‘Broken People,’ Cats and Prozac

Posted on | November 7, 2014 | 100 Comments

Rebecca Jane Stokes (@Beeswrite) is a columnist for the feminist site @xojanedotcom and by “feminist site,” I mean digital estrogen.

If you want ball-busting radical man-hating, you’ll have to look elsewhere. XOJane is more about pathetic narcissism.

Glenn Reynolds’ remark about “broken people” — made in reference to the radical man-hater Kate Millett — came to mind as I was reading the XOJane biography of 29-year-old Ms. Stokes:

What I Do, Fun-wise: Cook, engage my cats in heady conversation, and perform subpar sexy dances to Hall and Oates

Cats. Of course, she’s got cats. Did I mention she’s 29? And an alumna of New School University (2014-15 tuition $41,836)? Also, you may not be surprised to learn, Ms. Stokes lives in Brooklyn.

See, this is the thing with young feminist writer types nowadays. They can’t go to Podunk State University. No, they must attend one of those private schools where annual tuition is at or near the median U.S. household income. This is the only way to become that glorious being, The Writer. And, probably because as girls dreaming of becoming The Writer, they watched a sitcom or movie about the lives of quirky bachelorettes in Brooklyn, they simply must live there after graduation.

Well, you may ask, what does The Writer write about?

Herself, of course! Do these elite colleges offer a major in Solipsism Studies nowadays? Because Ms. Stokes’s oeuvre is typical of the genre — menstruation, her sex dreams, things that make her cry.

Digital estrogen, like I said. Ms. Stokes has a series of columns called “Crushed,” from which a few samples:

The First Time Someone Liked Me
Seventh grade was when I ruined any chance I may have had of getting laid during my teens. Seventh grade was when I should have been learning to read the silent cues essential to non-platonic relationship dynamics. Instead, the diligent and concentrated effort I aimed at loathing myself distracted me, putting me officially on the late-bloomer end of the welcome-to-sexy-times-adolescents spectrum. It was the first time in my life somebody liked me — and I had no idea. . . .
We rode the bus together, lived in the same neighborhood, liked the same dorky things. I would chatter his ear off on the bus each morning and the poor guy, he listened, even as he was desperate to finish whatever homework he hadn’t managed to get done the night before. He was gawky and sweet and infuriating and he totally liked me and I didn’t get it. Which is classic, because, clearly I was likewise into him, but I didn’t know how to express that. So I didn’t. Instead I publicly declared us mortal enemies. . . .

When I Hit The 8th Grade And
Became Totally Terrified of Men
In science I sat with the smartest kid in class. The boy in front of us was loud, attractive and had teeth like a game show host. He wore Tommy cologne. He sneered a lot and stared at you until you blushed. He whispered a secret to the smart boy next to me. “Apparently,” my irascible deskmate said with a smirk, “he wants to go out with you.”
This is where I was supposed to do something, say something that would open me up to ridicule. I refused to play. Instead I stared down at my desk and said something sarcastic.
Inside I was cringing and mortified and embarrassed. Was it true? It wasn’t true. It couldn’t possibly be true. It was there looking me in the face in an unblinking way stinking of cheap cologne, it was grabbing me by the wrist and pulling me, insisting. My heart went a little faster and I licked my lips raw. I hunched under the weight of big boobs and contemplated the two ample rolls of my fish-belly white stomach with grim certainty: Sex and love are one big joke played on ugly people. I guess it’s easier to doubt something than it is to believe it and be made a fool. . . .

The Year I Fell In Love With
Two Of My Teachers, And A Girl
11th grade. Junior year. Where was I? Well, I lost some weight by reading fiction while using all the machines at the local YMCA and practicing fierce self-hatred. I ran for class president and lost. I discovered the comics of Lynda Barry and Robert Crumb. I discovered the plays of Sam Friel and Harold Pinter.
I did not discover masturbation. I missed that boat. While everyone else was probably frantically flicking the kidney bean to pleasure town, I was wondering if maybe SOMEHOW I was the lost Princess Anastasia. Time travel, maybe?
This is also the year I fell in love with two different teachers and a girl. . . .

College, And How I Learned There Are
Different Ways Of Being Loved
As an 18-year-old in college I fell in love roughly eight hundred times. When I joined a sorority (this is a long and hilarious story that I will save for another day) my nerdy sexless crushes were so well-known that my nickname was “Crush.” . . .
I will forever doubt that I am loved, that I deserve to be. I try to believe it but it doesn’t always fit me well. It’s like your skin when you get out of the shower and wait too long to put on lotion: It gets tight and strange. It itches. . . .

