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Archive for the ‘Hitting The Wall’ Category

A sad woman left the following comment (scroll down) to a post about an OkCupid experiment in dating profiles which CH covered in detail here.

An even more insightful “study” would be to do the same thing but use people of similar attractiveness but different ages. I am in my 40’s and I receive virtually no messages. I did the Match thing for six months and sent over 200 messages, all of which were “custom” to the guy I was contacting. I can’t stand cut and paste emails, not to mention they’re obviously cut and paste. I got fewer than 10 responses. In six months. What I have taken away from this whole experience is if you’re female and your age starts with a number equal to or higher than 4 (I’m 45) it is not going to be a great experience. And if, like me, you’re tall (5’11″) it’s going to be even worse.

Dating sites exist to make a profit, and that means by necessity and in accord with the nature of their market and consumer sentiment they must push a silo full of pretty lies. If they were to come out and say “ugly, fat and older women and boring, poor and loser men need not apply”, that would cut into revenues. And probably provoke an idiotic discrimination lawsuit which serves the betterment of absolutely nothing.

So dating sites package their pretty lies in pabulum like “customization” and “29 dimensions of compatibility to find your perfect match” that specifically ping the hopefulness radars of lovelorn women and the men who follow where those women go. Keep hope alive, because when you can’t find a date in the real world, hope is all you have left.

Never are the inherent limitations of online dating sites more apparent than when the eFallacy marketing fluff meets the massive edifice of the Wall. The Splat Protocol is that event horizon when aging beauties become like the beta males they ignored in their youth, now reduced to spending hours and hours working feverishly on their arid, online dating profiles only to be rewarded with crumbs of lackluster attention from those very same men.

The lesson here is that cultural leverage in whatever form has to be brought to bear on the inflated egos and runaway narcissism of American women to guide them to wise life decisions. This wisdom would include reminders to settle down young while they still have the glow of natural rosiness in the cheeks, and warnings against imagining internet dating is some kind of reprieve from the merciless judgment of the God of Biomechanics.

when the wall… comes rising into view
when the wall… comes closing in on you
when the wall… is looming all arouuuund
– Jane “Cougar” Mellentramp

UPDATE

Commenter Wrecked ‘Em (rectum? I nearly wrecked em!) writes,

And on the flip side, 50 y.o. friend changed his match profile to imply that he looks younger than his age, has younger friends, that women his age can’t hang, and finally listed his real income, which is over match’s top spot of $150k/yr… then dropped his minimum age on “looking for” to 28.

He then proceeded to like photos and favorite plenty of women in the 28-32 age range, wholly ignoring what age of man they were supposedly interested in. Based on the response he’s seen thus far his new theory is that the hotter the girl is the more likely she’ll respond. He’s swimming in it after only a week of this.

Given compensatory attributes (game, wealth, looks, overconfidence, preselection by younger women/friends), a man can easily date women significantly younger than himself. Women, in contrast, have little ability to compensate for their aging.

The Wall comes to all, but men have the option to outflank it for a while. Women can only watch in horror as it bears down on them.

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n/a lyrically reminds the arriviste audience that an old chestnut is just as moldy when a man serves it up on a platter and calls it the main course.

Amused by this thread and its arriviste assumption that ladies with a few more rings in the trunk and some rather shocking sun-damage from their salad days in St. Barts are somehow more “sophisticated” than a sweet pink baby in her last year of high school: the notion is even more comical than it is wrong.

There is no “intellectual” badinage much less intelligent conversation with a woman who is still worth fucking; of all the cliches of romance none better suits the vanity of women and the hard to dispel starry-eyed stupidity of men than the laughable idea that there exist magical hags smarter, more spirited and altogether better at desiccated 40 than they were at moist 20. This is an amazing delusion and a quintessential trope – and tell – of the diehard beta.

The question to ask the woman duly and dully decked in her “Chanel” and knockoff Louboutins is do you have a pretty and naughty daughter? There are indeed rich and bored women who will be anything but displeased to entertain such a question after a few oily martinis and then, and only then, does the hard mug of the accomplished bitch take on the warm glow of lechery. Do not press the issue. Let it scent the air.

