Sexy Quotes & Lurid Links

Scandalized reader “halisi” unintentionally offers a great example of a feminist ashamed of what feminism is really about.

1) Feminsim is NOT anti-beauty/pro-frump! There are plenty of feminists who like to wear designer clothes, wear makeup, and/or take the time each day to make themselves look beautiful. Jessica Valenti said it best (and I’m paraphrasing here): “I like to wear makeup. I just realize that I’m only wearing it because society tells me I’ll look ugly without it.” Feminism is about finding the beauty within yourself, makeup or no.

2) Feminists aren’t anti-men/family, either. There are tons of feminists who are married with children. Tons. And not all feminists are pro-abortion, either; that’s actually one of the most contested issues in the feminist community.

3) And feminists are most definitely not against women/girls playing sports! If anything, that’s anti-feminism.

1) If feminism is not anti-beauty, why do so many self-declared feminists look like coal miners?

1a) Valenti’s “I just realize that I’m only wearing [makeup] because society tells me I’ll look ugly without it” is the dog-eared “deus ex societas” card that feminists always pull when they have run out of credible explanations for female behavior and are forced to confront the reality of innate sex differences. To demonstrate the bankruptcy of that card, try to imagine a man saying “I just realize that I’m only trying to get girls into bed because society tells me I’ll be depressed if I stay celibate.” Ridiculous on its face, yet that is exactly the level of intellectual feminist thought.

2) Marriage and kids are no amnesty from man-hating. Some of the worst ideological feminists are lantern-jawed fuzzfaced quasi-dykes married to mincing beta schlubs who confirm feminist prejudices by their mere existence, not to mention by their sycophantic suckuppery.

2a) I’m sure there is a lone feminist or two somewhere out there in the hinterland who is pro-man and anti-abortion, but she has little say in the national conversation. Feminism’s leaders and spokeshos are, almost to a bitch, man-hating termagants who loathe male desire and cheer on third trimester vacuumings. So, please, spare me your empty-headed NAFALT argument.

3) Who said feminists are anti-sport? I’m pretty sure the field hockey team in my high school was 90% incipient dyke. Of course femcunts love the idea of sports; it’s another way for them to undermine traditionally male domains. Title IX is exhibit A in how a feminist policy to force equality of the sexes inevitably tilts the playing field against boys. Schools only have so much money to spend, so boys, who by nature prefer participation in the sports battlefield in greater numbers, on average, than girls, have seen their sports programs cut to accommodate the inclusion of women’s sports programs.

No, feminism is, right down to its withered, cunty heart, a grotesque ideology mounted on a dais of lies. My goal is to mock it so ruthlessly that its practitioners and sympathizers, all of them, find it ever more difficult to pronounce in public life that they are feminists, to drive the true believers so far underground that only their raspy-throated, dusty-muffed sisters-in-arms are willing to entertain their insipid nostrums. This is total war, and in total war where the weapons are words, the goal is utter destruction through social ostracism. The icy wasteland of discredited ideologues and crackpots mumbling self-medicating catchphrases and hitting themselves in the forehead is feminism’s inevitable destination.

***

Gramps has some insight into the nature of decision-making.

As an old guy, I can say that almost every decision I made, regarding important life choices, which were comfortable and low risk, I came to regret. Those decisions I made which were stressful, and which I made under duress (choosing between several stressful alternatives) I found yielded the greatest rewards.

I can see two forces at work here. Perhaps, because we imbue stressful decisions with greater importance, we come to value the consequences from such decisions, regardless of benefit, as more rewarding. Or, this is an example of hormesis: a version of “that which does not kill us makes us stronger”. Decisions made under stress strengthen our resolve to see them through, and the more we have invested in a decision, the greater the likelihood we will value the fruits of our labor, even if those fruits aren’t very good for us.

***

Sea7 writes in response to women wearing pajamas to the classroom:

That is nasty. Contaminating the classroom with all their previous night’s clitty litter as it sloughs off the twat and sprinkles out the PJ leg hole.

Alpha pillow talk.

***

Related: How to pick up chicks who are wearing pajamas.

There are so many possible situations here, and I am so drunk, that covering them all is beyond the scope of this post.

However, in a “common dressing” scenario (of, say, lots of PJs), the neg, social, and value scoring possibilities become PUA friendly for ambitious Betas looking to move up a notch.

