Exes

I strongly suspect at least one, and probably two, commenters who soil this blog with hater comments are (American) exes of mine. I think I know who you are.

I have a question. I’m sure you’ll read this. If it bothers you so much to read my blog, why do you do it? Do you get off making yourselves feel like crap every time you come here? Are you masochists?

I have some advice for you. STEP AWAY FROM THE BLOG. Seriously. Delete your link to this blog and never think about it, or me, again. You’ll feel a lot better and your aching heart will thank you. Have some dignity, for christ’s sake.

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Valentine’s Day Mascara

Valentine’s Day is probably the one day of the year which presents special difficulties to the harem king attempting to juggle his multiple lovers. Birthdays and anniversaries are scattered and Christmas absences can be excused by claiming to spend time with family. But Valentine’s Day is that one day of the year that every girl in the known universe expects to be spending with the man who is laying intimately with her. So what does the Man With Multiple Lovers do on this most romantic of days?

I can tell you what the harem king doesn’t do: Tell the truth. There is some literature in the seduction community dealing with harem management (or “multiple long term relationships”) for truly advanced players, but what is counseled is something along the lines of 1. be honest, 2. reframe, and 3. be exceptionally high status. For most men, satisfying condition nmber 3 is unlikely, which is the most important variable in being able to successfully and *openly* manage multiple lovers. There is a reason that seduction community advice for handling MLTRs is so sparse and half-baked — it’s damned hard to do. The fact is that most successful players — alphas and greater betas alike — will lie out of expedience to enable the gravy train of multiple concurrent pussy to keep rolling. Honest and open MLTRs of the sort extolled by pickup instructors who are scared of being labeled misogynists are very rare. I estimate less than 0.5% of men can pull it off for longer than a few months. Eventually, one or more of the girls will tire of the arrangement and opt out, and it will usually be the highest quality [read: age 18- 25, BMI 17 – 23] concubine in his harem, because she is the one with the most options on the open sexual market.

As for reframing, yes, if your game is exceptional and your aloofness unshakeable, you can execute a smooth reframe with all your women and avoid lying to them about sleeping around. But I mean your game has to be tighter than an Asian chick’s virgin anus. And don’t expect it to last much beyond the four month mark. If you think kickass reframing will net you three hot, faithful, simultaneous long term girlfriends who dote on you for years, you need to come down to earth. Your game is not that good. Even pinnacle alpha males have trouble with this. You think Angelina Jolie would tolerate for long a second lover in Brad’s bed? Sure, she likely looks the other way at his dalliances (in much the same way Elin Woods ignored the evidence of Tiger’s blatant cheating for years until the dam burst), but Brad upholds his end of the bargain by LYING about those dalliances, either forthrightly or by omission. I’m assuming Brad is cheating, because the odds of a man of his status not cheating on a rapidly trannie-mogrifying wife like Jolie are infinitesimally low.

An alternative to psy-ops pimp-style harem management for successfully operating an open and honest MLTR is to relinquish your male prerogative as sole pussy possessor. If you state up front to your girls that your desire to bed a variety of women means it’s only natural you don’t place the same expectations of fidelity on them, you can amp up your aloofness game to maximum overload and actually pull off the coveted Open and Honest MLTR. Upside: You never have to worry about covering your tracks. (Roosh recently wrote a good post about track covering). Downside: You may be swimming in polluted vaj. The downside risk to this alternative is so anathema to the majority of men, that even if they have mentally rationalized their way to embracing the wonders of the open, polyamorous relationship, they will likely find it nearly impossible to control their emotions should they suspect one of their favored mistresses is fucking another man on the side. The god of biomechanics, the one true god, is not to be trifled with. This also explains why the denizens of professed polyamorous arrangements are usually ugly, fat, middle-aged hippies with greasy hair. When the grotesqueries you are banging are practically worthless in the sexual market, you don’t much care if they screw around. You aren’t losing much.

I don’t mean to be a complete downer on the concept of the open MLTR. There is a chance, not insignificant, that following the precepts of the open relationship by establishing early on with your women a very loose code of conduct could redound in your favor. Women aren’t linear in thought or action, so telling them they have the option to fuck on the side since that is what you will be doing does not mean that your women are actually going to follow through and fuck on the side. It could just as well result in them wondering in awe at your alphaness that you don’t care if your concubines “cheat” on you. This is aloofness game taken to the nth degree, and can often send the rationalization hamsters spinning so furiously that your multiple girlfriends won’t have the mental energy to expend seeking out additional male partners. They will instead spend their spare time analyzing the smallest details of your words and actions. Remember, too, that it is not in the nature of women to sleep with more than one man at a time, so the open relationship is often open in name only. What normally happens to open relationships is the primary (most attractive) girl bolts after a few months while the lesser girls squabble for sole rights to your time.