This comes close to a perfectly crafted comment, in both substance and delivery. Men who, by dint of limited options, choose to extol the “sophistication” and “worldliness” of the wealthy middle-aged cougar are revealing a classic handicapped SMV tell: that of the man who can’t do any better. It’s the inverse of sour grapes; instead of falsely claiming the sourness of a ripe grape out of reach high on the vine, one insists on the sweetness of a rotting fruit within reach on the ground.

The supposed sophistication of the well-to-do cougar is nothing next to the firm rump, smooth skin and pert tits of the minimum wage 20-year-old barista. Nothing. All the cougarly sophistication cubed will never approach the exponential allure of one evanescent smile from a pretty young babe. And this chaps the hides of the men who are trapped in the cougar pen as much as it does of the defeminized fading trophy harridans who sprinkle their aging flesh with shiny brand name baubles and fuel their egos on the fumes of vaporous entitlement.

The great joke of this charade is that older women aren’t even the paragons of sophistication they and their beta handlers like to claim. Wit is the province of the smart, and smarts are in full evidence by the early 20s. Fluid intelligence declines after the youthful 20s, further degrading the smart woman’s chattering legerdemain. Intellectualism, too, is not age-dependent once past the early neural formative years. The young intellectual woman has at least the advantage of being fun and sprightly along with her occasional bursts of deep thought. The smart cougar is well-versed… and tired.

Even a more generous interpretation of sophistication as a term meaning wisdom is not the boon for the cougar’s self-conception she, or her lovers, think. A wisdom borne of experience riding the cock carousel is a knowingness most men find unpalatable in a romantic partner. Yes, the cougar “knows what she wants in a man”, but what benefit is that to any man in serious contention for her crumbling facade? Perhaps the man she chooses can feel good that, after she has had a spell sampling the boner buffet, the wizened lady honored his pig in a blanket with Best In Show. But that’s like winning a trophy for running the mile in 42 minutes; he is left to wonder just how bad the competition must have been.

No, what a man wants, when he’s alone with his thoughts and he can feel the natural pulse of his viscera, is a young, beautiful woman with a lifetime of reproductive residual value ahead of her. And, knowing what a prize she is, his pride upon winning her will be genuine.

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The Wall, In Fast Forward

A helpful reminder, ladies.

The Wall, for those new readers unfamiliar with the term, is the moment in time, measured in age, when a woman’s sexual attractiveness, following years of asymptotic approach, finally hits absolute zero. To put it less turgidly, The Wall is that age when a woman’s looks go splat, like Wile E. Coyote running headlong into a boulder. The Wall is the sexual worthlessness event horizon of a woman’s existence on earth, the immovable metaphorical object that divides her long-telomere romantic life stage from her short-telomere post-romantic life stage when the vast majority of men become utterly uninterested in sex with her. A post-Wall woman may still have dusty sex, but it will be with begrudging men who had no other younger (i.e., better) options.

The Wall exists regardless of any individual woman’s psychological capacity to accommodate its inevitability. It’s a remorseless executioner of romantic hopes and dreams, and its shadow suffocates the intentions of the most practiced self-deluders.

The Wall does not affect men like it does women, for men have, unlike women, the advantage of possessing or acquiring compensatory attributes and achievements that can radically delay The Wall’s merciless tribute. For this reason, when we refer to The Wall, we are referring primarily to the rapidly coalescing and unequivocal end of a woman’s romantic life, to be superseded by either her noble matron life or her crazy cat lady life.

The age of Wall impact varies from woman to woman, but it generally converges for most women between the early 40s and 50. Some exceptional female specimens with a fortuitous suite of anti-aging genes can perhaps extend meager traces of their former physical glory well into their 50s, but these are exceedingly few in number. 99% of women you meet in daily life will have hit The Wall by their 50th birthday. An unfortunately larger minority of women will have been unlucky in beauty longevity and hit The Wall as young as their early 30s. Sadly, tragically, the first glimpses of The Wall cresting the horizon will be visible to most women by their 35th birthdays. An understandable panic will ensue, because The Wall means nothing less than the total annihilation of their ability to win the love and commitment of the men they truly desire.

