The Weirding Way : Female Envy and Online Dynamics

Women ARE the weirdo predators 

they accuse men of being.

The Real Rich Red Witch discusses complex social dynamics and interpersonal behaviours observed among women. 

This commentary explores the nature of jealousy, patterns of intrusive online monitoring, and the importance of personal autonomy and self-protection for those navigating public spaces and digital communities.

Chapter 1: The nature of female envy

One of my mutuals on Tik Tok was explaining envy and jealousy, the differences between men and women, and why men don’t understand jealousy amongst women.

Because when a when a woman —when women are jealous and envious of each other, they want to invade us. 

Women want to become you. 

They want to consume you. 

It’s a — Women have like 

a lot of weirdo creepy 

predatory ways, right? 

And Jackie Ayena was talking 

about this last night, how she 

could post comments and 

she can tell when they 

made it to the group chat.

Like Women, they stalk me, 

they stalk my daughter. 

It’s — Women are weirdos.

And it’s not just an online thing. 

It’s just weirdo women. 

Women just have weird ways. 

And when they don’t ascend

or you know —

Women’s baseline is insecurity, right, and when they don’t get out of that they just women are very it’s it’s it’s a creepy I can’t even really explain it how odd it is. I remember um when I had to confront this I’m not even going to say what she did. It was strange like and I was like what made you why would you do that? And she cried like boogers and snot tantrum crying because she did some weirdo [ __ ] that was not okay and I called out on it. So

So a lot of things that women complain of in men it’s in women. This is why I don’t immediately side with women because women have done the weirdest, oddest, predatory, creepy ass. When a woman is obsessed with you, when she wants something you have, when she want to be in your place, it’s strange. They they stop at nothing.

Chapter 2: Self-protection and caution

They obsess. They pick apart.

And this is how I I learned how to become very sharp, very witty, because I had to protect myself, right? I don’t depend on men protecting me because what I what I really need protection from men cannot protect me from because they don’t understand it.

Men don’t operate amongst each other the way women do.

And so it’s it’s difficult like men are very dismissive of what goes on amongst women, right? So it’s a lot going on. So you have to learn how to guard yourself, how to protect yourself and you have to always be on. See, people pretty much know better with men, right? So, men could get a little loose and then people will rein themselves back in for the most part. When a woman allows too much, people don’t know when to stop. And this is how women end up in situations where they don’t know how to get out of because they allowed it. You can’t even allow the way women watch, stalk, obsess over. It’s It’s so weird. And why is it weird? because I’ve never been like that. I don’t understand that. I don’t understand being obsessed with another woman. And many women are like this. Of course, women are going to get in the comments and claim they’re not, but many women are like this. The way

Chapter 3: Online obsession and behavior

women study women online, the way women act towards Jackie, I J are prime examples.

They’re not even they’re they’re doing makeup. They’re not even talking about anything.

They’re not on the same um they’re not teaching the same things as I teach. I could understand why women would hate me because a lot of things they didn’t learn, their mothers didn’t teach them, right? They ended up in situations because they didn’t know better. Those women are putting on makeup on the internet and women are hating and obsessing over them. I saw a video of some young lady with a picture of Aaliyah Jay in the back talking about how people are talking about her. Like the thing she was pointing out about Aaliyah J was literally not there. It was women are [ __ ] liars. It’s it’s so obscene how women operate. Again, this is why I don’t just automatically asside with women because I know how women are, right? Men won’t really speak on it because they don’t really take women seriously. You’re a [ __ ] joke to men. You’re not a threat to men, but amongst women, you are. And you have to be very, very careful.

Right? So once the committee in a woman’s mind has made a decision, there’s no convincing her of other. It don’t even have to be true. It doesn’t even have to make sense. This is why women seem crazy a lot of the times because they they women are like scatterbrain a lot of times. A lot of women are not taught how to think. A lot of things is mental with women and it’s not honed in. Women are not valued enough. Like your life is to procreate and to be what men need. So nobody cares about how you think. Nobody cares if your life is in order because a man is going to come in and put it in order anyway. Right. So a lot of things that is required of humans to st to stabilize their mind. Women are not taught. So

Chapter 4: The reality of being targeted

they just I mean I watch this daily with women. Women have a lot of weirder ways.

