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Archive for the ‘Hitting The Wall’ Category

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Was it the (((propaganda)))? The Pill? The refined factory-made carbs? The SCALE? The sexual market chaos? The enabling thirsty betas? The Diversity™?

Maybe all of the above. Whatever the foul source, our women are flying off a cliffside with a vengeance, and taking their homelands with them. We either collar them, or allow them to continue steering the ship straight into the rocky shoals.

WILL YOU MAKE YOUR DECISION FOR THE PATRIARCHY?

***

Anonymous probes,

Why, prey tell, Mr. Heartiste, do you think this girl on some Alpha’s boat aping him by wearing his hat flew off the cliff?

Take a few minutes and peruse your former GF’s on facebook to see what became of them.

I don’t. It hurts too much to see the wreckage wrought.

I get you. Alpha widowhood and its cuntsequences are another feature of a recklessly liberated sexual market. The detritus of damaged thots.

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The Diaspora Mafia BTFO.

PS Dispel your doubts, Trump gets it:

In the past week, Trump has taken the gloves off. His Twatter payloads now read like standard issue Maul-Right talking points. Maybe he was biding his time for the Deep State field to clear before he made his big offensive push. Maybe he had Ann Coulter over for dinner and they both read posts from this blog. If so, grab a kleenex shitlibs, because there’s no Goddess Hillary and your idiotic infantile ideals are laughable! The Trumpen is released, and the neoliberal globohomo system is about to be righteously rekt.

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Julia Allison is a media whore, “relationship” blogger, reality TV participant, and poz pusher for esteemed clam mags like Cosmo. In other words, civilization’s late stage dead weight.

At age 37, single and childless, she had a gratuitously delayed revelation. Overcome with the emptiness of her life and womb, seized by the unfamiliar sting of a piercing self-awareness, she felt a rare emotion: Regret.

Oh, she has a family…

A social media addict, she has two laptops, a desktop, an iPad & an iPhone along with two Facebook profiles, four Twitter handles, a Myspace page, a LinkedIn account, a Flickr feed, four Tumblrs, three Movable Type blogs, one WordPress, two Vimeos, one Quora account, two YouTube channels and a photogenic white shih-tzu named Lilly who – yep – tweets (@Lillydog). Combined, her accounts number over 150,000 fans, followers or subscribers.

…but, oddly, remains unfulfilled.

In a self-aggrandizing confessional, she blames a TV show produced by gay men that glamorized the lifestyle of the barren urban slut for leading her down the Plan B path.

Readers, get ready to journey across the pages of ancient Chateau tomes. Every banality of the modren wahman observed and noted in this outpost of love is sounded out in Mzz Allison’s cacophony of rue. There will be cock carousels, rationalization hamsters, Wall impacts, beta bux, jerkboy fux, femcuntery, psychological litter boxes, and more cameos to titillate Chateau guests.

Dating columnist reveals how ‘Sex and the City’ ruined her life

“Sex and the City” premiered on HBO 20 years ago this week, imprinting on a generation of women a love of fantastic fashion and dreams of their own Mr. Big. Among them was Julia Allison, who moved to New York in the early 2000s to live the Carrie Bradshaw lifestyle. She became a dating columnist, a party fixture and one of the first internet celebrities — thanks to Gawker, the site that loved to hate on her. But her pursuits sent her, ultimately, down a path of unhappiness and unfulfillment. Looking back on how the show’s ideals negatively impacted her life, Allison, now 37, tells Doree Lewak: “If I could go back and do it all over again, I wouldn’t.”

Ten years ago, on May 27, 2008, I was on top of the world.

I was riding in an Escalade en route to the “Sex and the City” movie premiere in Midtown with a Bravo camera crew in tow. When the SUV door opened, I stepped onto the pink carpet in my Allison Parris dress and Chanel bag. I felt like a star. I felt beautiful. I felt proud. I was rubbing shoulders with celebs and the goddess herself: Carrie Bradshaw, a k a Sarah Jessica Parker.

Since moving to New York City four years earlier, I’d established myself with my own dating column and graced the cover of Wired magazine. I was a public figure who was regularly photographed alongside such famous faces as Henry Kissinger and Richard Branson. I went to all the glam parties, was fodder for gossip sites, had signed a deal with Bravo for a reality show,

For those of unpolluted mind, Bravo is the gay channel. All gay, all the time, with a supporting cast of f@g hags.

and dated more than my fair share of Mr. Bigs.

