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An attractive woman emptied her brain bowels online and pinched off a tapered string of sentences so vapid that you would be challenged to find a more inane splatter of poopytalk. From her article at a site called The Daily Love, titled “You do not have to prove yourself to anyone“, in which she tries to prove her point of view to anyone reading, the following nugget is excavated:

As a soul sister to many, I often find myself being called upon for a variety of supporting reasons. Today, I got a phone call from a fellow goddess and she was in absolute disarray. She was, well, a hot mess.

Separately, each of those sentences is empty überfeels nonsense. Together, they create a kind of super storm of silly doublethink (why would a goddess be in disarray?), solipsistic posturing, and infantile prattle.

This is your modern American woman with a cable modem. The internet, among its pantheon of induced pathologies, has had as well the salutary (sadistic?) effect of exposing dim-witted women, and particularly the attractive ones, to criticism and mockery of their forehead furrowing thoughts that they normally would not experience in the real world where people are politer and men more indulgent of non-obese fuckables.

This doesn’t seem to thwart the flow of distaff nonsense, though. Instead of retreating to lick their wounds and go back to doing what they do best — defer to the man of the house — they circle the wagons and soundproof their echo chambers. But the walls come tumbling down eventually. Some of the shivs must penetrate; expect an epidemic of mental illness among our wired women in the coming years.

A survey of 670 North American white collar workers revealed who is the unhappiest (and happiest) of them all.

According to the survey, the happiest workers are:

  • Male
  • 39 years old
  • Married
  • Have a household income between $150,000 and $200,000
  • Hold a senior management position
  • Have one young child at home
  • Have a wife who works part-time

while the unhappiest workers are:

  • Female
  • 42 years old
  • Unmarried
  • Have a household income under $100,000
  • Work in a professional position (i.e., as a doctor or a lawyer).

What we have here… is failure to assimilate to the feminist utopia. Some women you just can’t reach. So you get what we had here these past 60 years, which is the way ugly bitter feminists want it… well, they get it. Careerist gogrrl spinsters who go to sleep and wake every morning with a shiver of doom running down their necks. Unhappy 130IQ cat ladies as far as the eye can see, staining their graduate degrees with hot tears.

I don’t like it any more than you men, but I will leverage it for my personal gain.

Blame flies in all directions, but the most obvious one. The Bitches of Feastdick whine that their feminist droids are unhappy because men aren’t picking up the slack in the domestic sphere. Androgyne, Inc. stockholders say that women worry more about the home life and we need to help them worry less by mandating various stay-at-office motherhood initiatives, like on-site daycare.

They flail and they flog their plush lush lies that protect them from the stone cold truth… the truth that is incontestable and harmonious and rooted in eons of evolutionary blueprint:

Men and women are happier when they abide traditional sex roles.

Reject biology, feel unhappy. It’s that simple. Work within the contours of your sex’s biology, and you will feel like a finely tuned instrument discarding cacophony and alighting upon melodious serenity.

Plums Before Prunes

A 59-year-old woman, international speaker and writer (“productive citizen”), laments the icy rejection she received at the hands of a 55-year-old man who felt a surge of natural male biological disgust for her naked wrinkly old lady body.

And so, we planned a weekend together. That’s when things got confusing, unspoken and just-not-quite there. We went to bed in a couple’s way — unclothed and touching — all parts near. Kisses were shared and sleep came in hugs. I attempted more intimacy throughout the weekend and was deterred each time.

On Monday evening over the phone, I asked this man who had shared my bed for three nights running why we had not made love. “Your body is too wrinkly,” he said without a pause. “I have spoiled myself over the years with young woman. I just can’t get excited with you. I love your energy and your laughter. I like your head and your heart. But, I just can’t deal with your body.”

I was stunned. The hurt would come later. I asked him slowly and carefully if he found my body hard to look at. He said yes. “So, this means seeing me naked was troublesome to you?” I asked. He told me he had just looked away. And when the lights were out, he pretended my body was younger — that I was younger. My breath came deep and full as I processed this information. My face blazed as I felt embarrassed and shamed by memories of my easy nakedness with him in days just passed.

