Abortion Is Not the Worst Outcome

Il n’en reste pas moins que nous trions les femmes pour jouir au-dedans, ce qui ne nous empêchera jamais de voir à l’intérieur de leurs yeux des fleurs sèches et aplaties quand elles sont tristes, des fontaines de papillons vibrionnants quand nous leur prodiguons le bonheur qu’elles méritent. Elles sont là qui nous inventent, nous traversent, nous habitent : une fois aimées, elles restent en nous comme des œuvres, des livres relus, éternelles comme les reflets du bronze.

(The fact remains that we sort women to relish inside, which will never prevent us from seeing dry and flattened flowers inside their eyes when they are sad, fountains of vibrating butterflies when we lavish on them the happiness that they deserve. It is here that they invent us, pass through us, live in us: once loved, they remain in us like works, books reread, eternal as the reflections of bronze.)

Yann Moix, from Naissance (Birth)

The pussy may be the only reason to stand up, join a sitting, or lie down for or against abortion. It is also the greatest thing in the whole Cosmos and any other cosmoses that may exist. It is the most beautiful thing as well. Of course, there are different degrees and tastes involved with it. Nevertheless, a pussy should be loved, adored, worshipped, yet it is repeatedly misunderstood, under-appreciated, abused. Let us say it as it is! Life would be even more pointless than it already is without the existence of the pussy. It is, surely, an integral part of any woman, and thus, the woman is the greatest conceivable being, surely not God or any god. As for AI or AGI (Artificial General Intelligence), an android pertaining to resemble a woman would and should feel envy in front of her, no matter the quality of its material or class of AI or AGI being utilised to come up with this so-called original copy.

Abortion is not the worst outcome; the wounded woman is, the upset man on rare occasions, and maybe the mournful individual later in life. An embryo has the potential to become a fetus (Week 9 onwards), which in turn has the potential to become a baby (birth). Nonetheless, when it is undesirable, unwanted, unwelcome, and or unlawfully derived (e.g., rape), especially as an embryo, its potential mother or carrier is surely the only individual who can decide whether to abort or carry it to term. Further reflections follow after Week 9, except if pregnancy had forcefully ensued, in which case the abortion could proceed up to Week 22, after which it becomes a blotted birth.

Yet, all women could have aborted their pregnancies or at least adopted, as potential mothers, the principle of childlessness. Instead, they elected to become murderers. Wait! Moreover, all parents are murderers, and thus, abortion could also be seen as not wanting to become an effective murderer. Nonetheless, most abortions, if not all, do not even raise the resolve not to become a murderer as the reason for the abortion. But how can all parents be murderers? They were, are and will always be murderers given their decision to bring new life into the world and also become instruments of death. The other animals, as far as we know, bring life instinctively per natural selection, that is until we had decided to counter Nature with our less than thoughtful actions following some ill-considered ideas. Nature (the Cosmos) had billions of years at its disposal to bring about a certain balance or so-called harmony, but humans, after but several blinks of certain eyes, decided mostly egoistically, as if they could, to surpass it, Nature, with ideologies run amok and uncontainable technologies.

I am not prolife or prochoice; I am pro-childlessness and pro-abortion. I did not ask for life and yet it was given to me, not wholeheartedly. Yet, when I finally understood what it actually meant — after more than 50 years of being alive — I also realised that the only thing worth giving to any already living being is freedom, including the latent freedom not to be born. George Orwell and many others have advised that If liberty means anything at all, it means the right to tell people what they do not want to hear. My parents were murderers, as were my grandparents, my great-grandparents, and so on until an epoch when our prehistoric ancestors were closer to the other animals than to what they became later and up to the present, but hopefully not the future.

I love you, most of our parents apparently said, say and will say, but there are those who never say it, and those rare ones who murder us after we are born. My parents never said it. I felt loved, nonetheless, but feelings, especially those of a child, can be unreliable. I wish they had killed me in my crib, or even better, aborted me. My mother had thought about it; aborting me, that is; she had told me so on more than one occasion during my teenage years, but her arrogant religiosity may have saved me. It actually condemned me to live. Parents may not be necessarily loving, since love is only intrinsic to their title. They bring us into the world to die and they cannot even know when and how we will die (unless they directly kill us). The why is irrelevant, since everything must die. They are going to die and thus it appears natural to them that we should die too, only that it is preferable that it occurs after their own demise. The when, the time of death, is the scariest for them. What a false if not falsified stance!

Why be born at all? Another unfortunate soul for the slaughter, and if not physically, then mentally, crowned with kidney stones, cancer or some other ill-fated birth; the list is very long. Why be ousted from the womb, crying in most cases for oxygen, the new master condition for life before water and food? Becoming just another animal — a human in this case — that will die sooner or later after much pain and suffering, much more often than not, throughout a so-called life. There is also the issue, if one lives long enough, of becoming old and battered. Death, nonetheless, is the perfect end to life and all its tribulations, but not being born at all could be far superior. Nietzsche proposed an alternative: thinking and not having children, or not thinking (he may have been too kind) and paying tribute to one’s instinct and species.

Life is a scam. It is an automatic process. Nothing, living or not, has ever decided to suddenly exist, not even a cosmic star. Our parents, in many if not most cases, decided that we should exist. They bore us into this deadly world. They condemned us to death as soon as we took our first breath. Yet, we are supposed to love them unconditionally. No one should love murderers. They are selfish, since life is filled with pain and suffering, and grief, and no false promise of a good life and or better afterlife could ever lessen their responsibility and crime. All good things tend to pale in comparison.

But then, there is love; real love that aches inside the chest. Love of an other being for whom one is ready to die. Not one’s child! That is too easy. Only a woman. Rarely a prick. Charlie Chaplin is perhaps the only exception. A pussy is, after all, of the essence.