This is why it’s absolutely critical for a woman to leverage her beauty when it’s at its peak nubility and coax a man into a monogamous, legally binding relationship; for once a man is thus ensnared, inertia, guilt and duty conspire to keep him there past his lover’s sexual expiration date. A woman who waits too long to exploit her youthful looks will have lost the only sexual market leverage at her disposal to outcompete not only other women, but also to disarm the natural reluctance to commitment from higher value men.

In the video above, I place the precise moment of that particular woman’s Wall impact somewhere between 2:59 and 3:14, which, if we establish the total length of the video to coincide with her total lifespan, means that she hits The Wall within a short span of a few years, the difference in exact moment of frontal impact partly attributable to minor differences in men’s tolerance for overt signs of late-fertility aging and unflattering lighting. For comparison, note that her peak nubility appears to occur somewhere around the 1:25 mark. This means that she enjoys the time-lapsed equivalent of one minute and thirty seconds of lifetime libidinous attention from men, and three minutes of lifetime invisibility to men. In actuality, that 1:30 of male attention is more like 30 seconds of widespread and welcome male attention, because a substantial chunk of her waning attractiveness years will be spent suffering the ignominy of increasingly rare glances from increasingly low value men.

Note, too, how quickly her facial attractiveness deteriorates once The Wall rises into view for her. Like most women, her pulchritude trajectory held steady for many years, the deterioration hardly noticeable from one year to the next, but once she crossed the threshold from youthful to “hanging on”, the droop and destruction accelerated, so that each day brought a new insult in the mirror. It is these years of torment that suicide begins to dance in the heads of childless, unmarried spinsters.

The Wall is now a popular regurgitated concept on various manosphere blogs and Reddit hovels, so it behooves the CH intellectual property protectorship to remind the studio audience that The Wall made its premiere here, when the creaky iron gates first opened a leaf-strewn path to a Chateau in the woods for curious wayfarers.

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Over at Jizzebel, internet archipelago of misfit romantic rejects, a woman breaks the ogress omertá and bares her shiv-scarred soul for the world to leer at with morbid fascination. In a skin-thin confessional-cum-rationalization wrapped in a transparent gauze of self-protective snark, ur-femcunt Tracy Moore, sporting a testosterone-fueled gargantujaw that would be the envy of any excessively prognathic urban youth, unloads about the reality of women losing their looks, and thus their sexual market options, to the unrelenting tick tocking of father fuckyouupgood.

You will realize that getting older is not only NOT as terrible as you thought, but that it actually it confers untold advantages you couldn’t have even imagined when you were busy running around doing cartwheels staying up all night wearing miniskirts.

Ugly truth time: Old age is a horror show. The mind fogs, the body rots, the sex organs wither, the energy level plummets. And that’s if you’re lucky enough to avoid really shitty decay accelerants like heart disease or cancer. What about these facts of the toll of aging is not terrible? Old people have remarked to me that the only upside to their loss of youth was a growing sense of serenity, aka calm resignation to a total lack of power to do anything about one’s wretched deterioration. Here’s an easy question for platitude pusher Tracy Moore that will highlight the bankruptcy of her feminist feels: How many 80 year old women would instantly and painlessly shave 60 years of aging off their bodies with a snap of the finger if they could? My bet: A lot. About the same number as the number of parents-to-be who would instantly and painlessly cure a gay germ infection that was discovered in mommy’s fetus. (The following ‘heh’ directed at Andrew “Rawmuscleglutes” Sullivan:

Heh.)

Moore continues her psyche triage by quoting an advice seeker from an “Ask Polly” column:

“And so, the prospect of losing [my looks]—and I know I will lose it, everyone does—fills me with such crushing dread. I take care of myself as best I can in terms of a healthy lifestyle and sunscreen, but I know that every day that goes by, I am aging, and ultimately powerless to stop [the aging process]. (I don’t have much faith in the ability of cosmetic procedures to keep my face looking exactly the way it does now, so that “option” is of little comfort). It’s like I’ve been given this precious gift with the stipulation that it will be yanked away from me before my life is even halfway over. I don’t know how to cope with this. I have these horrible moments now in which I see older women around me and feel a visceral sense of disgust and pity—obviously a projection of my own fears.”