We talked for some time more, my head reeling at the content of the conversation. He spoke of special stockings and clothing that would “hide” my years. He blithely told me he loved “little black dresses” and strappy shoes. He said my hair was not long and flowing as he preferred, but that was okay because it was “cool looking.” I felt like a Barbie Doll on acid as I listened to this man. He was totally oblivious to the viciousness of his words.

She thinks this man a sadistic monster, but he was perhaps more honest with her (and with himself) than any man she has known. They aren’t called the ugly truths for nothing.

Men don’t get impotent; women get old. You won’t hear any therapist telling that raw reality to struggling older couples. Be prepared for soul-flaying pain of this nature to become commonplace in post-sanity and post-restricted female sexuality America. Marriage rates are at a historical low and never-married or divorced older women are desperate for romance. They’re in the field when they should be in the home with grandchildren, deluding themselves that the older men who they think by rights are theirs instead are more interested in the younger women with tighter bodies and fresher histocompatibilities. And to make matters worse, more than a few of those younger women love the company of older men.

The sexual market is not equal. It’s not fair. It’s not progressive. And it’s not a rom-com with a happy ending. It is a tearjerker, however.

Compounding the difficulties that older, single women face in the arena of zero-sum mate acquisition is the altered perspective of single older men who are accustomed to dating younger women. When you’ve tasted a morsel of Kobe filet mignon and washed it down with a 2010 Hewitt cabernet, an 80/20 ground beef burger with a tepid Bud Light just isn’t going to get you up in the morning.

Some commenters had a fun time with this lady’s id yelp.

I can relate…there is this woman who is obsessed with me who calls me everyday, she is the nicest woman I ever met,but when I saw her naked I freaked out.

I usually like to keep the lights on but with her I did not want to see, and I tried to think of my ex who had a superb body.

Everything is wrinkly and saggy…it is impossible for me to be passionate about such a woman even though she has the best personality.

Part of me feels sad for her, but I just can not be with her, I have to be passionate about what I see, not only about what us in her heart and her head.

Men are very visual, I am very visual. At some point I had no choice but to tell her I had trouble looking at her naked body.

She is my age but I look 15 years younger while she looks older than her age.

with clothes on she is cute, she even has an hourglass figure, she gets a lot of attention from men but they have no idea what is under her clothes. how everything is very saggy and wrinkly.

sorry if I go on and on, but I am right smack in the middle of a similar situation as the Huffington story..

***

Women gotta understand, God put our eyes right up front…

Personality? Well, okay… but our ears are way back on the head.

***

“I didn’t even want to try to explain the hurt and the horror that he had inflicted upon me. I actually felt sickly sorry for this man as I hung up the phone”

!!!Hamster time!!!!

HE HAD INFLICTED ON HER!

Try servicing a monster and you’ll understand what horror is.

Older women’s best hope is for an epidemic of mass amnesia to strike men and men only. In this way, no single older man crashing the dating market and creating tsunamis for older female hamsters to surf will remember what prime pussy looks and feels like under clothes. Unencumbered by these fond recollections, he can more easily be catechized in the belief of stylishly-clothed but surreptitiously wrinkled hags as the pinnacle of female sexuality… at least for a short while, until his occipital resumes control of his prefrontal and penile.

The whole sordid spectacle reminds me of a dating exploit from a time not yet beyond crystalline recall. I had met a 20-ish blonde in the dusky brick-relief bowels of a drunken after-party. Already buzzing from one drink too many, I began to imagine scenarios… transactions… with her shapely vessel as she spoke of childhood dreams and favorite movie scenes. I made feints toward a same night lay (never a dull moment on the CH sexpress) but she wouldn’t bite, preferring instead to indicate her interest with strong pleas for a follow-up date. “you will call me, right?” “you’ve got my number right there.” SMILE SMILE SMILE “i’ll see you soon!”

Sufficiently sated from recent conquests, I dropped the idea of an effortful seduction whisking her from venue to vainroom before sleepiness took its toll. I agreed to call her, and confessed to myself that the date was happily anticipated. I like blondes. I like 20-ish women. I like them most when they like me in kind.

Two evenings later, we met at a small bistro. She was already there when I arrived, seated indoors under bright light only paces from an outdoor area softly illumined by decorative patio lights. This was her critical mistake. From twenty feet, barely through the restaurant’s entranceway and acutely sober, I saw her heart-swelling silhouette from two nights ago, now unshadowed, had morphed into the splotchy, shattering skin wrap of a woman accelerating to her upper 30s. My smile dropped faster than an unsupported witch’s teat.

