On the cover of the latest New Yorker Magazine, we find a young woman, hair pulled back tight in a bun, with a smile on her face. She has make-up on with a blouse and appears to be on a virtual date as she’s drinking a cocktail and trying to look her best.
If you’re the guy, this woman looks hot. Put together, sophisticated, and happy. She is perfectly framed for the camera. Her face is proud and smiling.
But what’s the reality??
She lives in a tiny, shoebox room with a bunch of cats, and their litter box.
The room is filthy. Trash is thrown everywhere, used masks and gloves on the floor, take out containers are lying about, and many wine bottles on top of the fridge.
A closer examination finds prescription pill bottles. You see hairy legs. You see soccer shorts and slippers on to go with that pretty shirt, Amazon boxes, some remain un-opened. You see Cheetos bags, a bed that hasn’t been slept in.
Everywhere around her is distress, symbols of waste, decadence, dependence on drugs, alcohol, fake appearances, and the ‘conveniences’ of modern life.
In her mind, she probably thinks she is a strong independent female. However, she is ignoring the isolation, the dependence, self-medicating, delusion.
She’s living a disgusting and empty life but puts on that pretty face for an unsuspecting dude on the call.
The cover of the New Yorker has summed up our current state of affairs perfectly. Modernity is killing us. And modern men and women are a disgrace.
Actually, the men are much worse.
If the New Yorker cover were a man, he’d be skinny fat, or just plain obese. He’d have no muscles. He would have trash and junk around him just the same. But instead of cats and wine there’d be soda, fast food, and video games. Today’s men are soft and ambitionless. They’re manipulated man-children who haven’t built a thing in their lives, which is why they flock to Democrats and their pathetic policies.
Soy boys. Weak, isolated, unproductive masturbation machines. No kids, no future, no legacy.
Welcome to the Machine.
So it goes.