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Learning to hate women is the best thing to happen to me

Ever since embracing misogyny my life has become something I can be proud of. My career has taken off, I'm in great shape, my finances are solid, I'm more well rested, better fed, my sexual gratification became better*, I'm more focused, happier, and more philosophically grounded in reality.

. * When I was still sleeping with women (which I've made a conscious choice to never do again earlier this month, after a risky ONS) - there was a marginal increase in my enjoyment of sex. When I used to masturbate (I'm also trying the no-fap thing in addition to celibacy, since early this month) it was also more enjoyable with more misogyny.

If you would pardon a quick digression into celibacy/no-fap, then we can return to the topic of misogyny improving a man's quality of life:

So far, the sperm retention thing has had some predictable results and some unpredictable results; I feel more aggressive, focused, horny, sharp-witted, with more random erections, invasive pornographic thoughts, a push toward old habits of sexual gratification, and I've noticed I'm making a lot more eye-contact with people. I also feel less tired at certain times of the day. And I've been more productive due to a heightened mood. The desire to blow my load can be distracting, and my epididymides are giving me some blue-balls, but massaging my balls tends to help relieve the pressure (no nocturnal emissions yet). No-fap is like coffee, perhaps - it is stimulating with some drawbacks (like how coffee makes you have to piss and shit, makes you crash and jittery, etc.). The alertness and presence of mind (and dominance instinct) come with a price.

Returning to the topic of hating women - it is the best thing to have happened to me because, I think, that women are a disappointment regarding virtues. They've been sold as a panacea for all of men's ills (she will civilize you, make you food, clean your house, give you a moral foundation, massage your sore muscles, listen to your problems, blah, blah, blah). The Woman TM wonder-drug is like heroine... pretty soon you're spending all your time and money supporting a drug habit.

And, make no mistake, love is a drug. Love will blind and stupefy a man into taking a bad deal.

Think about the following; nature endowed men with a survival advantage for using their wits in a hunter-kind-of-way. Man needed to outsmart nature, but women needed to outsmart man in order for the species to persist. If man were smart he would focus on self interest and even enslave woman instead of loving her. However this is not generally the case. Generally, men fall in love with women and want to provide for her and protect her, and give her advantages. This is due to the love drugs of hormonal cocktails which bathe the brain in dopamine rewards (D1 and D2 pathways triggered by oxytocin and vasopressin).

The love-drug lowers a man's IQ to that of the woman (or lower). All that beautiful women see are idiot men. When the men leave the women they become expert hunters and survivors who have brought nature herself into submission, and cracked the very atoms which constitute the [or "a"] fabric of our material existence. Men are smart, but not around women.

Hating women has reversed that weakness which was required to continue the species.

Hating women has made me a stronger person... because, let's face it - there's a lot to hate, and women make you weak.

And I recognize the forces that I'm blaspheming; the white-knight mafia hates men who renege on their natural burden. Those mob wives, which would cuck their white-knights, want the strength of an independent man. Women love powerful men, and fuck them readily... and if a man (unburdened by women) is free to excel due to his natural advantages and without his natural inhibitions (e.g. "the asshole") then he becomes the "alpha" male - women reactively lubricate their vaginas and accelerate ovulation toward the man who has become strong thereby, and their husbands become jealous.

That jealousy is a powerful bulwark against male independence and why they will attack you; you are an affront to their gods, and have blasphemed the holy love-drug.

But...

The freedom and strength is too great of a reward not to raise a middle finger toward those cucks and tell their whores to fuck off.

My life is too great to give up. And hate (toward such an ugly thing as woman/white-knights) can be the most healthy response a man can have.

Granted, this is foreign to everything they [the blue-pills] know, and they "can't even" conceive of "assholes" such as a man who loves his life, succeeds, feels proud of his work, is happy and healthy, and yet hates women.

Don't knock it until you try (or understand) it. Give misogyny a chance (or don't - no skin off my back).

Sundays at Hephzibah house were dominated by Church.

