This Niguid broad.
…how we roll in the real world, in the man’s world, is thus:
We get in pissing contests on the road. We yell, gesture, threaten, curse, then our paths diverge impersonally as they are apt to do in big urban shitzones like Los Angeles or San Francisco. End of story.
We commence living our compartmentalized lives and don’t think further of what happened out on xxx St. or the XXX Freeway. No one makes a fuss after the match is over. There are no grand egotistical gestures of social virtuousness and/or victimization (in today’s world, this is a common overlap) unleashed in search of views, and the only people who remember the incident are those who lived through it.
In a man’s world, that is. A dying framework, fyi.
In today’s histrionic paradigm of emotive female outbursts and their safe arena of self-centered whiny dissolutions, however, every unpleasant encounter represents another opportunity for them to upload their crass grievances into the saturated collective mind; a mind which embodies the histrionic female paradigm, incidentally, and which validates every victimized eruption with waves of concern murmuring and drama enabling.
People like Paula Niguid who, in eras past, would have been rapidly forgotten as the inadvertent lunatic roadkill for what they inconsequentially were (as society still obeyed a long-dead stoic masculine paradigm which did not humor childish behavior in adults), are now systemically granted their 5 or 10 or 500,000 minutes of digital fame for all of us to consider if we really give a flying crap.
Which we don’t.
This facade of “empowerment” is ill-deserved validation of the mundane detritus of these chick’s daily so-called torment which only pussified liberal Social Justice society, fronted by their Siliconized mouthpieces, Twitter and Facebok, reward.