To wit:

PJs have flaps. Or not. The point being, ASK about them, in a teasing neg, if possible. This can lead as deep into the coal mine as you are willing to go.

PJs look good. Or not. The point being, CONTRAST them unfavorably from your target against another chick. The more public and subtle you pull this off, the better.

PJs make a statement. Or not. The point being, acknowledge (and, of course, neg) the “innocence” and “exploratory” subtext of the PJ beaver whilst working a touchy-feely move towards relief and satisfaction.

PJs rarely have shoes, and beavers CRAVE shoes. The possibilities here are potent – use them.

How I’d open a PJ-wearing girl: “Too good for Snuggies, eh?”

***

A shadowsage calling himself Porter leaves an especially illuminating comment over at Mangan’s. People in the rotting majority who think diversity is really about equality, and thus that their looming minority status will open access to all sorts of multicult racket goodies and exonerations currently only available to designated pawns victim groups, are in for a rude awakening. It is not human nature to grant one’s historical scapegoats mercy when they have been enfeebled and dragged down to one’s level, particularly when one has been invigorated by nursed grievances and desouled of the nobler virtues; just the opposite: it is human nature to pile on, to execute the finishing move until the last sworn enemy is dangling from the gallows in the public square. There is no mélangutopia awaiting us over the horizon; only hands at throats across America.

***

So single motherhood and the decline in male industriousness our author describes cannot be spirited away simply by getting men and women to the altar. ‘Outrageous’ though it may seem to a generation steeped in feminist propaganda, the natural economic basis of marriage must also be restored. White men are programmed by evolution to be providers. If you deliberately rearrange society to render this function superfluous, do you have any right to complain when men stop knocking themselves out to perform it?

F. Roger Devlin, a man who abides Chateau principles, wrote the above criticism in his review of Charles Murray’s forthcoming book “Coming Apart: The State of White America 1960-2010”. He rightly raps Murray’s mangina tendency to excuse female mating predilection while happily clobbering men over the head with the “man up” billy club, in what is otherwise sure to be a good book. Murray tackles social issues, race and class very well, but he seems to shy from taking on feminism and its bastard children.

My opinion of cultural trends now underway?: Thanks to technology, diversity and cognitive stratification, America is entering the period of The Great Culling, a process which will create not only new classes, but even new races, broadly a snarky Eloi and a medicated Morlock, and slowly, as the government cheese runs out, the losers in this culling will begin to procreate less and less, until they are discarded by the invisible crotch of evolution as failed human experiments unable to adapt to the new reality. (Note that some of the losers include childless spinsters of the high IQ elite.) The wildcard is genetic engineering, something nerds love to trumpet to assuage their feelings of hopelessness, but I doubt it will emerge in time to make a difference.

Anyhow, may 2012 be filled with postponements of the coming dystopia!

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Happy New Year!

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Street Smarts, Game And The White Underclass

How’s that for an omnibus blog post title?

A reader sent a link to a hilarious blog called ‘Texts From Bennett’ which is a compendium of text message conversations between some dude and his 17-year-old white cousin who, with great pride, thinks, or rather wishes, he’s part black.

I’ve been a reader for about two years now and your site has changed my life, so thanks.

I’m sure by now you have heard of Texts From Bennett. It is a blog that went viral a few weeks ago.

One of the posts shows the cousin asking Bennett why he always gets LJBF’d. The cousin is a beta who, according to Bennett, “crys wen u watch football,” and “enjoys capshuring butterflys.” So when he asks Bennett what to do, Bennett gives some apt advice. More here.

Despite his lack of education, Bennett understands game and I have no doubt he cleans up with the dregs of Kansas City.

Let’s assume for the sake of expediency that Texts From Bennett is a warehouse of legitimate conversations by a real teenage whigger living in the crappy part of Kansas City expounding on the issues of the day, and not a clever hoax for the amusement of the blog host. (The numerous assurances by the blogger that the texts are real makes one suspicious of its authenticity, but whatevs.) Even if fake, Bennett is an iconic Millennial generation representative of the white underclass. He is funny because he strikes so many true chords: the thug-lite attitude, the exaltation of ghetto black dysfunction, the proud anti-intellectualism and its substitution with the elevation of street smarts, the defiant middle finger to the mores of the SWPL and upper classes… all lamentable customs and affectations if the survival and thriving of first world civilization is your thing.

