Sorry Always Seems the Rudest Word

Rather than struggling to say the word "Sorry", you could try:
a) not being malicious, and
b) compensating those who have been disadvantaged by your actions. 

This is a world of selfless leeches who imagine there is value in their promises when all they do is lie. They imagine there is value in their expressed feelings when their emotions are false. They imagine there is value in conversation limited to small talk. They imagine there is value in their digital images which have been manipulated to the point where they no longer serve as an accurate representation of their cosmetic appearance or their actual appearance, in reality.

Objectified women divide by zero and try to sell [doing what they want to do] as a service to men. They've sucked all meaning out of life with their fraud, illusions, misrepresentation, concealment, deception and denial. They fall for illusions created by their own fabricated illusions, i.e. when they value the 100 Likes of a manipulated image they upload to Facebook. They imagine 100 people approve of them and they get an virtual attitude. But when the picture looks nothing like them, 100 people click Like not because they like the fraud but as victims of fraud. The girls cannot be made to understand that 100 people weren't actually impressed, they merely appeared to be. They've been deceived by fantasy misrepresented as reality. No one is impressed when the truth is revealed. Fantasy is worthless in reality, but women disagree. Try as you might, you will never be able to make yourself exist in the delusions of an objectified woman's positive thinking. We are stuck in this surreal reality, made horrifying by the aversion of abuse victims to objective reality, honesty, biology and truth.

This is the kind of insanity I am drowning in. If you cannot see it, that's very unfortunate for us
both. In this example, the girl immediately understood only for some nitwit imbecile to 'correct' my
irrefutable logic. Who defines values, definitions, meanings? Who had first access to your mind?

This complexity is all too much for face-painted objects concealing their true worth. They lie to impress, too stupid to realise that deceit isn't valued, it appears to be. You can only lie to impress your mother. In the real world, anyone you impress with your lies won't be, it's merely an illusion (impressing) created by your illusion (lying to impress).

There is no intrinsic value in spoken words or expressed feelings. Saying "Sorry" is intrinsically worthless. Habitual apologists value the illusion (appreciation of the signified intent to make up for wrongdoing or compensate for damages) created by their own illusion (stated apology, expressing remorse). Without the intent and capacity to compensate your victims, "Sorry" isn't the hardest but the rudest word to say.

But how many mothers would have a mind functional enough to comprehend the value of saying "Sorry"? 5 in 100? 1 in 100? It's a sad, sad situation. 

"Sorry."

The Gates of Hell Were Opened By Love.

This woman was killed by women who hate women for being women. The puppets are women's sons. They have no motive to kill a woman who loves sex. They're Selfless shells being used by their mothers to eliminate their own best interests and further consolidate their existence as unwitting slaves. 

The pretext for removing the competitive threat to Matriarchal control was God's (mothers') declaration that women who are promiscuous are immoral. God ostensibly Intelligently Designed women to feel a certain way, then prohibited them from feeling that way. This woman died for truth. 

These sons-of-bitches were doing the work their mothers, who persecute and kill honest women who threaten their stranglehold on power. The mothers of these boys were the real murderers of this girl, but the blood of every girl who dies for truth is on the hands of all who know the truth and remain silent. To hell with your refusal to identify yourself as a victim; we are all the victims of Matriarchal misogyny. But why must we continue to be?

We can protect children from those who need them to suffer or we can go extinct. Those are our only options; we either embrace truth and live in Utopia or continue to fight to survive our mothers' lies. If we choose the latter, and I perceive very little that suggests otherwise, we will live miserable lives as slaves to lies; fighting to survive each other in quiet desperation and suffering, in existential solitude before dying in misery and terror. Alone.

Perhaps with a filthy leech by our side to hear our Last Confession but vermin don't count. The Middlemen of Blasphemy (to suggest that an omniscient and omnipotent God requires Holy men to communicate His Will to humans is heresy, by their definition) are not human beings; they're leeches who prey on human suffering.

All the misery on this planet is the product of leeches who sell the 'commodity' of pain 'relief'.

Misogynist mothers.
Misogynist priests.

The Last Confession is merely the juiciest Intel.
_________________

God = Allah = Jehovah = Yahweh Shibboleth 

Power, Misogyny, Morality, Law, Inhumanity, Love, Hate, Shame, Cannibalism, Leaching, Needy, War > Mutually Assured Destruction. 

Yahweh is the God of Cannibalistic Leeches. Preparing for War, leeches took full 'advantage' of the Sane (who were not at War with humans when Yahweh showed up with all his needy misery). 

In preparing for Peace, the Sane were no match for the Insane, who slaughtered all their betters. You now live in a valueless world of leeches at War with each other and themselves. Praise the Lord!

