A place for a

23.02.2017

Feminism and gaming: Far Cry 3 writer says the player’s character should have been castrated

Spoiler warning. Don’t read if you don’t want to read about Far Cry 3’s ending.

I remember playing Far Cry 3 and wondering why the fuck I have to be playing hero for some stupid indigenous tribe led by some stupid bitch whom I could not care less about other than that she was kind ahot.

I also remember wondering why I, the hapless and untrained American tourist, am chosen over literally every other male in the game for this task.

Either way, the whole story was kinda weird and the bossfight you actually look forward to is even weirder and rather disappointing.

In the end of the game, you are encouraged to make a choice:

  1. Kill your friends and stay with the stupid but hot bitch who proclaims her love for you.
  2. Save your friends and kill the bitch.

If you choose the first option, the bitch will fuck and then kill you.

Turns out, Far Cry 3 writer Jeffrey Yohalem wanted to make a feminist statement with this, to mock the “princess saving complex”. To punish the man for his “misogyny”, he suggests he actually should have been castrated. Here’s the excerpt from the linked article (Spoilers!):

In one ending, Jason chooses to live out his days with Citra, where he – being the ultimate badass that he is – will continue to protect the island. Only Citra has other plans and decides to murder the oblivious bloke instead.

As it turns out, Citra never really needed to be saved and the whole thing is a commentary on the princess rescuing complex that permeates the medium. “Jason conjures up this whole idea that Citra needs saving and he’s gonna save her, when in reality it was all a ritual she created to find a sperm donor, and she kills him,” Yohalem explained.

“Sex, violence, and the player is killed. Here are the things that satisfy our animal side as men, but they’re subverted because it’s a female doing it.” Yohalem likened the ending to Princess Peach stabbing Mario. “Now that I’m thinking about it, that final scene should have been Citra castrating Jason. Seriously, that’s the point! It is like, ‘You win, motherf*****!’ It’s totally like, ‘F*** you, you misogynist idiot!’”

For reference, here is the original article that this article quotes from on archive.org. Apparently it has been deleted since, but you can find this old version of it, so it’s all cool.

Continue reading “Feminism and gaming: Far Cry 3 writer says the player’s character should have been castrated

25.06.2016

Anger hypnosis – why do politics enrage us so?

Nietzsche suggests in his book On the Genealogy of Morals a historical account of a nation that was harmonious and peaceful inside, while periodically going on crusades against other nations, committing the most heinous crimes; rape, murder, torture. And they enjoy it. He suggests that this nation has developed this mechanism as a way to vent the more animalistic tendencies that are suppressed inside its civilization.

Why do we get so angry about politics? Why do we see a flag or a famous monkey and are so hyponotized by it that we elevate it, in our minds, above all of those who oppose it? Why are we seemingly ready to kill people who disagree with us about political issues – and yet seldom dare to speak our own minds if they oppose that which is morally accepted?

I think the answer is simple.

Political issues and political leaders give us the permission to be angry. Something we are generally not allowed to be.

To be angry and violent, those are qualities that are looked down upon in society. To use force and power to get your own way, that is perhaps the greatest crime of all. Beware the selfish man. Serve the others, always be compassionate and so on. And yet, when our personally chosen leaders talk about the enemies of their values, we become feral, with foam at our mouths, ready to do almost anything to silence them. Very peculiar.

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08.02.2016

Envy is self-hatred

Envy is decried as unvirtuous and seen as an emotion directed at somebody’s success, but it is not. Envy is an impulse to compete, but this impulse – in the case of envy – is compulsive. That is, the envying person like an addict is not free to choose whether he wants to be better than the other person.

He simply must be superior. He does not even know why.

Logically, this compulsive obsession is alleviated the easiest way by crushing the tall poppy rather than outcompeting him.

The envious person feels bad when he sees success, because he feels the compulsive need to outperform the other person. How annoying to him. Best to create a microcosm where his superiority is never in doubt.

In any case, why the compulsion? It is the compulsion to escape self-hatred, triggered by being inferior. We learn how to treat our self – read: us – by how our parents treated our self.

We learned to hate ourselves when we were not the best. Or loathe. Or despise. Because we did not get the love we needed when we were not somehow superb.

Unreflectedly, there are two defense mechanisms:

  1. The cowardly way: Throw down another’s success.
  2. The noble way: Be at the top by beating the other dude.

Narcissistic culture propagates the noble way. Keeps the cash running. The Joneses and all that. And never forget the anti-depressive pills, yum yum.

Of course, one may suggest that one rather start to learn to treat oneself better and not hate oneself for being inferior.

But do you really hate the other person? No, you hate your idea and feeling of the other person. But these are parts of your self. Every hatred is self-hatred.

Self-hatred can be channeled into pointless heroism, but ultimately, it is a more or less conscious way of self-inflicted cruelty.

Envy is a self-destructive yet intuitive way off saying fuck you to those who demand pointless greatness of you.

27.12.2015

The black hole I come from

When all was dark and wet, I already knew I was not welcome. Then I came out, somebody held me and that black devil was waiting to hold me in her hands, the devil I had come out of. I protested and screamed in terror, but every baby screams. The black devil pulsated in a cloud of fluttering malice as it took me in her arms and filled my heart with ice. Had I had any hair, it would have stood up all over my body. I had to suck on her teat of sick skin, revulsed as I was. Had to swallow her toxic milk full of madness while all my senses protested; it was like drinking oil from the earth, more nourishing but less appetizing. I imagined myself as a spectator.

In this way I was introduced to the pretense of love.