The fear of old people is real, because, of course, they aren’t a separate species, but a mirror of our future gnarly selves. This woman is expressing a real fear based on a real understanding about how the world, and the mating market, work, even if her worry borders on obsessively unhealthy. The correct advice to give her is not to impugn her character or chide her for her lack of faith in feminist boilerplate credentialism, but to tell her to stop worrying so much about something she has no control over and to get out and enjoy her boner-inspiring, beta-manipulating youth n beauty while she has it, because it is good. And then perhaps to recognize that, yes, the day will come, sooner rather than later, that her looks will be gone, and she should prepare for this eventuality by limiting her time on the cock carousel and extracting commitment from a worthy man before her carriage turns into a fatass pumpkin. A few tips about age-slowing eating and lifestyle habits wouldn’t hurt, either.

Tracy Moore, as is the wont of members of her subterranean sisterhood, imparts a distinctly uninspired take that vibrates with barely-concealed acknowledgement of biomechanical reality:

Obviously, we could make a lot of assumptions about where this advice-seeker has gone wrong — namely by being too caught up in her own appearance and the joy it brings her and others. But we would do better to remind ourselves of the double-edged sword beauty brings to those who posses it: great rewards, an often over-reliance on its door-opening magical powers to the exclusion of cultivating the self, an expiration date, being taken less seriously, etc.

An “expiration date”! A term so closely aligned with Chateau Heartiste that suspicions are aroused Moore is a secret reader.

Nevertheless, Moore’s laundry list of youthnbeauty downsides are feelgood pablum: There is not only no laboratory evidence that beautiful women don’t “cultivate the self” or that they are “taken less seriously”, there is hardly any real world evidence of these nostrums either. If anything, beautiful women are taken *too* seriously, and get a leg up in just about every aspect of life by obsequious men… until they hit the wall. And since beauty and IQ correlate, there is a better than random chance that a beautiful girl will be a more interesting personality than will be an ugly girl.

Sometimes the Thing You Notice About Aging Is Oddly Comforting

Even when these moments come — I can’t get drunk like I used to; What’s that popping sound in my hip every time I stand up? Must use more moisturizer — rather than feel bad, I actually feel good, good that I am alive and this age and still totally healthy, in spite of how much I wasted my youth, or rather, got wasted while young. Think about it: Your body says fuck you to gravity most days of its existence. Pretty amazing.

It’s only “oddly” comforting because Moore understands, past the confines of her well-manicured ego, that aging is not a comfort show at all. Yes, pretty amazing. You keep telling yourself that Tracy, because those wasted years not finding a beta husband to tenderly stroke your anvil mandible while you still had a semblance of sexual marketability are never coming back. May as well ease the pain with a stirring morning motivational that exults in your achievement of breathing air for another day.

Yes, There’s Regret, But Not Like You Think

Once I remember talking with a friend when we were in our late 20s, and she remarked casually that she wished she’d worn more cute clothes/risqué stuff when she was younger and had a “better body,” and I agreed reflexively, like, yeah, of course, who doesn’t. But then I realized that in order to have done that, I would have had to have been a completely different person. I have never really been the type of person to dress provocatively at any age.

Just like a feminist to wish she had been sluttier when she was younger. Hey Try-Hard, I got news for ya… younger women can wear a friggin potato sack and still look more bangable than a 40 year old in a cocktail dress.

What crazy person would trade that [life experience] for a slightly higher set of boobs?

False choice fallacy. But this is feminist-land, where logical fallacies are coin of the realm.

And if you so happen now be the sort of person who wants to wear a miniskirt, wear a fucking miniskirt and shut the fuck up about it!

This is not recommended for cougars and fatties, or does Moore believe that women should be exempt from feeling bad about any visual appraisals that aren’t sufficiently and simultaneously respectful and lascivious?

