I would like to state that this is 100% serious. It is not satire. You might read this and think, “Ha, what a funny and clever way to own the evil, anti-life feminists,” or whatever the hell would go through your smooth little red-pilled mind while reading an article of this nature, and I want you to know that, from the bottom of my heart, I am not joking.
I am a wolf. Not literally, but literally. My life closely resembles the aloof nature of the ‘sigma’—equal to the alphas but sharp enough to understand that true freedom must exist outside the established social hierarchy. So I chose to leave society. I took that social contract betwixt my teeth and tore it to shreds, ravenous and panting. There shall be no authority above me, for I am the master of my own life, and through this mastery have forged an iron will. I can do anything, for I do not fear the pain of action. For what would be a greater skill of man than the ability to suffer? The ability to deny oneself the ease of giving up and giving in? While the normies greedily devour and make themselves sick on the delicacies of life, I wait idly by, choosing instead to gnaw on the bones. For herein lies the truth underneath the skin and flesh; the real pleasure is not a pleasure at all, but the power to abstain from it.
As Thoreau aimed to suck out the marrow from life, he too collected the bones society had left behind. Balancing on the blade of Occam’s Razor, he and I retain the crucial understanding that the simplest answer may very well be duly correct, that the quiet, restrained life can become the most freeing. To “reduce life to its lowest terms,” as your average citizen has grown nauseous in current-day decadence without the realization that the poison was coming from the food and not himself. That this society we have spent so long building might be an elaborate cage. Between the bars, you can grasp blankly, but nothing remains outside, only a fleeting kiss of a life that could have been. Look outwards into the nothingness we’ve created. Alternate paths have been snuffed out, for as we progressed we made no option to return.
So, I described why I chose the sigma lifestyle, but how does this separate me from the other so-called “sigmas” out there? Easy. I am the first and only female sigma, and, as prophecy foretold, this makes me the “one true sigma, ruler of all other sigmas and conformists alike.” Though I ache living within civilization, like I said, nothing exists outside of this cage, therefore it’s currently my prime goal to climb to the highest and most respected level of occupational and life success possible. As it is, only one thing remains standing in my way. Men. (If sick, dick-driven moids who didn’t even evolve past the monkey stage deserve to be called such). They built this cage and, through the natural progression of their folly, they will die in it. But as a woman, I possess the coveted skill of “womanipulation,” wherein I use my feminine wiles to influence men’s actions, effectively turning them into steps for me to climb on the stairway to success. Plus I eat them sometimes, as a wolf does (though in a civilized manner, with asparagus).
I am really barren. I cannot fall prey to things like “marriage” or “children,” or as I like to call them, obstacles to success. My body is a fishing lure meant only to catch, not procreate: A mimic and trick alike. I am so incomprehensibly barren that semen would shrivel and die with my touch, if I were the kind of woman to allow semen anywhere near me, which I am not. I am infertile. I am unbreedable. I am the one who breeds. I am a beautiful and deadly spider that eats weak, feeble males after stealing their girlfriends and leaves the children to die from exposure.
Unfortunately, this has left me with little in the way of companionship. I was born without tear ducts, so I don’t weep over it, but I do yearn. Why must I have been born so powerful? Why do I feel the need to be more powerful still? I sacrificed my past self to transmutate, from the pit of my stomach, my core, and emerge perfect, still glistening with vernix. In the journey of becoming a god, I walked away from the things that made me human. It’s lonely at the top, and as the toppest top who ever did top, I have become perhaps the most lonely. Pitiful. When you’re operating at a higher altitude, there are few that can climb that high, and more who die trying. I am a mountain. I am a bonfire. Sigma males get all the attention, all the love and praise; I, a woman, who needs no one and yet wants so badly, am left with the scraps. Why is our society so frightened of a woman who can do it all?
Sometimes I howl at the moon. The virgin goddess Diana is the only one who keeps me company. After killing a man and spilling his guts in a pentagram written in menstrual fluid, I yelped at her, “Why am I, a girlboss who stays winning, cursed to roam the Binghamton Metropolitan Area without a pack?” As I examined the pattern his organs made on the ground, an answer slowly revealed itself. Society is telling you that you need companionship, and you have fallen prey to its propaganda, his entrails read. Accept your lonesomeness and find freedom. And so that is what I must do, regardless of the yearning, the melancholy. I must now go off and make money and be beautiful, hauntingly, like a siren, but so dark and deranged that I push away the people I attract. I am the pivotal female American psycho. I am psycho. And I will change everything.
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