(Hat tip to “CreepyGoth”, on MGTOW Forums, for the title of this article.)
There seems to be a “core concept,” on the part of the Femosphere, that Men Are Eternally Obliged to atone for the Sins of the Patriarchy. It’s All Men’s Fault, of course, For Ever And Ever Amen, and it’s held that there is not atonement enough in the Universe to discharge this Sacred Debt.
I’m sorry, dearies. My own sober judgment (and even more so, my rum-soaked drunken judgment) is that this assertion reeks all too certainly of the fertilizing product from the south end of a northbound mule.
Yes, there is a proverbial warning and verse in the Christian Bible (Exodus 20.5 according to Google – I am not a Bible-scholar) that “I, the LORD your God, am a jealous God, punishing the children for the sin of the fathers to the third and fourth generation of those who hate me…”
But guess what? This isn’t about hating God, or any particular god. I do not address hatred to any God, whether the diverse pantheon of the Hindu, the Christian Trinity, or the inscrutable Allah of the Muslim. Not even to the “godlessness” of Buddhism or the god-beyond-identity of Taoism. But I don’t classify “failure to worship” as hatred, and I just hope that God or “the Gods” agree. This is about disdaining, denying, and dismissing the claims of “Woman Incarnate,” whose in-the-flesh status denies them any putative identification in my own practical theogony as More-Than-Man.
There is an obligation that Society might put upon me, vis-a-vis some particular woman, if she caught “the cure for baby-rabies” from me. If I were to knock-up some bed-mate, then Society would hold me responsible – and I would not argue; a child needs a daddy in his or her life, and I would accept that role. I would even insist on it. (I would also, however, insist on a DNA-test!)
I would VERY MUCH PREFER to engage on that situation and relationship wittingly and willingly, by way of a previous committed and consecrated relationship as husband and wife, with my value to our family acknowledged and honored and my place in the family unquestioned and certain and permanent. And I would very much prefer that this relationship, this role of PARENTHOOD, had taken place some twenty or thirty years ago, when I was of an age to sire and raise a brood of unruly brats. If that had happened, on the typical schedule, the children of our union would now be old enough to go out on their own and maybe even bear us grandchildren, that “Cupcake” and I could admire and cuddle and spoil.
But … Life didn’t work like that. During the optimum years for me to start and raise a family, I was “otherwise engaged.” By reason of my taking care of a mother who would have become Cupcake’s resident mother-in-law (a problem that I certainly do not blame the Cupcake-candidates for dismissing out-of-hand), I passed way past my “best-by” date, way before any member of Team Woman assessed me as worthy of harnessing as a potential source of income, or skinning-and-salting as a potential sacrifice.
That used to bother me. But as I’ve lived my life, and witnessed the crap that too many of my married friends had to put up with … and watched the worse crap they went through when their wives cooked up a divorce scheme to take ‘em to the cleaners … as I watched the dating scene get crazier and riskier … I realized I had dodged not just one bullet, but quite a few. And I was happier, my life was better, my future was (and is) brighter, than it likely would have been had I followed the Married With Children life-script.
I consider myself old enough, experienced enough, biologically-aged enough, and seasoned enough that I’m justified in excluding myself from the Mating Dance. Oh, my “manly hydraulics” are in fine working order, but the mating urge does not rule me, does not goad me as it did twenty years ago or more; back in the days before I acknowledged, among other things, that there are plenty plenty plenty of children on this Earth and I am really not obliged to source-out any myself. Even if there were a young woman who wanted me to father her child, I am “senior” enough to say, “Miss, you really need someone younger.”
Besides, I have some dreams of my own.
I have this goal, to Sail Beyond The Sunset. I have the ambition of living afloat, on my boat, sailing the world until perhaps I find that One Particular Harbor where I’d finally make my home. Or perhaps not. Such a life is not irreconcilable with a woman’s goals to bear and raise her children, but … it is not necessarily her dream, not her goal. And I’m well aware of the fragility of my own goals, when they run contrary to a loved one’s wants or even whims. The only possible compromise is that I not get into that situation in the first place; and that means keeping my balls and my baby-batter to myself, and letting Miss Anxious find somebody else who shares her dreams of family.
As I see it – as long as I don’t impregnate some woman, and incur the responsibilities of fatherhood – I have outlived any societal imperative, any obligation, to sacrifice my hopes and my happiness for the sake of “some deserving Cupcake.” Much obliged, ma’am, but I am not obliged to “atone for the sins of the Patriarchs,” no matter what you say. Neither am I obliged to get a girlfriend, to sire a child, to take a wife. My life, by rights, belongs to me.