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You are about to enter another dimension of the sexual market. A dimension not only of unsightly fat and scolding schoolmarmery, but of repulsive loudmouthed bitterbitches. A journey into a worthless land of self-entitled fat Hillary-loving bitches. Next stop, the Would Not Bang Zone!

Via AutoAdmit, a gem quality thread has coalesced around the story of a fat chick in DC — Jesse Peterson — who was the featured coastal shitlibopolis representative of her swelling species in a Bezos Post Date Lab social experiment designed to prove the pointlessness of pursuing the post-femininity American cow. A couple of AAers put it best,

Date: August 3rd, 2017 9:04 AM
Author: Ozzie Canseco

its incredible how women are all converging to this one horrible personality.

***

Date: August 3rd, 2017 9:06 AM
Author: LTDanCaffey

Titcr.
It’s like all single shrews in major metros are morphing into some hybrid of Sarah Jessica Parker in SitC and the shrew from Eat, Pray, Fuck with some Beyoncé girl power mixed in.

A little background on Jesse, emeritus rider of the cock carousel, courtesy of her About page at her dating blog (aka the place she collates the wretchedness of her personality and will come to regret when she’s 40, unmarried, and sleeping with a small army of cats nestled in her gut folds):

Hey betches,

Welcome to Tinder District! I’m so glad you’re here, even though you may not be able to tell through my chronic RBF.

Afeminine? Check.

My name is J. I’m 23 years old, live in Washington, DC, and by day I do management consulting.

Anti-natalist careercunt? Check.

By night (and weekend), however, I’m a serial dater.

Slut, or pretensions to sluttery? Check.

Since I started this blog in July 2015 (when it was ClarendonTinderDiaries.wordpress.com; really rolls of the tongue, right?),

Grandiose self-conception as a dazzling prose stylist belied by horribly dull writing? Check.

I have been on over 100 first dates.

Unloveable? Check.

Two have turned into relationships (thank God those went nowhere),

Allergic to accountability for her decisions? Check.

many were good, several turned into second and even third dates – but that’s not why I’m here. The thing that keeps me coming back is the bad dates – the ones that turn into a story for me to tell my close friends, future grandchildren, and the entire Internet.

Attention whore? Check.

Oh, and the free drinks and meals. Those also keep me coming back.

Low sexual market value chick unable to date anyone but supplicating beta males who eagerly foot her bill for a chance to pork her oinky trough? Check.

So, welcome, readers! I hope you get a laugh, a nugget of useful life advice, or something new to read while at work contemplating quitting your shitty job.

XOXO,
J

And a recent photo of Jesse, for context in which to place her empty try-hard braggadocio:

She’s a 5 without the insulating layer of blubber, a 2 with it.

Sadly, Jesse is not an outlier. The shitlib cities are filled with CUNDTs like herself: totally converged into the technofemcuntyassqueen man-hating spiteborg, committed to spending their prime nubility years hunting elusive alpha males in the urban junglelove, narcissistic to a degree that would have shocked Narcissus, delusional about their sexual and romantic appeal, and more often than not carrying an extra five or fifty pounds.

Is it any wonder American men have stopped “manning up” and taken nuptial (read: financial) responsibility for these ingrate shoggoths? Women, if you struggle to find a man worthy of your curated and well-marbled self-image, look in the mirror and read the reactions of the world outside your dating blog to your crass behavior and shitty personality. 100 dates in one year? That’s not a banner to wave proudly; it’s a red flag that your goods are rotten.

How obnoxious is this bitch? From her Instawhore:

In her words, she had an awful date and hated the man with whom she was paired, yet she still wanted to exploit his graciousness by copping an “appeal deal” with him to rate each other equivalently in the Bezos Post-Op Date Lab story, so that she could continue to look good to her blog audience of aspiring spinsters. Thankfully, our intrepid beta male found an ounce of scrotal juice still circulating in his manhood and rated her lower than the entitled blobster demanded to be rated.

Management consultant Jesse Peterson, 23, describes herself as “just about the friendliest and most outgoing person there is.”

