The sexist travails of a person who doesn't know what they are talking about.

I hate women. I despise all the aesthetic houri of the world because, if I was not shielded by hatred, ensconced in the comfort of odium, I would collapse in a paralytic maneuver to my knees, mortified with adulation. Women are created to deceive, with a blindingly innate beauty that outshines all the flaws of character and intellect that I could easily identify in their male counterparts. What dislike I reserve for the involuntary libidinous thoughts that pass by as fleetingly as the satisfaction of lust that serves as their impetus is transferred to their kind, and with each female I see I can only draw my brows close together and ponder their destruction.
If my susceptible nature were not girded by a pia mater of disgust, the primeval, hereditary tendency to deify would strike me much as it does those who already have contact with their imaginary saviors, as I would be worshiping an illusory mirage that I have never had true contact with, just as those adherent to religion, and through my gullibility have my malleable will, if it could be called that, manipulated to serve whichever purpose a the self-serving, opportunist beauty would coax me into with an incessant string of physical cajolery.
I hate women because they are women and I am a man who wishes that my world was an asexual one so that I would not be encumbered by the unsteady whorls of visceral hormonal burdens.