Gaming Crazy Chicks

The crazy chick is practically an American institution. Delayed marriage, cats as alpha male fill-ins, marathon trash TV, childlessness, anti-depressants, and energy drinks with five pounds of added sugar will turn most normal girls into genuine headcases or poseurs who want men to think they’re headcases. A disconcertingly large minority of American women seem to believe that acting like a mentally imbalanced fruitcake substitutes for a paucity of femininity. It doesn’t. It only makes men think you’ll put out on the first date.

The crazy chick can be gamed, and there’s good reason to try. Men want three primary attributes in the ideal woman: beauty, an openness to sexual experimentation, and a sweet disposition. Crazy chicks often possess attribute #1, and always possess attribute #2. The problem is that they never have #3, so the smart man knows the crazy chick was put on the earth for fun only, to be discarded as soon as the ratio of her pain-in-the-assery exceeds her ability to sexually please. The crazier the chick, the quicker that P-to-P ratio turns upside down.

If you’re going to mix it up with crazy chicks, you had better know what you’re doing. Lesser men have gotten chewed up and spit out by the sexy siren who made a sport of baffling and blind-siding her prey. A man unacquainted with the Lokianne side of female nature can be ruined for all good women after a few months dangling on the painted meathook of a crazy chick. You’ve gotta know when to hold ’em, and know when to fling ’em out the door and change the locks.

It also helps to know which chicks are crazy to the bone, and which are just sad, tragic figurines fronting crazy for the attention whore fix.

Commenter Troubadour writes,

I’ve decided to seek outside opinions profiling the girl.

She has piercing, dark eyes that drill straight into mine, and our eyes stay locked while she throws out shit tests like these:

“It was my fault I was raped when I was 11. Everybody tells me I was asking for it, and I agree. I was asking for it.”

“I’ve often thought how much fun it would be to call a hooker over and then murder her.”

“I almost killed myself a little while ago. I cut too deep. That’s why I’m wearing the long sleeves.”

“I hope I die soon. I haven’t eaten in over a month to lose all that weight, and I’m in danger of passing out. I might pass out behind the wheel and die. I hope it happens.”

Is that the kind of crap a garden variety scene kid throws out to get attention, or is this chick scary fucked up?

What am I messing with here?

I’m no psychiatrist… just a humble man with a working penis and a blessedly light genetic mutational load… but I can tell you this chick is fucked in the head. She’s either a raging narcissist or a certified nut; in practice, it makes no difference to you. The emotional basket case attention whore won’t make your life any easier than the subclinical loon.

Maxim #41: A girl who mentions rape or suicide during the first few months of dating in any context other than as a third party making a wryly humorous observation immediately outs herself as a crank with borderline personality disorder who will be a living nightmare as a girlfriend.

Many crazy chicks will fool you with their lavish dependency, and then surprise you one night with a story about “this one dude at the art expo I went to (yeah I forgot to tell you I was planning to go) who kept pestering me and eventually I just gave up and had to kiss him to get it out of the way”. And you’ll be like, “Ok, what the fuck just happened here? Do I need to get myself tested?”

What I’ve learned is that the winning tack with crazy chicks is a studied indifference to their assorted psychological manipulations. And by the buttplug of pajamboy do they have a warehouse of mind games. Know what you’re getting into, and be ready to get out as soon as you catch her freak coming round the corner. One, you’ll want pussy on the side; crazy chick pussy is usually pretty good, and hard to tear yourself from if you don’t have a fallback. Two, whatever you do, don’t indulge her outbursts, her passive-aggressiveness, her pity ploys, her martyrdom, or her sensationalism.

The worst decision you can make is to be “exclusive” with a crazy chick, and try to reform her. That’s just begging for a world of hurt. You’re no magnanimous minister to the moon units, saving hos like Jesus saving sinners. The crazy chicks FEASTS on do-gooder betas. You show a glimmer of kindness, or patience, or a “need to understand” and your cuckoo boo will have your sanity for lunch.

