I began reading an article on gynocentrism and was inspired to cough out a few paragraphs. I am yet to complete the article, but shall soon after typing a bit.
I have often faced White Knight syndrome during my life and hold it in high contempt. The kind of sexism it brandishes is usually beyond reproach, especially in the repellent nation in which I was raised.
Still, I have always found traces in myself. I was, after all, raised in the south of a nation-state discriminating against yet at the same time placing women in positions pristine. The thought of matriarchy can make men cringe, but their fundamental selves feel the pull of motherhood stronger than any ambition. This discludes, of course, psychopaths such as your humble narrator.
I’ve spent stretches of accumulated time holding doors for random females over years. This time is dead time in my life. It can never be recovered and had no positive effect on neither me nor said females. Holding doors is a simple example. The curious reader will explore his or her own imagination to conclude other enlightening analogies.
Were anyone to ask my advice, I’d promptly state that ignoring any female in the immediate proximity that is not a pervasive factor in your life is beneficial to mental stability, general happiness and blood pressure. Hustle away from there, chap! Don’t engage in sexism!
Most white knights I’ve met are pointedly shitty people. They will slough away any other pressing matter in their immediate surroundings to rush to the nominally needed aid of some wench. I use the word aid rather magnanimously here. These fetid specks of fecal matter discard their regard for anything except gaining favour of the LADY.
Shambal contains no part of this trait.
Christián, being raised in the states by a despotic mother, exhibits portions of this malady often. His death will be welcome.
How do I avoid backsliding into white knightitude? Firstly, I must be observant at all times of my actions towards others. I shall treat every human previously in my midst, in my current midst, and in future midstes equally. A splendid way of achieving this is by envisioning each of them as an identical, squirming maggot. In this fashion, I’ll never block the path of either a prim and spritely businessman or a lumbering and perspiring baglady attempting to hold open the door for some high heeled tart. All maggots. All equal.
Secondly, I shall round them up and place them equally in cells surrounded by electric fences. Each cell will contain between seventy and ninety-six maggots. I’d really like to have each cell filled by an equivalent number, but even my gracious and unprejudiced eye cannot overlook variations in maggot-girth.
Beneath the morass of maggots will be fresh soil to be churned. Future orchards flourish thereupon. When a maggot churns soil, that maggot is of the same social class as his numerous neighbours. In the uniform swath of aromatic peat, envy is impossible.
The cells will have no communication. No internet is possible. If two nation-states are oblivious of one another, neither can have a wish to claim the other’s soil. This model is of a multiverse. Simply a multiverse of orchards, i realize, but a multiverse just the same. I, as the overlord, will watch contentedly as humanity churns to create beauty.
And fruit.
Fruit to feed my fetid face.
