(source, by Dr. Robert Oscar Lopez, PhD)_____ Hollywood actresses get millions of vain women to put on vagina-shaped hats and march in Amazonian mobs. One cannot deny that many of these women, had they not been mind-bent by feminists, would have been many times happier if they had married a man at the age of twenty-one, spent their years nesting and tending to their domestic happiness, raising children, rising in leadership in women’s groups and mothers’ associations, and skipping out on the tens of thousands of dreary hours in cubicles speed-dating disappointing male weaklings they met on Tinder.
Imagine a woman named Angela…
Angela graduated from high school in 1990. In her last semester of high school she had reckless sex with a guy named Bill who worked at the supermarket. She got an abortion so her career would not suffer. She left her small Ohio town to get a degree in business administration in the New York area.
She went on to finish a law degree somewhere on Long Island by 1998, slaved for seven years in a Manhattan law firm, and watched her beauty vanish, her maidenly disposition sour, and her student debt hover above her head like a sword of Damocles.
Lonely and drunk, unmarried and unloved, she fell victim to her own need for love, and hooked up with another lawyer who worked with her on cases until two in the morning. They had unsatisfying sex and he usually made her go back to her own third-floor walkup in Brooklyn Heights because he didn’t feel comfortable having her spend the night at his place. Both she and he were up to make partner at the same time, but he bad-mouthed her to the partners and she was asked to leave the firm, as is standard procedure for assistant attorneys who do not get promoted.
It is now 2005, and Angela is jobless, heartbroken, lonely, fat, ugly, and sinking in debt. She takes a job with an ambulance-chaser’s small firm somewhere in New Jersey and has a dozen flings with men she meets at Bennigan’s in Bergen County while she tries to pay off her student debt. One night a man takes advantage of her but she did not catch his name. The police cannot track him down and she has PTSD.
With the aftereffects of her sexual trauma, Angela starts to perform badly at work and begins to drink more heavily. Doctors prescribe Xanax to her, which makes her drowsy. She crashes her car a few times. Finally the ambulance-chaser firm loses a few too many cases. Madison, a blonde and perky twenty-six-year-old fresh out of Princeton Law School, gets hired and takes an immediate dislike to Angela, undercutting her on a number of cases until Angela is let go.
So now it’s 2013 and Angela, age 41, moves back to Ohio to take care of her aging mother. She spends her nights gobbling ice cream with chocolate sprinkles on top, playing the slot machine of online dating, and driving her mother to Bingo games. She earns a little extra money on the side by taking small cases, such as a man who sues a department store because the refrigerator he bought came with faulty instructions and it fell on his foot. She self-publishes a book on avoiding tax liabilities, joins Weight Watchers every few years, and eventually gets tired of her mother.
It’s 2018. Angela marches with a pink pussy hat on her head and hopes to shake hands with Madonna at one of the women’s marches, because this will be the highlight of her feminist life. She rallies behind Planned Parenthood because she convinces herself that back in 1990, her nightmare of a life would have been worse, had she had that baby.
2nd scenario: Imagine a woman named Angela…
Now let’s rewind, if you will. Go back to 1990, and instead imagine that Angela revealed her pregnancy to Bill, the hard-working guy who bagged groceries at the local supermarket and was in love with her.
Bill really wanted to marry Angela so he went to community college and learned about accounting. He got a job at a large accounting firm and worked sixty-hour weeks so Angela could stay at home in their Ohio town, grow a garden of roses and petunias, have three kids, and start a book club with ladies she knew from church. Once the youngest was in pre-school, Angela went part-time to an Ohio State to study English and got a certificate to teach ESL. This allowed her to take some teaching positions and earn extra money down the line, once the kids were in high school. She took Spanish classes in her spare time, learned sewing, and took a keen interest in world cuisine. For her 25th anniversary, Bill took her to Switzerland where she entered into a cooking contest and won the gold prize for her exquisite chocolate mousse.
Every day, for almost three decades, Angela got up and made a boxed lunch for Bill, brought the kids to school, took step aerobic classes or went jogging in the morning, caught up on the news, picked up her kids, stayed busy, and cooked a nice dinner for Bill, who usually came home after twelve-hour days exhausted and tired.
In 2018, at the age of forty-six, Angela likes her life. Her years were well spent. She was obedient and supportive to a man who deserved her submission and love, because he was devoted, caring, and willing to make sacrifices for her happiness. At forty-six, Angela has savings rather than debts, three lovely grown kids rather than a revolving door of Tinder dates, a jazzercise body rather than obesity, and friends rather than catty co-workers.
What was the difference between miserable Angela and happy Angela?
Feminism.The Democrats. The left.
Even more than that, though, the Swamp and its rotten priorities, its distorted calculations of what a happy life looks like. They took many women’s lives like Angela’s and immersed them in muck, where people chase after phony promises of advancement and determine fulfillment by what professions, institutions, and metropolitan media companies define as success.
The second Angela is probably Republican today
Think of the second-scenario Angela, the one who had the baby in 1990 and married the baby’s father. She is probably Republican today. I imagine her going to the March for Life in Washington, DC, feeling all the more convicted of the pro-life cause because she talks to the girl to whom she gave birth on December 17, 1990. That baby is now 27 and calls Angela several times a week. Angela sleeps beside Bill, her husband, and looks at the framed photographs of all three of the kids. She knows that if she had decided to get that abortion, none of these people would exist, she would be impoverished (though maybe Angela does not know how sad the alternative scenario would be), and God would have been displeased. She knows that Bill would not have been happier with one of the other girls in town, who would not have cared for him as much as she did.
If the First Angela regrets
If Angela#1 posts on Facebook one day, “I wish I’d never had that abortion. I wish I’d never gone to law school. I think if men are happy putting up with the horrors of full working days, I would have been happy letting a man do all that while I stayed safe and made him sandwiches and obeyed his wishes in a house with the kids,” a swarm of other women will attack her. Successful career women who avoided her pitfalls will claim that she was merely a bad lawyer.
The Democrats will also make sure that trans activists, lesbians, black women, and any number of other constituencies will pick apart anything pro-choice Angela says about her doubts that the party line is truly wise. “How dare you complain when women with penises, women who don’t have sex with men, and poor women have so much more to feel hurt about than you and your somewhat boring life? How pathetic!” They will make her fear grave consequences for voicing any such doubts. If she sticks her neck out, she will be ostracized and lose the minimal social support she needs to endure her lonely, unsatisfying life.