The Fake Victimhood of Abusive Men

I am not about to give publicity to the piece of shit that is the deceased Petito’s ‘boyfriend’, but seeing the images posted to his interest (being careful here – there is nothing to say that HE posted them I guess..fuck it. Abusers are given way more rights than those they hurt and kill), I am back down the rabbit hole into the realm of the magickal thinking of the brotherhood of abusive men. By the time they have finished justifying and explaining, it all becomes vibrantly clear: they consider themselves the real victims.

This is the collection of images under Laundrie’s interest. He had made quite a collection. Almost a confession. He even gets in the meaningless ‘sorry for what I said when we were trying to park the camper’, which is a cute cushion for an airstream with its hipster inhabitants and their designer doggies, but in this instance makes my blood run cold. Why do these men think that sorry covers it? Mine didn’t even apologize. He just turned around and blamed me.

I feel like I missed out on some rite of passage for abused women. He never once got on his knees and begged my forgiveness. I think I deserved the opportunity to be temporarily fooled, to have some false hope, and then reject his false platitudes as his fist slammed into the side of my head again. I must be punch drunk. It actually sounds good to me to have some fake hope that things might be ok. That he actually pretended to feel bad for a moment. The pig didn’t even care enough for the mother of his babies to fake feeling awful for what he did to me – and to them.

This black-pilled incel bullshit has to stop. The quote calling for other men to join him in ‘biting the hand that fed him’, using the resistance call to arms, the resistance that helped so many jews escape certain death and resisted the nazis, thus equating women, and his dead girlfriend to the most evil regime on this planet, made my blood run cold. Vive la fucking resistance! Men run these regimes of horror, dream up these engines of terror. That isn’t to say women can’t be evil mother of satans too, but let’s face it, where does the evil generally lie?

Why can’t men who hate women just leave us alone? They want to use our bodies to stick their tiny little pricks into, to smash in stress relief, to abuse and control what we do with our own flesh. Bryan Slaton, a Texas lawmaker, filed a bill that would not only abolish but criminalize abortion. He went all the way. This pro-life limp dick death worshipper wanted the death penalty for women who obtained abortions and the doctors that helped provide them. He wasn’t totally unreasonable, his proposed bill included exemptions for women whose lives were threatened by ectopic pregnancies that threatened their lives – as long as the ‘baby’, ahem, collection of cells was not saveable.

Here is an idea, boys, why don’t you just use your hand, or fuck each other. Why not leave women alone? Instead of doing just that, they hunt us in packs, they separate the weaker and the lame, the damaged and the vulnerable and take joy in destroying us. No, they cannot leave us alone. One of their favorite tactics is to target Asian women because they see them as physically smaller in some stereotypical racist colonialist bullshit, and more easily controlled. They look and see the submissive culture of their wet dreams, and riff on the old Freudian twisted hang-up of Oedipus. They want to fuck Asian women, and kill Asian men, in their dirty little wars and nasty invader mentality. They see none of us as human, like they see men as human. We are cattle for the laughter, meat for the tasting. Bodies for the beating.

The anti-women hate groups that proliferate on 4chan and Reddit, in the little dirty corners of the interest inhabited by mostly inadequate men and their admirers, who thin that women owe them sex, that they are due women’s bodies as a right in this forsaken violent world, and once they have tricked some poor woman into their circle of influence, the only thing their impotent and useless selves can think to do with her is destroy her.

I slept with a baseball bat and a cuddly dog last night. The plushie under one arm, the baseball bat by the side of the bed. I escaped alive. I lay in bed dreaming of being able to build a panic room that I could head into if trouble ever comes knocking wanting to bite the hand that fed him. I am never going to be that baby as his ghostly body dances on my grave. As Pig complains down telephone lines that he is burnt out, I want to direct him to wards his new friend. There are men who think like him, behave as he does, have the same mechanisms of destruction and justification. Over therapied bastards who need a cold cell and a hot palace in hell.

The scary man who was allegedly seen slapping his girlfriend who was then found dead, coroner ruled homicide, who is now missing, was not even right about one thing: if you lose everything you are not truly free, just unanchored from life and those that live it in a way that doesn’t harm others. Faux enlightened bullshit of a mind too dull to come up with anything meaningful. In order to be free you need something to fight for, something to live for, something to carry on for. Nihilism never leads anywhere real. There can never be a true absence of anything, not even in the grave. There is always something. Always somewhere. Always some time. Always the remnants of love, or the signs of devotion. The dead flowers on the grave. The memories of those that loved and cared and wanted and dreamed of better things. There is always the sun that comes up and the night that draws in and the fog that falls on San Francisco making me glad I am here.

The phone rang this morning making my heart jump. I need to know where he is and what he is up to. I put the sim back in. “Dee-chan! I was worried! Shimpai, ne!” Cold water ran down my back in a wave of fear. “Shimpai nai.” Dont worry, I replied. Yeah, don’t worry, motherfucker, I am alive. I couldn’t help it, “Do you ever feel bad about beating me up?” I asked him carelessly. “Your fault. Only chotto, only little bit my fault. I shouldn’t let you make me hit you.” He was overjoyed to talk about it. “Not really. You very difficult person.”

“I bet you are glad to be free of me then’, I said with a fake cut glass tinkle of a laugh in my voice. False levity.

“Not-to really. Come home Dee-Chan. I miss you. Sabishii, lonely ne. Come home, anata darling.”

“No. Not a good idea,” I said as I pressed the red button.

Not ever fucking likely.

Leave a Reply