And it’s because nobody’s like the the the woman that did what she did to me, right? It was nothing personally to me. It was something she did. I don’t even cuz again a lot of these these chicks watch me. It’s one woman. I don’t know her. I just know of her based because of proximity, right? I don’t I know this person’s name. I don’t know what she looks like.

I I went through my followers once and I saw that she’s following me from two different pages. This [ __ ] probably watches me walk down the street. It’s so Women are [ __ ] weirdos. They’re like the men who live in their mom’s basement and sit on the internet all day just rubbing them out back to back to back.

That’s how women act, especially when it comes to beautiful, attractive, sexy women. Women with the spotlight because women live for attention. It’s so odd.

And so, there are things that I pay attention to. I notice and I don’t let slide. But with men, they’ll be like, “Oh, it ain’t that be serious.” I remember a man told me, “Oh, this happens to all women or that happens to her, too.” And I’m looking at the chick and I’m like, “Nothing that happens to me is happening to this big fat mom. Nobody. nothing is happening to her. But this is how men are because men don’t take women seriously. They don’t take your life seriously.

Chapter 5: Autonomy and staying guarded

I don’t trust men with my life, with my financial stability. Nothing.

Nothing I do with a man is going to be is is going anywhere any [ __ ] way.

So, there’s no reason for me to get that comfortable to trust a man with my life and my financial stability and my overall well-being. I have to protect myself especially because of how I look and when I’m in I’m in proximity to people who attractive women, beautiful women should be in certain environments. We spoke about that before. My mutuals on TikTok spoke about this before, right? But things are what they are. And I could tell when a man has never really dealt with a really pretty woman or beautiful woman. I can tell by their dismissiveness.

See, my ex-boyfriend, he was on it. He He knew he would speak on things. He wouldn’t address women, but he would know what I’m talking because he was a he was somebody that was very ostentatious.

He was a Leo, so that’s all that need to be said. So, he knew like he seen [ __ ] He knew [ __ ] I can tell when a man has never dealt with somebody like me before, right? And then I look at the women I dealt with and I that’s what it is. So they don’t understand everything I everything is exaggerated when it comes to me when it comes to men because they’re not used to that. They’re used to just the average regular woman they marry and sleep with and deal with, right? And so I my protection, my sanity, and all of these things are in my hand. Men don’t understand that, nor do they care to.

And yes, it happens amongst women, but it’s a it’s on a larger scale with very attractive women, beautiful women, pretty women, because women, again, women are weirdos. It’s it’s a odd thing. It’s sick.

The way women stalk, pick apart, the [ __ ] that women do to me online, the what they do to other women, women are weirdos.

I don’t trust none of that [ __ ] all that sis [ __ ] when they live in my comments agreeing with everything I say.

Them be the first [ __ ] that’s that lose it when I say something they don’t like. They was just gre yo when I got doxed on Facebook the day before I was praising these [ __ ] right? And so my life is in my hands. Now a lot of women ain’t going to understand this, right? Because a lot of women just don’t have the experience. You don’t have You’re not a threat and it’s what it is.

So the women that I’m talking to know what I’m talking about. It’s going to resonate deeply. Protect yourselves.

Howard Phillips Lovecraft and Sex: or The Sex Life of a Gentleman By R. Alain Everts