06.10.2015

Final letter to my mother

In the course of trying to become more honest, I figured I would send messages to all people I ever knew, telling them what I really thought of them. Guilt and shame overwhelmed me during the course of that endeavor. I insulted girls who had hurt me, making the bill even. I told my false friends that I despised them. I got into trouble for it. It was freeing.

And yet I could not stop. The satisfaction was temporary. And that made one thing obvious to me: It was not those girls I really had a beef with. It was the one woman I saw in all those girls, the one woman I was fighting through the proxy of other girls. The one woman to whom I was really pretending. The one woman whom I really feared to know me.

I showed my true self to all the women who had hurt me. But I realized that there is only one woman who has to know me. Realized that all the other women do not matter. Realized that there is one woman to whom I never dared to show my true self. Never dared to speak up to earnestly. That woman is my mother.

The thought of writing all these important and disgusting things filled me with shame and guilt and fear. It took me three weeks to finally sit down and write this letter. Now, the letter is on its way. Now, my mother must know me, whether she wants to or not.

Now that my mother will know who I am, there is no one I must ever feel ashamed of myself towards again. The next time somebody accuses me of being an asshole, pathetic, not nice or impolite, my mother will not be watching over my shoulder.

I will say: Yes, that is me. And shrug.

The voices in my head always and mercilessly competed, because I had not yet spoken up to the one big source of voices in my head. Had assigned mystical powers to it. To her. My failure to speak my mind robbed me of the courage to think my thoughts. Now I have spoken my mind.

Next time, the mother in my mind will have been put in her place, her looming expectations of me finally fought off with the courage to put myself first, no matter how miserable that self.

Maybe this is too optimistic. Who knows. But I know one thing: I hope to never see her again.

Continue reading “Final letter to my mother

02.10.2015

Should you go on a rampage? – Part 1: My story

I wrote quite a lot about stuff I am no expert in. I began my blog as a copycat of others. But that is okay, I am finding my voice. Today I want to write about something that I can really relate to. About a question that you can ask nobody because you would meet only shame and rejection.

Should you go on a rampage?

And yet it is a profound personal decision that many before you asked. But they could not ask, could they? So they had only themselves to talk to, only the confines of their own mind to reach a silent answer.

Society does not understand your rage and finds superficial answers that satisfy the symbolic mind: Video games, pornography. Ted Bundy even makes fun of that unsophisticated reasoning by using it as an explanation for his own behavior. Very funny to watch.

Of course, Ted Bundy was a psychopath – from my limited knowledge – and his words can mean little to you. A person who does not feel shame or guilt can hardly understand what you are going through.

On the other hand, if you are a psychopath, this article is not for you. I can only superficially relate to you then and thus offer no usable advice.

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30.09.2015

Fear of rejection: No, fear of guilt and shame

I never felt like I really feared rejection, the idea seemed pointless to me; thus I refused to believe that I am motivated by fear when I fail to approach girls. Whenever I did, I usually did not feel very bad about being rejected. Especially the beautiful girls that I preferred to approach often had extremely positive attitudes and the rejection felt painless.

But when I look closer, there is a pattern of rejections that irrationally terrified me to the bone. One of those was when the girl that rejected me was of the rather unhappy kind. It left me feeling grossly inadequate. The other, even more painful kind of situation ensued when I felt that the display of my desire made the girl uncomfortable or downright clam up. I felt like hell hath me. It was unbearable to the point where I would have done almost anything to stop the sensation.

My intent was, of course, only to make her dank at the twat, but intent is not everything.

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25.09.2015

Why I hate my mother

For a long time, I had wondered about the difference between me and more confident boys and now men. From somewhere, maybe it was intuition, I had the feeling that I could be just like them if I – how to say – find a way to let go and be myself.

But there is no letting go. There is a past of adventure, conflict and childhood struggle that shaped them. There were tests of fire that burned away their fears and insecurities. They had fathers that hardened them and friends and enemies who fought them. Men who guided them early through stages of life in which I am stuck. And it was the time that did it.

What can I do today? I can learn to imitate. I can walk straight, hold eye contact, bump into people in the streets so that everybody fears me. That feels good. But it is mechanic, there is no play to it. I can grin at another man and it will look like we have something in common. But while he thinks back of times of raising hell, it is an empty gesture for me, there to be exposed for the lie it is.

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20.09.2015

Misogyny: Why you should hate single mothers of boys

First of all, let me tell you something about hatred. You think that hatred is equal with calling a woman a silly bitch? No, that is just banter, with a cup of grains of truth. It is humorous. Well, friend, hatred is nothing like that.

Hatred is poison. Do you know how death feels? Have you ever experienced sheer terror while running for your life and sanity? Have you ever caught a big moth with your bare hand and squeezed the life out of it? Did you ever take a walk through a museum of modern art and open yourself up to the works of the most miserable losers of life?

Have you taken your time to study the underbelly of human life, confronted darkness with nobody at your side?

Have you suffered quite enough, I wonder, to understand the deep and intense nature of hatred?

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29.05.2015

Goodbye, Mama

I lie around on my couch, look around my room. It’s been a mess for weeks now. I feel mory from having told some girl on Facebook that she should get rid of her piercing. First time I have ever been called a bully. Once more baffled by the intense emotions that social pressure can generate, I let the moment sink in and listen to the sound of dust settling among the other dirt.

The door to my flat is open to let the air stream wipe through my little room and pass right out into the corridor. Outside, steps approach. I put my fingers into my ears, anticipating the ringing bell, but it doesn’t ring.

The people outside my room behave quietly. Who is this?

I unwillingly stand up and open the door. My mother and grandmother stand before me. I forbade them to come, but they came anyway.

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