The only cure for the crazy chick that’s been known to work on at least a few of them is The Wall. A headlong splat and total invisibility to men is worth more than ten years of therapy and annual pregnancy scares. When a young hottie has lost her source of power, her crazy stops befuddling betas and testing the tolerance of alphas. She gets ignored, and learns through Instant Feedback that her crazy antics, once so entertaining and lovable in the form of a 21 year old vixen, now isolates her from every social circle she knows.

The best counterstrategy for dealing with crazy chicks is bracing candor wrapped in condescension. Tell her what’s really going through your head, but do it in a way that leaves no doubt how little you care what she thinks or feels:

“It’s amazing how you can say shit like this while holding eye contact like a serial killer. Great stuff. Love it. What other tricks do you do?”

Meet crazy with the kind of male crazy that *really* drives crazy chicks nuts: detached amusement. The sex should be incredible. Just don’t stick around.

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Pictogram Text Game, Trending

When words fail you (or you’re too indifferent to the outcome to bother formulating a sentence fragment), you can’t go wrong with pictogram (aka emoji) game. A reader sent along screenshots of his pictogram game.

Her contribution: Eighty words, four smilies.

His contribution: “Good.” “Ok.” A funny fat birthday cat.

That, my friends, is what it looks like when a woman is chasing an alpha male’s approval. I suspect that birthday cat will get a lot of CH readers laid in the cumming months.

As the pictogram sender above noted, the girl tried to pull a “take-away” on him at the end, but it’s obvious her threat was empty. When a girl is really through with you, she stops talking. When a girl is still into you, she pretends to be through with you in twenty words or more.

PS Some readers have complained about what they perceive is an excessive focus on text game. Folks, I don’t make the mating market, I just live in it. Face-to-face courtship has ceded ground to the smartphone seductress. If Romeo were alive today, he’d be staring at his phone under Juliet’s balcony, furiously texting her romantic odes as she watched them arrive on her phone from up above him. If you think we’ve lost something human in the transition, just wait until you get a load what the future has in store…

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Finding A Poosy Paradise By Women’s Number Of Facebook Friends

While peer reviewed, double blind, metafantastic research on the subject is hard to come by, there is a general consensus among men who have experience with women beyond licking their taints in the comments section of feminist blogs that the less attention whoring a woman the better candidate she is for a long-term relationship. The causal mechanism for this observed reality is theoretical at this point, but a reasonable proposition is that attention-craving women — like this one — have oversized egos which require constant external validation.

Women without this need for ego stroking from the betatariat and BFF choruses are, on the whole, more grounded and fulfilled with their private love lives. While they are just as attracted to desirable alpha males as any social media mistress who sells pieces of her soul to Instagram, the attention eschewing woman represents less risk as a long-term romantic investment, because her sexual and communal energy is more inward- than outward-directed.

What is a poosy paradise for most men? It is a place where, or a time when, the women are beautiful, sexually hungry, and also sexually faithful, with an eye toward long, loving relationships while they are still in their youthful primes. You can find these places by word of mouth, or by extensive travel. You can also narrow your search by collating online social media data by country and discovering where the women are least likely to whore for attention.

Probably the best data rich vein is Facebook. The average number of friends that a country’s (or a region’s) women have on Facebook is a pretty good indicator of the mean level of national attention whoring. Internet penetrance (heh) is broad enough in developed countries that fair comparisons between Facebook friend numbers can be made by country. (I suppose if you want to Game Africa, this comparison system will do you no good.)

Commenter corvinus writes,

But even your normal white American male of German-Irish-English descent has to contend with the fact that about one-third of women in their twenties are FAT, and the desirable women usually have several male orbiters and never have to worry about not having a boyfriend until they’re north of 35.

One thing I’ve noticed based on Facebook is that the hot American girls usually have over 500 “friends”, and very often over 1,000 (including plenty of frat boys that they’ve known for years and can pick from for their next boyfriend), whereas Eastern European girls tend to have only about 100 or so. I myself was never in a fraternity, and only became halfway socially adept after coming here a couple years ago, and I’m now into my early thirties. So I have a serious disadvantage as per social connections go.