When I Was Nineteen And Deluded Myself
Into A Relationship That Didn’t Exist
. . . Every girl is crazy at least once. I was crazy when I was a junior. The guy was Adam. . . .
How do you explain to a 20 year-old boy that your delusions have almost nothing to do with him? There’s no explanation other than the ones the men in curled baseball hats sipping drinks utter like a sacred universally understood bro oath: “That girl is fucking crazy.”
And maybe she is a little. . . .

To say the very least. Where do they come from, these painfully sensitive writer girls with interior dialogues full of shame and fear?

“Feminine instinct without its proper object or purpose,” my gut tells me, speaking like an old-fashioned psychologist, or perhaps an anthropologist of the evolutionary “brain science” type. In an earlier age — say, 1800 or 1700 — the young Ms. Stokes would have lived on a farm, and at 15 or 16 would have married the 18- or 19-year-old son of a neighboring farmer and, by the time the actual 21st-century Ms. Stokes was getting weird high school crushes, she would have been heavily pregnant with her first child. And then they all would have died of smallpox or a potato famine or some such misery.

Once Upon a Time, you see, people had things to worry about that were more serious than their feelings. If my ancestors had any interior dialogues, these have been lost to posterity because (a) there were no blogs back then, and (b) most of my ancestors prior to the 20th century were illiterate, or nearly so. In the National Archives is a document pertaining to my great-grandfather, Winston Wood Bolt, a young farm boy who fought as a private in the 13th Alabama Infantry Regiment. The document is a receipt for an amount paid to Private Bolt, signed by his regiment’s colonel, Birkett Davenport Fry.

Private Bolt’s signature? “X.”

My illiterate great-grandfather had more serious things to worry about than his feelings. Not long after he signed his X to that receipt, Private Bolt was captured at Gettysburg, when the Iron Brigade outflanked Archer’s Brigade east of Willoughby’s Run, and Private Bolt spent the next two years imprisoned at Fort Delaware, where the prisoners caught, cooked and ate rats to augment their rations.

Hard times make hard people, and sensitivity is a luxury not afforded to those whose lives are a matter of toil and hardship.

Psychological toughness — a determination not easily daunted by difficult circumstances — is what young people really need, but how shall they acquire this if we are afraid to wound their self-esteem?

Our ancestors were all survivors. We forget this, or rather we never learn it and, with no knowledge of the struggles of our forebears, we suffer from not having their example to inspire us. But enough of that digression. Let us return to Ms. Stokes’s oeuvre at XOJane, and another of her series, “Dispatches from the Prozac Rabbit Hole”:

In Which I Stare At My
Naked Body For A Long Time
. . . I think of something my therapist said to me last week. We were talking about how feelings aren’t law. About how they cannot be flipped from an ‘on’ to an ‘off’ position. I jokingly said, “I’m going one day at a time — one hour a time.”
She didn’t think it was funny. She thought it was a good plan. “Less than an hour. Get up and leave here and go to get coffee and see if you can do that. Then, if you can, see if you can turn on your computer. Then the next thing, and then the next thing. Piece by piece.” . . .
I have spent so much time hating my body for being a thing no one could desire — be it to look at, or to touch. How could anyone desire me when I refuse to even run a glancing hand down my own body myself? . . .

My Failed Relationship Is Proof
I’m More Broken Than I Realized
. . . For the first time in my life, I couldn’t sit down and write. I managed a few assignments early in the day, but then the guy I’ve been dating let me know that he wanted to take a break . . . and my usually facile flow on the keyboard became just as jammed up as everything else in my life. . . .
How do people, normal people, meet someone, make a connection with them, and not melt away into their own self-loathing when that connection is tested or severed? I feel like I don’t know how. I feel like an idiot.
It’s harder to cry now that I am on antidepressants. . . .

On Learning To Live With My Sadness
. . . My throat swells and throbs. I remember the train ride home last night and how I squeezed my face so tightly to stop the tears but they came anyway.
“I am falling to pieces,” I said inside as I cried. “I am breaking into a million pieces and no one on this train will even look me in the eye.” . . .

It’s Not About Me, Even a Little
When I visited New York somewhere around the age of ten or twelve, I could not fathom the sheer volume of stories I saw spilling out around me everywhere. It’s funny how it’s only now, exhausted by my own self-examination and with the bolstering of serotonin that my pills provide, that I can see this again. . . .
Right now I’m sitting on the F train. It’s around noon. It’s Thursday. I work from home and once a week I journey into Manhattan to see my analyst. . . .

