After reading a short excerpt (pages 1 - 17) of The Torture Garden by Octave Mirbeau, this drawing is a vivid image I had in my head of the impression it gave me.
There is nothing more annoying and more classically cliché than a bunch of guys, hanging out, while drinking and smoking cigars and attempting to make their astounding masculinity as evident and as clear as possible. To be the coolest and toughest guy of the bunch. Isn't toxic masculinity such a bitch? Especially when it doesn't work because you have no idea what you're talking about.
"I enjoy considering faces from a strictly homicidal point of view."
Okay... weirdo.
That rape mentality that we, ladies, see almost every day, or if we're lucky, just every week. The catcalls when walking down the street; the guy that walks past you and stops and looks back to look at how your ass looks in your pants. You know what I'm talking about -- all of those things we deal with every day because most guys can't get over themselves and the fact that they have a dick between their legs and you don't. Well, the guys in this excerpt aren't talking about rape, but murder. Oh yeah. Apparently they walk through the streets and they see a face that is just screaming at them, "Murder me!" or as people walk by, their gait tells them, "I'm next!"
So this is the image I had in my head, of a bunch of roosters puffing out their chests while shouting out their excellent murderous ideas, thinking that theirs is just the best. Until this one kid, very quietly, but loud enough for them to hear him says, "I actually did murder someone. On a train. It wasn't that hard, really. I haven't been caught yet." What. The. Actual. Fuck. Every other rooster just deflates.
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