So friendly she hastily pens post-date snarkbait shitting all over the men who buy her drinks.

She also loves working out, bottomless brunch and a slightly dark sense of humor.

Working out => is 40 pounds overweight
Bottomless brunch => boundless bottom
Dark sense of humor => confuses hackneyed sarcasm for humor

I was much more nervous before this date than any Bumble or Tinder date. I’ve been on dates with a few Dans, and all of them were weird.

The fault lies not with the Dans.

We talked about favorite foods — I write a cooking and baking blog.

Avoid unmarried women who are a little too into cooking. That goes double-chinned for women into blogging about cooking.

And I write a dating blog.

If a chick admitted this to me on a first date, I would walk out immediately, no reason given. At the very least, a chick who feels comfortable telling me this doesn’t respect my refined taste in women and unapologetically high standards.

I’m just interested in exploring people and opportunities and dating culture.

Every girl who has told me she’s into “exploring people” was really into exploring herself for the umpteenth time and receiving external validation for it from the people she claims to want to explore. And “opportunities” is just slutspeak for “cockas”.

Dan: I can’t date a vegetarian; I left hungry. I got home and I ordered a turkey leg.

Vegetarian girls are more often fat than thin. That should tell them something, but when the world revolves around them and mirrors are magical devices found only in Harry Potter books, then one could be forgiven for assuming these broads have an intrinsic ability to put 2 and 2 together. Or maybe their concept of vegetarian is “a plate full of greasy fries and a side of pizza”.

I’m not ready for the gawking to end yet. From another dating-is-hell-on-fatties post at her Unloved Fatty blog:

I didn’t particularly care about continuing to talk to Jack, and I also ignore literally all CMB notifications I receive, so I did nothing.

The attention whore loves accumulating dating apps, so she can proudly claim she ignores them all. It would not suffice to simply not have the dating app on the iPhag. She must have it and not have it, grasshopper.

Jack, however, reached out.

“Men want me, they really want me!”

Jack – Want to get margaritas soon?
J – Sure!

So, I sent him my phone number – because anyone who wants to buy me a margarita is a friend of mine.

From its inception, CH has advised men to avoid buying drinks for women. To this day, the advice retains its merit.

It was two full days before I got a message from Jack, but he made up for his tardiness with sweeping romantic apology.
Jack – Hey, this is Jack from that bagel app

Ahh, pure poetry.

Got her attention. (Keep it short and sweet, gentlemen. The ladies love a self-possessed shitlord.)

FYI her blog is filled with those retarded pop culture gifs that women love. They acquire the habit from their gay besties.

We continued talking for a while, including a brief stint in which my friend took over my phone and sent him a long message about the superfood benefits of kale (#bless kale), when our conversation turned to the events we had planned for the weekend.

From the second I saw the ‘Yikes’ I knew something was amiss. But I was unsure what it was at first – did he frown upon the fact that I had not left all signs of neon and tutu back in college? Was he unnerved that I was not spending the weekend reading the latest political novel?

Like most straight men with a T level above 1, he’s disgusted by homosex and by the sassy platitude-spouting libchicks who latch onto the gay glorification gravy train in the hopes of tarting up their social media feeds with more colorful selfies.

All of that would have been better than his response. What do you mean you find it “off-putting”? You are aware you live in a country founded on the right to do all of those things, correct?

“Off-putting” doesn’t mean “deny the right of fag assembly”, you dumb bint.

I pressed on.

She persisted.

Ohhhhhhhh no. OH NO. I considered leaping off the nearest cliff to escape such ignorance.

She would’ve bounced back unscathed.

“inside a social construct decided by other people that doesn’t let you blah blah”…..typical poopytalk from your typical nasty woman. This is why fatties and other undesirable women glom onto social constructivist shitliberalism: the lies provide a handy rationale for explaining away, say, their lack of portion control. The CUNDT’s dating woes are never her fault; it’s always “men” or “douchebags” or “bigots” or “Trump supporters” or “society”.

She then feverishly texts Jack the Shitlord to “put him in his place”, and what she imagines as an epic BTFO of her antagonist just comes across like a butthurt fatty going well out of her way to make some stupid political point lost in the noise of her emotional incontinence.