Well, of course, she’s got an analyst in Manhattan. Every writer in Brooklyn must have an analyst in Manhattan. And also, cats.

There are times I feel rather moody myself, although offering to sell the Hope Diamond for $25 kind of cheered me up a bit. The DSCC pulling out of Louisiana also gave me a nice little emotional boost. Being happy is really just an ability to accept survival as success.

The “broken people” are out there everywhere, inviting us to their pity parties. But I think about my ancestors, and I also think about Muhammad Ali, the best boxer in history. Of all his many great moments, his greatest was a fight he lost. In 1973, Ali fought Ken Norton, a Marine Corps veteran who broke Ali’s jaw — yet Ali did not quit. He went the full 12 rounds and lost a split decision to Norton, but the fact that he finished the fight with a broken jaw is a testament to Ali’s toughness. Howard Cosell once observed that, for all the praise Ali got for his speed and strength, few recognized what was perhaps Ali’s greatest trait as a boxer: His ability to take a punch.

Being able to take a punch, shake off the pain and keep punching back — that’s mental toughness. That’s what makes a champion.

UPDATE: Welcome, Instapundit readers! Art the comments:

Her tour at the New School was for post-baccalaureate schooling. Her first tour at higher education was at Sewanee. There, as at the New School, the degree she received was impractical (in theatre). It would appear from the dates on her degrees that she’s 31, not 29.

Thanks for the additional research, Art.

Category: Feminism

Comments

100 Responses to “‘Broken People,’ Cats and Prozac”

Lee Johnson
November 7th, 2014 @ 5:18 pm

History’s greatest boxer doesn’t lose to Leon Spinks.
Evi L. Bloggerlady
November 7th, 2014 @ 5:38 pm

Everyone gets old, even the great ones.

Heck, even Dick Clark got old and died eventually (but someone apparently found and destroyed that painting of his up in the attic).
Finrod Felagund
November 7th, 2014 @ 5:47 pm

Everyone is broken in different ways. What separates life’s winners from the losers is that the winners find a way to cope and move on. The losers whine about their broken life.
‘Broken People,’ Cats and Prozac | That Mr. G Guy's Blog
November 7th, 2014 @ 6:07 pm

[…] ‘Broken People,’ Cats and Prozac. […]
Delaney Coffer
November 7th, 2014 @ 6:38 pm

Watch those old fights. Ali had a super chin. I don’t know how the hell he stayed up in some of those fights. He got the shit beat out of him and just hung in there and got a second wind.
Dianna Deeley
November 7th, 2014 @ 6:41 pm

What I want to know is, who’s supporting her, and paying her therapist’s bills? Has she monetized her blog?

BTW, it is OK to have a couple cats and a couple dogs, right?
RS
November 7th, 2014 @ 6:42 pm

While there’s certainly nothing wrong with “happiness,” it is only in our modern age where the attaining of it has become the focus of one’s existence. The problem is, happiness is an extraordinarily transitory state. It does not, indeed cannot exist, 24/7. It’s pursuit morphs into the belief that the vicissitudes of life should not exist; that they are unfair or someone else’s fault. It is the entire basis of Progressive/Leftist thought, and is not “the pursuit of happiness” contemplated in the Declaration of Independence.

Better is the search for contentment, a state of being which acknowledges both the good and the bad things in life and embraces them as evidence of being truly human. The bad exists; we can dwell on it or we can use to help us become what we should be. As you put it, the victories are sweeter and have more meaning when we occasional have to shake off a punch or two.
neal wigal
November 7th, 2014 @ 7:13 pm

Those that think they are lest lost should maybe not hold that as weapon for those that seem to be more.

That is not the War that matters. Just noise.

You can see both, that dynamic just breeds monsters. You see, she is just lost, and if that what just her, that would be easy. You are breaking more than is being fixed.

That is damning, and is waiting. I know, it involves money, and time, and space, and knowing what to do.

Just maybe forgive, and sacrifice, and try to fix stuff. Or stay out of it. Otherwise, you will not understand anymore than what you have.