Pump and dumps. But if she spoke with radical candor like that she wouldn’t be able to soothe her chafed ego and vagina. Anyhow, it’s funny that she thinks admitting to hopping a parade of cocks like a real life Samantha is both humble and bragging.

I had been profiled in the New York Times, and New York magazine called me “the most famous young journalist in the city.”

The biological clock is wound down, and the Kingdom of Zog is at hand: repent ye, and believe the 14 words.

I was considered by many to be Carrie Bradshaw 2.0. And I was happy to be given that identity for a while, but it was all a lie. At the premiere, I also felt like a fraud, insecure and embarrassed — like I didn’t belong.

But she soldiered on for another fourteen years play-acting as Carrie Bradshaw.

I grew up a nerd in Chicago, more likely to duck into the library than talk to other kids at recess. At 12, I thought I would never be kissed.

Everyone at age 12 thinks this way. The difference is that girls turn it into a theatrical release while boys who don’t bust a move drift into silent celibacy and are never offered paying gigs to write about it.

(Boy, did I make up for that later.)

What every man looking for a relationship worthy woman wants to hear. /s

The show was my road map. Of all the die-hard fans I knew, I was the most influenced by “SATC.”

Dating red flags.

At Georgetown University, where I enrolled in 1999, I started to wear dresses and learned how to do my makeup and curl my hair. The newfound male attention I received felt exhilarating.

Still delusional. Julia, in your late teens and early 20s it wasn’t your dresses and curls that captured the men’s attention.

I even started a dating column for my college paper called “Sex on the Hilltop,” which was modeled after Carrie’s column in the fictional New York Star.

Just the hilltop?

When the last episode of “Sex and the City” aired in February 2004, I hosted a viewing party for 200 guests. It was my swan song as well: Eight months later, I would move to New York, where, armed with my “Sex and the City” DVDs, my transformation really began.

What a headcase.

Based on what I knew from “SATC,” I expected the city to sweep me off my feet. I envisioned nonstop brunching and shopping.

Women really have no idea what their lives would be like if beta males decided to opt out of the civilization building racket. Brunching and shopping fantasies would be replaced by Hobbesian survival fantasies.

It had such an outsize influence on me that — even with a very expensive degree in government — I said to myself: “I’m obviously going to be a columnist.”

Another STEAM grad putting her knowledge to work. Grrlpower!

I later moved to Time Out New York, where I made $750 a week — a huge improvement, but still not enough to buy Manolos and barely enough to afford the $2,500 rent for my 400-square-foot apartment in Hell’s Kitchen.

Cheaper alternatives exist, but that would mean reduced proximity to Mr Bigs.

I lived on food bought for me on dates and the occasional bodega tuna sandwich.

Beta thirst is as responsible for the corruption of American woman as any prime time show on Twat TV.

Different men I dated gave me YSL shoes and status purses, just like Big did for Carrie on “SATC.”

The dirty secret about picking up women in NYC is that the men there are game-less marks who really do try to buy substandard pussy with shoes and purses (and wonder why they get strung along in asexual purgatory). This makes pickup a lot easier for the cockybrah who expects sex without a price tag.

(In 2006, when I landed a six-figure editor-at-large gig at Star magazine,

What talent does she have?
*spreads legs*
Oh yeah.

I also subscribed to Carrie’s ethos when it came to men. There was no such thing as a bad date — only a good date or a good brunch story.

Can you believe she’s still single at the post-Spring chicken age of 37?! What man wouldn’t want to wife up a broad who screws around for years of brunch convo fodder and has the crow’s feet to prove it?

In my writing,

which sucks, btw.

I gave my boyfriends nicknames (one was “Prom King”) just like Carrie and her friends did.

She writes like she’s 14 years old.

I went out with a prince: Lorenzo Borghese from “The Bachelor.” I even dated the British ex-boyfriend of “Sex and the City” creator Candace Bushnell — the original Carrie.

Common denominator: all the men are exes.

He was one of a few men who comprised the composite character Mr. Big.

Humbleshagging.