I am a master actor when crisis calls, but this disappointment was too great to conceal. She caught the full impact of it and, exacerbated by the contrast of my insanely youthful countenance, stood up from our table seconds after I had introduced myself to calmly but with a hint of croak in her voice cut the date short with a prematurity that must have set land speed records. “if it’s ok with you, we really don’t have to do this. i’m not ready for this. I’m so sorry.” Her entire body downcast and my guilt cresting a harsh wave, I eagerly (but not too eagerly!) accepted her offer.

It’s hard out there for the older woman. Yer ‘umble mareslayer revels in revealing the barbarous clashes that bloody the innersides of our polite vestments, but in real life he’s a bit less callous and handles life’s sad cameos with a softer glove.

A particular paradox of the sexual market is one that works in the favor of men. More precisely, men with balls. It’s what I call the “Prime Pussy Paradox”.

Reader Scott explains,

I’m 48 years old, overweight, and out of practice after being married for 20 years. But I’ve still never understood the fear of approaching women. In my younger days, I dated roommates at the same time, a Playboy model, and regularly bagged ladies in the 8-10 range.

Now I have a 24 year old son. I told him when he was a teenager, that the easiest way to get a hot chick to go out with you is to simply ask. Since most guys are too wimpy to approach a 9 or 10, it is actually the girls in the 6-8 range that get hit on the most. In reality, 10′s get hit on less, and are easier to pick up than the less attractive girls in the 6-8 range.

That is the honest truth – believe it or not.

I believe it, because I’ve experienced the same. As have many of my player buddies. That sexy 8 will give you a warmer smile and more feminine charm than that ego-inflated 6 with a chip on her shoulder who’s had to deflect the horny intrusions of a hundred middling beta males who thought that 6 would be easy pickings.

The Prime Pussy Paradox states that the very hottest girls – high 8s, 9s and 10s — get hit on less frequently and by fewer men than do women in the “pump&dumpable” or “cute” range from 4 to 7s, and that this male approach skew psychologically grooms the hotter girls to be more excited when a man does boldly hit on them. The essence of the PPP is that hot girls are often MORE APPROACHABLE than cute or, god forbid, plain girls.

Why is the PPP a valid concept? The intersection of a woman’s self-esteem (modulated by her intrinsic hotness and the male attention she expects to get based on her self-perceived hotness) and a man’s sexually entitled boldness is where love explodes. A handy graph visualizes the phenomenon.

PPP

The black line represents a hot woman with unmodified self-esteem; that is, self-esteem which exists in a sexual market with perfect mate information flow where she gets exactly the amount of attention that her looks should theoretically command.

Naturally, such a world doesn’t exist, because men don’t make a decision to approach based entirely on a woman’s looks. Men also internally calculate their risk of rejection and their own courtship savviness. Which is where the red and green lines fit in. A woman with immoderately high self-esteem (green line) — i.e., a woman who thinks more of her mate value than her looks inform — will be a tough rut to shellac. A man would need to be very bold (and skilled) to hurdle the huge cockblock that is her bloated self-esteem.

A woman with immoderately low self-esteem (red line) — i.e., a woman who thinks less of her mate value that her hotness would conceivably suggest — will be an easier target than presumed, and who won’t require preternatural reserves of boldness to seduce. These women are a dying breed in America, (bloated self-esteems, along with bloated bodies, are the growing female demographic), but they do exist, and happily enough, they exist in surprisingly disproportionate number among the very hottest women whom men imagine are the least likely to have lower-than-expected sexual-esteems.

Like an information bottleneck in the stock market, the PPP is a sexual market vulnerability which can be exploited by fearless men with insider connections. 9s and 10s (and most 8s) don’t get conspicuously hit on as much as 4s, 5s, 6s, and 7s. Consequently, hot girls tend to harbor stirrings of doubt about their SMV. Their egos (and love lives) hunger for proof of validation, and they gorge on the rare direct attentions of bold men who aren’t afraid of or humbled by their beauty.