HOLD THE FUCKING PHONE.

STOP IT RIGHT NOW.

YOU THINK PEOPLE ‘LIKE PLAYING THE VICTIM‘?

LITERALLY GET THE FUCK OUT.

Was Trayvon Martin ‘playing the victim’ when he was killed in an ethnic hate crime?

Surprise, a conformist GoodWhite plays the Saint Trayvon card! Newsflash, fatty, Trayvon pounced on Zimmerman the Hispanic hero and in the commission of his assault and battery received a load of lead in return. Tray Tray got his just desserts.

Were the 49 lives lost in the Orlando Pulse Nightclub massacre ‘playing the victim’ when their lives were unjustly ripped from them in a homophobic hate crime?

Funny, she forgot to mention that the Pulse gayclub killer was a Muslim.

Was I, or any other victim of sexual assault, PLAYING THE FUCKING VICTIM when we were raped, had our self-worth and self-confidence, not to mention ability to trust and, I don’t know, ability to sleep through the night without having a panic attack, STRIPPED FROM US BY A MAN WHO DID NOT KNOW HOW TO TAKE NO FOR AN ANSWER?

Ten to one she was never raped.
One hundred to one if she was raped, it was by a black guy.
One thousand to one her conception of “rape” is really an ego-assuaging morning after regret rape rationalization for throwing herself at yet another garbage hour loser.

I was outraged. I would have killed him right then, if my insurance covered it.

The only thing you’re killing fatty is a plate of donuts.

Instead, I put him on blast in the betchiest way I know how

Shitlib women crave putting wrongthinkers “on blast”, and announcing their declared victory in war to whomever will listen. They’re like George Costanza thinking up a comeback zinger well after the moment has passed. It’s pure humiliation gotcha fantasy, a pageantry of the ego without substance, meant in the retelling to impress a very stupid and dull coterie of equally LSMV rejects more accustomed to getting ignored by high quality men than to putting those unattainable men in their places.

– by saying I felt sorry for him, using his own words against him, and turning the tables around.

I’m sure he was utterly destroyed by your lethal psy ops campaign.

He continued to not see the error of his ways and be the literal worst.

Resentful woman unable to convince man to cater to her feelz has literal meltdown in ASCII.

I’m out. I’m done! I can’t handle it anymore. I can’t handle humans or fuckboys or ignorance or Trump or anything that’s not at least 13% ABV or laced with THC.

This is the mewling of a woman who has experienced failure after failure in her search for a boyfriend. Naturally, she blames Trump.

So, fam, if you encounter an ignorant fuckboy along the lines of Jack, just remember that the best solution is to screenshot the conversation and put the entire thing in your Snapchat story and on the internet. Because, friends, it happens to the best of us.

So, fellow cundts, if you encounter a man who won’t tolerate your vapid lib bullshit and grating personality, just remember that the best solution is to publicly broadcast your private conversations with him in the hope that you’ll inspire a chorus of sympathetic losers to cheerlead your self-immolation and validate your desire to humiliate those who won’t feed your egotistical, self-absorbed, status striving herdthink.

The final word on the CUNDT and her species of post-America millennial woman:

they pair up with modern genderless shitlib males and get into those punching bag relationships where the wife is in the driver seat so both of their lives just sort of end up doing donuts, swerving into oncoming traffic, etc. if they have money they end up brunching and biking a lot and talking about global warming and refugees and rescue dogs. the woman becomes mean and haggard and a public nuisance and the man just looks at the floor a lot. looks like hell but tons of men jump right into it early and never reassess.

Good news. The Reassessing has begun. DOTR has a new meaning, and shitlib femcunt fatties will be hardest hit.

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Reader Jim gives a short field report testifying to the Power of Jerkboy.

Off-topic: A girl I’m seeing on the side just texted me “You have me so wet right now. How is that possible when you’re making fun of me?”

I keep waiting for CH to be proven wrong about something… but it hasn’t happened yet. Girls love jerks.