In 2008, my two best girlfriends and I had just filmed a Bravo pilot for a show called “It Girls” (it wasn’t picked up). We were all invited by a 40-something billionaire to his Miami mansion; he even sent his private jet for us. It was just him, the three of us and his butler and chef. I don’t think this man was used to being told no, and he started chasing me around his mansion. I finally had to lock myself in the bathroom. The worst part: He sent us back on JetBlue.

“No, I don’t do double penetration.”

[Gawker] wrote about me as much as they wrote about Paris Hilton, but I had none of Paris’ resources to defend myself. Their core complaint about me was that I was a quote-unquote “fame whore.”

Gawker nailed that one. Bonus nailing: Gawker is gone.

Then, in 2011, one of my pilots was finally picked up by Bravo. The whole concept of “Miss Advised” was “real-life Carrie Bradshaw.” It was about three single women in three different cities, and I was the dating columnist for Elle in Los Angeles. It was “SATC” meets journalism. Producers sent me to a mind architect, a love coach and a witch in the pursuit of love.

But it came too late: In my heart, I was finished trying to be Carrie. When the show wasn’t renewed for a second season, I was relieved. The experience made me really look at myself: I was trying so hard to be liked that it was coming across as inauthentic and bitchy. Also, it was miserable to have cameras around all the time.

Women cultivate a growing dislike for cameras coincident with their number of years past prime nubility (and nearing prime sterility). How suspicious!

Finally, I cut my ties to New York and moved to San Francisco full-time in 2013.

If she had moved to a small Midwestern town instead of a coastal shitlibopolis, she might have a family to love today.

Finally, I decided to go private for a while. I stopped blogging and writing. I rarely post on Instagram.

Imminent Wall impact will do that to a girl.

These days I work as a change activist,

poopywork.

mounting summits

I bet.

for world leaders and serving as an adviser to startups and entrepreneurs looking to better the planet.

How many flights between Nü York and San Tranny does she take?

I dated a woman for a while

Young lesbianism: experimentation
Old lesbianism: necessity

But dating is not front and center in my life anymore,

…she says as if it was her choice.

although it was all I talked about in my 20s.

There was more conversational material to work with back then.

That’s pretty one-dimensional.

Aging beauties find comfort in scoffing at the preoccupations of their younger, hotter, tighter selves.

Last year, I ended a two-year relationship with a man who ultimately couldn’t [ed: wouldn’t] commit and wanted to be polyamorous.

A man unmotivated to tie himself down with a road worn, has-been slut? Will wonders never cease.

Again, “SATC” and the “lessons” it taught me is the culprit.

Julia Allison fucked her life up and she wants to blame a vapid TV show. “How do I write women so well? I think of a man, and take away reason and accountability.” (Fact: the ultimate culprit is the 19th Amendment.)

The show wasn’t a rubric on how to find a lifelong partnership.

She needed a TV show to teach her how to find a man and start a healthy relationship? Where were all the older female relatives in her life? Where was her brain?

If I was more grounded and had honestly assessed whether this man was a good partner for me, I don’t think we ever would have dated.

Translation: “If I was more grounded and had honestly assessed whether I was still good enough for any halfway decent man, I don’t think I’d be single and writing this pile of crap through tear-stained cheeks.”

Crushed and needing to regroup, I took a sabbatical and lived in Bali for eight months on a healing journey.

EatPraySlut

I was also celibate during my time there.

I do wonder what my life would have looked like if “Sex and the City” had never come across my consciousness. Perhaps I’d be married with children now?

Lady, I’m certain your arriving spinsterhood isn’t the fault of SATC, unless you’re easily brainwashed. Hmm, have I been overestimating women this whole time?

Who knows, but I can say for sure that, as clever and aesthetically pleasing as the show was

She obsessively stalks this show like it was an ex-bf. Psycho!

— and, as much as I agree with its value of female friendships — it showed too much consumerism and fear of intimacy disguised as empowerment.

It also showed, if she were willing to see, the damaging consequences of slutting it up and cackling about your smashed pussy with other empowered sluts.

It’s like candy: In the moment it feels good to eat it, but afterward, you feel sick.

