When I was young, women were a source of inspiration for us. We started bands, worked out and tried dress cool, and worked 70 hours a week to have money to take them on cool dates. When they broke our hearts, we made films; wrote songs; became comedians. Women in 2026 are mentally ill shrubbery: I barely notice it the first time, and don’t care if I ever see it again. There is no light or magic in their eyes. Their voices are nails on a chalkboard. Their bodies are neglected playgrounds with busted creaky springs. They’re never looking at you. They now only look at themselves. They’ve become sad, lifeless husks of human beings; obsessed with shiny things and that next incremental fraction of attention. This is why art sucks and homosexuality is on the rise. Our muses saw themselves and became stone.