Which brings us back to Valentine’s Day. How does the man with multiple lovers deal with V-Day? Well, as I’ve amply demonstrated above, he doesn’t tell the truth. That would be sexual suicide for most men. He prefers not to blatantly lie either, not because of his tender concern for upholding a moral order in the universe, but because as a practical matter it’s hard to keep up with lies. And the inveterate player never lets his eye too far off the practical matters, even for men such as myself with a strong streak of romanticism. No, what he does instead is EVADE. And evasion is best accomplished through planning and foresight.

Let’s say you are currently banging three girls, rated 8, 7 and 5. You’ve been with the 8 for six months, the 7 for four months, and the 5 two months. (The 5 is your guaranteed booty call when you MUST BUST RIGHT NOW.) Obviously, the 8 is going to receive the bulk of your loving attention, and you will be most upset if she were the one to leave you. So you set up the official Valentine’s Day date with the 8. Plan to do the usual stuff with her — nice restaurant, flowers, charming flattery, wild sex. Two weeks before V-Day you call the 7 and tell her to make sure she keeps the weekend before Valentine’s Day free, because you are going to take her out and show her a good time. Then you call the 5 and tell her to be free a couple of days after V-Day. Why do you do this? By preemptively arranging dates with your lesser girls around Valentine’s Day, you buy yourself plausible exemption from having to spend time with them on V-Day itself. They will be so happy that you’re taking them out they won’t be too bothered by the fact that it’s not on Valentine’s Day. If they ask why you aren’t taking them out on V-Day (most girls won’t ask, as it would be an admission of their doubts about their worthiness to you), tell them you spend Valentine’s Day with your family. Or just say you’ll be out of town, so you wanted to see them before you leave. If the spirit moves you, have some flowers delivered to them on V-Day, which they will receive with warm smiles while you are blasting a glorious load in the face of your number one lover.

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The Tiger Woods Effect

It’s been said that when Tiger Woods is dominating on the fairway his opponents lose their composure and begin piling up the bogies. An analogy could be made to relationships. The greater the dating market value disparity between two people the more likely the partner with less power will lose composure at the slightest threat of loss. Another way of saying this: The partner with less hand is more emotionally invested in the relationship.

Tiger Woods may be a goofy looking guy but have no doubt — millions of hot women the world over would love to bang him. This means whichever woman lucks out in the marital lotto with Tiger is automatically the partner with zero emotional hand. (Financial hand is another matter. Thanks to insane anti-male divorce laws a world-beating alpha male like Tiger Woods can be brought to his knees by a single throwaway lantern-jawed blonde like Elin Nordegren.) Nordegren has little hand being married to Tiger and her hindbrain knows this, which is why she went psycho on him when she presumably suspected him of cheating and chased him down with the long iron.

The Tiger Woods Effect works in either direction. Look back on your own dating career. With which women did you behave in the most wretchedly beta manner? The hot ones, right? It’s usually the women who are relatively significantly higher in dating market value who will cause a man to forget everything he’s learned about women and throw alpha to the wind as he begs pleads and cajoles her for more love. Let’s say you are a 6 and your girlfriend is a 9. How long do you think it’s going to be before you’re writing her sappy poems and buying her flowers? Two dates?

Similarly, if you’re a girl who’s dating Tiger Woods and you catch him throwing a flirty glance at a waitress, you might do something crazy like this. (Thanks to Justin for the pointer. My readers always come through with great links.)

I believe it’s a good idea for men to get practice dominating a woman so fully she loses all dignity around him. Date at least one woman who is lower than you in dating market value and watch with wonder how little effort you have to put into the relationship. This will instill you with the right attitudes to have with the hotter women you truly wish to date — namely, aloofness, carelessness and selfishness.

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Blind Girl Game

“Hi, I’m an interpretive guide for the Truitt exhibit. What do you think of it so far?”

I looked over and saw a short, cute girl with a seeing eye dog in tow. At least, I figured it was a seeing eye dog because one, it had the telltale handlebar thing strapped to it and two, it was a dog in a museum, where pets aren’t normally allowed.

I scanned the nearly blank white canvas on the wall before answering her. “I’m struggling with it. If I had to turn this in as an assignment for art class I’d probably get an F.”

