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bedtimestoriesforbrokengirls

On Misogyny

bedtimestoriesforbrokengirls

I don’t call myself “a misogynist” because such a label is woefully incapable of conveying the vast and murky depths of my misanthropy. Hell, I’m as much a misandrist as anything; on the whole, I find men kind of simple-minded, tribal, and boring. Given the option, I’ll take a cunt over a prick every time.

In fact, what I view as My Misogyny generally manifests as an amiable, amused sort of pity. I’m not angry with women, don’t feel threatened by them, and don’t resent their successes; that sort of thing strikes me as ridiculous. When I get in an elevator with a random woman, I’m not the one who has to become momentarily aware that she is small and I am large and we are all alone. When people are looking for authoritative opinions, I’m not the one who has to worry that the pitch of her voice will render her thoughts instinctively irrelevant and irritating to at least half the room. When we’re at a party and someone inquires about not having kids by 35, I’m not the one who’ll be getting the sad, vaguely smug looks that say “You are defective and will never be whole.”

That’s why angry misogyny perplexes me: it’s so goddamned petty. From where I’m sitting, being a girl is a process wherein you’re yanked from the womb and thrown directly into a never-ending spanking machine made out of misused erections and deferred dreams. If I stretch my eye, I can see that there are a few perks that go with that extra X chromosome, but I can’t think of a single one that I covet. It’s simply a shit gig, the socio-sexual equivalent of working the drive-through window at McDonald’s. If you’re a guy, I figure the very least you can do is let the girls do their jobs and not yell too much when they get their orders wrong.

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mindfuckery reblog
bedtimestoriesforbrokengirls

Anonymous asked:

I need fucked... Now and hard! But my Master is out of the country on business... What should I do?

bedtimestoriesforbrokengirls answered:

Well, you could try being a mature human being who keeps herself productive and positive through brief bouts of loneliness and frustration, utilizing her astonishing power of self-control and uncanny ability to think with something other than her cunt. But I’m guessing that telling you to be a grown-ass woman would be as pointless as asking Willem Dafoe to not look creepy; adulting just isn’t in your wheelhouse.

Going the other direction, there’s no real reason you can’t put on something slutty, liberally douse yourself in bourbon until every aspiring date-rapist in the county can smell you, and then spend your evening leaning unsteadily against the dumpster outside a dive bar. Your master couldn’t really complain much; if he’s gonna leave an idiot tramp alone to solve her own sexually retarded problems, he’s gotta expect to come home to a new STD now and then.

But if you’re anything like most of my girls, in the end, you’re too lazy and unmotivated to bother. We both know you’ll just end up in bed by yourself, rubbing your clit to posts like this, knowing that you’re neither half the woman nor half the whore your should be. Brava!

mindfuckery reblog

Anonymous asked:

What would you do if your sub admitted that severe pain accompanied any and all vaginal penetration? And how would you prefer they bring it up? I want to tell my daddy about it but I’m not sure how to without disappointing them.

What would I do? Enquire about any medical issues. Applaud her suffering. And then comfort her by pointing out that her ass was always more appealing anyway.

How would I prefer she bring it up? Promptly and clearly, the same way she should bring up anything of importance.

As for disappointing daddy? Be brave and accommodating; the rest will work itself out.

ask

Anonymous asked:

What is your favourite book?

I’m not sure, overall.

As a kid, it was Mrs. Brisby and the Rats of NIMH. As a teen, it was The Restaurant at the End of the Universe. In my twenties, it was probably A Brief History of Time, The Art of Human-Computer Interface Design, or Steven Levy’s Hackers. In my thirties? Um, maybe… From Hell. Or Promethea. Or Persepolis. Or Adrian Tomine’s Summer Blonde. Or Craig Thompson’s Blankets. Today, it’s mostly a dead heat between Stephen Greenblatt’s The Swerve, Umberto Eco’s The Name of the Rose, and Liu Cixin’s The Three-Body Problem.