There are limits to the PPP exploit. Very low SMV men won’t be able to capitalize on it with the same profitability as moderate SMV men. The sweet spot is a man one to three SMV points lower than the hot girl, and who acts with the prerogative of a man with equal (sex-adjusted) SMV to the hot girl. Male 6s and 7s (as ranked along male-specific measurements of attractiveness) who approach with the bold intention of a male 9 can “shock” a female 9 into aroused curiosity.

Now some of you are wondering, “Don’t hot girls get a lot of leers from admiring men?” Sure, but female self-esteem operates as a more complex feedback system than male self-esteem. A female 9 will receive ten times the number of head snaps from men than will a female 7 (it’s exponential), but she’ll also receive ten times FEWER the number of intentional approaches from men than will the female 7. Women register the glances from afar, but the bold approach is so unmistakable in intention that it counts for more as a self-esteem boosting factor.

Hot women, experiencing a relative paucity of men hitting on them compared to that experienced by mediocre-looking women, tend as a result to carry less ego-stroked baggage. They are more grateful, and more interested, when a man dares to pierce their bubble of hotness. To approach such a beauty as she, why this man must truly be worth her company!

New information has come to light which provides further support for the theory that Elliot Rodger was the practical equivalent of a male feminist who was pathologically introverted, romantically isolated, and who simply didn’t understand that men and women are psychologically different and require different courtship approaches. A family friend of the Rodger’s understood intuitively what was wrong with Elliot: He needed help meeting girls.

When a student, Elliot Rodger, went on a rampage in California in May, killing six people, one man began wondering if he could have prevented it. Hollywood screenwriter Dale Launer knew Rodger and had tried to help solve his problems with women. [...]

Launer: The Elliot portrayed in the manifesto and in the video he made was not the Elliot that I remember.

The person in that video was cocky, arrogant and hateful [ed: only in the end did Elliot become the jerk chicks dig]  – the Elliot I knew was a very meek, timid and awkward kid.

I first met him when he was aged eight or nine and I could see then that there was something wrong with him.

I’m not a psychologist, but looking back now he strikes me as someone who was broken from the moment of conception.

It appeared to me that he had an overwhelming lack of confidence but not in a particularly endearing way. Sad, but not endearing. [...]

He never raised his voice – he didn’t even seem capable of raising his voice. He didn’t slam doors or pound his fist. I couldn’t imagine him making a fist.

Beta males rarely get into fights. “Have you ever been in a fight?” is a question on the Dating Market Value Test for Men for a reason.

In retrospect, you can point out a few clues, a few cracks to the malevolence percolating underneath but they were overshadowed by someone who seemed incapable of any kind of action.

He did not simmer or seethe. The boldness he showed in that video wasn’t something I ever saw before.

Elliot knew (to himself) he was about to die in that final video. That freedom may have allowed his long-dormant inner alpha to finally come out and play. Or, he could have been hopped up on cocaine or Xanax.

We met a few times and emailed a lot. He seemed convinced that women hated him but he could never tell me why.

It seemed like he would perceive cruelness or hatefulness when in fact, I suspected, he was just being ignored.

This is the developmental process by which woman-hating betas are created.

I remember giving him an assignment once so he could try to establish some kind of dynamic with a woman.

I told him, “When you see a woman next time you’re on campus and you like her hair or sunglasses, just pay her a compliment.”

I told him, “It’s a freebie, something in passing, you’re not trying to make conversation. Keep walking, don’t make any long eye contact, just give the free compliment.” The idea being you might make a friend if you make someone feel good.

I said to Elliot, “In the next few weeks – if you see them they’ll likely give you a smile – and you can smile back and eventually turn this into chit-chat.”

I got in touch with him a few weeks later and asked if he did it. He said “no”. And when asked why not, he said “Why do I have to compliment them? Why don’t they compliment me?”

At that stage, I realised he was very troubled.

This isn’t half-bad advice. Launer had good intentions and, it seems, a fairly decent grasp of women and what Elliot would need to do to get over his crippling introversion. It’s basically newbie game. “Get out there, say SOMETHING to girls that isn’t a compliment of their beauty, and move on while you still have the happy high of making an approach. Get used to talking to girls first before you start spitting seduction game.”