Crack CH researchers trawled the net and found some social media data that helps clarify where in the world the worst attention whores reside. While the following graph isn’t separated by sex, it’s safe to assume the overall comparison is similar for both men and women across countries, even if there is a difference in average number of FB friends between the sexes within countries.

Within America, it should surprise no one that the attention whores congregate in the Northeast and Midwest, where careerist feminists and fat single moms predominate. The attention whoring in the South is probably driven by their large black population. Squinting a little, the attention whore map overlays fairly closely with the Red State-Blue State political map (especially the one that drills down to the county level, where racial political differences are more apparent). The big outlier would be the Pacific Northwest, where people take pride in their friendship selectivity.

Worldwide, Russia and Eastern Europe look like the places to be for pretty girls who don’t feel a delirious compulsion to hoard as many pretend friends as possible in an alternate virtual universe. And, again, this accords with personal experience: the EE chicks I’ve dated spent far fewer hours on Facebook per week than any American girl I’ve known.

Warm weather climates appear to be more Facebook friends-friendly, while cold weather climes the opposite. My guess is that this is a reflection of broad racial differences in temperament: K-selected, nuclear family people versus r-selected, social aggrandizing people. But there are plenty of exceptions to this rule.

In Europe, the Anglo countries don’t fair so well. Feminism was birthed in the Anglo crucible, and it is within the Anglosphere where the fruits of feminism and you-go-grrlism are most overripe. Five decades blowing buttercups up girls’ muumuus is bound to have a deleterious effect on their egos and need for infinite validation.

Beyond Eastern Europe, Japan looks like a good bet for finding women who avoid attention whoring. If you’re a white Western man, Japan is tailor-made for romantic adventure: feminine women with self-sustaining egos and men who go to bed with pillow girlfriends as competition. Just gotta get past those flat asses…

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How To Evade Tough Questioning From Women

This one time, in gigolo camp…

I’d like to relay a conversation I had with a past lover who asked a very pointed question as we were strolling along a riverbank (yes, really! Hallmark called and wanted their moment back), in hopes that it will impart a valuable lesson for the next generation of pussy houndlings. Our love ended when she moved far away, but she later returned for a few weeks and met with me to wax nostalgic over old times. The pertinent part of our convo follows:

Her: Did you use game on me?

Me: (momentarily rattled) What do you mean?

Her: I mean did you say things that would make me fall for you? Were your feelings real?

After a few seconds pause to collect myself and stop from blurting an ill-formed, self-incriminating reply, I stowed my easy smile and summoned my Very Serious Face.

Me: Since when did you become so cynical? One thing I’ll always regret is turning a woman like you into a cynic. It doesn’t suit you.

Her: I’m not cynical. I was just wondering if you meant what you said to me.

Me: Tell me, was I a bad influence on you?

Her: No.

Me: But I was. You sound like a different girl today. That’s not good. You’ve lost something, and it kills me inside.

Our conversation took a detour at that juncture, as we passed a store that reminded her of the place where I picked her up. When we returned to the subject, she asked me what I meant when I said she was different now than when I met her. All talk of “game” had ceased.

Note three themes: 1) I never answered her question directly. 2) I redirected the conversation so that she was put on the defensive, having to reconcile both a possible change in her personality for the worse, and blame for making me feel like “it was killing me inside”. 3) The “bad influence” assumption fed her desire for JERKBOY drama.

The wild-eyed feminist reader shrieks, “That’s manipulation!” Is it? Substantively, nothing I said was false. Her fling with me really did provoke in her a small measure of cynicism. It’s also true that she was a naturally big-hearted girl for whom cynicism conflicted with those temperamental attributes that made her special to me. And finally, I did in fact feel kind of bad for arousing in her dark suspicions. And it is a fact as well that women welcome a bit of badboy excitement in their love lives.