Howard Phillips Lovecraft and Sex: or The Sex Life of a Gentleman

By R. Alain Everts During the course of my friendship with Sonia Lovecraft, the topic of her sexual relationship with Howard Phillips Lovecraft came up not once—due more to the young age at that time of this author, than to the lack of his scholarship. Fortunately for me, however, several times Mrs. Lovecraft brought up the subject herself and this scholar duly recorded and filed away the pertinent data. In several unpublished recollections of HPL, Sonia mentioned in passing that aspect of their relationship—of course, as was HPL, she was also a Victorian prude when it came to sex and sexual relations; however Sonia lived into an age of greater liberties regarding sexual matters and the revelation of them in publick. And, she also had given birth to two children prior to her 20th birthday, children by her first husband, only one of which survived. This experience, although somewhat traumatic and repressing to her at the time, was certainly much more than Howard had ever had, for he was a virgin at their marriage in 1924. His bride was hardly blushing, and although both were not enthusiastic in any sexual sense of the word, both were able to sustain satisfying sexual relations. Sonia told me that prior to their wedding, HPL purchased and read thoroughly all subject matter he could obtain regarding the marriage, sex and the duties of a husband in the connubial bed. He was perforce a conscientious lover. Possibly HPL obtained material and information from several of his friends—even possibly he might have obtained material from James Morton, who was quite well-known for his outspoken and liberal attitudes towards sex and who put such attitudes to good practise. His knowledge on sexual matters, especially sophisticated matters, was very broad—this researcher recalls reading some of Morton’s exquisite erotic poetry which was rather explicit, and also some handouts dittoed off around the early 1900s for a free love group that Morton dabbled in at one time. This information was also quite sophisticated, detailing the male and female sex anatomy and discussing the divers aspects of bringing pleasure to a woman during sexual intercourse—information that I am positive most of us today regard as common knowledge—or perhaps I am only hoping so. Lovecraft however was himself loathe to discuss with anyone any aspect of sex and especially his own sex life. Sonia recalled that “when the boys and HPL used to meet in his (Sam Loveman’s) studio room on Clinton Street, when I was not there—whether they did it on purpose or to tease him, they would open a conversation re sex, knowing that HPL did not like to listen to such stories, Sam Loveman asked HPL whether he didn’t feel ashamed or disgusted to think that his parents had to cohabit in order to have his mother conceive a child. HP made no reply but HP must have been much embarrassed. . . . Although HP was not a fighting man, and because Sam was his guest, he did not punch him. . . . Yet HPL took pride in telling me that he was born on the mattress on which we both slept. This, I believe, he told no one but me.” Sonia also reaffirmed a statement that I have heard from various sources—that when HPL was growing to young manhood, “his mother’s admonitions to him were ‘devastating.’” This possibly pertains to HPL’s looks—his mother did tell him that he was “grotesque” and that he should not go out at daytime for fear of scaring the neighbours. No doubt some sexual admonitions arose also, for the entire family, according to what Sonia recalls Annie Gamwell telling her, knew of Winfield Lovecraft’s paresis, and the adventures with prostitutes and women on his lengthy travels that gave him his affliction. In fact, Annie told Sonia prior to her marrying HPL that they could not have children—in fact this was a warning that Annie was giving to Sonia, and to me her choice of words was interesting—could not instead of should not. In another unpublished memoir, Sonia stated that—“Of course, I did not expect him to be an ample provider but I did harbour some secret expectations that he might, after all, prove to be normal as a husband and lover. I felt however, that his inhibitions were provoked more or less by his severe Puritanical bringing up.” This inhibition was clarified when I spoke with Sonia and tape-recorded our conversation—HPL never once made any sexual overtures to his wife—she, Sonia, always had to make the overtures for their sexual relations, however, as she stated to me, HPL had read up on his husbandly duty, and he was more than adequate in his performance. “He was reared more like a girl evidently instead of being reared like a man; yet he was far from unsexed as someone has stated. But it was this sort of up-bringing, I believe, that made him squeamish and prudish about perfectly natural functions. The very mention of the word sex seemed to upset him. He did, however, make the statement once that if a man cannot be or is not married at the greatest height of his sex-desire, which in his case, he said was at age 19, he became somewhat unappreciative of it after he passed thirty. I was somewhat shocked but held my peace.” Most likely, at the age he married, Lovecraft was truly not any longer motivated to any length by sexual drives or urges—I believe that he was at that age, and probably all his life, one of those rare persons who do not have much sex drive or much sexual interest. This does not mean that he was not able to perform, nor that he did not want to. As I recall her telling me, HPL was perfectly adequate sexually and more so, for she stated that HPL knew how to please a woman sexually. When I reported this statement to another friend of HPL, he stated that most likely since HPL had no previous sexual experiences, his orgasms were so long in occurring that his wife was able to achieve orgasm before he did. After much thought, and more practical testing, I frankly dispute some of this, for Sonia made it quite clear to me that HPL knew how to please a woman—she did not say that he pleased her, which obviously he did—but significantly that he knew how to please her. Quite likely this remark about HPL having a prolonged orgasm might be true, but even more likely is that HPL read or heard of some small sophisticated sex techniques. Sonia, although at the height of her sexual desires at this time in her life, was most certainly not a demanding wife sexually, as I have determined from hearing her relations with her two other husbands, so I would be inclined to grant HPL some minimal expertise under the circumstances—I would even be inclined to think that a thoughtful, gentle and slow lover would qualify as sophisticated for those days, and this HPL was. Clearly, Sonia indicated to me that their relationship was not unsatisfactory or non-existent sexually, and that HPL did more than to achieve a hasty and painful intromission without any foreplay, arriving at an immediate orgasm. We shall never know to what degree of sophistication HPL made use of during his sexual relations, but can only acknowledge that he was more than adequate and more than average (even for today I am inclined to think) in this facet of his private life. He was most certainly not, as Sonia assured me, disgusted with sex, or sexual relations, in the bedroom where a gentleman would insist they belong, nor was he disgusted in the least with the prospect or thought of those relations.