Elliot didn’t do it. That’s the source tragedy. I imagine his victims would be alive today if Elliot had completed Launer’s task. But for the flight of a betaboy, a typhoon brews in the sea…

Here we have our first hard evidence that Elliot didn’t get women at all. Similar to cellar-dwelling manlets who think that any proactive effort to woo women is tantamount to “putting the pussy on a pedestal”, Elliot believed that it was beneath him to approach girls and start a conversation. In his world of equalist ignorance, women are just like men, except with different genitalia, so logically why shouldn’t women approach him to give him compliments? If his premises are right, you can’t really argue with his conclusions.

But of course his premises were all wrong. And who knows why they were all wrong. Mental illness? Pathological neuroticism toxicified with a dash of repressed narcissism? A dearth of savvy male authority figures who could educate younger Elliot about the realities of female sexual nature?

Elliot needed guidance. He needed an experienced man — not a weirdo coterie of emotionally retreating family kin shoving pills down this throat — to patiently inform him before the rot had set that biological differences between the sexes means that women will rarely, if ever, approach men directly to start conversations, that it is the man’s job, if he wants sex and love in his life, to break the ice. And that however unfair Elliot deemed this state of the sexes, it was a reality that would never change, and never go away. He had only one choice: To make reality work for him, instead of fighting futilely against reality.

In one of the last emails I sent to him, I became quite frustrated.

I pointed out that he had the choice to change his circumstances, and if he didn’t make the effort then he had to take some of the blame. He insisted that, “I have to blame someone for my troubles, and I don’t blame myself.”

It appears that by the time Launer intervened, Elliot’s romantic ignorance and ego self-preservation had consumed him. He was beyond help. I wonder if Launer would have had more positive impact had he explained to Elliot WHY he needed to do his newbie game drill rather than just giving him the task without justification for it. Most unenlightened men who come to the Chateau to learn the ways of the crimson arts are first introduced to a steady diet of knowledge about psychosocial sex differences before the juicy game strategies are revealed.

One time there was a gathering at his parents’ place and Elliot was his usual uncomfortable self.

I asked Peter if Elliot was ticklish. Peter said he was, so I encouraged a couple of women to tickle him and you know, that was the only time I saw Elliot express any kind of joy. It seemed that, at least for those moments, he was a normal kid.

A woman’s touch is water to a parched man. Sad, sad Elliot. Game can save lives. But only for those willing to see.

The Hamster of the Month winner is no contest. It’s the rodents who power the lizard brains of these two Visitors to earth.

The dropping I’m referring to steams in a huge pile right on the cover of their book:

The Alpha Woman Meets Her Match: How Today’s Strong Women can find Love and Happiness without Settling

Never before has such concentrated female hamster delusion been defecated so ignominiously on one spot. Count the spinning wheels and the false assumptions.

1. An alpha woman is designated by her careerist ambition, rather than by her beauty and youth.

zoom zoom!

2. Entitled spinster hags are strong women.

zoom zoom!

3. Men secretly love masculine, careerist, dominating women.

zoom zoom!

4. Ugly careerist hags can find love and happiness without settling for a boring loser with few options.

I'm forty and beautiful!

5. Men’s desire is irrelevant. As long as the strong woman wants love and happiness with an alpha male, she’ll get love and happiness with an alpha male.

animals-pictes-hams-cute-at-bar (1)

Maxim #105: Frequency and absurdity of female delusions about their romantic worth are directly proportional to real world evidence of their romantic worthlessness.

SVlLSxG

After Randall Parker gazed in the crystal ball and saw chaos and decay in America’s near future, commenter “Jim” contributed a sound bite worthy of the coveted CH Freelance COTW.

Places like Brazil and the Congo have enormous economic potential just based on geography, climate, and natural resources. A place like Japan is mountainous (only 3% of the land area is arable), few natural resources, not located near major trade routes, subject to frequent catastrophic earthquakes and tsunamis. But Japan has the Japanese people who are more valuable than all of Brazil’s natural wealth.

Doesn’t that get right to the beating heart of all our loud, violent, useless social discourse?

whatever happens, japan has got
the japanese, and you have not

When future elites, at least those having evaded the gallows following Civil War II and walled off in far northern city-state compounds where the ice winds blow, dare to spend a moment to wonder when it all went south for America, a few of them with integrity — no more than a handful, mind you — will find the strength within to betray their ravenous egos and confess that the project of their forebears to flood their homeland with non-anglos and non-germanics was seppuku with a dull shiv. Cutting out the viscera of a country never ends well.

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