But there would’ve been no gain to be had, for either of us, from admitting under interrogation that I had used game on her or from expressing regret for the use of game rather than regret for the effect that it had on her uncorrupted, trusting love. Because I knew from experience that when women ask seemingly pointed questions, what they really want to know goes much deeper, to primal feelings that women hold near and dear, like, for instance, the nature of loving reciprocation. Directing my replies to those deeper feelings in her, as if I was talking to a separate being or the real woman behind the curtain, would yield fuller intimacy.

So I had used game. And I meant what I had said to her when we first met. The two aren’t mutually exclusive. Game was the best way to persuade her that my feelings for her were genuine, because I knew that she would need that professionally administered seduction to be open to receiving my sincere message of love. Yes, you evade tough questioning from a woman to sidestep discomfort and bad feelings, but you also evade her dead end inquisitions to grapple with the turbulence of her hidden, animating emotions. The art and science of seduction can be as enlightening as it can be bewildering. And there’s no woman in the world who doesn’t love it for both reasons.

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Gaming Bitchy Broads

The days of feminine, coy, flirty Western women are coming to a close. Blame fluoride, blame peer pressure, blame evolutionary forces, blame mass female employment, blame Turchinian cycles… the growly aggro-manjaw is now a fixture of the modern mating market.

Men can respond in three ways: drop out, dig in, or desexualize. Dropping out — i.e., perpetual fapping to internet porn and vidjya games — is an admission of defeat that’s easy to sustain via dopaminergic pathways. Not an option for men who love the company of beautiful babies. Desexualizing is psychological self-castration intended to ease the pain of romantic rejection and the sting of failing to live up to masculine norms, while leaving open the possibility of real live interaction with furry-faced feminists who measure success by their collection of manboobed sycophants. cf., John Scalzi.

Digging in… now that’s where the rubber meets the ho. You deal with the mating market you have, not the one you wish existed. And that means, for many American men, a practiced ability to confront and neutralize the bitchy cockblock.

A reader offers a relevant account,

Got this shit test a couple of nights ago in a club. Wondering about recommendations and assessment on how I handled it.

Walked up to a group of girls in the smoking area and opened with “you girls look like you’re having the most fun here”. Immediately one of them replies with “Um, We were trying to have a serious conversation here” with muchos attitude. My response was to address the group “Is she always like this?”

How did I do? How would you handle this situation better?

On paper, there’s nothing you did wrong here. That line — “Is she always like this?” — is straight from Ye Olde English pickup manual. But like all pickup tactics, there’s an ideal time and context in which they are maximally effective. I suspect, based on your abridged replay of events that night, that you deployed the line too soon and too jarringly. That line is a classic because it works, but the implied understanding is that the line works best embedded within a conversation that already has some legs under it. The girls are already open to talking to you, even if all they’re doing is shit testing you or giving you an opportunity to spit your pitch. In that state, they’re more receptive to your divide-and-conquer tactic.

It appears you cold approached, lay down a line that can sound corny if the girls really *do* look like they’re having a lot of fun, received an immediate and debilitating auto-bitch reply, followed up with the neg, and then went into a holding pattern waiting for a positive group reaction. That is, assuming you flamed out. You didn’t specify what happened after you said “Is she always like this?”.

If you were successful, then I’m not sure why you’re even asking the question. Carry on, soldier of furrow. If not, all I can recommend is that you promptly segue into a new conversational thread after delivering your neg. It’s much more effective that way. A neg that wafts unanchored into dead air will quickly land with a thud at the feet of the perplexed girls. But if the neg is bookended by unrelated chatter, it has room to work its subconscious magic. You ever notice how the best salesmen will chew off a customer’s ear until the point that he’s hooked, and then ease off to let the customer ask questions that rationalize the purchase to himself? It’s similar with picking up girls, except the product you’re selling is yourself.

If you want alternate suggestions for how to handle this scenario in the future, here are some replies that would work.