Love Him or He'll kill your great-grandchildren. He's an emotionally insane God of Jealousy who does not take rejection well. 

He's the pretext needed by the pathetic, power-obsessed religious sons-of-bitches and daughters-of-whores. Give them what they want or they will murder you in pious outrage before saying Grace at every meal. They give thanks during Thanksgiving to the pretext that drives their miserable cannibalistic fight to survive. 

By pretending their leaching was Holy, they were able to rationalise the need to destroy what truly is (or was) a world of bountiful plenty before some psychotic leeches with a Holy pretext to kill, rape and pillage saw 'opportunity' where there wasn't any, to take what they did not create or produce, to wage War against their own species, to molest and enslave their own children, to destroy the entire world. What an opportunity to take advantage of themselves! They grasped that opportunity with both hands. 

This is our heritage.

I wonder if John Donne ever realised he lived in a world of dead people fighting to survive? They're so busy fighting each other to survive their own insanity, they cannot even stop for a moment and listen for the bell that has tolled for 5000 years of religious leaching.

I cannot write like John Donne but if I could, I wouldn't. Those who seek truth will find it and no one who values truth cares about the format or style in which it's delivered to them. Why would they limit themselves like that? Beautiful prose is sought by those who are not interested in discovering truth; they value pleasant lies and seek only validation for their entrenched position. 

Every member of our species has the identical motive to pursue the identical emotional state of being; happiness. I'm not sure if it's ironic, but the game has been rigged so outrageously in Humanity's favour, it's almost scandalous. 

In this game, everyone can win. Life has never been a zero sum game. Enlightenment is the understanding that there is a catch to the Game of Life; everyone has to Win or everyone has to lose. 

le Carre is a living genius. In this single quote you can find clues to:

• The Meaning of Life
• The Optimal Way to Play and Win
• Why No One Has Won in (Known) History
• The Special Nature of Exploitation
• The Value of Hoarded Truth

When the non-renewable resources this cannibalistic, child-mutilating, tribal species of vermin is frantically consuming (to relieve the pain inflicted by those who hold up non-essential consumables as pain relief) are near depletion, there will be rivers of blood and horror like nothing we can imagine.

The End of Life as we know it is almost certain to occur before the century is out.

People think they have time but it's not like that. The resources are nearing depletion already and in the case of fresh water (a non-renewable resource), we aren't going to run out. We've run out. 

This species is doomed because of love. Think about what you would do if those you love were suffering in agony. 

You're going to do it for love.

You will scream for Humanity to save you but Humanity doesn't exist. It died thousands of years ago. It's a phantom concept used to Confidence trick children into believing there's a point in contributing for the benefit of leeches. 

You will scream for your sovereign plantation-state to save you but your tribe only exists to exploit you.

You will scream for your families and your friends, but they'll be screaming for you. In any case, everyone will have their hands full taking care of Their Own loved ones (more important than your loved ones). 

You will scream for your rat gods to save you but they are used by Toddlers to kill, rape, pillage, burn, destroy. Humans don't need gods to be humane; they need gods to be inhumane.

You will scream, you will bleed and you will die in misery and agony. No one can save you from you, with the possible exception of you.

The Solution is easy so of course, everyone is going to die. To avoid extinction, this world must get over its obsession with taboos, offence, denial, fear and loving abusers long enough to resolve these questions:

1. "Why do we need misogyny?"  
2. "Why do we need love?"
3. "Why do we need to carry leeches?"

They do not capiche. And so we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into betrayal.

A War is Brewing.

Someone on TheLastPsychiatrist.com found this brilliant piece of writing. 

Raw Materials for a Theory of the "Young-Girl." 

The Young-Girl is good for nothing but consuming; leisure or work, it makes no difference. 

The Young-Girl never creates anything; she re-creates herself. 

The most extreme banality of the Young-Girl is still to have herself taken as something "original." 

The scrawny character of the Young-Girl's language, though it implies an incontestable retraction of the field of experience, does not in any way constitute a practical handicap, since it's not made for talking but for pleasing and repeating. 

Blather, curiosity, ambiguity, hearsay; the Young-Girl incarnates the fullness of a misfit existence.  

Often, before decomposing too visibly, the Young-Girl gets married. 

The Young-Girl is a lie, the apogee of which is her face.

This is what I've been trying to say for a long time; it's less about the makeup than the implications. It's disturbing that anyone could be as nonchalant when engaging in brazen deceit, but an entire gender...