The Thing You Really Notice is How Little You Care

Sorry, I know it’s a bumper sticker at this point, but the hands-down, best motherfucking juice that comes from being older is how much better you know yourself, and what’s more, you like this person you’ve gotten to know, even when you accept her worst flaws. This is more liberating than all the fresh-faced ignorant bliss in the world.

You know what else would qualify as “liberating”? Admitting to yourself that you look shittier now than you did ten years ago. And then adjusting your man-sights accordingly.

Trying to appreciate where you are right now is the big triumph of life.

Feminism: The new tard olympics.

Knowing that wherever you are right now is where you are, and looking for the best thing in that, with an eye on how to keep it going toward wherever you want to be, is the point.

Has a sentence more devoid of substance and more burdened with vapid nonsense ever been written by a woman? It reads like a post-modern architectural shoebox of stacking “right now is where is right is now is point is where” clauses.

Your Looks Never Actually Bail

If so, where do they go? In the crawl space at your last apartment? Is there a dumpster in the sky where all the young, beautiful faces go, like some weirder, more mutant version of the movie Face Off? Duh, you always look like you! Because you are you! And you are an evolving thing, a thing that ages!

So Tracy, is the fact that this concluding paragraph of yours contradicts just about every stated and implied premise you made earlier in your article fill you with shame in your chosen career? Jes askin’.

So if you are young and terrified and reading this right now, I say, please, enjoy the shit out of what you’ve got, and spend the rest of your time building an exquisite bridge to the next phase of your life, so that you can enjoy the shit out of that, too. That is the secret to sheer magnetism, no matter how old you are.

Actually, men will be a lot less tolerant of your “sheer magnetism” when you’re old and ugly. But your fat feminist snarky BFFs will continue to lap up your runny shit, so there’s that.

Why else can we not stop drooling over Helen Mirren?

Newsflash: No one is drooling over Helen Mirren but deluded feminists fearing a crash impact with the wall, and their suck-up orbiter manboobs who secretly want to prematurely dribble a tepid spurt of their feeb seed all over your jungle bush.

PS: The following is *not* a valid example of an older woman having sexual market options:

PPS: One of the reasons, maybe the primary reason, why you’re seeing an uptick in these lamentations from aging beauties nowadays is because the loss of religiosity and the concomitant bracing realization of the illimitable lightness of youth and the infinite darkness of post-life encourages a mournful nihilism about one’s happiness beyond serving as a visually appealing cum receptacle. When hope for something more transcendent, whether real or imagined, is gone, the pistons of sex are all that’s left to power the motor.

Another reason for the wailing is the growing childlessness of the marginally-aware class of women. Fear of old age and regret for lost youth have always been with humankind, but never have they felt so acute as now, in our modern, pre-collapse society. Children, along with God, acted as decouplers that placed the sense of self at a safe, if still visible, distance from constant gnawing dread of one’s mortality. Being responsible for a child, and living through that child’s life, provides, I imagine, and especially provides for women, a distraction if not a redemption from sexual invisibility and the uglification of aging. But when you are a single and the city feminist tankgrrl with mimosas for blood, sexual invisibility is akin to an exorcism of your soul. You are shattered, empty, a nothing with nothing but regret to rapidly fill in your osteoporosing id.

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In a mainstream media aka Cathedral loser-whistle article (h/t “garter snake”) about older women “””dating””” younger men, one of the interviewed aging beauties had this to say,

Felicia Brings was 31 and dating a 25-year-old man in the 1970s and so feared losing her job over it that she kept the relationship a secret. “I was so ashamed,” recalled Brings, now 65 and living in Fort Lauderdale, Fla. “At that time, if the guy was younger, you were considered a pervert.”

Brings now gravitates toward younger men — the largest disparity was when she was 50 and dating a 25-year-old — because she finds she connects with them better and, frankly, men her own age aren’t as interested in her.

“When I was in my 40s, I realized I had become invisible to men of my own generation,” said Brings, co-author of “Older Women, Younger Men: New Options for Love and Romance” (New Horizon Press). She noticed younger men, often raised by feminist women, were intrigued by and admiring of her success and experience, whereas older men seemed threatened and expected women to play traditional roles.