I was at the Anne Truitt exhibit, in search of beauty amongst blocks and drawings of lines. For those who aren’t familiar, here is a representative sample of her work:

Are you scratching your head? Keep scratching plebe. You wouldn’t recognize art if it bit you on the ass.

The short cute girl eagerly continued our conversation. She was quite earnest. I was charmed.

“Truitt was a minimalist who wanted the viewer to experience her work as an emotional reaction, instead of a visual object. (something something something)… it’s conceptual art that draws out memories in the viewer… (something something something)… and the colors are meant to represent just the color…”

As she spoke, her eyes looked directly at mine, as if she could actually see me. Her gaze was intense. It made me a little uncomfortable and I looked to the dog for reassurance. I began to wonder if she was really blind, or if she picked the dog up from the shelter and liked the handlebar thing, so she never removed it. In the middle of her speech, she reached down without looking and patted the ground with her hand, feeling for the dog’s leash which had moved a foot away from her. Yep, she was blind. I breathed a sigh of relief and thought about picking my nose, but checked myself. Some blind people have rudimentary vision. She might be able to see my blurry finger drilling into my blurry face.

She was such an engaging converationalist that I found myself fully committed to chatting with her. It didn’t hurt that she was cute with a perfect ass. If there was female game, she had it. As we volleyed back and forth on the artistic impact of Truitt’s bare bones oeuvre, I felt an old, familiar urge well up inside me. I was gaming this chick. Teasing, banter, light touch on her elbow.  The raw energy of a possible seduction electrified the air around us. My crotch grew three sizes that day!

None of my teasing involved her blindness. It never came up. It’s funny how a rollicking conversation can overlook the most obvious questions, like “What is a blind girl doing in a museum giving tour guides of a visual artist’s exhibit?” Then I noticed something else; this girl was getting attracted to me through nothing but my words. She moved in closer, she smiled wider. But, she couldn’t see me. She couldn’t see my well-timed cocky grin, or my alpha body language. I could have been a potbellied bald leprosy victim rubbing my hands together nervously for all she knew.

That’s when it hit me. How, after all these years, could I have ignored the potential of blind girl game? There are so many fewer variables to worry about. No need for style, grooming, or calculated backturns. You don’t even have to smile. All you need is the seductive allure of your words. If you are a man with powerful verbal game, your talents will be best appreciated by a blind girl. In fact, you could easily score a 9 or 10 blind chick if your game is only good enough to score 20/20 vision 7s. Removing a woman’s visual judgement bumps your skill level up two full points.

Downside: When slipping her the midnight hummer, make sure to tell her it’s not a hot dog.

I bet VK has a lot of great blind girl jokes up his sleeve.

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Why Do Some Men Bang Below Their Level?

Take a look at this picture:

This is Steve Phillips, 46 year old ESPN baseball analyst and former Mets GM, with his 22 year old mistress, a lowly production assistant he met on the job. The bitch mistress filed for a restraining order against Phillips the day *after* she left a taunting letter with his wife saying she (the bitch mistress) and Steve were meant to be together. Chutzpah, thy name is woman.

(Note that stalker behavior is more likely to occur when the status differential between the man and woman is significant. A woman will fall in love VERY quickly and effortlessly with an alpha who deigns to dump a fuck in her, while this same woman would need years to decide whether she loves the provider beta who dotes on her.)

Here is a photo of Phillips’ aged wife, Marni, mother of his four children:

After viewing the first picture with much disgust and confusion, most of you were probably asking “What the HELL was he doing with her?” And you’d be right to wonder. Phillips is a good-looking dude, high status, and presumably loaded. There are thousands of hot 22 year old women who would gladly smoke his pole.

The mistress looks like a fat dyke. I’d rate her a beer-fueled 2. The only thing she has going for her is her youth (24 year age difference between Phillips and her), which goes to show that even an ugly dyke-ish 22 year old can be more sexually appealing to men than their aged wrinkled wives. Although after looking at the pic of Marni Phillips for many minutes of close examination, I’d have to conclude that it’d be a close call deciding which one I’d fuck. I think I’d choose Marni. Her boobs give much love.

So why do some men with options choose to date, or cheat with, unattractive women below their level?

First, keep in mind that the reason we notice weirdo combinations like Phillips and his pig-faced mistress is because they are so rare. We notice that which defies expectation, and we ignore that which is the same old same old. 99% of men with Phillips’ status are either dating or cheating with much hotter women. So don’t get your hopes up, ladies.