That is just more sad, not as funny as you would remember.
Dana
November 7th, 2014 @ 7:30 pm

She’s the antithesis of Elliot Rodger. She (apparently) managed to get laid, she had a boyfriend, at least for a while, and we don’t need to worry: she’s too beaten down by her own depression to do anything radical like actually act on anything.
M. Thompson
November 7th, 2014 @ 7:45 pm

As my ginger ex used to say, “Cry me a river, build a bridge, and get over it.”
M. Thompson
November 7th, 2014 @ 7:46 pm

It is if you have space.

A small apartment with a menagerie isn’t good.
Fail Burton
November 7th, 2014 @ 8:05 pm

I’m not exactly sure why you wrote this. My issue with “broken people” isn’t that they’re broken but when they make me the focus of their insane obsessions, which is what radical feminists do. They hate me for waking up in the morning and I laugh at how insane they are.

Otherwise I have compassion for people who have issues getting through life. Could Stokes be tougher? Could she benefit from living on a cattle ranch for a year? Sure, but she doesn’t seem like a hater.

I’m not exactly sure what her crime is. Usually your satires are right on, but I think you kinda missed the mark here and came off a little mean.

For some reason xojane won’t load in either browser so maybe I missed something, but from a distance, she seems like a really nice person who’d liked to be loved. What’s wrong with that?
TheOtherAndrewB
November 7th, 2014 @ 8:43 pm

Autobiographies were, until recently, about people overcoming difficulty to achieve memorable things. Read Winston Churchill, Theodore Roosevelt, Helen Keller, Augustine of Hippo or Ben Franklin. Now it seems that autobiography consists of “I didn’t get asked to the Junior Prom, I had some acne, my parents didn’t get me a good therapist, and so I am perpetually paralyzed and utterly unable to do anything useful.” God help us all.
unnltnd
November 7th, 2014 @ 9:15 pm

Dear God man, come out! Come out from that dismal dungeon of the study of feminist studies. The door is open, turn the frickin’ knob already. You sir, are obsessed. Obsessed I say! I’m amazed, astounded, astonished you haven’t yet lost your mind…or have you? Can your wife stand you anymore? Your children? I can’t. Puh-lease move on. I stopped following this revolting thread weeks ago. Can I get a witness? I beg you to apply your formidable talent to another subject, any other subject (except Brett Kimberlin). These are sincere remarks. Get well.
NikFromNYC
November 7th, 2014 @ 9:15 pm

Stokes is butch, complaining about boys. A sweet version of herself would make a suitable curvy girlfriend to a nice dorky guy looking for stability.
robertstacymccain
November 7th, 2014 @ 10:01 pm

Are you paying attention? I’m putting together a book on this subject, OK? This is why I keep blogging about it, because otherwise I’d get no daily traffic-value from the work I’m doing.

Furthermore, a big part of the problem — how the culture reached this level of decadence — is that conservatives have been content to be passive in their engagement, sitting around waiting for the next Drudge headline to tell them what’s important. Unmonitored, then, this kind of stuff is just “out there” and the Feminist-Industrial Complex never comes under sustained criticism. They’re not forced to defend the crap they spew, they’re not exposed and analyzed and subjected to the kind of debunking that they (feminists, and the cultural Left generally) do to Western civilization daily.

Third, and finally, however, SOME PEOPLE ARE LOVING THIS, OK? They’re hitting the tip jar like a coke-monkey in a psych lab experiment. If you don’t dig it, that’s fine. But the paying customers appreciate my work, so I keep working.

No hard feelings, but that’s just how it is.
robertstacymccain
November 7th, 2014 @ 10:04 pm

We have a dog and two cats. We used to have more cats, as well as a bunny and some chickens. My wife loves taking care of animals, which probably explains why she’s got me and six kids.
Daniel O'Brien
November 7th, 2014 @ 10:09 pm

She is actually a pretty good writer. Not my genre, but she expresses herself well.
Messenger
November 7th, 2014 @ 11:26 pm

I graduated from The New School. No idea how I got in either. I bombed my SAT, and had mediocre grades in high school, but I was a good musician, and an autodidact and whizzed my interview so they let me in. Yes, it’s very progressive, especially the graduate program for public policy, but there are a ton of totally unbiased, and interesting courses. Grant it, if you want the post modernist drivel, that’s there too. I actually enjoyed going to school with a lot of SJW types if only to antagonize them during class discussions.
Dianna Deeley
November 8th, 2014 @ 12:07 am

House, in suburbia.
Dianna Deeley
November 8th, 2014 @ 12:09 am

Somehow, that just increases my awe of your wife.
Adjoran
November 8th, 2014 @ 12:10 am

Twisted.