Long before I cared a twig about ethics, when I was completely amoral, cosmetics seemed queer. I had no issue with the malice, at the time; I was concerned by how casual women are when engaging in brazen deceit. Something wasn't right with girls but I only bored people trying to warn them:

"They're lying. Something is dangerous about them. How can you be cool with this?"

My friends thought I was crazy. I'm sick of sanity too. What's your excuse?

The Young-Girl is never simply unhappy, she's also unhappy about being unhappy.  

In the final analysis, the Young-Girl's ideal is domestic.   

The Young-Girl suddenly feels dizzy when the world stops revolving around her.

The Young-Girl understands herself as the holder of a sacred power: the power of the commodity. 

"I love babies, they're so beautiful, so honest; they feel good." 

The mother and the whore are both equally present in the Young-Girl.  But the one hardly makes her any more praiseworthy than the other makes her blameworthy.  Over time, a curious reversibility between the two can even be observed. 

Why must the Young-Girl always feign some activity or other?  In order to remain impregnable in her passivity.

The Young-Girl wants to be either desired lovelessly or loved desirelessly.  In either case, her unhappiness is safe.

The Young-Girl has love STORIES. 

It's enough just to remember what she defines as an "adventure" as to get a pretty clear idea of how much fear the Young-Girl has of the possibilities.   

The Young-Girl is she who, being no more than a Young Girl after all, scrupulously obeys the authoritarian distribution of roles. 

The Young-Girl moves within the forgetting of Being, no less than in the forgetting of events. 

Considering that her appearance entirely exhausts her essence and her representation exhausts her reality, the Young-Girl is that which is entirely expressible, and also that which is perfectly predictable and absolutely neutralized. 

The Young-Girl only exists in proportion to the desire that "people" have for her, and is only known by what they say about her. 

The Young-Girl enjoys covering up, with a falsely provocative secondary plane, the primary, economic plane of her motivations. 

All the Young-Girl's freedom of movement does not prevent her from being a prisoner, and manifesting in all circumstances a captive's automatism. 

The Young-Girl's way of being is to be nothing. 

Certain Young-Girls see "success in emotional and professional life" as an ambition worthy of respect. 

The Young-Girl's love is merely a kind of autism for two. 

Happiness is not women's goal. They're all about survival. They imagine happiness is the inevitable product of survival, but it's the other way around. 

The Young-Girl's "love" is but a word in the dictionary. 

The Young-Girl doesn't just demand that you protect her, she wants to be able to educate you too. 

The eternal return of the same fashions shows clearly enough that the Young-Girl doesn't put on appearances, but rather that appearances put her on. 

When the Young-Girl abandons herself to her insignificance, she draws even more glory from that; she has "fun. 

The Young-Girl never learns anything. That's not what she's there for. 

The Young-Girl knows all too well what she wants in detail to want anything at all in general. 

"Don't touch my bag!" 

The Young-Girl's triumph originates in the failure of feminism. 

The Young-Girl carries the mask of her face. 

The Young-Girl brings all greatness down to the level of her ass. 

The Young-Girl would like very much if the simple word "love" didn't imply the project of destroying this "society." 

"Don't confuse your job and your sentiments!" 

In the Young-Girl's life, deactivated and reduced-to-nothing opposites complete each other, but don't contradict each other at all. 

The Young-Girl's sentimentalism and materialism are but two complementary aspects of her central nothingness, no matter how opposite they may be in appearance. 

The Young-Girl enjoys speaking of her childhood with great emotion, to suggest that she hasn't got beyond it, and that fundamentally she's remained naive. Like all whores, she dreams of innocence.  But, distinct from them, she demands to be believed, and believed sincerely. Her childishness, which is, in the end, but a fundamentalism of infancy, makes her the most cunning vector of the general infantilization. 

For the Young-Girl, even the meanest sentiments still have the prestige of their sincerity. 

The Young-Girl sees everything as free of consequences, even her suffering.  Everything's funny, nothing's a big deal.  Everything's cool, nothing's serious. 

The Young-Girl wants to be recognized not for what she may be but for the simple fact of her being.  She wants to be recognized unconditionally.

The Young-Girl is not there to be criticized.  

When the Young-Girl has come to the end of the age of childishness, where it becomes impossible to not ask herself about ends without suddenly finding herself short of means (which can happen pretty late in this society), she reproduces.  Paternity and maternity comprise just another way among others, and no less free of substance, to remain UNDER THE EMPIRE OF NEED.   

Smiles have never been any good as arguments.  There is also such a thing as the smile of skeletons. 

The Young-Girl's feelings are made up of signs, and sometimes just of simple signals.   

The Young-Girl's not supposed to understand you. 

The Young-Girl conceives of love as being a private activity. 

Everywhere that the Young-Girls dominate, their tastes must also dominate; that determines the tastes of our era.

