​There’s an internet meme about marriage out there that makes the point that every time somebody is murdered, the very first person the police suspect and investigate, every single time, is the spouse. And that, my friends, is all you need to know about marriage.

While internet memes are an unconventional source of wisdom, about a third of murdered women in the U.S. are killed by their husbands or boyfriends. On paper, this doesn’t make a lot of sense. Surely, somebody who loves you and committed themselves to you would be the least likely person on the planet to murder you. Surely, the number of armed robberies or drug deals gone wrong, or even random drive-bys, would outnumber the times a guy who loves a girl loses his shit and kills her.

Not so. A lot of women get murdered by their husbands and boyfriends. If you pick a guy off the street at random, during his lifetime, that guy is more likely to kill his wife than to kill a stranger.

Along those same lines, the huge majority of violence against women is committed by a domestic partner. Not a stranger. Most of the time, the guys who beat women are their lovers, family, and friends. Not random armed robbers.

Another point feminists love to shout from the rooftops is that “stranger-rape” is pretty rare. Random guys in dark alleys jumping random women and raping them doesn’t happen that often. Setting aside the lengthy debate about what does and doesn’t constitute rape and consent, the majority of women who get raped are raped by guys that they know. Friends, family, even their husbands or boyfriends. The feminist position is that men who are close to women tend to push and push and don’t respect their boundaries, then try to pass off their evil rapes as misunderstandings.

Women will complain endlessly about how men are pigs. Men objectify them. Men use them for sex. Men don’t take the time to get to know them and recognize how smart and special and unique they are and how great their personalities are and treat them appropriately based on what special people they are. How by failing to get to know them, men don’t respect them.

Frankly, that’s just plain not true. Just look at the statistics. It’s the men who know women the best that respect them the least. Women are far more likely to be murdered, beaten, or raped by a husband or boyfriend than by a stranger who hasn’t taken the time to get to know them.

The fact is, the more a guy gets to know a girl, the less he respects her. Because women aren’t respectable.

When men and woman are strangers, most men treat most women decently, because a woman who is a stranger still has the potential to be good. But as time goes on and a man gets to know a woman better, he gets sick of her shit and genuinely wants to beat the hell out of her. If she were respectable, he’d have respected her, but instead, he’s going to be the number-one suspect if this woman overdoses at a party across town and turns up missing. And society doesn’t bat an eye at that. We think to ourselves, “Of course you investigate the husband or boyfriend first! He’s the most likely one to have done it! Men are so violent and controlling.”

We’d never sully ourselves by thinking that most women are shitstorms, unworthy of respect. Hell, a few of them might actually benefit from a good beating now and then. We expect shit from women, and we expect men to deal with their shit. If a man can’t deal with a woman’s shit, it’s the man’s fault for being weak. Not the woman’s fault for being shitty.

Once a man’s met a thousand women or so, he starts to lower his expectations, and wonders if any of them are respectable. Maybe a few are, but the odds of bumping into one aren’t very likely.

So save yourself the trouble and aggravation. Don’t get to know women. Don’t delve into them. You’ll respect them more by knowing them less. They’ll be happier, you’ll be happier. Use them for sex, but have them keep those unique personalities they love so much to themselves. The deeper you delve, the more you’ll find things that aren’t respectable. And the less you’ll respect them.

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