Language is supposed to convey meaning, but when a hamster has swallowed it, digested it, and shat it out, we are compelled to sift through the pellets to find the embedded fiber of meaning.

Translated from the Hamsterese, abridged version:

Women are like dog shit. The older they get, the easier they are to pick up.

Translated from the Hamsterese, full version:

Felicia Brings was 31 and banging a 25-year-old boring mediocrity in the 1970s and so feared losing her mind over it that she kept the twice yearly sex sessions a secret. “I was so ashamed,” recalled Brings, now 65 and living in Fort Lauderdale, Fla. “At that time, if the guy was younger, you considered yourself a romantic failure.”

Brings now gravitates toward younger beta males of EatPrayLove ethnicity who are desperately horny and unable to command attention from non-morbidly obese women their own age — the largest disparity was when she was 50 and dating a 25-year-old abject loser — because she finds she genitally connects with the paid gigolos better and, frankly, men her own age aren’t as interested in her when younger, hotter, tighter women are available to them.

“When I was in my wall impact 40s, I realized I had become invisible to men of every generation who had options,” said Brings, co-author of “Older Women, Younger Effete Manboobs: New Ways to Temporarily Sedate the Pain of Being Sexually Worthless to the Men You Really Want” (New Whorizon Press). She noticed younger closet cases, often raised by feminist women, were pretending to be intrigued by and admiring of her success and caustic careergrrl personality, whereas older men who weren’t piss-stained street bums seemed viscerally disgusted by the thought of sex with her flabby carcass and expected women to be minimally attractive to coax a semi.

Hamster status: nuked and raining tufts of blood spattered fur.

This has got to be a Hamster of the Month contender. The alacrity with which aging starlets resort to the “men who don’t want me are threatened by my career success and life experiences” shibboleth should be included in the DSM-IV as a diagnosable psychological disorder.

< Bizarro Obama > Let me be clear, feminist platitude pushers. < /bizarro obama > Men are “threatened” by the accumulated career success and loudly exhorted independence of aging sirens like they’re threatened by a mound of warm, steaming shit: they think it’s disgusting and don’t want to touch it or smell it, let alone stick their dicks in it.

HTH.

I don’t doubt that there are aging divas getting their overworked holes mechanically serviced by dorky desperadoes bursting with the dull pain of years of unexpelled cum. Nor do I doubt that some of those aging Isn’t Girls manage the miracle of convincing a lonely, thoroughly gelded pudgeball with swaying bitch tits and the hormonal profile of a soybean to stick around for more than a few nights of lusterless dispassion.

But, like Mrs. Robinson’s escape from reality, their younger lovers plungers usually fly the coop as soon as a cute girl half the age of the younger men’s groundbreaking intercourse aging mentors bats a dewy eyelash at them. That’s why so many of these loud and empowered aging dames reel off a laundry list of younger “lovers”; apparently not a one of these sensitive and intrigued lovers was interested in putting a ring on it, or even hanging around beyond the proximity of the industrial-sized bottle of lube. And when you ask the aging maiden about her current relationship status, she’s always “gravitating” toward this or that great type of guy.

If this post wasn’t enough of an ego MOAB for you, allow me to bullet-point the relevant shivs:

1. Older women are not fucking younger men in any appreciable numbers, and certainly not anywhere near the numbers of older man-younger woman couples. The whole notion is a wishful concoction of the feminism-drenched fluff media industry.

2. Every rule has its exceedingly rare exceptions. Older woman-younger man arrangements do exist, however their existence is not proof of a noteworthy reality that can impact the otherwise normal functioning of the sexual market.

3. Within the small subset of older woman-younger man pairings, the romantic dynamic is mostly energized, such as it is, by the easy path to sex provided to the younger man who would otherwise have trouble getting laid. Very few older woman-younger man bedroom jaunts grow into committed relationships. Most end unceremoniously within a matter of months.

4. Within that tiny sub-subset of romantically committed older woman-younger man pairings, the younger man is typically a low value omega male who couldn’t get laid in a libertardian-run brothel with a fistful of bitcoins.