Women have been warring with their essence for a few decades now, and the battle has been pitched in recent years. The Slut Pride degeneracy and its various cultural tributaries is women — particularly low to middling SMV women who must find novel ways to compete with hot babes — defying their sex-specific emotional burdens and aiming to exert a false, if momentarily satisfying, control over what they perceive as the weaknesses and vulnerabilities of their sex. One of these feminine “frailties” that the modren wahman wants to purge from herself is the undeniable truth that casual sex bothers women a lot more than it does men. Women simply can’t compartmentalize noncommittal sex with the same easy facility that men can. Hence, women like Julia “feel sick” afterward, something that only the soyest of soyboys would feel after licking clean the putrid slits of SATC-aping urban sluts whilst unwittingly grinding their microboners to a climax in the fur of a curious cat sniffing around their nethers.

Whom you’re dating, what you’re wearing, or how good you look at that premiere — none of that s–t matters unless you genuinely love yourself. Solid relationships are what really matter.

It’s funny how aging broads discover solid relationships matter when they start having trouble getting them.

Sure, I could have been a dating columnist for the rest of my life but, honestly, I gave really bad dating advice — and so did Carrie Bradshaw.

If a shiv artist like yours truly had told her that when she was younger and hotter, no doubt she would have lashed out like a cornered alleycat. The ravages of time and the looming threat of insol wonderfully focus the waning slut’s mind.

I want to be a different role model from the one I got. Two months ago, I started seeing someone I never would have dated 10 years earlier.

Cue Mr Beta Bux! Or just Mr Beta. Not many men with romantic options are excited about dating, let alone wifing up, a wrinkled slattern with a vagina that echoes. Luckily for Julia, there are desperate vegetable lasagnas willing to settle for her flabby hide rather than live in faptivity.

Back then, I wasn’t looking to get married or seek a lifelong partner, and that was a mistake.

Reciprocally, it would be a big mistake for any man with an ounce of self-worth to commit to a post-carousel cock holster rapidly nearing her expiration date. Why buy an old cow whose udders dried up long ago when fresh milk is on every slore shelf?

This man is a very reasonable choice, and I’m at a place in my life where reasonable is very sexy.

“reasonable” = passionless. What every woman knows deep in her heart is that the later in life she gets serious about finding a long-term partner, the likelier it is she’ll have to resign herself to settling down with an unexciting herb she doesn’t truly love. The remainder of her life will be a slapstick comedy of fake orgasms, fake headaches, screaming brats, and bathroom retreats with a dog-eared copy of Fifty Shades of Sadomasochism, all the while resentfully rasping through a fog of regret for the alpha males who got away when she was younger, hotter, tighter and thought she had all the time in the world.

Blame Carrie?

Nah. Blame yourself. And if your current relationship with your Reasonable Beta lasts longer than two more months after he reads you admitting that he would have been ignored by you ten years ago when your sexual rejection would have mattered, count yourself lucky. It could be worse. You could find yourself spending numberless weekends at the fertility clinic to birth your autistic twins. Oh wait.

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What happens when a once-desirable woman hits all three extinction event Walls — the Wasting Wall, The Wailing Wall, and the Wymyn Wall — at once?

She might look like what’s become of Rose McGowan (NSF male libidos):

Jay in DC comments,

[Rose McGowan] is officially “quitting” acting to become an activist. LOLWHAT? You haven’t been relevant or acted since the late 90s. Dafuq outta here…

[McGowan] with her lawyercunts from the firm Ballcutters, LLC.:

Fugg that pic is frightening. It embodies everything wrong with American women: the manjawed stridency, the lawyercuntery, the man-hating, the phony empowerment bravado, the total annihilation of the last remaining traces of femininity…

If the future is that kind of female, then the future after that future will be this kind of man:

The traditional age-appropriate Wall — the Wasting Wall — hits all women, turning Ladyhawks into Viragovultures with merciless efficiency. But when a woman additionally smashes into the Wailing Wall and the Wymyn Wall at the same moment in her life and with the same impact velocity, as Rose McGowan did under the tutelages of Father Time, Weinstein, and Feminism Prime…..

the carnage is awful to behold.

Look away, for there is nothing to see here but the soul ashes of a woman who stared too long into the abyss.

Reminder: This was Rose McGowan before The Three Walls exacted their tribute from her:

so sad.

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Staying slender is no reprieve from the Wall, ladies. When you get old, your slender figure turns skeletal and the flesh droops like canvas drapes off the bones. Your best bet for delaying critical Wall impact is weightlifting (notably squats) in conjunction with cardio. You lose that tender adipose fat soon after your early 20s and you need something to replace it — muscle — to keep your curves and protuberances in the right boner-inducing size and place.