Clearly Verity Loved Her Father as Much as We Love Anybody

Michael Burnham, 

Sister of Spock :

How long has it been 

since you spoke to him? 

Sarek of Vulcan :

— Years.

Michael Burnham, 

Sister of Spock :

Me, too.

…..When I first came to you, I —

I know that you considered 

every possible effect 

a Vulcan education, 

a Vulcan life, might 

have on a human child.

…..What did you want 

Spock to learn from me? 

Sarek of Vulcan :

— Empathy.

Something he would need to understand 

to successfully interact with humans.

Michael Burnham, 

Sister of Spock :

Wouldn't he have learned 

this from Our Mother? 

Sarek of Vulcan :

……Spock has great 

reverence for his mother —

But reverence tends to —

Michael Burnham, 

Sister of Spock :

— Fill up the room.

Sarek of Vulcan :

Indeed.

Michael Burnham, 

Sister of Spock :

So from A Peer, 

A Sibling, you thought —

Sarek of Vulcan :

— Yes.

But I do not think 

I was successful.

I do not think he ever 

fully accepted you.

Michael Burnham, 

Sister of Spock :

He may have.

For a time.

Sarek of Vulcan :

Just a time? 

I'm discouraged 

he did not embrace The Lesson.

Michael Burnham, 

Sister of Spock :

Father, I am confident 

that Empathy is very 

real for Spock.

Sarek of Vulcan :

I can hear the 

missing notes, Michael.

There is something 

about your relationship 

you're not sharing.

It weighs on you.

Despite my departure, 

I will avail myself to you, 

should you choose to 

speak of it someday.

Michael Burnham, 

Sister of Spock :

— Thank you.

Sarek of Vulcan :

In the meantime, 

I suggest you focus on 

The Problem in front of You, 

rather than What is Behind.

STARLING HAD no sense of time. 

Over the days and nights there were the conversations. She heard herself speaking for minutes on end, and she listened. Sometimes she laughed at herself, hearing artless revelations that normally would have mortified her. 

The things she told Dr Lecter were often surprising to her, sometimes distasteful to a normal sensibility, but what she said was always true. 