5. A non-trivial number of older woman-younger man sex romps are between aging fat women and younger black men who seem to possess, contrary to what is observed in most other races, a complete and utter lack of discriminating taste in short-term sexual partners. The women in these squalid arrangements resemble, in size, shape, color and texture, don’t forget texture, the great resource-aggregating herbivores of the African veldt.

6. The rare, outwardly loving and seemingly stable older woman-younger man couple that one might occasionally glimpse in SWPL enclaves are often the tired detritus of a relationship that began with passionate keenness when the man was, say, in his early 20s and the woman was in her late 20s, and in the fullness of time and familiarity managed to avoid rupture by sheer force of risk-averse beta male inertia.

Some of you wonder why I drop the hammer of candor on liars and deluded freaks with such Thorian dispatch. What’s the upside?

The upside is that a world with fewer reality-denying propagandists is a world that is capable of turning away from the elevation of ugly and toward the exaltation of beauty. That’s the kind of world I want to live in; a world easier on the eyes and happier in the heart.

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A reader with an urgent family emergency has turned to the Chateau for help.

I have been reading your site for many years now and thank you for all of the wisdom you have shared. Your blog has improved my life in many ways, and I humbly ask your advice now to convince my brother that he is about to make a terrible mistake.

My brother is the pride of the family – went to a top school undergrad, graduated med school last year, and is now on his way to becoming a surgeon. He is a well-adjusted, mature man who has had a couple of long term relationships in the past and possesses above average intellect, physical, and social skills.

For the past 6 months he has been dating an unemployed divorcee who is 8 years older (he’s 28, she’s 36). This summer he will be moving across the country for his next rotation and they have decided that she will also move and live together with him. She has no social network in the region and even if she finds a job will be relying almost entirely on him financially, emotionally, etc. Not surprisingly she has been pushing him for a ring and a baby, and he seems to be happily going along with this.

My parents and extended family are distraught. We have all tried to reason with him but to no avail. You and your esteemed commentators can all see the train wreck that will occur if my cousin decides to marry and start a family with this woman.

My question to you is this: how can I talk him out of it?

Nervously Poolside,
Dr. No

This reader’s brother needs an intervention. A strong, powergut propelled, three pats on the back intervention. The best teachable moments are those which sock the nascent quisling in the face with a blistering infographic:

The graph is via GLPiggy. As you can see, more women have sex before age 25, but after that the dynamic flips and it’s men who enjoy the edge in sexual pleasure. The why is simple: women are most desirable when young. Men are most desirable when older, and continue staying desirable well into middle age. The underlying why is even simpler: Female attractiveness is almost entirely a function of their physical beauty. Male attractiveness is a function of multiple causes, including status, power, charm, looks and social dominance.

This is CH 101, aka Life 101, aka Feminist Soul Implosion 101.

So tell your brother it makes no sense to marry a woman eight years older than himself when he has the SMV goods RIGHT NOW to land a hotter, tighter, younger babe without divorce baggage, said baggage which itself is strong evidence she will divorce again. And on top of that, his SMV will only increase for another ten, perhaps twenty years, while hers, if she is the typical woman following the usual senescence track, will have a date with the wall of sexual expiration just about the time his appeal is maxing out.

That’s a recipe for marital failure. It makes no sense for him to hitch his cart to this gimp horse, unless….

she’s hot.

I mean, balls tingling, cock leaping hot.

You left this out of your description of her. Be honest, how hot is she? A hard 10? And not just for her age? Because if that’s the case, (however unlikely), many would find it difficult to dissuade him from experiencing the kind of glorious transcendental passion that most men can only crave from the sidelines of their gloomy masturbatoria.

You see, a man falls in love with a woman’s beauty. He does not fall in love with her smarts, her job, her credentials, her family connections, her employability, her future time orientation, or her ability to stand against the patriarchy or avoid the pitfalls of divorce.

Her beauty inspires his devotion, his lust, his love, his tenderness, his protectiveness, his delirium. Once inspired, he begins the journey of discovering all those other little things about her that seem now to him so powerfully alluring. Her beauty is the buttering ram that slides open doors to aspects of her subtler being that are joyously and post hoc-ally embraced by him as motivating reasons for his ardor.