PS: Men: let this be a lesson. That 35 year old sexpot teacher you have the hots for when you’re fourteen? Have fun with her, but don’t marry her. When you’re 45, she’ll be 66, and that’s the boner killer for which there is no cure.

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“George Washington slept here” is a pretty common plaque found at or near historical sites throughout colonial America. As his legend grew, American households which hosted the Great Man for the night were proud to publicly say so, even if his presence in their humble abodes was apocryphal.

Likewise, hot sluts who hosted today’s Great Man — President Donald Trump — in their vaginas are proud to publicly say so, and will go to any lengths to be allowed to preen that their vajeen was a canteen for Trump’s alpha cream.

How many hsmv women has Trump pumped? Trump apparently boffed the entire back catalog of Playboy centerfolds. GAME RECOGNIZED.

Porn whore Stormy Daniels is so desperate to prove that she caught the attention of the world’s most foremost alpha male who used her as a Godseed receptacle that she took a lie detector test, and gave us this timelessly iconic Clockwork Orange-esque pic instead:

Atavator writes,

Game measured! [ed: lol] And by the way, is this a polygraph, or a tit scale? I think this is excellent pictorial representation of just how desperate the establishment is to take Trump down.

Yes, you’ve gotta think that for a number of these women, “Trump slept with me” is their last hurrah. It’s a great study in female psychology. At the time they signed these agreements, they figured they’d have no trouble abiding by them. After all, having concluded their affairs with Trump, they were off to ride other Alpha men. They didn’t foresee… apparently couldn’t foresee… a time when that would be over.

That’s exactly it. This is all sexiness signaling by aging has-beens. The difference between sexiness and sexiness signaling is the same as the difference between virtue and virtue signaling: the former is the real deal while the latter is a claim to being the real deal (but is usually just hypocrisy or self-serving ego stroking). A sexiness signaling woman is admitting she USED to be sexy and tacitly suggesting she MAY still be sexy enough to catch the eye of high value men.

Carlos Danger wonders,

Who rivals Trump’s bedpost notches in terms of quality? DiCaprio? Maybe Brady pre-Gisele? And Trump gets there with 50 more pounds, 30 more years, and the pompadour. Impressive.

If the stories and rumors are true, I don’t think many men can rival both the quality and quantity of Trump’s notch count. The man is as close to a modren day Genghis Khan as a Westerner can be. Wilt Chamberlain? Nah, I read somewhere most of his lays were with ghetto groupie trash. Porfirio Rubirosa might top Trump’s meet-to-lay ratio.

I have to imagine Sinatra is up there.

Wasn’t Sean Connery legendary in his day? Going way back, you’d have to give the nod to Lord Byron, Voltaire, and similar Supreme Gentlemen of the West. Some (pre-indie hipster) stadium rockers could rival Trump’s womanizer score. John Bonham was known for his unreal hotel room orgies. He once said he couldn’t tell which vagina belonged with which face when he was in the middle of a romp.

anon writes,

from the the looks of it, Trump has never slept with an ugly girl in his life.

That’s the small detail that elevates Trump’s womanizing well above the human plane.

A word about Trump’s Women. We have the obvious angle — a cat herd of Wall impact whores looking to cash in on the bottomless appetite of Shitlib, America for salacious stories about Trump’s sexual stamina (Freud would have a field day) while the cashing in is good — and the angle obvious only to Chateau guests: none of these cum dumpsters cumming out of the woodwork now to relive their glory days getting Pump and Trumped, or accusing Trump of allegedly taking their flirtations at face value, were scandalized at the time of the alleged affairs and grandfathered PoundMeToo infractions.

I guarantee that every woman who is now crowing about getting fucked by Trump, or moaning about getting groped by Trump, absolutely, undeniably, LOVED HIS GOD ALPHA ATTENTIONS AT THE TIME THEY HAPPENED. This is because women are viscerally attracted to powerful men, much the same way men are viscerally attracted to beautiful, young women. Women can’t help themselves around powerful confident men; they lose all sense and judgment and notion of personal accountability.