– “I can tell. You have steam coming out of your ears.”
– “Great! I love talking about Miley Cyrus.”
– “This is a weird place to have a debate team meeting.”
– “Damn, you hurt my feelings.” (exaggerated sad face)

etc. The concept is the same: charming condescension coupled with unflappable state control. But the difference in the details amounts to teasing the bitch without blatantly making a premature attempt to turn the group against her. Most bitches are queen bees; their loyal subjects won’t turn on her until they know it’s safe to do so. You have to earn some value first before you can drive a wedge between a cockblock and her posse.

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Microalphatudes, The Sequel

Remember Ice Cream Guy who jerked his ice cream cone away from his girlfriend when she reached over with a spoon to take a scoop? The good and the great were offended by this raw moment of microalphatude, but CH guests of honor knew better. This guy had his girlfriend wrapped around his finger. So wrong, he could do no wrong.

Well, Ice Cream Guy is back in the news. The couple was on TV recently as “Fans of the Week”, and the pre-game hosts were giving Jake — he of ice cream guardianship fame — a hard time. He was ribbed “when’s the wedding?”, and in true alpha style he responded, “Ohhh, shit.”

Another quickie microalphatude dropped like a daisy cutter on his Daisy, and naturally she reacted by… waaaiiit for it…

… can you guess?

…yeah that’s right, by gazing at him adoringly.

His “oh shit” reaction was spontaneous, but neophytes to game should know that alpha spontaneity comes with practicing the behaviors that distinguish alpha males. What was once canned will, over time, start to spill from your presence unbidden. Fake it till you create it.

There are other alpha male tells in this video, which the learned reader should be able to easily identify, so I won’t belabor them here. (Ok, here’s one: notice their body language. She is turned slightly toward him, leaning into his body, while his torso is pointed straight ahead, neither rejecting nor obsequiously receiving her feral affections. He is a rock, upon which she may lay her loving submission.)

The amoral tale of the tape is that you can get… and keep… a cute girl by acting like God’s gift to women, by doing the opposite of what conventional society advises, and by remaining unapologetic for your JERKBOY CHARISMA. You can even do all this while insouciantly announcing that you’re “too broke” to take your girlfriend to a basketball game. She won’t mind, because she’s in love.

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The Sociosexual Dynamics Of Group Photos

If you hang out with a mixed group of friends on regular occasions and at venues that encourage the taking of group photos, you can’t help but notice patterns in how the women organize themselves for the camera lens. This snapshot (heh) of female behavior illuminates so much more than lighting and focal preferences.

There’s always the Lens Hog, of course. She’s usually the hottest and most sociable girl. Her spot is right up front, center, and smiling like she has a huge secret about a rival she can barely contain. She stands with her hip jutting outward for maximum femininity. She is a leader partly as a function of her looks and partly because her looks have facilitated her fearless socialization, which often cows other girls to fall in line behind her.

Where it gets interesting is in how the women below the Lens Hog on the female hierarchy self-arrange for “spontaneous” group photos. The jockeying for snapshot status is nasty, brutish and short; a years’ worth of repressed emotions often gets played out in the few seconds it takes for a bunch of women to line up for a group shot.

First up is the Court Concubine. This just-short-of-pretty girl has flirted with every man in her social group, and has probably slept with at least two of them who have high fived each other over it. She’s fun, but she’s no alpha’s first choice. She will scoot right away for a position wedged in between the men standing in the back line of the photo, with her arms draped languidly over the adjacent dudes. She’s the one whose boob “accidentally” presses into some guy’s chest. (Or belly, if she’s short.) And in every photo her headlights are on, for some reason.

Next is the Queen’s Consort. She’s the second in command girl who’s almost as pretty as the Lens Hog but not as extroverted. She shadows the Lens Hog and will quickly assume a position at her side for a photo. Her smile hints at resentment. She looks like she sticks pins in a voodoo doll of her hotter friend. She screws like she’s getting back at all the Lens Hogs who robbed her of the throne, and that’s a good thing.