Remember, too, that what you see is not always what you get when a good-looking man slums it with an ugly woman. Because a man’s dating market value is determined by so many more variables than those which can be observed by the naked eye, we cannot always assume that a good-looking guy is high status in the same way we can safely judge a good-looking girl is high status. (A woman’s social status is based almost completely on her looks.) That good-looking guy with the ugly girl may have crippling personality flaws, no money, no job, no charisma, no humor, no self-confidence, no ambition, or no game. He may also be too lazy or fearful to put in the extra effort to get a girl closer to his level.

But these unusual dating disparity exceptions do exist, and here are the reasons why I think some high status men will choose to lay with gross women:

• Variety is the spice of life. Sometimes a new, ugly pussy is more rewarding than another night of the same, slightly less-ugly pussy.
• Convenience. Many alphas won’t make the minimal effort required to meet hot chicks in the wild savannahs of their cities. The pigmalion intern you see every day who will drop to her knees instantly to suck you off can be, from a cost-benefit calculation, the better deal of the moment.
• Pure laziness. Some men think it’s undignified, degrading, or less than manly (ha!) to actively chase women. They prefer to have the ugly pussy fall in their laps. This rationalization by lazy men is known as “sour grapes”. Unfortunately for them, it’s actually more degrading to bang an ugly woman than it is to pursue hotter women, even when that pursuit leads to rejection. There is honor in the chase.
• Insecurity. A powerful man with deep-seated psychological issues who likes to be in control may opt for the ugly mistress he can easily dominate. A hotter mistress would require more tact and manipulative ministrations to keep in line, a tall order which could send him into a self-hating spiral of spite. Some men don’t like a challenge; they prefer a supplicative sex slave. These are the same kinds of men who solicit hookers. Also see: laziness.
• Hidden lack of self-confidence. He’s alpha on the outside, beta on the inside.
• Paper alpha. There are men who are alpha with other men, but graceless, befuddled pussies with women. It’s not many, but they do exist.
• Youth is its own quality. A man quickly grows bored of sex with an old wife. An ugly 22 year old will suddenly start to look a lot more appealing than even sex with a “beautiful for her age” older wife.
• Experimentation. Many unattractive girls will do things in bed that a wife or a better looking woman would never do. If a girl is willing to accept A2M and post gym workout teabagging, she will bump up the queue.
• Odd fetishes. There are guys who like to fuck sheep. Rare outliers are part of the wonderful tapestry of humanity.

Some of you will suggest that maybe the ugly mistress has a sparkling personality, and Phillips was drawn to that. No. When a man is an alpha, women all around him, including hot ones, will suddenly have sparkling personalities. Bitch shields drop as fast as panties with the right man. Compatibility and sparkling personalities can be easily spoofed when the proper incentives are in place.

None of what I listed above should provide succor to weak, lazy men who wish to dumpster dive and enjoy their buddies’ approval at the same time. Steve Phillips forever sullied his good name by hooking up with this beast. If you’re going to take a mistress, be sure to take one who brings honor to the title.

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Amish Love

The Open Borders Journal has an article about the growing popularity of Amish pulp romance novels. It seems women — Amish and heathen alike — are snorting these books like chocolate-covered eight balls.

Most bonnet books are G-rated romances, often involving an Amish character who falls for an outsider. Publishers attribute the books’ popularity to their pastoral settings and forbidden love scenarios à la Romeo and Juliet. Lately, the genre has expanded to include Amish thrillers and murder mysteries. Most of the authors are women.

Beverly Lewis, who sets her novels among the Amish in Pennsylvania, has sold 13.5 million copies of her books.

13.5 million copies. I’ve long said that if you are a man who understands the mind of women you should write hackneyed romance novels under a female pseudonym and CASH THE FUCK IN. Forget the noble goal of writing the next Great American Novel; the money is in forbidden love and hoary cliches aimed at bored middle-aged wives and tweenies experiencing their first gina tingles.

But surely, I need talent to amass such a large audience, you may wonder. Well, let’s take a look at an excerpted passage:

“His warm, gentle lips moved over hers, and she returned the favor, until Hannah thought they might both take flight right then and there. Finally desperate for air, they parted.”