Women go into every alpha male flirtation with the subconscious hope that he will make her his princess (or his movie star, in the case of weinstein). Even the sloppiest of slopworn sluts feels this way in the presence of a mortal GodKing. It’s not until years and hundreds of wrinkles later that some of these women, realizing they have been had by a cad and by the merciless approach of the Wall, give in to their bitterness and lash out at the man who would be theirs but chose differently. In a fury of spite against the God of Biomechanics, these cast-aside bitterbitches try to take down the powerful men who once loved them, believing in their tiny black hearts that this will redeem their poor life choices.

And this secret desire hits ostensible Trump-hater pussyhatters, too.

Trump (or Trump’s hog) is living rent-free in her vagina.

In related news, feminists are finally starting to catch on that sexbots will mean the end of their romantic possibilities. In France, femcunts are trying to change the law to include nonconsensual sex with sex dolls under the definition of rape. Please don’t bother trying to work out the logic of their stance, you’ll only be met with MUH FEELZ, MISOGYNIST!

If feminists are allowed to ban male sex substitutes, then patriarchs are allowed to ban dildos, vibrators, pulp romance novels, and pretty much everything broadcast or streamed on TV. Fair’s fair.

***

Jay in DC writes,

There has been a long list of vag slayers of Trump caliber. Sinatra, Warren Beatty, Redford, (Connery as mentioned), etc. Even Kennedy was neck deep in pussy far beyond Marilyn Monroe if the rumor mill is to be believed.

This was a non-event in times passed. Only in this faggoty and #metoo era are high status alpha males who are showered in trim some kind of neo-puritan scandal.

Fuck man, for anything you think about him even Slick Willy was a very smooth talker and got ALOT of pussy. Far more than Killary would like her cogdis to ever come to grips with.

Both Bill Clinton and Art of the Sealed Deal Trump are charming. but Bill is a classic case of the charming alpha hitched to a snarling ballcutter, so to him any juicy adoring prolehole seemed like a goddess. Trump has mingled and commingled with hotties his whole life. His wives were the opposite of thecunt hillary. Trump’s mistress standards were thus a lot higher than Bill’s. And tbh I think Bubba was a borderline sociopath and probably did rape that Paula broad in a fit of sexual energy after spending weeks on the couch escaping from dragonbreath hillary breathing fire on him.

Trump, otoh, is not a sociopath. He’s a confident jerkboy full of justified swagger who seems to genuinely love women, and loves making love with beautiful women. He hurts his wives satisfying his urges, but he has the good sense to keep it discrete, and I wouldn’t doubt if he’s had conversations with his wives that his appetite is yuge and they should accept that part of him, in exchange for assurances that they will always be his number ones and he will never fall in love with his mistresses.

If you want a leader with the HEAVY BALLS to take on the Deep State, then you’ll have to reconcile yourself to a leader with the HEAVY BALLS to have a romantic history filled to brimming with porn stars and centerfolds.

Manly vigor is a complete package. (heh)

williamk writes,

Trump gave this lifestyle up for us.

Other men (like Bill Clinton) attain power for the purpose of getting pussy. Trump gave up getting pussy in order to deserve power. Its pretty amazing.

His enemies know his weakness; he’s probably swatted away numerous honeypot attempts. My bet is Trump was smart enough to give up getting strange when he decided to run for president. And of course, chances he’s had any new pussy since getting inaugurated is just about 0%.

Trump’s sacrifices shame our craven self-serving establishment rulers. He deserves our loyalty. He deserves our fight.

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This is the ideal cat lady. You may not like it, but this is what Peak Resting Bitch Face looks like.

She had her first eggs frozen at the ripe young age of 38. Story here.

Let’s zoom in on those eyes.

Thousand Cat Stare.

Brigitte Adams caused a sensation four years ago when she appeared on the cover of Bloomberg Businessweek under the headline, “Freeze your eggs, Free your career.” She was single and blond, a Vassar graduate who spoke fluent Italian, and was working in tech marketing for a number of prestigious companies. Her story was one of empowerment, how a new fertility procedure was giving women more choices, as the magazine noted provocatively, “in the quest to have it all.”

Adams remembers feeling a wonderful sense of freedom after she froze her eggs in her late 30s, despite the $19,000 cost. Her plan was to work a few more years, find a great guy to marry and still have a house full of her own children.