But hidden amongst the pile of manure is a gem of a discovery. As the reader notes, Bennett has game, and he has the best kind of game: primitive natural game that knows not what it’s doing.

Here, for instance, is Bennett showing that he understands women don’t swoon for betaboy idealistic romanticism:

Who can deny the wisdom in these words? Weepy, emotionally available betas are LJBFed. Insensitively aloof alphas are sexually pleasured. And this is particularly true of women in the prime of their attractiveness and allure, that glorious window between ages 15 and 25.

Here’s Bennett on the interchangeability of women as sexual pursuits and the universal female attraction for the badboy:

Bennett is a great illustration of the sour stereotype that dumb but socially savvy men will do better with women than smart but nerdy men. No one would imagine that Bennett is acing Algebra II. But a lot of people can easily imagine him pulling more ass — and higher quality ass* — than the typical studious middle-class white boy.

*Higher quality in the context of the sexual market refers to a woman’s most valuable attributes: namely, her looks and the cut of her curves. They may be dregs by socioeconomic standards, but that won’t prevent them from stimulating wood in the most landed of gentry.

It’s been remarked here before that thugs and assorted assholes and asshole-wannabes often exhibit more natural game than smart, agreeable professionals who second-guess themselves at every turn. This is completely understandable once you come to terms with the reality of the prime motivating force behind vagina tingles: a man’s attitude. The right attitude — an insouciant mix of devil-may-care whimsy, impulsiveness, self-centeredness, vanity, cruelty and often-undeserved confidence — is the winning formula for scoring lots of hot babes. Or, if monogamy is your thing, for piquing the interest of that one hot girlfriend, to be leavened later by shows of provision and calculated vulnerability.

A hopeless fap-happy beta can’t go wrong observing the fauna of regressives like Bennett in action and heeding his crudely reductive advice. This fact of life surely disheartens a lot of you educated and sophisticated readers. A visual is drawn of some of you cursing the dbags on Jersey Shore and the hot ass they’re tagging that you aren’t.

If the country is filling up with Bennetts — and Bennetts exist in all classes — this says something about the nature and demands of women, who, after all, are the gatekeepers of sex and the primary molders of male behavior. Even if Bennett is a fantasy character devised by a mischievous imp trolling coastal reporters salivating at the thought of interviewing a white trash caricature who rationalizes their hate, a rising sea of his kind is undoubtedly swamping the US, hidden in plain sight from gated communities and invidiously creating a new norm, like dumbfuck kudzu. A culture teeming with shameless Bennetts and dotted with islands of antagonistic SWPLs and tribalistic snarkers is a doomed culture, too far gone to resuscitate. Stick a fork in it, it’s done.

On the upside, the sex lives of alphas may be experiencing its cultural zenith. And Bennett, like the “Umm, sorry?” guy, are our time’s prophets.

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Feminist Self-Owned On Male Porn Star Theory

Slate, that bastion of feminist mental gymnastics, has an article about some male porn star who appeals to women because he supposedly embodies nonthreatening boyishness.

In the winter issue of Good Magazine, Amanda Hess has a fascinating profile of James Deen, a young, handsome porn star who is becoming famous for actually appealing to women. Due to his boyish, slightly skate-punk aesthetic, naturally toned body, and ability to connect emotionally (or at least appear to) with his female co-stars, Deen has garnered a following of devoted young women in an industry that in most cases ignores them entirely. Hess explains that Deen’s school-boy charm is what makes him approachable—and sexy—to his female fans:

Deen has carved out a niche in the porn industry by looking like the one guy who doesn’t belong there. Scroll through L.A.’s top porn agency sites and you’ll find hundreds of pouty women ready to drop to their knees, but just a few dozen men available to have sex with them. These guys all have a familiar look—neck chains, frosted tips, unreasonable biceps, tribal tattoos. Deen looks like he was plucked from a particularly intellectual frat house.

Hess goes on to discuss why there aren’t more guys like Deen in the male porn-star stable, and her findings tell us just as much about male viewers’ hang-ups as they do about women’s erotic preferences. Part of the problem is that men (who largely control the porn industry) imagine that women want everything big—“Big arms. Big abs. Big dicks,” as Hess puts it—when what they really want is something a little less overwrought. One of Hess’ subjects described her attraction to Deen thusly:  “He was almost like a guy that you would just hang out with at Hebrew school.”