They sure do. Smartasses. Jerks. Even assholes. Girls love ’em, and the niceguys can only watch in despair from the sidelines (or until said girls reach post-nubility age and suddenly become available to them. heh).

In all the time this ‘umble abode has been running there hasn’t been a single field report come in over the wire that delivered news of Boring Beta Politeness lubing the limbic of a sassy lassie. I’m sure it happens…somewhere…sometime…but it’s a rare event, like an eclipse. You perk up and take notice when you hear of it.

Everything you need to know about women is revealed in their romantic fantasies. Ol’ Reliable and Ol’ Dependable are always MIA from women’s erotic steamscapes. When was the last time you heard of a girl fantasizing about a proper beta pulling a chair out for her? Or paying for her drinks? The absence is telling.

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Commenter Pusifer (most excellent handle) wonders how a man with a lavish taste for wanton love sheds his accumulated bedroom company.

CH: “One six month stretch I had tore my way through fifteen women”

How do you get rid of them after?!

Some drifted away, some left purposefully, some cried on my porch, some stormed off angrily. Some texted forlornly, but got no reply at all.

A lesson for the ladies: if a man’s heart isn’t ready to merge completely with another, it will be a high hill to climb to convince him otherwise.

This illustrates two big advantages of prowling a densely populated sexual market.

  1. Submersion into the Bangborg. It’s harder to bump into former lovers from among a sea of worker drones and have that awkward “wow so what have you been up to since we last….saw each other?” convo.
  2. If on the off chance you do bump into a past or present plate, there’s an unspoken assumption between atomized hedonists that this is just the way things are in this place we mutually inhabit but separately share. You may fuck me one night, and forget me the next, and I may do likewise, and it would be very gauche of either of us to lament this lay of the land like some sentimental fool.

This also illustrates the one big disadvantage of dating in the bangopolises: if you’re looking for love you can count on, get ready for an adventure that likely won’t end the way you want.

So to answer Pusifer’s question more pithily: the women never left, they just faded to gray.

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An observation, from me own eyes and time spent nestled deep in the booby-trapped dating trenches:

Girls drop out of the nightclub scene around age 25.

Some sooner, some later, but the curtain call age for girls seeking men in da club is on average about 25yo.

Clubbing is a young woman’s game. It takes spunk, junk, (maybe crunk), and….most importantly….the youthfully hottie good looks to inspire a same night spelunk.

I feel I was born with a talent for getting inside women’s heads and knowing how they tick, so this is what I’d guess goes on in the concentric mini-brain of the girly rationalization hamster that spins the wheel fueling the superfluous careercunt maxi-brain which envelops it:

The girl who hits 25 — and recall the CH axiom that peak female beauty and therefore fuckability and muse-ability is between the ages 15 and 25, give or take a few outliers — subconsciously knows her salad days are behind her. She may still be a looker, but the competition is wicked and slicked, and if the coolestasfuckness men are the point of her losing her hearing and sleep shouting in nightclubs until 2AM, then she’ll be passed over for the ripest peaches.

So there’s that subconscious signal flare warning her of rocky outcroppings ahead, but more pertinently there’s that instant feedback she gets when the male gaze doesn’t alight as firmly forcefully obsessively and a little psychopathically on her fruit stand like it did when she was younger. She’ll get stares from men, but they won’t be from the best men, and their stares will break off earlier than they used to, and get distracted easily by passing nancies.

Footnote: The curtain call age has been steadily rising, because of a number of sexual market disruptions and trendlines converging in post-America. I predict we may see an average nightclubbing female age of 30 in the near future as an increasing horde of single, childless mimosaettes desperate to avoid the detritus swamping online dating return to the classic meat market haunts.

It’s useful to contrast curtain call ages for club grilles and club monsters. Twenty-five is practically the START of a man’s clubbing career. It’s not uncommon to see men well into their 30s working the club floors and whores, as long as those men haven’t let themselves go to pot and know how to dress with a masculine sexy flair. The club curtain call ages mirror the bioreality of male and female reproductive fitness windows: women hit a higher max speed but crash early, men a lower max speed but ride longer.

