in some theological circles, the virgin mary contrived christ's death. she coaxed judas into betraying christ, once upon a time.

this appears to be a dramatic (and sacrilegious, tsk tsk) historical and doctrinal diagnosis, and yet i can assure you this statement is not particularly extraordinary. the female psyche, after all––in all its sociopathic machinations––is not very interesting, and quite easy to diagnose. you just need to have lived inside it.

i once read somewhere that if men spent just five minutes inside a woman's mind, they would never trust women again. because you see, the virgin mary was not anomalous––as all mothers betray their sons, quietly orchestrating the requisite circumstances for their devolution. women in the modern era have just gotten subtler, quieter, cleverer than the cunt from nazareth.

in a mother's heart of hearts, she desires a son who occupies that liminal boundary between forceful and weak, confident and coercible, assertive and yielding––strong enough to be sufficiently evolutionarily competent, to appear ostensibly dominant and successful within the world to garner the social validation she craves ('omgz she raised him so well!'), which she feeds off of reciprocally energetically––and weak enough to yet be malleable, controllable, amenable to demonic imprint, thoroughly acquiescent to her voice in his ear. this is why mothers quietly, consciously and subconsciously, contrive socially acceptable weaknesses in their children, particularly their sons. because mothers, and women broadly, are not interested in maximizing the happiness of the objects of their affection––they are interested in maximizing their utility as an energy source, as a battery. and to this end, mothers seek the minimum effective dose (MED) of power for their batteries, their sons––as too much would be a liability. women crave their own happiness and fulfillment, not yours.

here's a thought experiment for you. why aren't expecting mothers preternaturally obsessing over the prospective sizes of their incipient sons' penises (as opposed to the colors of their future nurseries)? why not? why aren't they obsessionally strategizing methodologies for maximizing eye queue, physiognomic proportions and facial beauty, height, penile girth and length, and other physical and intellectual and psychosocial markers for the preeminent tasks of survival and replication––to make their sons(') fucking lethal? why don't these contemplations ever remotely enter scene in the female psyche? what do we hear from expecting mothers instead?: "omgz i want my son to be like really 'sweet' and 'cute' and 'loving' and 'compassionate'"-––euphemistic descriptors that reveal their prevailing priority: control. the fabled social engineers (whom i've dubbed black magicians)––amply discussed here and in myriad other corridors of the internet––enter the conversation here. what do you think the odds are that pervasive feminizing endocrine disruptors (gay chemicals––see: the endocrinological implications of atrazine exposure in rats) in modern industrial society (particularly industrial food and water supplies in the united states) are facilitating women's control over men, and the latter's emasculation?

but my mother wants the best for me! my male readers will insist. she wants me to be happy and healthy and powerful and marry a beautiful woman and be successful in life!

if there's one thing you can rest assured of, it's that when a woman desires success for a man, she only desires this insofar as that success assists her control agenda, and doesn't usurp or undermine in any way her capacity to manipulate him, psychically or otherwise. in other words, a man's success, to a woman, is never an end in and of itself––it is only a means to an end: the endgame of her energetic nourishment, and his psychic enslavement.

women are not interested in men becoming maximally powerful. they have never desired this––they are not wired this way. they only want men to be as powerful as necessary within certain, pre–ordained boundaries. your mother and your girlfriend are not exceptions here, sorry to break your narcissistic heart.

(explicating the trans–temporal origins of this reality is probably beyond the purview of this blog, and my broader story here. in other words, i don't feel like addressing the why question, at least not at the moment. others have attempted diagnoses of this reality elsewhere, if you feel impelled that way.)

for the reasons conveyed here, authentic love between man and woman (whether maternal–filial, romantic, whatever) has never existed, because until now love has always been predicated on control.

women love the objects of their affection in much the same way that human beings love domesticated animals––in the same way that pet owners love their pets.

how many of us have claimed to 'love' animals? we’re all familiar with those caricatures of human beings nauseatingly in 'love' with their puppies, or cats, or other domesticated animals. but do they really love them? ever notice that the ones who wax the most affectionately for their dogs are often the most ignorant about, and the least likely to ever try to ameliorate, their dogs' complete genetic degradation and emasculation, resulting from human beings' exhaustive hybridization of the grey wolf, Canis lupus, over the last ten thousand years? (see: neolithic revolution, the concomitant domestication of myriad animal and plant species, blahhdy blah blah.)

to my female readers: here is a test to determine if you really love an animal, or a man, or any other organism on earth. if you could press a button and that being instantly became the most powerful, evolved biological, aesthetic, and spiritual expression of himself––thoroughly beyond your ability to control him––would you still love him? would you still love your pomeranian if he instantly reverted back to his genetic ancestor, the grey wolf––who would likely find you appetizing in the wild?

but girls don't want to play this thought experiment, because just seconds down this rabbit hole is enough to expose their loving pretenses as totally vacuous, awry. because women hate anything they cannot control, sexually, emotionally or otherwise. so a girl cannot, by definition, love her pomeranian. if she really loved him she wouldn't find his disturbingly compromised genetic condition endearing, cute, energetically fulfilling––she wouldn't patronizingly mock him as he hobbles clumsily across her kitchen floor because he's suffering from scoliosis and veterbral defects ay bee and cee because his proximate ancestors were purposely elongated by human beings to satisfy fleeting aesthetic prerequisites in an era past. because she doesn't love her dog––she loves the way her dog makes her feel. she loves the energy that he gives her, so unquestioningly, so devotedly, even as he is unaware that she takes (unconscious and conscious) satisfaction in his biological degradation, the complete spectrum of physical suffering emanating out of which both he and she are insufficiently mentally cognizant to understand. she craves this energy, her battery source, like the air she breathes.

he will die perhaps believing that she loved him, and that she sought what was best for him. and she will delude herself into believing that she loved him too. he will die totally unaware that he existed as a battery for her, and nothing more.

just as boys will grow up and die believing that girls have loved them. just as their corrugated mothers, having outlived their husbands––coked up on surreal, supernatural levels of emotional cognitive dissonance, the prototypical female art form––will die believing that they loved, and were loved.

sorry to break you out of your oedipal trance.