What a robust theory from sex-positive feministland! A hardcore male porn star women love because he’s a caring, emotionally available niceguy. Except it isn’t true.

A number of commenters familiar with the field pointed out the factual problems with Hess’ theory.

You’ve got to be kidding. This guy, while lacking in tribal tattoos, makes up for it in being like every other incredibly raunchy porn star. As a normal heterosexual male, I’ve seen him in tons of porn (as there’s really only like 5 male porn stars, as the article says, and there [sic] in everything), and, past looks, he is in no way some sensual lovemaking hebrew camp dude. He does not stare longingly into their eyes and whispers in their ears. He chokes women, slaps them, does pretty degrading things to them. He fits perfectly into the stereotype of porn as a male-centric, women-as-objects display of power. If women actually watch him, If a women who did not like porn watched one of his, they would in no way find it any different, save the frosted tips, ect. This artice is really silly.

***

Do a google search or xvideos search for “pornstar punishment” with “James Deen” and you can see for yourself how well he “emotionally connects” with the women while he chokes them and slaps them. The article seems kind of funny after seeing that. Poorly researched.

Hilarity. Another crackpot feminist theory bites the dusty muff. It seems the truth is as it always was, particularly of women who love to watch male-oriented porn: chicks dig jerks, especially jerks who choke and slap them during “lovemaking”.

Why do feminists run like rats from a spotlight beam whenever they are confronted with the reality of female sexual nature and women’s preference to surrender to dominant men? What is it about that fact that sends them into paroxysms of nonsensical deconstructivism babble?

Steve Sailer has pithily remarked that the goal of feminist writers is to rearrange the world so that, come the revolution, ugly feminists will be desired by men. I have a corollary to that theory.

Feminists loathe the objectification of women because they know they don’t measure up as objects of desire.

The natural female desire to submit to a powerful man is especially galling to feminists, because it strikes at the heart of their conceit: that women can, and more importantly, *want* to scale the heights of achievement just like men do, and the only thing stopping them is misogyny and the patriarchy. If feminists were forced to acknowledge that most women have no such inclination, that in fact they prefer to support with their love and affection a worthy alpha male, they would have to face the unpleasant truth that they are a minority of masculinized freaks out of touch with the majority of their own sex. Outcasts are always fighting to make the rest of the world seem deluded and tyrannical.

That Slate article has another doozy of a theory about why there aren’t more James Deens in male-centric visual porn.

But the real obstacle to the proliferation of female-friendly male porn stars is, oddly, a rather nasty and subtle strain of homophobia, revealed in the following double-bind:

The straight male performer must be attractive enough to serve as a prop, but not so attractive that he becomes the object of desire.

Hess is spot on. Men need to see a penis in straight porn (presumably to stand in for their own), but not one that is attached to a guy who might be threateningly attractive, not to mention plausibly appealing to the woman involved. Maybe this insistence on a male blank slate (a kind of reverse objectification, when you think about it) makes it easier to project oneself onto the disembodied penis, but it also protects men from the potentially scary experience of being turned on by both partners of a heterosexual encounter—which, yes, does involve another dude. In other words, the bland interchangeability of the “unreasonable” looking men allows them to avoid confronting the terrifying specter of homosexuality.

Yup, homophobia is the reason why there aren’t feminist-approved male role models in porn.

Folks, you can’t make this shit up. Unless you’re a graduate of Columbia University.

Gay fabulosity is most likely biological in origin, so straight men are not going to be turned on by the penises pounding away in porn or the men attached to those penises, no matter how nonthreatening they look. Straight men watch porn because the sight of a hot babe’s body in the throes of sex, and the visual of various female orifices getting penetrated, is arousing. Straight men don’t like to see the faces of the male porn stars because it’s distracting from the action, and BONER KILLING.

The NewYorkBetaTimes, of all organs, even had a story about a study which proved that the sight of penises or men engaged in gay sex has no effect on the penile responses of straight male viewers. But I guess to the gatekeepers of the homophobia grievance flame, such inconvenient truths are mere speed bumps in the road to an ego-ensconcing distortion of reality.

I wonder if people realize that three quarters of mainstream internet websites would disappear overnight if a law mandated that no more than half of their content could be feelgood, made-up shit.

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Supply Your Own Caption

From this story:

I’ll start.

“King Kong swats at a cheap tipper.”

