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What women see in me

Black-booted Turk with the Atatürk cut, lay on my bed with my arms as a cage. “You’re like my brother, he’s with the Grey Wolves,” she said. I thought—no, I’m a nice man, a good man, a humanitarian. Yet the black leather boots snapped on the ground, as she arranged the staff in her store. Turks prefer order, you see.

To keep it local—the first girl, with an eye turned inward (cursed), told me she voted BNP. I was shocked—you see, I’m a nice man, a good man, a humanitarian. How could you vote for a nationalist party—an educated girl like you, why they are just like Hitler. So cut it out. Yet she threw me over for a fellow who superintended nuclear bombs—that is to say, would be a man and commit what liberals call “genocide”.

Carl Gustav Jung, what gives? “Vith zese vomen—I diagnoze zthe anima, vhaz iz latent in you but denied.” Then they’re a mirror? “Iz zo.” So what women see in me is that I am the mystic man-in-the-mountain who guides a black-clad brotherhood sworn to recover the Grail—who telephone bomb threats to El Al offices in the name of Christ, and tie the shoelaces of Masons together so they fall over when they stand up to spit at God. That’s what women see in me.

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