There’s your answer. No one ever went broke underestimating the poor taste of the distaff masses. Of all the “literary” genres, cheeseball romance is probably the easiest to write and, idiocratically, the most lucrative as well. It’s the female equivalent of single position porn and egg white plus yohimbe-fueled money shots under cheap lighting. All you need to know is one simple rule, and then you can count your benjamins: You’ve gotta tap that inner ape core in every woman by appealing to her base sexual instincts. This means having a good grasp of concepts such as:

• Game
• Male attractiveness traits
• Badboy reformation projects
• Female hypergamy
• Overcoming obstacles to love
• Parental intrusion
• Peer judgementalism
• Forbidden love
• Foreplay

It also helps to have an eye for detail and knowledge of colors beyond red, green and dark green.

I think another reason besides the concept of forbidden love that explains the popularity of Amish romance novels has to do with the cultural milieu in which they exist. When the country is going to pot around you (read: it’s getting more diverse and distrustful as people greedily scramble for their slice of the taxpayer-funded pie), you find solace in fictional worlds of order and stability. And what’s more orderly, more mundane, than the Amish? If I’m right, we’ll soon see a literary trend toward traditionalism and small town esprit.

I’ve thought about writing pulp romance under a female pseudonym, but I don’t think I could resist the urge to subvert my readers’ expectations.

“His warm, gentle lips moved over hers, and she returned the favor, until Hannah thought they might both take flight right then and there. Finally desperate for air, she squirted. Her nether furrow drenched in warm moisture, she thought perhaps she had urinated, and ran away from him in shame, her legs shaking the whole way like a dog shitting olive pits. Wherefore this strange new feeling?, she begged to the god whose eyes she felt burning judgement into her soul. Finally home, panting in confusion and ecstatic pleasure, she stumbled across her parents’ open bedroom door just in time to see Papa plunging an unwashed zucchini deep into Mama’s womb — the same zucchini Hannah had harvested that morning while murmuring prayers to Mary Mother of God to give her the fortitude to resist sinful temptations. Frozen in place by shock, Hannah’s bonnet slipped to the floor. Mama looked up, frowned, and threw an oil lamp at her. Papa laughed, the zucchini in tatters in his hand.”

I remember driving through Amish country during the spring, after a soaking rain. In the fields, two boys had hitched a plow-like contraption to horses and were whipping the horses into a gallop as they stood behind the great beasts, getting pulled around at a pretty good clip. Earth was flying up, and both of them were covered head to foot in mud which obscured everything but their wide, happy smiles. What a life, I thought. What boy today wouldn’t find that more fun than another blast em up round of Halo?

So what do the Amish think of Amish-themed porn romance novels?

Ms. Esh said some Amish customers snap up the Amish fiction she stocks, but others tell her they don’t like the way the books portray the community.

“There will always be people who say we’re getting too exposed,” said Ms. Esh, a 48-year-old member of the local Old Order Amish community.

Speaking of exposed, I recall the Amish girls were good-looking. Very fresh-faced and wholesome. Not too many fatties among them. There was the occasional ugly inbred mishap, but thanks to the Amish fashion sense those girls didn’t have to suffer the indignity of hotter, skimpier-dressed peers shoving their ugliness in their faces every minute of every day. Still, even with head to toe clothing covering all but their faces and hands, I was able to make fairly accurate assessments of the Amish women’s looks from many yards away. The power of male discernment of female beauty is a finely tuned instrument, indeed. The hyperjealous harem guarding Muslims know this, which is why they invented the burqa.

Amish mothers hit the wall hard, unfortunately. No MILFs in that community. It’s 30 and stick a fork in them, no exceptions. Living off the land must age a person faster.

Some Amish have nevertheless become avid fans. An Amish woman in Lancaster told Ms. Lewis that “all the women in our church district are reading your books under the covers, literally,” Ms. Lewis said.

Amish men, listen up! You’ve allowed a sliver of the heathen slut culture to invade your oasis. Your womenfolk are reading crass female porn under their bedcovers. And make no mistake, it is PORNOGRAPHY. Cheap thrills to tingle ginas. It’s just a small step from there to Amish women demanding equality in the fields and nagging you to do more housework. Then comes Amish feminism (6th wave? It’s all the same briny crap) and finally Amish bukkake. Give an inch, and they’ll make you yearn for the relative modesty of Rumspringa. If this doesn’t scare you straight, try picturing a guy like me seducing one of your bonnet-wearing daughters, my hand first touching her forearm, then her thigh, a neg lighting up her eyes, and a makeout behind the hay bales as I promise her a world of adventure and excitement.