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Fat Girl Funnies

Hat tip to Gmac for tweeting a link to this hilarious fat girl meme. I laughed and laughed.

I read somewhere that the Census Bureau (or was it the CDC?) predicts that 80% of Americans will be OBESE by 2050. Imagine that. A whole country full of waddling fat asses. Where do I renounce citizenship?

I’ve always maintained that shame and ridicule are great motivators to improve oneself. Clearly this humble blog, with its symphony of sadistic mockery, isn’t doing enough to stem the tide of tubbiness. Let’s all work together to reach the masses before they reach critical mass.

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Feminist Gets Pumped And Dumped By PUA

A masochistic reader (you’d have to be in love with your own pain to read any of the yeasty discharges fouling up Jizzabel) sent along this turgid confessional from a feminist who got banged out by a player four hours after they met for a first date drink. Her account of the date leaves the distinct impression that she was played by a guy who knows game very well. Let’s examine the techniques he employed to snare his prey.

I went on a date a month ago with a boy I met on an online dating site. “Met” meaning he’d sent me a few witty messages and his pictures were decent enough to warrant an IRL pass.

No long-winded phone calls making his interest in her obvious. Just a few witty (translated from the femspeak: terse/cocky/funny/asshole-ish) emails which implied his non-neediness and her interchangeability. So far, he’s off to a good start.

He was a strong conversationalist. We talked politics and he impressed me with a nuanced understanding of the debt ceiling debate. He knew about the Arab Spring.

How does the old saw go? Treat a lady like a broad and a broad like a lady. Mr. PUA knew he was dealing with the typical urban feminist slut who would swoon over a man who flattered her intelligence. So sprinkle in a few ledes he read in the NYBetaTimes about the Arab Spirng and , voila!, instant charma.

We discussed the unexpected but peculiarly gratifying direction our late 20s had taken both of us.

Again, translated from the femspeak: She was glad he assuaged her ego with comforting euphemisms about being an unmarried childless woman in her late 20s.

He made me laugh.

“He made me tingle.”

One drink turned into two,

Candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker!

two neighborhood bars into three,

This is the standard game tactic known as “bouncing”, or “time distortion”. By taking a girl to a number of places on a single night, you leave her with the impression that she’s known you longer than she has. It’s very effective at building comfort, as we will see.

and when he kissed me in the street, I was elated.

When a PUA gets a street kiss, that’s a green light to go for a same night lay. Women don’t make out in public places unless they are really into the thought of sex with you.

He wanted to see me again, he said. I agreed, the enthusiasm audible in my voice.

Audible enthusiasm is also a SNL green light. Also, note how he doesn’t set up a day and time to meet again. He just says he wants to see her again. Make your intentions known, but make them known vaguely, without promise, so that they could plausibly be misinterpreted, or misconstrued, by women. Chicks dig ambiguity even more than they dig ambivalence.

As he walked me to the train, he asked me if I would come over for a nightcap. Just one. He offered to pay for a cab to take me home afterwards, as I had to work early.

Always escalate, until you have hit her limit. Push, push, push. It’s what women — even, maybe especially, feminists — secretly crave from men, their protestations to the contrary notwithstanding. There’s no worse feeling than having a pussy in the hand, only to see it disappear because you pulled back at the last moment out of some quaint deference to dating etiquette or mangina virtue. Or fear.

I — like many women I know — harbor a quiet but persistent internal voice that cries, “If you like him, don’t go!” The voice that says men don’t respect women who sleep with them too quickly. The voice that says despite the fact that you’re turned on, you’re a grown-ass adult and goddamn it you want to, as the female you should be the one to decline, to demur, to hold off for another night.

I’d never understood the reasoning behind that voice.

Silly feminist. The reasoning is simple, if you would free your mind of its stifling propaganda shackles. Men really do devalue women who put out too quickly. Sexual evolution has granted men the insight to recognize that slutty women are likely to continue being just as slutty after committing to them, and that is bad news for men who want to know their children are really theirs, and who want to avoid the divorce raping that inevitably follows when a wife pursues the feral eat, pray, love self-actualization life trajectory. Those pesky little feelings that swarm around your cortical ham, if you would stop drowning them out with femcunt agitprop, are early warning signals to behave in a more stereotypically feminine manner lest you harm your reproductive fitness.

I suspected I was internalizing cultural judgments about “easy” women.

