There is a woman. I’m not going to name her. I’m not even going to name her in quotation marks. I’m just going to tell you a little bit about her.
Although her politics are, broadly speaking, progressive, they are entirely performative. They don’t inform a single decision she makes beyond the voting booth. Although she thinks herself kind and generous and thoughtful, she is, without question, a sociopath. Her beauty has paved many roads for her. Unfortunately, it’s left her ill-equipped to pave those roads we need to pave for ourselves.
She only knows how to wait for someone to do it for her, or, to be more accurate, how to command or cajole or seduce someone into building a road for her. That worked all through her adolescence and her twenties. As she grew up, though, it started working less and less well. By the time I came along, the jig was well and truly up, though she hadn’t yet admitted defeat. But the world was serving up an increasing volume of increasingly frequent disappointments.
Disappointments which read to her as if they were information about the men disappointing her, but which an even slightly psychologically minded review of would reveal sufficient commonalities of experience to suggest that maybe our unnamed character had a role to play.
This is not the blog equivalent of a subtweet. I’m not sending her a message. I’m not honestly saying anything I haven’t said to her. But at the end of the day, I think we both are disappointed.