A 35 year old woman in the club is pitiable. A 35 year old man in the club is pardonable.

The curtain call age for bars is a bit older, if for no other reason than that the absence of loud techno music, bathroom bumps, and frantic dancing are a relief to aging bodies and angsty minds. Fully grown oldsters will shamble around bars and no one will bat an eye. Still, women don’t like to throw their mate choice prerogative in with bars, either, but will feel less uncomfortable in bars than they do in clubs dogging it out until their early 30s if they are single and (god forbid!) swallowing patriarchal Pink Pills by the barrel.

Last call in bars is usually late 20s for most women who have need of a bar’s services. For men, it’s late 30s, even up to mid-40s. It occasionally needs repeating, because platitudes that stroke the gynarchy’s ego are tasty and mollifying: the average man enjoys a surplus fifteen years of romantic possibility over the average woman’s dating lifespan. This is why a 30 year old woman “settles” while a 30 year old man “relents”. It’s the difference between catastrophe insurance and early retirement.

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The Anti-Trump “””resistance””” has always been a gynocentric movement, consisting mostly of low E single White SWPL sluts, cougars, spinsters, boy-hipped androgynes, fatsos, uglies, and older broads of the type who hang dreamcatchers over their loveless beds. The protests are majority female, and the passion is largely an outpouring of female bitching and moaning, organized at the very top by effeminate Antifa and Cozener nü-males.

I bring this up because I’ve noticed a change in the way shitlib men behave around their Shrillennial shitlib women whenever the subject of Trump is broached. The women are still crazy with wild-eyed hatred for Trump, giving themselves over to histrionic avowals to stop Trump, humiliate Trump, or even kill Trump (if they could get away with it). This has been their M.O. (Menstruation of Offense) since the election.

The shitlib (Gentile) men, though, are far more circumspect in professing the intensity of their anti-Trump hatred, so much so that I wonder if they really hate the man or if they’re mouthing empty pledges of fealty to a resistance they don’t really feel in their hearts. The difference is especially noticeable when I peel one of these shitlib men away from their Cunt4Prez shrews to have a one-on-one political conversation about current events. It’s during these times that the lemming libmask slips and I can practically hear them taking their first micro doses of red pill, scoffing at the Russia fake news and agreeing that Trump is a major earthquake in the political landscape whose ideas should be taken seriously.

The passionate shitlib women? Forget it, they’re unreachable. You either parrot their insipid Trump-hate, or you ever so gently disagree with them and they promptly exeunt in a muff huff.

Then when the libmen are back in the company of their libcunts, they immediately abandon their tentative forays into masculine realtalk for the submissive role of playing affirmation therapist to their harridans. But their affirmations are weak and feeble, and occasionally one of the libwomen will break social protocol and demand a stronger display of alliance from her Test-less wonder, which he will try to appease with a humorous segue intended to redirect the conversation away from the volatile vaj flapping to something lighter and less toxic.

My personal observations are of course the law of the land, so expect to see more breakups between less unhinged shitlib men and their insane shitlib women demanding total allegiance to their pussyhat religion. I call it The Fracturing, and I predict three consequences from it:

  1. Fewer relationships between ideologically-divergent men and women (which means fewer relationships in general, because there aren’t enough lunatic libmen for every lunatic libchick).
  2. More bitter single libchicks, creating a menstrual spiral into deranged anti-Trump hatred inconsolable by any therapeutic means of intervention. Not even kitten porn can save them now.
  3. Intensified assortative mating and marrying along ideological complementarity. This isn’t a good trend, because it will also drive deeper rifts between classes of White people and erode citizen fellowship, two ingredients necessary for the outbreak of another civil war.

