KNIT WITS #71: Pearl Davis is losing her mind over being unmarried and is melting down on X

 

So, Pearl Jam over here alleges that you have to be a certain age and there’s a cutoff point. What a load of shit. It’s amazing she can still see out her ass considering how fast it’s being inflated despite it being outpaced by her wounded ego’s geometric rate thereto. I’m not saying it to be defensive, because the sentiment of determining which age someone should marry is boiling relationships down to numbers. The author of Actively Unwoke, Karlyn Borysenko doubles as an occupational/industrial psychologist. She is seventeen years Ms. Davis’ senior, is happily hitched and explicitly has no tolerance for nonsense.

Calling out conservatives is a pastime–her real work centers on repelling woke authoritarianism on both sides, particularly the Marxist persuasion that can deal the most damage–but Karlyn got roped into the mock-watching of Pearl (Jam) Davis immersing herself in a lengthy rant on the X social media site, yet one more reason I refuse to utilize it even if it somehow boosted my chances at getting noticed. Getting some kind of noticing from others is one objective, but it can be accomplished by non-interference to explain the ups and downs of that. I don’t want to get too involved, but the topic of marriage, timing, and the notion that you can age out of being a candidate is a personal issue. Being that this is a personal blog, I have to chime in and put my foot down.

I have an impression that getting to married life requires a number of things on my end before it will pan out. I’m still getting there, but Karlyn and others like Appabend believe it is more about asking chicks out. Are you on drugs? Out to what, exactly? If it isn’t a place worth looking into, that’s just a moment of wasted time for both of you. Doesn’t sound very enticing. The sentiment seems to disregard any sense of tact, orderly preparation, and promise of following through on what the potential significant other wants out of a mate. Before you even think about trying, you must consider if you are truly desirable and what it takes to stay that way.

This isn’t advocacy towards entertaining a negative self-image–I’m just saying you shouldn’t partake in anything that would distort your impressions of the real thing. Just because we have all these romantic assertions about “oh, it’s about true love!” or “it will click together in the end!” doesn’t mean anybody has clearance to be sloppy. Jesus’ time did not have such romantic assertions and most of the ones we have spawned from middle class leisure in the 19th century (not to knock either). The notion of romantic love is not only relatively new, it is either debunkable or nonexistent given how it is treated today–and I’m not even talking about marketing for digital dating apps and the marketplace that squelches fair candidates while misrepresenting the ones that do float to the top of the porcelain throne.

However, these pundits, regardless of party or grid affiliation, want to overtake the eventual miasma that is Pride Month in terms of subject matter and will gleefully insert a fucking time limit on the proceedings. This is not right–this is not cool. This is fucking bullshit. The Virgin Mother becoming with the baby at the age of fourteen is not the reason Jesus is the Son of God who will save your sorry asses along with my own–no, it has to do with Him being the Son as part of Father, Son, Holy Spirit and He practically wrote the book on biology you plagiarizing boobs, you! Yes, biological processes slow down over time and T-Counts seem to be lowering in turn, but that only suggests a baseline activity level that a body will produce hormones to compensate for. The time limit only references the dying of old age that everyone is terrified of. That might stop a child of your cloth from being born, but you can also marry late in life, adopt kids, and all sorts of good things in order to ensure others’ families are saved.

My aunt (mother’s side) married in her fifties. She was perhaps the biggest contender of emotional retard on the planet and still did something that Pearl Jam is nagging about. What is the excuse? What are we getting for an hour’s worth of guffaws? Maybe she is handing out coal so we don’t freeze this next Winter, but that only assumes she actually believes in what she is saying. Her visage betrays a psychopathic bit of trauma and abuse as well, so maybe she’s merely an insubordinate black-pilling pessimist. Why she wants to ditch the UK and return to the States is beyond me (Pearl was born in the Windy City). And I’m not into being cruel for comparing my emotionally retarded and deceased aunt favorably to this chick–I’m just cross whenever someone says, “It’s too late for you!” when nobody even declared let alone explained the rules of a race I never signed up for.

I’m not competing, I’m searching for and making. Half the reason anybody is married is because there’s a biological pull. My own started when I was five years old. The girls weren’t terribly happy about my attention towards them, but I wasn’t interested in fighting them–I just wanted to go steady. This pull sort of kept up even today and made domestic life a complete chore because the options for venting it out had made my parents blush. It is what it is. There is no such thing as falling out of season for love, marriage, or even happiness. It might sound like I’m being romantic on the subject, but being skeptical doesn’t mean being dismissive–I’d rather you score than not. Whenever I’m commenting on how hot a lady content creator is, it’s not to disparage her. It’s just the brain trying to process candidates or what a good candidate is. I can’t just ignore it, let alone not document it since it’s one of the more upsetting side effects of being isolated and withdrawn. This needs to be on the record.