I’m not unsympathetic, but it’s hard when these folks insist on putting all their misery out there for public consumption. Is it some postmodernist feminist therapy?

If most of these ‘broken women’ would just concentrate on something outside themselves, do some charity work, go to church, work with kids (but NOT as an instructor of any sort), they would find life much more palatable.

But no, they all want to be Sylvia Plath or something.
M. Thompson
November 8th, 2014 @ 12:15 am

Yeah, presuming you keep good care of them. Animal abuse is a bad thing.
M. Thompson
November 8th, 2014 @ 12:16 am

You can do that anywhere, though. But then, there must be more enjoyment to do it in their citadels.
Dianna Deeley
November 8th, 2014 @ 12:25 am

I remember SFSU. Oh, yeah.
unnltnd
November 8th, 2014 @ 12:25 am

Oh jeez, I just wrote hundreds of words in reply that got smoked somehow.
Very short version: Regret the tone of my comment. I’m the choir. Your blog is awesome. You are a culture warrior, but given abortion, the culture is lost. How, without a new awakening can the culture be reclaimed? Tuesday notwithstanding, I secede. God bless you and your family. Thank you for a prompt and courteous reply.
Dianna Deeley
November 8th, 2014 @ 12:51 am

True, but reading her in a concentrated dose leads to an aching desire that she find a disinterested – or merely less personal – subject for her essays.
Messenger
November 8th, 2014 @ 12:55 am

Yeah, SJWs are to be found anywhere. Oddly enough, when I applied there I had no idea about their politics, or any of that stuff. I just wanted an interesting film, and photography program with some good lit and philosophy courses. Nevertheless, it’s really a good school with a nice cross section of students from all over. I got tight with a group of Israeli students who used to tell me stories about being in the IDF. I always supported Israel after that. They were truly some of the nicest people I have ever met.
Messenger
November 8th, 2014 @ 12:57 am

It’s fun to have those kind of class debates with very progressive students when you’re conservative, or libertarian. I enjoyed it a lot. I always loathed feminists though. Very smug, and I would go out of my way to offend them.
Steve Skubinna
November 8th, 2014 @ 1:14 am

“I discovered the plays of Sam Friel and Harold Pinter.”

I call BS. David Mamet was in there, too. She retroactively scrubbed him when he “came out” as, if not a conservative, at least not a “brain dead liberal.” A guy as smart a Mamet eventually has to examine his beliefs, and if they are progressive he must, if honest, conclude that he has been lying to himself. Honesty is deadly to progressivism. I will also venture that Tom Stoppard was on the list but was purged because he is not an obvious prog.

Whether Stoppard is a prog or not, he is absolutely honest. And so cannot be in her literary canon. The incontrovertible fact that he is the finest playwright currently working in the English language is of no consequence to a good little Marxist. That is not, by the way, an opinion, but hard scientific fact and it will not be disputed. Clear?

See, here’s the thing. I am a conservative/libertarian, and the first time I read Bertold Brecht in college I saw he was full of it. I still liked his plays, but for the wrong reason to a prog. They are fun. Full stop. I read or watch a Brecht play and enjoy it. My consciousness remains unraised.

Anyway, I am sorry that Ms. Stokes has a crappy life. It is not my fault, nor my concern. She should ditch the cats and get a dog. Dogs are honest, whether their humans are or not. She might learn something about making the mosrt of life from one.
Steve Skubinna
November 8th, 2014 @ 1:16 am

Hell, Leon Spinks eventually lost to Leon Spinks. So maybe that makes HIM history’s greatest boxer.
Steve Skubinna
November 8th, 2014 @ 1:16 am

Yeah, but Clark never went twelve rounds with Spinks.
Steve Skubinna
November 8th, 2014 @ 1:18 am

You pick up the pieces and keep going. Maybe you make something of the pieces.

But regardless. You. Keep. Going.

Man up. Cowboy up. Grow a pair. Quit your bitching.
Steve Skubinna
November 8th, 2014 @ 1:19 am

Okay, it is stipulated that gingers have no soul.

However, you have her phone number?
Steve Skubinna
November 8th, 2014 @ 1:19 am

Ali never went up against Bruce Campbell.
Steve Skubinna
November 8th, 2014 @ 1:21 am

You don’t achieve happiness. You find it along the way.
Steve Skubinna
November 8th, 2014 @ 1:23 am

Yeah, tell me about it. My parents never got me a rad wagon.

Yeah, fine, I could buy a hundred red wagons today, but that isn’t the point. My parents never bought me one.

