A woman strangled her three young children to death with an exercise band.
She claims that a voice spoke to her, and vies for an insanity plea. Legal debate ensues, what really defines “insane” in her case? There exists nuance, and where nuance exists, legalists pounce. Lawyer aspie heaven. It’s their job, after all, to examine the minutiae of such a case. Naturally, local news wants it. A mother mass-murderer? Story of a lifetime. It presses on past the natural, into the public conscience. Suddenly, it falls apart. Why?
It never should have been presented at scale. It’s a tragic story that affects the community, local families, close relatives. It has nothing to do with the nation, especially not the world.
It kicks down the door of the public conscience. Suddenly, everyone has an opinion. The bottom quintile has a firm grasp. Mutation as it lies in the mud.
“This woman, Lindsay Clancy, couldn’t possibly be responsible. Not only was she insane, but she was insane because of the cocktail of drugs the system put her on”.
Again, like some disgusting digital bloodborne pathogen, it spreads from lip to lip. Another mutation.
“This woman, Lindsay Clancy, couldn’t possibly be responsible. Not only was she insane because of the cocktail of drugs she was on, but her husband bears responsibility. ‘Through sickness and health’! How could he have not stopped it, or at least known”?
The gossip spreads, there exists no city wall to contain it.
“This woman, Lindsay Clancy, couldn’t possibly be responsible. Not only did her husband keep her retarded with a cocktail of drugs, he also slaughtered his own children”!
This incessant need to explain it all away, where does it come from? She lies bare before the court, and a tribe of women spread across the globe, seek to grind the process to a halt. It’s not a passive interest, but one that takes hold of their entire being, a sort of obsession. They feel every lash that might strike this woman’s back.
It’s a party. Or at least, if you consider doing drugs and being sexually depraved a party, it is. A young woman makes the decision to explore what she might be interested in, sexually. Half drunk, she turns up to the fratter, determined to sleep with a man she’s interested in. He pitches a different kind of expedition, perhaps a friend of his could join. She agrees. The young men are incredibly intoxicated on both alcohol and horse-tranq, they invite her to partake. She decides to snort horse tranquilizer off of one of the young man’s erect penis. The “party” continues, another two men. She agrees.
This woman exists as the product of a sexually liberated world. Why should she deny herself that which the body craves, at least in that moment? Young men sit around, bored with the whore, intoxicated themselves. Some passing out, barely keeping their hedonistic desires higher than the desire to sleep. Horse Tranquilizer has that tendency, even when you snort it off a whore’s body. They let their brothers know, lest they be selfish. “Free pussy”, they tell the group text.
That is, they’ve found a woman who doesn’t even take a night out at Chili’s to fuck.
It’s degeneracy, the kind that’s embarrassing. Like drinking a guy’s piss, a woman might do it, but if her friends found out, there’d be hell to pay socially. Turns out, when you get railed by multiple men in a night, some might kiss and tell. It gets around. Embarrassed by your own intoxicated hedonism, you distance yourself from it.
“Yeah I did it, but it wasn’t all that bad. Sexual depravity isn’t illegal, right? Only a matter of time before people are more open to this kind of thing”.
Confusion, henpicking. A disgusted roommate prods her, ‘you really did that’?
“Yeah I did it, but I mean, I was just going along with it, I probably wouldn’t do it again”.
Ostracism, shame. ‘I mean, that kinda sounds rape-y, right?’
“Yeah, honestly, I don’t even remember it. In fact, they kind of were shoving drugs and dicks in my face all night. Plus, they dis-invited me from their halloween party thanks to the rumors…”
Rape kit, police report.
Criminal investigation falls through, weird intoxicated sex shit isn’t a crime in New York.
Civil suit.
Again, it breaches containment. Mass outrage. The date-rape stories that have been floating around for a half-century vindicated yet again, at least to the feminine public eye. They don’t have a tendency to notice whenever they’re eventually discredited or rescinded, the initial outrage remains the only important concept of note.
“String em up!”
They cry, their ingroup under attack as always, their natural defense response firing on all cylinders.
I know her. The internet told me about her. She exists as a concept in my conscience. She’s a member of my tribe.
It’s mind numbing, brain destroying. Like putting a polar bear in a pit and watching it walk in circles for months on end. The natural reaction to stimuli completely fried by an unnatural input. Women genuinely can’t handle it. They are built to protect their tribe, socially ostracizing outsiders. Their tribe has been inadvertently expanded. It’s too much, all at once. How, possibly, could the sensitive care for the world? The troubles, the pain, the horror of what was once a local tragedy flashes six inches away into her retinas. A complete nuke of the psyche.
Legitimately, within the next few years, this will be a hot-button political issue. Not these cases, but the reaction. The endless crashing of female hysteria to the point that not even the strongest of evidence will produce a seawall strong enough to stop it. It’s gotten to the point people are questioning the extended feminine conscience and female decision making for the first time in decades.