Frankenstein’s Incel Demands a Girlfriend
“Once you have made me a Stacy,” he said. “I will be like the Chads.”
On the most remote of the Orkneys, the sun had set, the barren soil taunted the miserable livestock, and the waves beat against the desolate rocks. The monster looked up from his copy of Paradise Lost.
“You must create a female for me,” said he, “with whom I can live in the interchange of those sympathies necessary for my being.”
“That is not how any of this works,” I replied. “A female of my creation would be a being like yourself, with her own needs and desires.”
“I am malicious because I am miserable,” he continued as if he had not heard my words. “If I cannot inspire love, I will cause fear.”
“Indeed, loneliness is a sad thing,” I said. “But honestly you have it the wrong way round. If you would not be a murderous monster who believed female companionship to be his right, you might be more likely to connect to others and find love.”
“We will go to the vast wilds of South America,” he said, looking into the distance and imagining the life that awaited. “We will live on acorns and berries. My companion will be content with the same fare.”
How to make him understand? It was entirely conceivable that a female creation might not like acorns and berries at all. I know I wouldn’t, being partial to geschnetzeltes and boiled potatoes myself.
“What if I create another being,” I said, “and she does not like you?”
Again the wretch ignored my comments, unable to conceive of a scenario so inconvenient.
“Once you have made me a Stacy,” he said. “I will be like the Chads.”
The monster was talking nonsense and I wondered why someone so preposterous even existed in the first place before recalling that dreary night of November. Oops!
“If I created this female,” I said, attempting one last time, “she would indeed be like you. That is to say, she will not beholden to behave as you decide, just as you do not behave as I decide. She will be the boss of her, just as you are the boss of you.”
At this, the fiend flew into an incontrollable rage, gnashing his teeth and swearing to revenge himself against all humans. Then he noticed me watching him with my mouth agape and realized he was not helping his cause. He regained control of himself.
“Who are you to lecture me?” he said. “Did you not also treat me as less than human seconds after you created me, when you lay eyes on my deformity and ran away in horror? Does that ring a bell?”
I could not argue as that was pretty much how it went.
“And aren’t you the one,” he said, sensing his advantage, “who allowed an innocent woman to be executed for a crime she did not commit, in order to save yourself from mild professional embarrassment? Talk about treating women as expendable props!”
“You were the one who framed Justine for murder,” I pointed out, “when you found her asleep in the barn.”
“Yes, but that’s because I knew she would reject me if she woke up, so I had to make her suffer.”
“Ok,” I said, “I consent to your demand, on your solemn oath to quit Europe forever.”
Let him be South America’s problem, I thought, so long as Europe was safe.
After two years of procrastination, I grew impatient to begin work in Scotland. As I grew close to finishing, it occurred to me that the female version of the fiend might be more malignant than her mate. I reflected on how the creature hated himself. Did it not follow that he he would have an even greater abhorrence for a female version of himself? Also, what if she got pregnant?
I ripped her to pieces. The daemon appeared at the casement and saw what I had done.
“Shall each man,” cried he, “find a wife for his bosom, and each beast have his mate, and I be alone?”
“Here,” I said, handing him a book that instructed losers on how to attract women using a combination of insults and gaslighting. I also set him up with a 4chan and Gab account.
“You’ll be fine,” I assured him. “You’re not alone.”
Devorah Blachor is the author of The Feminist’s Guide to Raising a Little Princess