Culture does not spring up out of the ground unseeded, like a summoned monolith. Human genetic disposition seeds the ground and creates culture, unleashing a macro feedback loop where culture and genes interact in perpetuity. Those “cultural judgments” you so recoil from are actually subconscious reinforcements of ancient biological truths.

The traditional refrain, “don’t buy the cow if you can get the milk for free,” which implies women should withhold sex to ensnare a partner, insulted me.

What’s a horny slut with daddy issues to do? Listen, lady, either embrace your sluttiness and stop kvetching to the cunty choir, or keep your legs closed. You can’t have your cock and keep it, too.

Years of dissecting dating mishaps with my friends taught me that if you want a relationship or even just the potential of one, it’s best to wait.

Betting is now open on how many cocks she has satisfied. We’ll start with 30.

In my mind, the waiting period was for no other reason but to increase the odds of a relationship. It was like dating lore passed on between friends. We don’t know why it works but it does.

It’s amazing that women have to relearn this common sense in their late 20s, after a decade or more of cock carouseling. Was there a wholesale abdication of parenting in the last two generations? A massively successful brainwashing campaign? Rhetorical.

Nevertheless, it’s best if women don’t start making men wait, because I was getting used to the easy peasy sex. Feminism has been very, very good indeed for men who want to play the field, and have the skills to do so. A return to patriarchal norms would really cramp my style.

But the way my date kissed me up against the brick wall outside the subway stop was enough to convince me my internal voice was an antiquated Debbie downer, squawking nonsense irrelevant for the modern woman.

Pushing a woman up against the wall to kiss her and grope her unleashes powerful, primitive, quasi-rape-y forces of submission within her. It’s one of my go-to moves.

I went to his house. We headed straight to the bedroom. Sex — intense, unexpected, rough and satisfying. Afterwards, as promised, he called me a cab.

By 3 a.m. I was home. And utterly freaked out.

I think it would bother women to know that men NEVER feel the urge to freak out after a one night stand. Not even the weepy beta males. Nope, slipping into sleep with a huge grin plastered on our faces is closer to what happens.

I hashed this over with multiple friends during the next few days. One suggested I just forget about the guy and be happy I’d had good sex.

The group Samantha.

Another brought up respect — if he wanted a real relationship with me, he would have proceeded with more respect for my body.

The group fatty.

I received a single lackluster text from him a few days later.

And that kid went ha haaaw! Who couldn’t see this coming? Apparently, her.

She should be thankful she got to experience a night of pleasure from a man who knows how much women crave being gamed. But women being what they are, (bless their overstimulated hearts), the fleeting waves of pleasure quickly gave way to self-absorption and tedious reinterpretation. The rationalizations that follow are some of the best frenetic hamster spinnings you will read in a long time.

Still distraught over the experience, I told [my mom] the bare-bones version of the story: I slept with someone four hours after meeting them and now I felt shitty and I couldn’t identify why.

I wanted to know what she — a world-experienced, non-judgmental woman — thought about sleeping with someone you’re interested in dating so soon? What she said was the best argument I have ever heard for waiting to have sex.

When you first meet someone, she said, you don’t actually see them. You see a flimsy construction of their personality, created by your interpretation of the signals available. The way they make eye contact. How they interact with the bartender/waiter/homeless man asking you for change. The facts they choose to divulge about themselves. Because you have no other point of reference, every little detail resonates with added significance. Your mind, faced with a scarcity of information, is forced to create a projection of them. […]

The mirage is sexy. But herein lies the danger. The potential for a schism to exist between the mirage and reality is huge. The probability of being disappointed is gigantic. That disappointment is compounded when intimacy is involved. You sleep with a stranger. You feel like you know them. But you likely don’t at all.

This may not be an epiphany for other people. But it was for me. After that night, I felt shitty not because I’d been “slutty,” whatever that means, but because I felt foolish.

I slept with an idea of a man. I slept with how that man made me feel. But that man didn’t exist, except in my mind. When I realized this, I felt… blah blah blah

Zzzz… zzz… *snort*… zz… huh, wha… oh, hai there. Must’ve dozed off. Wow, yeah, totally see what you’re saying. Totes. I bet you’ve learned a valuable lesson from all these experiences.

I’m still going out with guys and getting tipsy

Well, you know what I (sometimes) say… be true to yourself! Whatever that means.

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