Among Young-Girls there is an uninspiring community of gestures and expressions. 

The Young-Girl is ontologically a virgin, untouched by any experience.

The Young-Girl doesn't know anything about the flow of time, at most she gets emotional about its "consequences."  Otherwise how could she talk about getting old with such indignation, as if it were some kind of crime committed against her? 

Even when she's not trying to seduce anyone, the Young-Girl acts seductive. 

There's something professional about everything the Young-Girl does. 

The nerve of Young-Girls to complain about being used...being a whore is all they are GOOD for. Decent men offend them constantly as they are not offended by anything but truth.

The Young-Girl still flatters herself that she's got "practical sense." 

In the Young-Girl, even the flattest moralism puts on a whorish air. 

The Young-Girl has all the strictness of economy about her, and yet she knows less of abandon than of anything.

The Young-Girl occupies the central kernel of the present system of desires. 

The Young-Girl is resentment that smiles. 

There are certain beings that just make you want to die before their very eyes, but the Young-Girl only excites a desire to conquer and get off on her. 

In love more than anywhere else, the Young-Girl behaves like an accountant, always assuming that she loves more than she is loved, and that she gives more than she receives.  

When the Young-Girl mates, it isn't a movement towards the other, but a movement of escape from her untenable nothingness. 

The supposed liberation of women has not consisted in their emancipation from the domestic sphere, but rather in the extension of that sphere over the whole of society. 

Mean words. Delicate feelings. Diplomatic deceit. The emotional insanity is out of control. One feels it will culminate in mushroom clouds.

Faced with anyone who tries to make her think, it will never be long before the Young-Girl starts claiming how realistic she's being. 

To the extent that what she's really hiding isn't her secrets, but her shame, the Young-Girl detests the unexpected, above all when it isn't pre-programmed. 

The Young-Girl never stops repeating it: she wants to be loved for who she is - meaning she wants to be loved for the non-being that she is. 

The Young-Girl is the living and continuous introjection of all repressions. 

The Young-Girl's "I" is as thick as a magazine.  

Nothing in the Young-Girls conduct is wrong in itself; everything is properly ordered within the dominant definition of happiness.  The Young-Girl's foreignness to herself borders on mythomania. 

As a last resort, the Young-Girl fetishizes "love" so as to not have to face up to the fact of the integrally conditioned nature of her desires. 

"I don't give a shit about being free, as long as I'm happy!"

Divorced from one another, the Young-Girl's love and ass became just two empty abstractions. 

The Young-Girl swims in deja-vus. For her, the first time something is lived is always [at least] the second time it has been represented. 

The Young-Girl knows how to play the part of sentimentalism. 

In the Young-Girls' world, coitus appears to be the logical penalty for all experience. 

The Young-Girl is "happy to be alive," so she says at least. 

The Young-Girl establishes relationships only on the basis of the strictest reification and poor substantial content, so it is certain that what unites people only separates them. 

The Young-Girl is optimistic, delighted, positive, content, enthusiastic, happy; in other words, she's suffering. 

The Young-Girl is an optical illusion.  From far off she's an angel, and from up close she's a devil. 

The Young-Girl doesn't get old; she decomposes. 

Everyone knows in general what the Young-Girl thinks about worrying about stuff. 

Seen from afar, the Young-Girl's nothingness appears relatively inhabitable, and even comfortable at times. 

"LOVE, WORK, HEALTH" 

The Young-Girl offers an unequivocal model of the metropolitan ethos: a refrigerated consciousness living in exile in a plasticized body. 

Brilliant.

These French geniuses nailed it. The Young-Girl is the product of our reduced state. Our limitless capacity to be deceived by appearances...

Men are supposed to suffer to please them (in exchange for 'favors').
Men are supposed to take care of them (in exchange for nothing).
Men are supposed to protect their reputation (afraid only of smear).
This is how Polite Society was born. 

"Don't judge me!" 

- Young-Girl 

Love is their weapon. Rhianna found love in a lonely place but I don't think you can find love anywhere else. 

A Young-Girl already knows all of knowledge already. Some even Know Best. 

It's not the theory of the Young-Girl that is the product of misogyny, but the Young-Girl herself...she is but the figure of total integration into a social totality that's disintegrating. When fools protest against the evidence that "the world isn't a commodity" and by the way that they aren't either, they're feigning a virginity that only justifies their powerlessness. We want none of that virginity nor of that powerlessness. We propose a different emotional education.

Offensive offence.

This world is fucking retarded. My answer to a Quora question was censored because it was a joke. It's a fucking joke.

___________________________________________________________________________

So I explained.