During a recent visit, Ms. Woodsmall [non-Amish author of an Amish romance novel series] sat on a swing outside the Flauds’ [Amish couple with six children] 133-year-old farmhouse and peppered them with questions for her sequel to “The Hope of Refuge.”

“This is one of those questions I hate to ask,” said Ms. Woodsmall. One of her characters, a schoolteacher, wants to modernize some aspects of Amish education. “What are some things she might want to change?” Ms. Woodsmall asked.

The Flauds’ 13-year-old daughter, Amanda, piped up. “The bathrooms,” she said, explaining that many students at her school wanted to replace outhouses with indoor plumbing.

Some of her inquiries drew a blank. The Flauds couldn’t come up with Amish expressions for the word “quirky” or the phrase “women’s rights.”

The Amish will be the salvation of America, if there is to be one. May they continue pumping out kids at quadruple the rate of the SWPLs, post-integrity equalists, and warlord-wannabes who currently buttfuck themselves on the levers of power.

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Safeway Siren

Standing in the mixed nuts section of Safeway, a blur of blonde caught my peripheral vision. Turning, I saw a gorgeous girl following a middle-aged man around the fruit bins. She looked about 18 years old, at the peak of her womanly ripeness. She was wearing velvet athletic shorts so small that the underside of her ass barely poked through the bottom, a divine demarcation between legs and buttocks. Her breasts were perfection — round, firm C cups that pulled her t-shirt taut. She walked with the bouncy, playful, slightly self-conscious gait of a younger girl swathed in the fleshy encumbrances of an older developed woman. She was a solid 9.

The man was pasty, dumpy, 45-ish, and smiling like a goof; a very happy herb, indeed. His body language was animated and he talked rapidly, cheerfully. Something about this duo was peculiar. This wasn’t a father-daughter team. I gathered my nuts and left the two behind. We rendezvoused again in aisle 9, next to the sardines and canned tuna. This time, the girl glanced at me with big eyes and parted lips, and if it wasn’t a trick of store lighting, her face blushed a pink hue. I matched her glance while the herb continued chattering in her ear, oblivious to our silent flirtation.

I lingered a bit around them to gather valuable information. She had an accent. She looked northern european; I suspected she was Dane or Norwegian, perhaps of Baltic descent. She had a limited grasp of English and, presumably, American culture, as the herb, who looked like he was about to die of a heart attack from swelling happiness, spent a lot of time slowly explaining the foodstuffs for sale and the pricing convention to her.

It didn’t take long for me to assess the situation; she was either an au pair or a foreign exchange student and the herb was the host family herbiarch. This was the most likely scenario. The three of us passed each other a few more times in aisles 7, 4 and 1. Each time she met my eyes with tender, yearning lust.

What grabbed my attention wasn’t so much that an au pair was flirting with me, but the behavior of the herb. I’ve never seen a more joyous middle-aged man. He was practically skipping down the aisles, his gums flapping a million miles an hour, his jowly cheeks inflamed a crimson hue, his voice a confident baritone of manly vigor. This was a man who clearly felt infused with new life. The physically close company of this young woman, who it should be noted smiled warmly at the herb and listened attentively when he spoke, shaved 20 years of age off his life. No windfall of riches, no business success, no winning home sports team can inspirit a man as vitally as a young, pretty woman in his thrall.

Naturally, the herb imagined more thrall than there was, if his au pair’s surreptitious flirting with me was any indication. But picture the likely contours of this herb’s life: A fat and dumpy sow wife, ingrate kids, crippling mortgage on an oversized house, sensible sedan, shit job, depressing neighbors, and a gloomy sunken aging face that young American women no longer seriously entertain with their flirtations staring back at him apathetically in the mirror every morning. One can understand why a herb of this caliber would spring to life inhaling the meagerest estrogenic perfumes of an 18 year old vixen.

At the cash register, herb and hottie rolled up behind me. As I placed my selection of delicious fruits and almond butter on the conveyor the girl nervously fidgeted with her shirt and peered down at her feet. A wave of shyness contorted her face and body. She pulled out a pack of gum which she fumbled and dropped to the floor. It landed on my shoe, so I bent over and retrieved it for her, never letting my eyes waver from hers. The herb must have noticed this change in her countenance because he stopped chattering about the great items one can find in an American supermarket and took his first look at me. Perhaps he pieced it together, but probably not. I smiled at them both and left the store.

My future. It won’t be that herb’s. Hookers, game and, if need be, expatriation to cash in on my Americanness with a much younger loving, sexy East European or South Asian woman. Anything less would be… uncivilized.

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