And Dr Lecter spoke as well. In a low, even voice. He expressed interest and encouragement, but never surprise or censure. He told her about his childhood, about Mischa. Sometimes they looked at a single bright object together to begin their talks, almost always there was but a single light source in the room. From day to day the bright object changed. Today, they began with the single highlight on the side of a teapot, but as their talk progressed, Dr Lecter seemed to sense their arrival at an unexplored gallery in her mind. Perhaps he heard trolls fighting on the other side of a wall. He replaced the teapot with a silver belt buckle. “That’s my daddy’s,” Starling said. She clapped her hands together like a child. “Yes,” Dr Lecter said. “Clarice, would you like to talk with your father? Your father is here. Would you like to talk with him?” “My daddy’s here! Hey! All right!” Dr Lecter put his hands on the sides of Starling’s head, over her temporal lobes, which could supply her with all of her father she would ever need. He looked deep, deep into her eyes. “I know you’ll want to talk privately. I’ll go now. You can watch the buckle, and in a few minutes, you’ll hear him knock. All right?” “Yes! Super!” “Good. You’ll just have to wait a few minutes.” Tiny sting of the finest needle—Starling did not even look down—and Dr Lecter left the room. She watched the buckle until the knock came, two firm knocks, and her father came in as she remembered him, tall in the doorway, carrying his hat, his hair slicked down with water the way he came to the supper table. “Hey, Baby! What time do you eat around here?” He had not held her in the twenty-five years since his death, but when he gathered her to him, the western snaps on his shirtfront felt the very same, he smelled of strong soap and tobacco, and she sensed against her the great volume of his heart. “Hey, Baby. Hey, Baby. Did you fall down?” It was the same as when he gathered her up in the yard after she tried to ride a big goat on a dare. “You was doing pretty good ‘til she swapped ends so fast. Come on in the kitchen and let’s see what we can find.” Two things on the table in the spare kitchen of her childhood home, a cellophane package of SNO BALLS, and a bag of oranges. Starling’s father opened his Barlow knife with the blade broken off square and peeled a couple of oranges, the peelings curling on the oilcloth. They sat in ladder-back kitchen chairs and he freed the sections by quarters and alternately he ate one, and he gave one to Starling. She spit the seeds in her hand and held them in her lap. He was long in a chair, like John Brigham. Her father chewed more on one side than the other and one of his lateral incisors was capped with white metal in the fashion of forties army dentistry. It gleamed when he laughed. They ate two oranges and a SNO BALL apiece and told a few knock-knock jokes. Starling had forgotten that wonderful squirmy feeling of springy icing under the coconut. The kitchen dissolved and they were talking as grown people. “How you doin’, Baby?” It was a serious question. “They’re pretty down on me at work.” “I know about that. That’s that courthouse crowd, Sugar. Sorrier bunch never—never drew breath. You never shot nobody you didn’t have to.” “I believe that. There’s other stuff.” “You never told a lie about it.” “No, sir.” “You saved that little baby.” “He came out all right.” “I was real proud of that.” “Thank you, sir.” “Sugar, I got to take off. We’ll talk.” “You can’t stay.” 

He put his hand on her head. 

“We can’t never stay, Baby. Can’t nobody stay like they want to.” 

He kissed her forehead and walked out of the room. 

She could see the bullet hole in his hat as he waved to her, tall in the doorway. 

CHAPTER 95 

CLEARLY STARLING loved her father as much as we love anybody, and she would have fought in an instant over a slur on his memory. 

Yet, in conversation with Dr Lecter, under the influence of a major hypnotic drug and deep hypnosis, this is what she said: “I’m really mad at him, though. 

I mean, come on, how come he had to be behind a goddamned drugstore in the middle of the night going up against those two pissants that killed him. 

He short-shucked that old pump shotgun and they had him. 

They were nothing and they had him. 

He didn’t know what he was doing. 

He never learned anything.” 

She would have slapped the face of anybody else saying that. 

The monster settled back a micron in his chair. 

Ahh, at last we’ve come to it. These schoolgirl recollections were becoming tedious. 

Starling tried to swing her legs beneath the chair like a child, but her legs were too long. “See, he had that job, he went and did what they told him, went around with that damned watchman’s clock and then he was dead. 

And Mama was washing the blood out of his hat to bury it with him. 

Who came home to us? Nobody. 

Damn few SNO BALLS after that, I can tell you. 

Mama and me, cleaning up motel rooms. 

People leaving wet Trojans on the nightstand. 

He got killed and left us because he was too goddamned stupid. 

He should have told those town jackasses to stuff the job.” 

Things she would never have said, things banned from her higher brain. 

From the beginning of their acquaintance, 

Dr Lecter had needled her about her father, calling him a night watchman. 

Now he became Lecter the Protector of her father’s memory. “Clarice, he never wished for anything but your happiness and well-being.” 

“Wish in one hand and shit in the other one and see which one gets full the first,” said Starling. 

This adage of the orphans’ home should have been particularly distasteful coming from that attractive face, but Dr Lecter seemed pleased, even encouraged. 

“Clarice, I’m going to ask you to come with me to another room,” Dr Lecter said. “Your father visited you, as best you could manage. You saw that, despite your intense wish to keep him with you, he couldn’t stay. He visited you. Now it’s time for you to visit him.” 

Down a hall to a guest bedroom. The door was closed. “Wait a moment, Clarice.” He went inside. She stood in the hall with her hand on the knob and heard a match struck. 

Dr Lecter opened the door. “Clarice, you know your father is dead. You know that better than anyone.” 

“Yes.” 

