Within Perverted Commas

Am I a misogynist? Is there a male chauvinist lingering inside me? I believe there is. I hear his strong arguments, I can measure my servility for him. But then it strikes me, it’s me against the whole world. It’s the power of torment that I am besotted with. The torment that spares none; not even me, the torment that makes the outside world go black and white. Oh it hurts…it hurts real bad. What would be left of me when I drop the mask? My words nibble on my tongue.

Humanity needs a pesticide, a nuclear bomb of some sort that can wipe this world clean of all locusts. Wait a minute… I think I went too far, I am being unfair to myself. I am not somebody who is an eve teaser or a molester. I am the one who puts up a charade of decency, I am not the only one who fulminates others for watching the video coverage of a teenager’s rape, but I am that person whose depravity comes into light, the moment its ripped.

So, to summarize in a word, I must say I am a pervert. I don’t know how oxford or webster defines perversion. For some operose women rights crusaders, it’s a pinhole view to manhood. On my behalf, I would allow Freud to do the explaining. I think he was right on all counts when he coined the terms: ego, id and superego. The crumbling of the third levee creates a lecher.

I distinctly remember replicating same words on different occasions. People who know me swear by my covert patriarchal ways. Comments like “I can’t work under a female boss”, can easily expose my real antiestrogen self. Men like us can live with the memory of getting punched by a hairy knuckle. But things get extremely worse when manicured fingers commit the ghastly crime of showing the way. Me and my other brothers in arms, don’t miss a chance of putting women down; sometimes officially and sometimes just for fun.

I would make a lousy attorney, the one who not only sells his clients off but goes ahead to destroy the last resort: a possible plea bargain. The chances of any transformation occurring in me are thin. I could only cover the naked patch with a poster. How about Mother Teresa? Her smiling face and almost non-existent eyes will see another impoverished child; low on moral calories.

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Published by: flatlined84

A thinker outside the quarantine zone. The words on this blog will assault your senses, would make you curse in the holy name of Bard. If that's not enough, leave a piece of your mind in the comments section- the writer is on the dole and is always hungry.

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