And, uh, “Rosebud.”
Steve Skubinna
November 8th, 2014 @ 1:25 am

She’s a cautionary tale. Whine about how life sucks, or suck it up. Nobody gave me a flying pink unicorn that shits Skittles and free health care either.

I never asked for one,
Steve Skubinna
November 8th, 2014 @ 1:29 am

Hell, I live less than an hour from Olympia, WA. I have a Blackwater shirt and ball cap (don’t work for them, but took training at their facilities a few times). I can cause myocardial infarctions just walking down a street wearing them.

I also graduated from UCSD in 1979. A guy like me could manage that in those days, today it would be a hate crime if I just drove past the campus.
Steve Skubinna
November 8th, 2014 @ 1:31 am

Open a door for one and watch her pointy little head explode.

She needs to go through the door, but… you’re holding it… for her…

Waaaaaapist!!!!!!!

Then you laugh and go about your way, leaving her speechless and sputtering.
M. Thompson
November 8th, 2014 @ 1:32 am

I’m pretty sure that a Roman Catholic baptism ensures the presence of a soul.
Steve Skubinna
November 8th, 2014 @ 1:32 am

Isn’t the New School where war criminal Bob Kerry is? Whoa. Must be a load of self loathing there, huh?
Steve Skubinna
November 8th, 2014 @ 1:34 am

You miss the point. They might do something, but that would involve risk.

No, much safer to whine endlessly about how your life sucks and it’s everybody else’s fault. The person displaying the most misery wins.
Steve Skubinna
November 8th, 2014 @ 1:41 am

Gingers are pretty canny, they simulate human behavior with frightful ease.
Messenger
November 8th, 2014 @ 2:45 am

Yeah, he was school Pres. They had a bunch of protests to remove him but that was after I graduated. I do remember being around there when they happened though. Was there self loathing? more like defeatism.
Messenger
November 8th, 2014 @ 2:58 am

Truth be told, it wasnt like that at all. I even had a classmate that was a Playboy lingerie model. I tried, too! I actually hooked up with a lot of girls there. Believe it or not girls that lean left, and might be feminists, just want you to be respectful, and polite, when you’re out with them, but are in no way against you getting physical with them when they want to get laid. They really do respond to chivalry. But that was about 10 years ago, and things might have changed since then, and most of the girls I knew were into art, acting, etc, and werent womens studies majors.
Fail Burton
November 8th, 2014 @ 2:58 am

I disagree. This successful mainstreaming of what is essentially hate speech, madness and the overthrow of success itself is the single most dangerous thing to face America since WW II. We call it “PC” and “Social Justice Warriors” but by connecting these dots McCain is showing us the fundamental origins of PC in America and how it has come to move gov’t policy under the rubric of “anti-oppression.” In fact intersectionalism is a racist, supremacist movement that despised the West, men, whites, marriage, and pretty much everything but themselves.

You can draw a straight line from Paulo Friere’s Critical Pedagogy to Derrick Bell’s Critical Race theory to intersectionalism. It is nothing less than a fifth column eroding law, supporting the demographic overthrow of America, maddeningly sympathetic to Islam, aside from being plain insane.

Intersectionalism is replacing law, morality and concepts of right and wrong itself with skin and gender. Gender feminists led the push on Ferguson, they led the push to eliminate due process for men and sexual encounters on campuses, they have caused companies and even the NFL to create a parallel system of harsh laws from which women are exempt.

When you have what is essentially Stormfront institutionalized in America that is stunning, and they are using the same Gods Devils demonizing theories put forward as fake social science Nazis used in the ’30s. It is an ideology of hate and it needs to be marginalized into the same swamp as the KKK and neo-Nazis. In short – it’s news.
Fail Burton
November 8th, 2014 @ 3:03 am

I understand that and I agree she is a cautionary tale, probably not all that different from E. M. Forester’s brilliant 1909 warning short story “The Machine Stops.” Urban centers and modern life may be driving us mad. We are too cut off from wind and rain, too cut off from reality and prone to being spoiled and entitlements. The degree of miseducation I routinely see on the net is surprising. Liberals, who act as if fair play is their No. 1 agenda, don’t seem to really know what fair play is.
Bob Belvedere
November 8th, 2014 @ 3:17 am

That’s why I refer to her as: Saint Mrs. Other McCain.
Bob Belvedere
November 8th, 2014 @ 3:20 am

‘Special Snowflake’ is now a sub-category of ‘Autobiography’ in most libraries.