PS Maul-Righters should be careful of succumbing to insularity disease. For every dulcet Katie McHugh, there are one hundred screechy pussyhat crones. We Men of the T have a lot of work to do to pull our single White women back from the brink of madness. Keep close the Poon Commandments, and you can’t fail in your rescue mission. Pay particular attention to Poon Commandments III, VIII, XV, and XVI:

III. You shall make your mission, not your woman, your priority

Forget all those romantic cliches of the leading man proclaiming his undying love for the woman who completes him. Despite whatever protestations to the contrary, women do not want to be “The One” or the center of a man’s existence. They in fact want to subordinate themselves to a worthy man’s life purpose, to help him achieve that purpose with their feminine support, and to follow the path he lays out. You must respect a woman’s integrity and not lie to her that she is “your everything”. She is not your everything, and if she is, she will soon not be anymore.

***

VIII. Say you’re sorry only when absolutely necessary

Do not say you’re sorry for every wrong thing you do. It is a posture of submission that no man should reflexively adopt, no matter how alpha he is. Apologizing increases the demand for more apologies. She will come to expect your contrition, like a cat expects its meal at a set time each day. And then your value will lower in her eyes. Instead, if you have done something wrong, you should acknowledge your guilt in a glancing way without resorting to the actual words “I’m sorry.” Pull the Bill Clinton maneuver and say “Mistakes were made” or tell her you “feel bad” about what you did. You are granted two freebie “I’m sorry”s for the life of your relationship; use them wisely.

***

XV. Maintain your state control

You are an oak tree. You will not be manipulated by crying, yelling, lying, head games, sexual withdrawal, jealousy ploys, pity plays, shit tests, hot/cold/hot/cold, disappearing acts, or guilt trips. She will rain and thunder all around you and you will shelter her until her storm passes. She will not drag you into her chaos or uproot you. When you have mastery over yourself, you will have mastery over her.

XVI.  Never be afraid to lose her

You must not fear. Fear is the love-killer. Fear is the ego-triumph that brings abject loneliness. You will face your fear. You will permit it to pass over and through you. And when your ego-fear is gone you will turn and face your lover, and only your heart will remain. You will walk away from her when she has violated your integrity, and you will let her walk when her heart is closed to you. She who can destroy you, controls you. Don’t give her that power over yourself. Love yourself before you love her.

Strike the fear of insol into libchicks and you’ll marvel at how tractable they become.

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Reader Gas Mask parodied (aka improved the veracity of) a dating app advertisement featured on the Goodbye, America blog. The original ad:

And Gas Mask’s pitch perfect parody:

The blue city dating scene is now filled with these over-credentialed yet airheaded yoga-pants’ed “spiritual but not religious” aging beauties regurgitating platitudes and catchwords so vapid they could only be cynically interpreted as misdirection from what these women really want: the destruction of everything their White men built for them.

The luxury of this vacuous virtue signaling that characterizes the societal output of our shared single White woman problem will be like muff dust in the wind once the money, and the White man self-effacing indulgence, runs out. That day is coming sooner than our entrenched globohomo elites know.

My favorite comments from that Goodbye, America post:

Finally, a dating site for women who want geldings or gays.
-Alex the Goon

It is no doubt a tired story. Attractive white woman in yoga pants making “friends” with the locals. Some of them are living that life, and it’s largely paid for by a cuck white man. If it isn’t, and she is still sexy enough, those trips to Dubai are for making friendly with the buttholes of royalty while he takes a dump on her head. But, hey, culture, right?
-James ashleh

Its all about the image and self absorption. Nothing else matters.

It would never even occur to them there that this might be what they’re all about. But they are.
-Cecil Henry

And just what, exactly, is “personal growth”? Growth can be measured. Can any of these self-absorbed broads give me a concise explanation as to how they measure personal growth? Please quantify it for me.
-KGB

Quantification class is hard.

I can stroke the fragile egos of self-contextualizing globalist girls with the best of amoral womanizers, and if the poon is what you want I suggest you do the same. Needlessly antagonizing globowhores by calling them out on their vapidity isn’t good pickup policy. But if you intend to stay with one of these space cadettes, you’ll need to set ground rules early: No poopytalk, no “after hours” with their yogi/cocaine dealer, and no solo travel to chocolate paradises.

The Inspired Woman is the Self-Centered Woman. She’s inspired to tell the world (and jealous girlfriends) about all the globohomo consumerist bullshit and Pedowood-approved moral posturing that inspires her. If women wonder why men can’t be counted on to treat them like princesses anymore, well maybe it’s because these women already treat themselves like princesses and men have decided their pedestal services are no longer needed.

