It is silly to discuss worldly affairs with women.
Whenever a woman argues for anything her main thrust never changes: she finds that, in a saner society, she should be considered hotter than she currently is.
Women, although less expendable than men, find themselves possessions of men, and in fact immensely enjoy being possessed by men, preferably the strongest and sexiest men. But she knows her status as a treasured possession hinges on her being hot enough for her man: if it goes up, it goes in, but it has to go up in order to go in. Sex, after all, is the ultimate arbiter of love. This obsesses women to no end. As this poet of whom I only know 1 quote once said: “man’s love is of man’s life a thing apart; ‘Tis woman’s whole existence.” And so it is.
A woman’s mind is centred around her need to be taken, each and every day anew.
If she is not yet taken, she searches for a man strong enough to take her and provokes men into taking her.
If she is taken, she wonders if she could be taken better and alternatively fears that she will be untaken.
In either case her assessment of the situation will always be the same: ‘I should be considered hotter than I currently am.’
Thus, when feminists complain of oppression and slut-shaming, all they say is: ‘I have banged hundreds of men and should not be seen as ugly for it. Consider me hot!’
When ex-feminist Laci Green talks about taking the red pill, all she is saying is: ‘Well whaddyaknow, the pool of sexy men is greater on this side of the internet. Consider me hot!’
And when Alt-Right women like Britanny Pettibone and Lauren Southern fill podcasts with talk about saving Western civilisation, all they say is: ‘the thought of a strong shitlord moistens my panties. Consider me hot!’