Then there’s the Chubby Jester. She’s sorta cute, sorta chubby, and lots o’ fun. She has the personality of a hot girl trapped in a mediocre girl’s body. She will beeline for a spot in no-woman’s-land, tucked between the front and back lines, so that her body is obscured but her face shines for the camera, looking like it sits, disembodied, atop the shoulders of the girls situated just in front of her. It’s all smoke and mirrors with this girl, but at least her smile is genuine.

The interchangeable Pawns are next. These girls are filler for the cheap seats. Neither pretty nor ugly, sociable nor shy, they dutifully attend to their posts in the wings of the photo, adding heft and preselective gravitas to the stars at the center. Many of these girls are off the market, and have grown weary of the group photo circus. They no longer care about maneuvering for status or pleasing the men or the Lens Hog; they’re just there out of a sense of obligation and to drink and say to themselves that at least they’re not like those couples who sit at home all the time schnoococoonoocuddling. They take their sweet time finding a spot in the photo line-up, which ironically makes them seem more photogenic.

In the mix you may toss the Facebook Whore. A subspecies of the classic attention whore, the Facebook Whore angles for a position that will produce a photo she can upload to Facebook that will best reveal her carefree, sexually wild social life to the asshole ex-boyfriend she still loves. She is the one with her tongue out, like Miley Cyrus having an epileptic fit. She’s not particularly well-liked by anyone, so she often winds up at the edge of the photo leaning way in, out in front of the other girls, grabbing some of the Lens Hog’s limelight. She’s a clueless photobomb. A photoboob.

The Pained Plain Jane cuts a sad figure. She hates these stressful social tests, because she knows she’s not pretty enough to compete with most of the girls but there’s no opt-out clause that would save her dignity. If she tries to ignore the group photo, her friends will think she’s being anti-social and draw attention to her pitiful solitude with cloyingly earnest solicitations. If she joins, she looks out of place, her bland features thrown into saturated relief, her smile so fake and try-hard and now permanently recorded for history. So she loiters around the periphery of the assembling and rapidly congealing group, takes a shot at a position well within the bowels of the group in hopes she’ll get lost in the jumble of faces, gets pushed aside by another girl gunning for the same spot, and eventually settles like a gimp sea turtle shuffling into a hole in the beach sand at the far reaches of the group to lay her forgotten eggs, where ironically everyone who views the photo will notice her because she’s the only girl not being embraced by anyone.

Finally, there’s the Photogeneric Fug. Ugly, knows it, has stopped pretending she’s not. She doesn’t need the excuse of a group photo opt-out clause. She just heads for the bar to munch on beer nuts and mentally formulate her next Tumblr post about cisgender privilege.

The group photo sociosexual dynamic provides plenty of opportunity for the player to exploit. For instance, take a firm hold of the shoulder of the Pained Plain Jane as she’s wandering in utter confusion and panic around the gathering crowd, and hustle her into your orbit at the center of the group. You’re now her white knight rescuer. Except little does she know you’re using her as a pawn to tease the hottie you really want. “Hey stop hogging the camera. Your big head is blocking out your friend here.” You get points for the chivalry and the neg. Caress your wallet condom, because it’s about to taste freedom tonight.

PS: There’s one other type of girl you sometimes see at group photos. She’s a rare bird, but getting less rare. Her sleazy beauty is juxtaposed against her abominable character. She’s the “group selfie” girl who will stretch out her arm and take a selfie — like Barack Kenyatta Obama recently did at Mandela’s funeral — of herself surrounded by her group of sycophants. It’s one thing to take a selfie in the privacy of your bathroom and tweet it because THIRSTY ATTENTION WHORE, or to take a selfie in public while on vacation because you’re too shy to ask for assistance; but it’s a whole other level of narcissistic indulgence to force all your friends to squat like a human halo around your awesomeness as you point that camera straight up your nostrils.

You, Group Selfie Girl, deserve exactly one pump — like Obama’s first term — and one dump — like Obama’s second term.

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