The Chronicles of the Female Asshole: A Cautionary Tale in Thirteen Acts (parody)
Hell hath no fury like a woman who thinks she’s spiritually evolved —Apocryphal Sufi Maxim, attributed to no one but experienced by many
ACT I: The Arrival
She emerged from the digital void like a wounded seraph with a LinkedIn profile. Her name? Soraya Moonriver—a faux-psychotherapist, ‘trauma alchemist’, self-declared Sufi priestess, and part-time mortician. She had four children, three past lives, two ex-husbands, and one objective: me.
The initial messages were drenched in mystic nectar:
‘Your light called to mine through the veil. I feel we’ve known each other across lifetimes’.
Translation:
‘You have something I want. Attention, power, maybe real insight. Let’s begin the extraction process.’
then
‘Tell me about Schuon’
Translation:
‘I don’t mind pathological sex gurus and their sex cults, because I am already in one.’
ACT II: The Hook
Soraya knew the script. First came the flattery: I was a genius, a divine twin flame with superior knowledge and jawline. Next came vulnerability: she’d suffered, been betrayed, misunderstood, burned at the stake, ghosted by Gurdjieff himself. Trauma was her currency and she flashed it like a platinum AmEx.
Me, sometimes being gullible, bit the bait when she said, ‘I want spiritual companionship’ when she really meant, ‘you are my next victim on my profiling ego trip’!
ACT III: The Bait-and-Switch
Days passed. Zoom calls multiplied. Her vocabulary swelled with ‘alchemy’, ‘divine masculine’, ‘sacred contract’, and ‘energetic penetration’. The vibe was tantric cult with Wi-Fi. She asked for my sacred writings and offered hers in return: bad poetry, cribbed Sufi quotes, and ramblings about Saturn’s retrograde.
Then came the first red flag:
‘My spirit guides are telling me you’re triggering my ancestral pain’.
Translation:
‘You disagreed with me once’.
ACT IV: The Mirror Shatters
It happened during an innocent theological exchange. I referenced the metaphysics of divine manifestation. She countered with a meme. I cited Ibn ʿArabī. She sent me a TikTok of a dancing dervish. I gently offered correction. She declared me a ‘wounded patriarchal masculine trying to dominate her light like her father’.
And just like that, the mirror cracked.
ACT V: The Gaslight Tango
‘You are
projecting’.
‘You’re not as awakened as I thought’.
‘This is why the divine feminine keeps retreating’.
She began deploying terms like ‘narcissist’, ‘toxic’, ‘unintegrated shadow’, like a TikTok witch at war. I realized we weren’t in a romance. Instead, I was in a psychological hostage situation conducted via voice note.
ACT VI: The Pivot
Suddenly, she mentioned an ‘anonymous benefactor’ funding her Sufi-Gurdjieffian work. She casually name-dropped a few shady NGOs. She defended cults. She spoke glowingly of the Bahá'ís and a Dr. Vahid at an ER. She then ‘accidentally’ looped me into an email thread with a white nationalist disguised as a religious pluralist.
I began to see the bigger picture: She wasn’t just a spiritual asshole. She was a spiritually-weaponized asshole with institutional affiliations.
ACT VII: The LinkedIn Exorcism
Her professional profile disappeared. Her email address bounced. Her backstory mutated. Now she wasn’t a mortician, she was a grief doula. Not a Sufi, but a ‘quantum priestess of the lunar wound’. The house she claimed to live in? Undeliverable. The man she claimed was her father? Possibly fictional.
Reality was a mood board and I had been moodboarded.
ACT VIII: The Full Moon Explosion
A dramatic voice note landed one morning:
‘You are in deep ego resistance. You refuse to surrender. You are not safe to hold my light anymore’.
I was’t sure if this was a break-up, a curse, or the abstract of her next self-published book. Either way, I was relieved.
ACT IX: Post-Asshole Clarity
Now free, I lit some esfand, saged the inbox, and blocked everything. The silence was deafening—and healing. Without her emotional glitterbombs, my aura regenerated. I reread my texts. I noticed the manipulation, the vagueness, the spiritual superiority complex disguised as vulnerability.
She was not unique. She was a type.
ACT X: Taxonomy of the Female Asshole
The Female Asshole is not merely annoying. She is strategic. She is wounded-as-weapon. She studies mysticism like an MLM scheme. She invokes trauma while denying that of others. She calls herself divine while demonizing the boundaries of others.
Her tools:
- Spiritual gaslighting
- Mystical word salad
- Sudden disappearances followed by vague threats
- Secret ‘handlers’ she sometimes introduces in Zoom calls
ACT XI: The Feminist Postscript (Because Satire Needs Nuance)
This essay is not a diatribe against wounded women. It is a satire of a performance: one where victimhood becomes power currency, mysticism becomes mask, and relationship becomes conquest. It’s a critique of weaponized femininity as colonial front, not feminine essence.
To quote Audre Lorde (unlike Soraya, we actually read her):
‘The master's
tools will never dismantle the master's house’.
Unless, of course, you claim the master was your twin flame in a past life.
ACT XII: Lessons from the Abyss
The Female Asshole taught me many things:
- That spiritual jargon can be a smokescreen for profound narcissism
- That pain doesn’t equal wisdom
- That one should always Google the address before sending the book
Most of all, she taught me to trust my instincts. The moment one hesitates was the moment one’s soul already knew.
ACT XIII: Epilogue (or, How Not to Be Her)
If you recognize yourself in Soraya Moonriver, repent. Refrain from using your pain as a weapon. Don’t confuse spiritual practice with emotional hostage-taking. And for God’s sake, don’t build your personality around daddy issues.
To the rest of
us:
Beware the mystic with a professional Canva account and a trail of broken
WhatsApps.
She cometh. With crystals. And chaos.
Fin.
