.
Maybe moving on will consist of making a new boyfriend. She’ll bring him home sooner rather than later and she’ll say she thinks the world of him. If she’s a white girl, she’ll bring home a black guy or someone of a different ethnicity. There is nothing wrong with that, but with troubled girls, they do so because people who communicate as they have been taught to communicate intimidate them. They feel that they can better hold down a conversation longer with someone who expresses themselves differently. This will prolong her own illusion of happiness by not having to cross the same bridge of problem solving in communicating that always manages to jinx her timid, pathetic efforts at feeling loved.
So the girl goes a few months without a catastrophe, a devastating breakup or some crisis, and this usually coincides with finding some new hobby or outlet of energy (something more than coffee, cigarettes, and exercise as a way to vent anger).
She may get involved in a church program. She may even prove a very zealous convert for a while, but because she is still fundamentally stupid and can’t keep relationships, she’ll have a run-in with the group or someone in it and the countdown to self-destruction will once again start ticking.
She may get involved in a charity program, some volunteer effort like saving animals, or she may dedicate to playing bingo on Wednesdays nights with old ladies who cannot do or say anything that threatens her or makes her feel stupid. She knows more about modern trends and dirty talk than all of these 70-year-olds put together, which makes her feel smart. Around them, there is nothing she could perceive as a threat.
So, troubled girl finds an outlet. It lasts a really long time. This makes the simple girl think that what she has will solve her problems forever and always. She has no idea that when thinking this, she’s only a short walk away from more disaster. But before disaster strikes is where she blooms (at least in her mind).
“I just want to help people find hope.” Such tearful words. You can add: “find God,” “know the Lord,” “know that their lives have meaning,” etc. It’s all the same bullshit—“I just want to be a good person and help others.” My response is always the same: “Help yourself first, you dumb-ass bitch!”
If the road to hell is paved with good intentions as the religious say, then much more so is the road to stability. Every lunatic wants to do good things and they want to be sane. Every murderer I ever read about at some point wanted to influence society in a positive way. The problem is, being unstable means you can’t keep walking the road for long. If you could, the saying wouldn’t be true. Every unstable person wants to give to others what worked for them. And it’s natural for anyone to want to talk about what changed their life, but this is where the problems begin.
As humans, we cannot grasp the fact that people are at different places in life and won’t always respond to the same advice. There is no right perception. We’re all trapped in our own houses of mirrors and we can’t easily find the exit doors. You've got to go through the maze first. It’s all a matter of stumbling into one room, finding it a dead end, backing up, and trying to remember which way you came. Sometimes you think you’re on a roll. Then you have to contend with setbacks, until finally, you find out how to get out. You won’t be of much help to anyone else.
The one who is the least expressive about doing the most good in life is the one I lean toward trusting. It’s amazing how people and their groups shoot themselves in the foot by making promises and declaring intentions with many well-spoken words—then I stand back and wait to see them backfire horribly. Until you can knock down everyone’s house of mirrors, don’t be so anxious to promise a way out.
There is no saving the world. There is no making someone feel better. There is no feeding every starving African. Might as well spend your money on you first. If you have any left over after necessities and taxes, then we’ll see about helping others. And if you give to charity, all you will get is more phone calls and junk mail from other charities trying to exploit your generosity. Fuck them!
Has your mother ever tried to comfort you when your feelings were hurt as a kid? Did it ever work even one time that you can remember? No, because what your friends were saying was true: You weren’t the handsomest kid, nor the best athlete who could give the bigger kids a run for their money. No, what makes moms moms is that they have been placed in your life by causality to make maturity in this life as fucking difficult as possible. Those that are finally growing up will probably always have a place in their hearts for dear ole’ mom, but they will gradually see the sense in not listening to her.
Like mom's powerlessly soothing words, philanthropic efforts are just retries at preoccupying those who are suffering for the purpose of reinstalling the illusion that things will get better. Say it enough and people start believing it against all other evidences. Things may indeed get better, but your promises have made things a thousand times worse—and not just for the troubled girl, but for anyone going through a crisis.
Maybe your encouragement of a troubled girl will help her to not go for that razor blade in the shower after all, but for how long? And if they weren’t going to go for the razor in the first place, then congratulations: You did fucking nothing. They could handle it on their own by themselves.