You know what else needs to be on the record? Going through the Bible confirms my point vigorously. You aren’t going to believe it when I say Genesis is the field guide of biology via analogy. Every story is a standalone analysis of what works, what doesn’t, and when life is truly lost. Everybody is buying into this lie that, if true, will have doomed all Abrahamic religions before they could even take off because their principal forefather, Abraham, managed to sire his son Isaac at 100 (and his wife Sarah at 90!). The same kid he was tasked with sacrificing. Either he was going senile and hearing shit, confident that God’s word takes precedence over everything the fuck else, or God doesn’t take that whole “past-results-don’t-determine-future-winnings” gambling caveat for granted.

(Note: I might be Christian, but I am not formalized or verse-quoting–I let the actions do the talking. If my humor is coarse, Razorfist is over yonder–he’s better at it, anyway.)

After all, humans had one job broken to two fun bits–fuck and breed–and still failed the basic quiz when they first came out, a point at which we assume shouldn’t coincide with erectile dysfunction and premature ejaculation, but there you go. Diffusion of responsibility aside, we all love to think that you have to strike it big and fast and hit a homer before you hit 30 because nobody else will do it for you. Yet, we have orphanages and adoption. We also have forcible castration, surgery, and other things that prevent you from having more of them but manages to recalibrate your hormones in ways that affect your brain chemistry and turn you into a complete crab… wait, what the fuck am I talking about?

In short, we assume. And you know what happens when you assume. Yet, we assume a lot about relationships and how they’re formed, best practices thereto and we all have different opinions. Karlyn Borysenko thinks that marrying before the age of 30, theoretically to produce super-healthy children with minimal chance of defects such as autism and whatnot, is undesirable since human brains stop developing around the age of 27 (the legal ages to smoke, drink, or operate an automobile are a societal stipulation, not biological realities; you can get children to understand how to drive a car if you teach them very early). Several pundits, typically those with a bent towards family values and best practices, postulate the opposite for the sake of engendering long lineages or bigger units to stave off population constriction.

All of these assumptions come from statistical analysis with a fine grain of Biblical truth. Regardless, everybody will then operate under a cavalcade of assumptions in which Karlyn (rightfully so) predicts will cause “red-pilled” men in particular to stop seeing others, man or woman, as humans but as either objects or opponents. I see the change in attitude that comes from leaving a “comfy reality” endemic of being “blue-pilled” as fertile ground for being abducted by a cult (watch The Matrix from start to finish and tell me it isn’t a blueprint on how cult abuse happens). While being “red-pilled” carries with it a like-colored flag, Karlyn and I may not agree on why that is, but we both know you really need to eat some other kind of pill. Too bad nobody is sharing those, huh.

Much of this has to do with ingesting media at large, including Karlyn’s–everyone’s doing it whether they’re in on the joke or not. After a few flips of doom-scrolling, you internalize a lot of wild assumptions about how people manage their own business and then make many of your own, thereby cutting yourself off from numerous opportunities. And you buy these horrible assumptions through women like Pearl Jam. How so? Well, she’s not the only one, but her status as well-off, paired with melting down over the minutiae and then throwing a tantrum into the electric ether, illustrates in our minds full confirmation that their assumptions are true: they are that way. In fact, we end up thinking that the Internet is truly real life. If you came to this blog believing that this, too, is somehow real life, I welcome you. I want you to know that the fear, pain, and strife of the invaders’ home planet no longer need be a part of your life!

And I can ensure this is so by citing a far older medium having a very different perspective on the lust for youth and the dismissal of age–without having to cite Logan’s Run as a source of inspiration! I was watching some daytime talk television the other day–before a routine blood drawing, it was in a hospital–and I don’t know who the hostess was, but she was sort of aged and thick like I eat my favorite cheese and, in a sense, that’s all I need to know. Anyway, she and her guest were talking about the notion that men want to marry young. While that’s often true, it’s not always so for someone who’s say fifty and, even if it’s the case, it’s not always, in fact it’s very, very rarely if ever, a primary motivator, certainly not on a personal front.

