Over at The American Conservative, editorial fellow Carmel Richardson—the best young journalist out there, in my opinion—has an outstanding piece called “Peak Anti-Natalism.” If you haven’t done so, check it out.
Ostensibly, it’s about the disastrous effects the COVID vaccines have on pregnant women. She cites a new study from New Zealand, which “found the shot caused 82 to 91 percent of women in their first trimester to experience a ‘spontaneous abortion,’ or miscarriage.” Horrible. Horrible, horrible. And this is a drug the U.S. government want people to take against their will.
But that’s only the beginning. Ms. Richardson’s piece is about an even more unsettling fact: nobody really cares if mothers are going to lose their children because of this vaccine. Babies will die, and that doesn’t seem to bother anyone.
“We don’t just ignore the fertility problem,” Ms. Richardson says; we “encourage it. Having a baby is selfish, because of the ozone layer, or some such. Or worse, it’s the actual stuff of nightmares.”
Of course, you could fill whole books answering that question. But Ms. Richardson touches on something crucial when she says of the modern, liberated, empowered female:
They want children—probably sooner, though they’ll always profess “later”—yet remain captive to strong social forces and, increasingly, biological ones outside their control. These are the ones for whom the inheritance of birth control and job expectations were taken for granted; they grew up believing an unwanted pregnancy would be far more of a common problem, and didn’t worry about it until they came of age not “thirty, flirty, and thriving,” but single, lonely, and on anti-depressants.
You really should read the whole thing, top to bottom. But I just want to throw in my two cents here. You know that, by “thirty, flirty, and thriving” they mean this:
Not to be rude, you know. But if you’ve spent any amount of time around the next-gen yuppies, you know they’re impossibly boring, which is almost the last thing we can excuse them for.
Seriously, ours is probably the most boring generation of human beings in history. The Flirty Thirties endlessly put off their careers so they can live their best lives. And what does that entail? From what I can tell—
1. Wearing leather riding boots to drive your black Jetta.
2. Doing some pointless office job for a company that produces nothing of worth.
3. Being forced to fraternize with the other soul-sucked hobgoblins at your office.
4. Posting tweets about how you must be a cat because of how antisocial you are, and knowing you’re only half-joking.
5. Filling your apartment with all kinds of tacky bullshit from Target.
6. Spending 98% of your free time sitting in your badly decorated apartment watching Netflix.
7. Getting drunk on Dollaritas and scream-laughing with the soul-sucked hobgoblins you call your friends about how shit everyone is but you girlz.
8. Going back to your apartment and being greeted only by an actual cat, who really does hate you.
9. Reflecting upon the fact that your friends also hate you and call you shit behind your back.
10. Hooking up with a bunch of soft, low-T guys who either ghost or cheat on them until a decent guy won’t look at you twice and you’re left with a deep, gnawing resentment of the entire male sex.
11. Constantly being depressed because your birth control throws your hormones out of balance.
12. Constantly being sick because you smoke pot and binge-drink while on antidepressants.
13. Growing progressively more exhausted by, and afraid of, interpersonal relationships.
14. Retreating into a digital bubble, having all experience of the outside world mediated by a smartphone.
15. Dying alone.
If that doesn’t sound like adequate compensation for the unspeakable joy of falling in love with a man, pledging your entire selves to one another, making babies, loving them, nurting them, and raising them into strong men and women—well, bear in mind that, one a year, the Flirty Thirties get to go on VACATION!
What do they do on vacation? Who knows! They’re so fun and spontaneous. Maybe they’ll get drunk on a beach in Florida! Or maybe they’ll get drunk on a beach in Mexico! Or maybe they’ll get drunk on a beach in Jamaica! One thing’s for sure, though: it will be the adventure of a lifetime.
It probably wouldn’t make thing objectively better, but I’d be a little more at ease if the Flirty Thirties spent their days climbing mountains or writing poetry or building homes for sick widows. But that’s not what they do. They eat pizza and read blogs about how everything was better in the Nineties. (Remember AIM?!?!)
I don’t mean to be cruel. Honestly, I feel bad for these people. But I don’t think we do them any favors by coddling their collective ego. It’s important they know the truth.
Ladies, nobody thinks you’re cool or fun or carefree. Everyone thinks you’re sad and boring and pathetic. You might be “flirty,” but you’re not flourishing. Whoever told you that, they lied to you.
Please spare yourself a lot of heartache and get your act together. Do something useful with your life. Find a decent guy, commit to each other, and have a couple of kids.
Get out of the city and go somewhere you can afford to buy your own house. Ideally, you want an acre or two of land so you can run around and plant flowers and grow apple trees. Get a hobby. (Drinking wine doesn’t count.) (Drinking pumpkin spice lattes doesn’t count, either.)
Seriously, whoever told you it’s more fun being single—they lied to you. The moment you first hold your child in your arms, you’ll realize that you never really lived a day in your life.
Best of all, you can still do non-parenting-related stuff! I never hiked or hunted as much when I was single as I do now. When your free time is limited, you make the most of it.
It also takes off a lot of the anxiety. Knowing that you have a family who loves you and supports you takes a huge existential weight off your shoulders. You become less self-conscious. And you don’t actually realize how self-conscious you were until the burden is lifted.
That’s why dads go around in white New Balance sneakers. Hey, we know it’s ugly. We just don’t care. We’re dads: we’ve earned that right. And you’ll earn it, too, when you become a mom. Trust me, it’s a beautiful thing.
Think about it, folks. About ten thousand generations of humans came before us. Do you really think that you’ve discovered the secret of true bliss: being selfish and lonely? Do you really think that all those millions upon millions upon millions of men and woman who shacked up and sired offspring were just wasting time until God invented Netflix and cocktails-in-a-can?
This isn’t a very artful segue, but I wrote my book The Reactionary Mind to expose this conspiracy to make us all selfish and lonely and miserable—a conspiracy known as The Modern World. I hope it will help people. I hope it will help them to help themselves.