Save this man, yes.

But save him from what? Himself? Or your family’s concern with appearances?

I ask with all sincerity. Because you need to be sure that you will act in your brother’s best interest. If he’s a man of solid self-possession who happens to be truly, deeply, crazily in love, leave him be. If he’s a beta who is clinging to what he imagines is a lifeline from a fate of grinding loneliness, then by all means get in his face.

Show him this blog. Let him sponge up the message that is both necessarily hateful and nourishing.

Slyly introduce finer specimens of femaledom into his life. Let him smell their intoxicating aroma.

Employ the carrot and the stick, the coax and the shame. In time, if he is not completely lost to the forces of self-doubt so preciously cultivated by our feminism glorified society, he will find his footing.

Preferably in the bed of a 22 year old stripper.

UPDATE

An astute commenter has noted that the reader requesting advice referred to the man in question as his brother, and then as his cousin. This may indeed be a troll email.

Nevertheless, the message stands. Trolls can often serve as useful springboards to discuss larger matters which do impact the lives of many men.

UPDATE 2

From original emailer,

My sincere gratitude for your post.

The cousin is a typo, he is my brother and this is a very real situation.

The woman in question is not hot at all, though not ugly – clearly post wall looking to latch on to a provider. 5 at best.

We are acting in his best interest as we can all see what will happen a few years down the road as your readers have already noted. He is more the latter than the former in terms of self possession vs beta – our working theory is that he fell headlong into this because he was in a new city working brutal hours without close friends around.

I am staging an intervention imminently and will keep you posted. The red pill will be hard for him to swallow but its better to go down swinging.

Just inform him that there are hot 21 year old women he can meet just about anywhere who would swoon for his surgeon swagger. Once he knows that, tell him he needs game. Direct him to the resources at this blog. Rudimentary game is all it should take for a whole world of young, exquisite pussy to blossom before his eyes. It sounds like the beta is strong in this fellow, so his shift in attitude from a scarcity mentality to an abundance mentality will need to be swift and sure. Good news: the shift will fully reflect his real opportunity.

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Met online? Check.

Beta herbling? Check.

Chubby American woman on the wrong side of 30? Check.

Pretentious SWPL photo? Check.

Rode the cock carousel until age limit was reached? Check.

Two people settling for each other when options have run out? Check.

From this article, a treasure trove of dating tawdriness and romantic bleakness confirming many CH maxims.

I was 30 years old, just out of a long-term relationship and no longer interested in playing the field. It was time to settle down with the right man, get married and start a family. At the urging of several friends (and my worried mother), a strategy was settled upon: I joined Match.com and JDate, a website for Jewish singles.

What followed was a series of bad dates worthy of a romantic comedy: stupid sexual remarks, too much alcohol consumed (by them). A surprising number of men high-fived me, for reasons that remain unclear.

You can read the rest at the link, if you have the stomach for it. Warning: it’s bad. Here’s a taste:

I quickly realized that the popular women seemed to know something I didn’t; they were clearly attracting the sort of smart, attractive professionals who had been ignoring my profile. Being hypercompetitive, I wasn’t about to let some bubblegum-popping blonde steal the neurotic Jewish doctor of my mother’s dreams.

Here’s some advice, ladies, straight from the lords of the Chateau, and you don’t even have to reverse engineer online dating by making dummy JDate profiles and Excel spreadsheets to benefit from this advice:

1. Don’t get fat.

2. Don’t be ugly.

3. Don’t act like a man or a bitter feminist.

3. Don’t wait until you’re over 30, rode hard and tossed away wet, to start looking for a serious partner worthy of marrying.

See how simple that is? 1,2,3,4. Voila, love! But I suppose the simplicity is the problem for you girls. There’s no way to hamsterize the advice into something palatable to your egos.

PS As a bonus, here’s some CH advice for the men:

1. Don’t be a beta.

2. Don’t act like a woman or a manboob.

3. Learn game, bust a move and date the women you really desire before you’re forced to settle for the above.

Yours in Yahweh,

CH

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