Even if they are loaded and still capable of siring kids on their own, men are, according to the guest, nowhere near enticed by the prospect of marrying someone very young. Instead, they prefer to marry within their own generation, early, late, or now–doesn’t matter when. Yeah, women prefer resources and men prefer health, but that’s not an individual’s preference, but society’s. (This doesn’t even account for the half-plus-seven rule, in which the senior’s age is halved with seven years added–the junior’s should be on or above this number to keep the relationship from looking creepy–or the modern Japanese condescension that is calling a chick the “Christmas Cake” you can’t eat after the 26th of December, that being years on this Earth. Pearl Jam is 27, younger than the band but still somehow uglier.)

The marrying-within-generation phenomenon has to do with emotional maturity and mutual interests taking eventual long-term precedence over the material things that would support the birthing of children, but not necessarily their being raised well. It makes sense. You are also allowed to have affection for people online and the ideas they have. Most of the discussions made from these online podcasts come from people who manage to end up being (or at least looking) pretty, married or not, open or not, moral or not. Yet, Karlyn and her immediate audience tends to chide many content creators as self-centered hacks with personality disorders.

Setting aside this Pearl Davis woman, who I don’t know anything about, if we want to dump on content creators, let me pick Melonie Mac out of the line-up of usual offenders. She’s a bit of an icy hard-edge, even a troll in the classic Internet sense, aged out of the typical window as a divorcee from a terrible marriage, and born again into a denomination of Christianity that I expect to lock horns with. I can go into further detail about the babe, which is an eventuality considering how the rest of the online chat-o-sphere gossip-mongers stare her down cold. If you assumed that my snip-and-prod analogy above referred to transgenderism, my mother had her tubes tied (tubal ligation). Hormones must have gone haywire.

Yet, Melonie criticizes the transgender movement on the conventional moral reasoning, like not doing what God insists at the sociosexual baseline, or engaging in what’s otherwise lustful relations. After a while or three, it becomes harder to rationalize preference over conduct. However, it’s not to disparage trans people, I don’t think, since she’s concerned for the persons’ welfare as it seems to hit uncomfortably close to home. Ditto. You see, Melonie strikes me as a little autistic. Being wrapped up as a girl gamer at her age without regard for what others think strikes me as autistic. It’s endearing, regardless of whether you think her voice is grating, because it might indicate that she “gets it” in terms of how the gamers and autistics in the world are mistreated. In a sense, she plays the troll because no-one dares try and, if nobody will pipe up, then she erects a finger and does it herself. The fact that she gets a lot of attention for it is the icing on the cake.

This reminds me of Brian Johnson, the “Liver King”. Truth be told, I first heard this tale through Richard “Ya Boi Zack” Meyer from his Comics Matter YouTube Channel. In 2022, the social media inflencer Brian Johnson was discovered to have spent tens of thousands of dollars on steroids and some supplements as part of his gig as endorsing raw meat in what came colloquially disparaged as the “Caveman” diet (though only after man discovered fire did he start hacking up big game) of offal and other fine delicacies. The lawsuit levied against him was eventually dropped because, in every true sense, this was kayfabe. How “kayfabe”? Meyer had a point to make and used Brian as the example–an instance where he straight-up said, “Everybody in the fitness space jumped on the gravy train of saying, ‘I know he was a scam–here’s how I know’, but they only popped out of the woodwork when it became rather convenient to try and, by doing so, assuaged their consciences from not piping up in advance.” Maybe not in those exact words, but what Meyer described in turn was the “Whisper Networks” of contact information lists where everyone calls up to announce some flaky bit of actionable gossip designed to get someone fired so you can take their spot (his primary grievance of the publishing industry).

How does Brian Johnson factor in? He doesn’t. He’s a goofy stereotype proliferator who entertains and enlightens, championing a contrarian approach to fitness and well-being. That’s professional wrestler territory right there. However, the batch of fitness nerds who swarmed in to eat his offal during the big reveal of him using steroids? Nobody actually cared if he used steroids up until he got caught. They then used it as their opportunity. That’s what you call a “Whisper Network”. Melonie Mac is Brian Johnson (sans “getting caught” since it would have happened even if he wasn’t–they just needed the best moment to tattle); the greater YouTubes represent the other fitness gurus in their resentful whisper network and, of course, you got me as Ya Boi Zack. Now all I need to do is publish some kick-ass comic books and we can call it even.

