Every woman is born depressed.

This is an adaptive skill acquired over tens of thousands of years that equips them to better handle physical and emotional pain — including existential pain at middle age – when men traditionally seek relevance, but never seem to find enough of it.

Pothole after pothole these women ride out the blows of unrequited love [divorce], fading appearance, and the inevitable physical decline that men refuse to accept under any circumstances whatsoever, which is one in a series of reasons they die prematurely, or stroke out and die even though they’re not technically dead.

To men, relevance is waging the same war they always waged; accomplishing tangible things that others can see and admire. This is their fuel.

To women, relevance is the comfort of friendships, which include book club get-togethers, attending the opera, or signing up for a continuing education in psychiatry a local Jung Center. This is their fuel.

Unlike women, men simply refuse to go out with dignity and restraint because it’s just like dying without actually dying, which is much worse.

The idea of wandering a lonely stretch of beach with the seagulls and horse flies is something most men can’t stomach – unless of course, it’s a weekend retreat from a busy, high profile gig back in the big city.

Another problem for men is the continued interest in sex, which is also closely tied to relevance, for obvious reasons.

Fortunately for women, the intense interest is long gone, which enables them to side-step things like depression, obesity, alcoholism, prescription drug-abuse and suicide.

This is an adaptive skill that favored women who could no longer bear children, unlike men who could still impregnate an 18-year-old at age 90.

So at best, it was mixed blessings for men who couldn’t afford an 18-year-old prostitute.

Women over the age of 42 [the last year of their Second Vortex] know that their time is just around the corner, which is why you see them lining the bars in clothing that would make Selena Gomez blush.

They don’t give a shit. They’re out for blood. The fuse is short and they’re going in.

Average job; child support payments still coming in; a small apartment on a hip side of town; a 7-year note on a new BMW; lots of girlfriends in identical situations; an endless string of events fueled by alcohol and attention from young men hungry [literally] for a free meal and a fuck; no strings attached.

This is what the war of the sexes really looks like for the older demographic.

Just trying approaching a cluster of these women as a middle age man with an attitude.

They’ll shred you to the marrow, deconstruct and disembowel you for all the hell they’ve been through over the past 20 years; years that were supposed to be happily-ever-after… and were everything but.

Now they embrace feminism in its full, unfiltered glory, as you sit staring dumbfounded, the unwitting scapegoat of their suffering.

This is when and where it all plays out; the final chapter of an epic massacre, before they weld shut the door to life as they once knew it.

This is why a 50-year-old man without cash is a dead man walking. He’s the shadow older women avoid and younger women don’t even see; the broken promise, the reminder that most fantasies are like heroin with decades of withdrawal symptoms.

For men with lots of money – and I mean lots – the world is a playground filled with young, beautiful women of dysfunctional, maladjusted and/or abnormal descent who come to the big city in search of dreams, which they often find through the game of asset balancing, one commodity against another.

And while this may sound callous, and even cruel, it’s the New World Order’s path to real love at middle age, which is one fantasy with actual traction.