PS There’s one category of inspiration missing from the original meetmindful self-mindfuck: children. As GBFM would say, “lzzllol DOWN WITH THE PATRIARCHY UP WITH MY PATREONARCHY lzzllolzzzl”.

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News clippings about shitlib/antifa White women suffering the all-too-predictable consequences of taking their anti-White ideology seriously are an almost weekly occurrence. The latest is a howler, if you’re into schadenfreude so delicious the aftertaste lingers for weeks.

Antifa Chick Goes to Turkey With Muslim Loverboy, Gets Raped and Beaten

Lacy MacAuley is a well known radical left-wing Antifa organizer in Washington D.C. She was featured in Project Veritas’ undercover videos which exposed the #DisruptJ20 plot to violently disrupt President Trump’s inauguration.

Just like every other lunatic leftist, Lacy fell in love with Islam and became obsessed with helping Syrian ‘refugees’, wholeheartedly believing that Islam is the religion of peace. MacAuley details her experience dating a Turkish Muslim man, describing the hell and fear she lived in because he controlled every move she made, beat and raped her.

You should go to the link and read about the Rapefugee Enrichment Lacy MacAuley received in her own words (she lovingly detailed her international romance on her blog, natch). A few revealing excerpts:

The first two weeks were quite the love story. I observed that he was drinking heavily, and called him an “alky,” but it was just a joke at first.

Recall CH Maxim #[X]: A woman will hold a beta male endlessly accountable for the slightest infractions while promptly forgiving an alpha male the worst transgressions.

Then came our first fight. I had wanted to interview a local woman for an article on Syrian refugees. He did not approve. He knew the woman and did not like her, so he strictly forbade me from speaking with her. After I questioned his rationale, he yelled and stormed out of the room to go smoke a cigarette. I just stood in the middle of the room not knowing what to do. Of course, as a Western woman, no one had ever forbidden me from speaking with anyone else. It was a strange feeling: Don’t I have a mouth to speak? Why can I not use it as I wish?

There was another strange feeling in her vagina: SPLOOGE. You think I’m kidding? Nope. Read on. She stayed with the inbred sandwog for more than two months of sex (nonconsensual, she claims, though this post-cock rationalization is likely subject to alternative interpretation), after experiencing numerous episodes of his charming vibrancy. #LoveWins!

I honestly think that one of the reasons that I have been silent about this for two months has been that I did not want to feed into the narrative of Muslim men being aggressive. I didn’t want to fuel hatred or racism. But silence breeds complicity, and am now telling this story in order to heal.

“I didn’t want to feed the narrative of anti-Muslim hatred or racism, so I covered up a story of a hateful, abusive Muslim man feeding the narrative.”

Are empowered feminist shitlib women sick in the head, or are social pressures and dysfunction in the West simply permitting the omnipresent female id, including its worst instincts, to break out of its cage and roam freely? Perhaps feminist cunts with a pathologically enlarged empathy gland for foreign scum are more susceptible to indulging their primitive sexual compulsions when societal guardrails are removed?

Or maybe these shitlib chicks are unattractive and lonely and ignored by the alpha White men who are in vanishing supply among their shitlib social set.

Are they just garden variety attention whores?

This is Lacy MacAuley:

Manjaw. Manlips. Thousand cock stare. A bad combo for the continuation of Western Civ. This woman is a walking biohazard sign warning that you’ll have to check your sanity and illusion of paternity certainty at the door if you get involved with her.

How many women are like Lacy, in full-throated assault against their own culture and White men as they scuttle to shitholes to sexually adopt gutter filth pets as vanity projects to affirm their twisted libshit morality and soothe their undernourished maternal instinct? A thousand? A million? Tens of millions?

Canary in a coal burner. The Lacys of the West are a wide-open omen of social collapse coming to an endocrine-disrupted globalized outpost near you.

***

PS On the subject of international hedonism, was G Manifesto at the Fyre Festival?

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