Besides resenting the ideological insertions made at the expense of a pastime that the consultants are in no position to understand or research, I look after Mel and my peeps for another reason: exploitation of the masses. Progressive rhetoric circulates on it and how to remedy it. Yet, progressive actions end up making it worse since nobody understands how it comes up to begin with. You ask what, pray tell, the Conservatives hope to conserve? Ask then what those slack-jawed Progressives hope to race towards. After a divorce from a 11-month marriage where everyone had innumerable bad things to say about their ex, Mel hit the brakes. She didn’t like where things were going, sought a way out or at least a viable explanation, found Christianity, and dove headfirst in the most savage way possible, modeling her icily precise, gymnastic descent after her favorite video game character, Lara Croft of Tomb Raider.

If you think Mel is overzealous, you have never known how it feels to suffer a psychotic break around the time when you should be getting a job, dating women, and having the time of your life. Oh, no: you’re stuck at home and unable to head out the door for any reason. And then these guys show up–a gaggle of goons who think they know better than you, swear up and down that you’ll never be the same again, and you are forever tethered to the whims of an institution that your entire family despises. I wish it could be like a Parker/Stone cartoon where the “and then” could be sensibly rewritten as “and therefore” but there you go.

And this description could be a sob story about me de-transitioning, but I watched Flash cartoons about traps and Bugs Bunny was an asshole well before he was beating James Rolfe senseless. There was nothing to transition away from. This speaks of someone suffering a psychotic break and being relegated to supplemental security income and meds for the rest of an unexamined life. Someone who is very independent and yet also introverted, hearing endless complaints about not contributing or being desirable or reaching a moment where life started to make less sense than before a break, will turn to anything to make the pain stop or recede to a trickle. Meanwhile, you did the stupid instead of looking like and judge everyone online as fundamentally and yet irreversibly fake.

Melonie Mac might not be our friend, but so are other human beings. At least I extend the olive branch.

I, in stark contrast to everyone else, oppose transgenderism not on anti-transhumanism grounds, anti-science grounds, science grounds, religious grounds, anti-cult grounds, coffee grounds, or an assortment of other grounds, but because the movement specifically targets and convinces a subset of the human population, whose understanding of sex is a bit fluid and indefinite in comparison to those with actual social chops, with nary any real political power or aspirations and few if any prospects beyond being (or being seen as) a drain on institutional resources, to get them carved up and turned into something they’re not for the sake of a handful of institutions’ desire to “do the right thing”. In short, autistic people become their guinea pigs. So, if you wonder why I might not agree with how Melonie goes about her opposition to a flaky activism hole but won’t stop her just the same, there’s your answer.

There. I can quit gushing like a geyser but that’s a straight explanation on why blanket-disparaging other people online not only does not improve mental health but worsens it just the same. Gushing isn’t going to do the latter even if it becomes the former. Imagine high and go for broke. Good hunting!

Anyway, we both espouse Christian ethos, play video games, and do NOT act our age enough that I get flagged as being fifteen years younger mentally and physically while she flat-out looks the part… Mel and I have some common ground. Meanwhile, this Pearl Jam broad, as Karlyn does, insinuates that me being somewhat smitten means I’m going to be a SIMP and Mel a GRIFTER. Are you kidding me? Forgive me O Lords and Ladies, for I deign to spend down-time checking out pretty women in my age bracket who have enough in common with me to pass as a possible life-mate. It’s not a perfect fit, but it’s not perfectly too late.

Even so, to the Net, everyone’s a wingnut-adjacent grifter, not just media talking heads. If my hint on gabbing and gossiping about influencers is in itself indicative of a coping mechanism against embarrassing trauma, then either I won’t hear the end of it and neither will everybody else, or everything turns out peachy-keen since we’ve all been there at some point and cannot help but be reminded of something that did us wrong. The only reason anybody thinks it’s a race (and no, it isn’t–fight me) is because they’re the only ones waiting in a line for the handkerchief to drop. Care to join in while you got plantar fasciitis or no?

I allege that nothing is ever too late, everyone does it at a different time, and there shouldn’t be some sort of mandate perceived or otherwise from any institution (religions aren’t the only ones who do this) because it will backfire and people will scream, “DON’T TELL ME WHAT TO DO WITH MY BODY AND MY TIME!” You know why the angel struck Zechariah, father of John the Baptist, with dumbness? Unlike the Virgin Mother, who requested clarification on exact procedure, Zechariah disputed the angel’s prophecy, citing the seemingly insurmountable odds of his friskiness with Elizabeth paying off at long last. In other words, “Yeah, right!”

So, the angel muted him, mostly out of contempt, because God is not about statistics.