How can an ostensibly SMRT, overeducated woman be so fucking deluded? I doubt artificial wombs or lab-grown eggs, or the egg freezing already available and discussed in this sob story, will have the huge impact on the sexual market that I hear claimed in some quarters. Men don’t fuck frozen eggs or hidden wombs. Men fuck women. A woman’s face and body is what motivates men to fucking or to a bid at fucking. This is why I’ve argued sexbots will be the game-changer, rather than those other reproductive technologies coming down the pike. The sexbot correctly manipulates men by simulating the experience of sex with a younger, hotter, tighter woman.

Our Peak RBF has forgotten the common sense that “younger, hotter, tighter” doesn’t mean “younger, hotter, tighter eggs”. A sexy egg in a decrepit body is still an egg no man would bother fertilizing.

Things didn’t turn out the way she hoped.

The realness of physiognomy applies. What man would want to wife up a prissy schoolmarm careerist shrike with that pleasing face? Surely, one look at her and all men would think, “there’s a feminine lady who would happily cook me dinner and give me blowjobs and have unfaked orgasms”.

In early 2017, with her 45th birthday looming and no sign of Mr. Right, she decided to start a family on her own.

*insert Idiocracy opening scene*

She excitedly unfroze the 11 eggs she had stored and selected a sperm donor.

Was that excitement or panic?

Two eggs failed to survive the thawing process. Three more failed to fertilize. That left six embryos, of which five appeared to be abnormal. The last one was implanted in her uterus. On the morning of March 7, she got the devastating news that it, too, had failed.

Darwin welped.

Adams was not pregnant, and her chances of carrying her genetic child had just dropped to near zero. She remembers screaming like “a wild animal,” throwing books, papers, her laptop — and collapsing to the ground.

The God of Biomechanics wins in the end. (tbh it’s best for the race if her kind drop out of the darwinian arena.)

The story goes on to describe in excruciating detail the low, low odds of women conceiving via frozen eggs, with the odds dropping precipitously every year after age 35, a time in a hopeful woman’s life known as the “fertility cliff”. By age 40, most women should just throw in the towel and become nuns.

In an unfortunate and unfair twist of nature, men are believed to replenish their sperm at a rate of 1,500 a second through most of their lives; there are documented cases of men remaining fertile into their 90s. Age also affects the quality of sperm [ed: overblown risk pushed by aggrieved feminist researchers], according to numerous studies. But the effect on fertility is markedly less dramatic than in women.

Sperm is economical
Eggs are valuable
Men are expendable
Women perishable

The procedure is growing rapidly in popularity: Gina Bartasi, the former chief executive at fertility benefits company Progyny, predicts that as many as 76,000 women could elect to freeze their eggs this year.

Natural selection in real time. The White women of the future will be nothing like the careerist ballcutters of today. Think more “Stepford wife” than “empowered shrike”.

Her own story has a happy twist.

After a dark period of mourning and soul-searching, Adams began IVF again, this time with a donor egg and donor sperm. On a recent weekday afternoon, she was lying on an exam table staring at a computer screen — her first ultrasound.

She is literally an incubator for a child who has no genetic connection to her and was conceived of a father she has never met. Yet somehow, incredibly, she manages, along with a guiding agitprop hand from the media whore, to put a non-dystopian, happy clappy spin on her predicament.

Picking out a sperm donor was fun, she said, like perusing an online dating site to find the ideal mate.

The problem is that she spent too much of her total lifetime in urban slore hell perusing dating sites for men who would ultimately pump and dump her in search of more fertile asstures. And now, looking at her, she’ll be lucky to catch the attention of old black men.

Trying to select an egg donor, on the other hand, was “excruciating,” she says: “You are thinking, ‘This should be me.’ ”

Of course. That’s her bioprogramming telling her she done fucked up.

Adams says she is trying to control her emotions, given the ups and downs of her long journey. But then the doctor comes in and locates the thud-thud of a heartbeat, and her eyes start to water.

The baby, a girl, is due in May.

This is how the West ends
this is how the West ends
this is how the West ends
with a procession of issue-less bangs followed by a single autistic, allergic, Downs-y IVF daughter who will grow up to hate her selfish bitch mother for dying on her before her high school graduation and for denying her a flesh and blood father to love.

***

A big reason why we have an epidemic of overeducated women tragically delaying marriage and childbirth until it’s too late is because of the reality of female hypergamy. When women gain economic, occupational and social status, their mate criteria rise commensurate to the rise in their self-perceived (or more precisely, their self-wished) SMV. The tragedy is that their high SMV left them in their youth.

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