I sat in a metal folding chair trying not to squirm since I had no fat left to cushion the hard seat beneath me. I was in the last of 5 rows of 6 girls interspersed with 4 staff ladies. The Hephzibah girls and Hephzibah staff, along with their children made up the entire congregation in the little unfinished basement room. Behind me I heard the familiar sounds of little baby S nursing away during the service. It felt good to know that sweet Mrs. K. was behind me. She would not be quick to find fault in my posture or how my hair was curled. The rhythmic sounds of a suckling baby were soothing and normal sounds in this surreal world.

Back straight, eyes forward. I tried to pay attention to the long winded sermon and take good notes. Notes were turned in after every service and checked to make sure we paid attention to the service and were not daydreaming. If staff did not like your notes it was a paddling offense. Ron Williams had a theory that young people who were not engaged in busy work were lusting and enjoying lascivious fantasies.

My feet were cold and my back ached but otherwise the sermon was a nice reprieve from the normal stress of daily life at Hephzibah house.

Ron Williams deep voice filled the small room. He dwarfed the tiny podium.

Patti Williams sat on the left side of the room with all eight children in a row. There was always a well worn paddle laying on the seat beside her. It was not unusual to see her paddle her children for wiggling or making noise during the long sermons. The youngest was Seth, perhaps two years old and the darling irrepressible Benjamin was just four years old. I do not recall a service where that poor little boy did not get a severe beating. I was amazed how undaunted and happy he remained. Seth seemed dull. He just sat and sucked his fingers. He showed no signs of normal 2 year old curiosity and wonder. Maybe that is what a successfully broken will would looked like in a two year old. I found it profoundly disturbing.

Suddenly there was movement. I sensed rather than saw Mrs. K. stand up behind me. I dared not turn my head but up front Mrs Williams also hefted her wide girth out of her metal chair. It creaked loudly in protest. At just 40, Patti Williams was fat, slovenly and mean as a snake. Her grey hair in a stringy bun she stood looking back behind me towards the Mrs. K. and baby S. She had picked up the small paddle. A hard, tight smile crossed her humorless face. Mrs. K. had now made her way into my line of vision.

Mrs. K. was clearly upset as she carried her tiny baby towards the front of the chapel.

Ron Williams just droned on.

My stomach clenched. What was this???

Patti guided Mrs. K. into a small walled off area at the front of the room. The area was meant to be a closet one day. Now it had no door and served to store extra folding chairs. The two women entered the narrow room I had a partial view of the inside of the room but could no longer see Mrs. K. and the baby past Patti’s wide back.

Ron Williams kept preaching.

“NO! Oh NO!”

I was frozen. Staring straight ahead and gripping my pencil in horror.

WHACK!!

The baby SCREAMED.

We heard every powerful, stinging blow of the paddle hitting that tiny baby. It went on and on, every time there was a pause and I thought it was over it started up again.

Ron Williams actually stopped preaching. Grinning from ear to ear he made a fist and moved it enthusiastically across his body like a diabolical cheerleader, “Hit him again Sister! Hit him again!”

No one moved. No one DID anything. The babies cries were becoming strangled as he choked and he seemed to gasp dangerously between blows.

“Go get that baby Susan!” The voice in my head was screaming, “DO SOMETHING!”

I stared straight ahead as Ron Williams resumed his droning sermon. I thought of twenty scenarios where I saved that baby, but I sat glued to my seat. My blood ran cold.

The crying stopped before the blows stopped. Soon Mrs. K. stepped out from behind the wall she was sobbing and clinging to her baby Patti was right behind her with a huge self satisfied smile on her corpulent face, now red from exertion.

The baby was quiet. A spooky unnatural quiet. I watched the little bundle for signs of life intently until I saw his little chest heave showing he was indeed breathing.

How hard would you have to hit a baby to make him stop crying? Why would we all just sit there and let it happen?

I realized I had not taken any notes for several minutes. Somehow, knowing I would be paddled for that offense gave me a bizarre moment of satisfaction . A form of penance for my cowardice.

Everyone took their places.

Ron Williams droned on.