“Come in and see him.” Her father’s bones were composed on a twin bed, the long bones and rib cage covered by a sheet. The remains were in low relief beneath the white cover, like a child’s snow angel. Her father’s skull, cleaned by the tiny ocean scavengers off Dr Lecter’s beach, dried and bleached, rested on the pillow. 

“Where was his star, Clarice?” 

“The village took it back. They said it cost seven dollars.” 

“This is what he is, this is all of him now. This is what time has reduced him to.” 

Starling looked at the bones. She turned and quickly left the room. It was not a retreat and Lecter did not follow her. He waited in the semidark. He was not afraid, but he heard her coming back with ears as keen as those of a staked-out goat. 

Something bright metal in her hand. A badge, John Brigham’s shield. She put it on the sheet. 

“What could a badge mean to you, Clarice? You shot a hole through one in the barn.” 

“It meant everything to him. That’s how much he knewww.” 

The last word distorted and her mouth turned down. She picked up her father’s skull and sat on the other bed, hot tears springing in her eyes and pouring down her cheeks. 

Like a toddler she caught up the tail of her pullover and held it to her cheek and sobbed, bitter tears falling with a hollow tap tap on the dome of her father’s skull resting in her lap, its capped tooth gleaming. 

“I love my Daddy, he was as good to me as he knew how to be. It was the best time I ever had.” 

And it was true, and no less true than before she let the anger out. When Dr Lecter gave her a tissue she simply gripped it in her fist and he cleaned her face himself. 

“Clarice, I’m going to leave you here with these remains. Remains, Clarice. Scream your plight into his eyeholes and no reply will come.” 

He put his hands on the sides of her head. 

“What you need of your father is here, in your head, and subject to your judgment, not his. I’ll leave you now. Do you want the candles?” 

“Yes, please.” 

“When you come out, bring only what you need.” 

He waited in the drawing room, before the fire. He passed the time playing his theremin, moving his empty hands in its electronic field to create the music, moving the hands he had placed on Clarice Starling’s head as though he now directed the music. He was aware of Starling standing behind him for some time before he finished his piece. When he turned to her, her smile was soft and sad and her hands were empty. 

Ever, Dr Lecter sought pattern. He knew that, like every sentient being, Starling formed from her early experience matrices, frameworks by which later perceptions were understood. 

Speaking to her through the asylum bars so many years ago, he had found an important one for Starling, the slaughter of lambs and horses on the ranch that was her foster home. 

She was imprinted by their plight. 

Her obsessive and successful hunt for Jame Gumb was driven by the plight of his captive. She had saved him from torture for the same reason. 

Fine. Patterned behavior. 

Ever looking for situational sets, Dr Lecter believed that Starling saw in John Brigham her father’s good qualities — and with her father’s virtues the unfortunate Brigham was also assigned the incestual taboo. Brigham, and probably Crawford, had her father’s good qualities. Where were the bad? Dr Lecter searched for the rest of this split matrix. 

Using hypnotic drugs and hypnotic techniques much modified from cameral therapy, he was finding in Clarice Starling’s personality hard and stubborn nodes, like knots in wood, and old resentments still flammable as resin. He came upon tableaux of pitiless brightness, years old but well tended and detailed, that sent limbic anger flashing through Starling’s brain like lightning in a thunderhead. 

Most of them involved Paul Krendler. Her resentment of the very real injustices she had suffered at Krendler’s hands was charged with the anger at her father that she could never, never acknowledge. She could not forgive her father for dying. He had left the family, he had stopped peeling oranges in the kitchen. He had doomed her mother to the commode brush and the pail. He had stopped holding Starling close, his great heart booming like Hannah’s heart as they rode into the night. Krendler was the icon of failure and frustration. He could be blamed. But could he be defied? Or was Krendler, and every other authority and taboo, empowered to box Starling into what was, in Dr Lecter’s view, her little low-ceiling life? To him one hopeful sign: Though she was imprinted with the badge, she could still shoot a hole through one and kill the wearer. Why? Because she had committed to action, identified the wearer as a criminal and made the judgment ahead of time, overruling the imprinted icon of the star. Potential flexibility. The cerebral cortex rules. Did that mean room for Mischa within Starling? Or was it simply another good quality of the place Starling must vacate?