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Archive for the ‘Hitting The Wall’ Category

There’s a lot of chatter among the cuntocracy about how men aren’t “manning up” and doing their duty to marry off all the single ladies. But maybe, just maybe, part of the reason for this male abdication of the sacred institution of marriage is the poor quality of the women on offer.

Just how bad is the marriageable American female market? Jay in DC writes,

‘Hot 99.5′ is basically the hippest and most relevant DC radio station in that it has the youngest listener demographic.

They are currently holding a contest for “new brides” to post their hottest photo to win the contest (1,000 dollar prize). Now granted, more intelligent chicks are probably NOT going to put their pic out there. But there are about 100 submissions up there already so this is a pretty good cross-section of not only DC, but really the US.

Behold men, and look upon your ruination. Betas WILL marry anything. ANYTHING, and this is what keeps the perpetual cycle of disgusting fat entitled average americunts reproducing.

I really advise you take the 15 minutes or so to REALLY look at every photo. This is our future. Out of those 100 photos there are FIVE women I would date, a few more I would fuck, and 3 I would marry if they had the classic femininity to go with their looks.

That is a SAD ASS RATIO. 97 to 3 in a pretty good statistical sample are marriageable? Welcome to the USSA.

http://www.hot995.com/contests/summer-bridal-showdown/297456/Vote/photoDetail/402513

p.s. Don’t bother posting comments, they will be shot down in seconds, just enjoy the grotesquery that is these women in bridal gowns.

Browsing the blushing attention whores, I’d have to concur with Jay’s assessment; the majority of the American East Coast brides are beastly. Beauty and the beast, inverted.

Beta males won’t marry anything. That is a stretch. Ugly, older, masculine, and fatter women DO pay marriage marketplace costs that you won’t be able to readily discern in their smiling wedding day photos. The hidden nature of the cost does not preclude its exorbitance.

And what is that exorbitant cost? Settling. It’s all of the better men with whom the post-prime, pre-Wall, porky-princess American bride had to give up hope of fettering to a marital contract. As age, size and attitude veer away from the feminine ideal beloved by the vast majority of men, women will find it harder — sometimes impossibly harder — to land the man of their dreams. They will have to settle for second, third, or even 30th best if they want to be married at all.

And so what you don’t see in those blushing blimp pics are the men they truly wanted who pumped and dumped them, or ignored them for their prettier friends. What you also don’t see are the hapless losers who vowed last-ditch lifelong monogamy to a land whale in exchange for avoiding the walking death of incel, as their hearts privately sank away in forlorn regret.

That is the individual, human dynamic. What about the big picture? Interesting — in the horrible sense of the word — things happen when the supply of attractive women drastically shrinks in proportion to the supply of megafauna, feminists, careerist shrikes, manjaws, and bitter spinsters. When the marriage market essentially become an outpost of Wal-Mart (Wall-Mart!) — cheap, throwaway, high fructose corn syrup goods — men experience what could be described as an exogenous “restriction of range” problem when they set out to find marriageable women.

Instead of a normally functioning sexual market where men are presented with many options among marriageable women of varying degrees of attractiveness (who nonetheless meet the men’s threshold for long-term commitment worthiness), what transpires in a shit market like what we have now is a massive limitation in men’s acceptably attractive mate choices and a replacement with a dichotomous mate choice system. In a dichotomous mate choice system, beta males no longer have the luxury of choosing between, say, a feminine slender 6 and a tomboyish slender 7. Now they’re restricted to choosing between involuntary celibacy and marriage to a ghastly apparition.

Unfortunately for the progress of the human species, the male sex drive is so strong that more than a few hard-up betas and omegas will choose the sad, dreary marriage to a circus sideshow over the soul-crushing solitude of sexlessness.

Beauty is truth. CH is among the greats in asserting the truism of this plea for an aesthetic sensibility, and for good reason. When ugliness of body is the norm, ugliness of character and, ultimately, of nation is sure to follow.

Related:

obesity-map-GIF-j

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A distinct pleasure of being alive during the decline and fall of a Western world power is bearing witness to the technicolor debris that spins off of rapid cultural collapse. CougarLife.com is one such belch of asocial ejecta. The promo video is short and sweet, so recline poolside and sip your Molotai cocktail as CH presents to you a dating website dedicated to matching imminent Wall victims with inexperienced younger men hauling a knapsack of blue balls.

CougarLife.com’s catchphrase is “Meet divorcees, single moms, and sexy singles looking for a young stud!” (Studs are called “cubs” for female members trying to emulate Mrs. Robinson.)

The revelation in this cheesy ad is the surprising bounty of (unintentional) bracing truth. Of course, the truth is mixed in with a dollop of sophistic slop, but it doesn’t take much reading between the lines to uncover some timeless Heartistian shivs.

So let’s play a game. (“Let’s not and say we did”, says the recovering beta practicing his alpha chops.) Watch the vid, and list all the ways it conforms to sexual market realities. See if you found as many sterile Easter eggs as CH.

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OK, here’s what I found.

1. Right out of the spinster gate, a roar of propaganda hits us. Few cougars are as Hand-Alternative-Threshold-Exceeded (HATE)* fuckable as porn star Julia Ann. Your typical cougar looks like this:

grandma why are you clawing my chest?

The Wall feasts most gluttonously on former beauties who never thought the day of reckoning would come. I’m not about to make an account to tally what kinds of mangy cougars are on offer, but I’d be surprised if Julia Ann quality cougars numbered more than 1 out of 100. 1 out of 1,000 might even be pushing the odds.

By way of comparison, your typical man — cub, as it were — who joins a dating site specializing in cougars, single moms, and divorcees looks like this:

it’s been ten years! my precious fell off.

2. “So are you tired of meeting the same types of girls in bars?” Translation from the cougarese: “So are you ready for an easier if less visually stimulating lay?”

3. Julia Ann shoves a sandwich in the face of a not particularly skinny younger woman, (the girl’s reply: “Ugh, meat!”), implying she needs to grow some curves. Notwithstanding the absurdity of the implication (the younger woman is far from anorexic), this amply demonstrates the anti-feminist ugly truth that women are other women’s most misogynistic enemies.

4. A younger woman snidely remarks on her date’s job as a “computer geek”. Julia Ann leans in (her giant tits leading the way) and reminds the girl she folds sweaters for a living. Awesome reframe… which would be far more useful to a man who wanted to knock down the self-esteem of a bona fide hottie a peg or two.

5. Older women may know what they want (“young guys”, according to our esteemed MILF, because apparently the older guys are too busy chasing younger women), but that doesn’t mean they automatically get it. The presumption that cougars can get sex when they want it from younger men rests on the unspoken premise that the kinds of men most likely to take up the offer are undersexed goons or desperate virgins. Or non-famous YOLO black guys. And even that low grade supply will get cut off once terminal Wall impact is achieved.

6. Younger woman (to her date): “Buy me a drink?” Cougar drop kicks her and assumes her place. She smiles at the man, “How about I buy *you* a drink?” This is just a plain admission that older women have to price themselves lower if they want a scrap of male attention that younger, hotter, tighter women take for granted. (Note: The guy sitting across from her doesn’t look all that young.)

A sexual landscape of prowling unmarried cougars, single moms, and divorcees forced into settling for two minutes of cartoon love with awkward dweebs ten beers deep is indicative of a fraying society. All boundaries are coming apart; the hedonist impulse is the last standing principle. Interestingly, CH not only predicted the rise of cougardom, we held it up as an ideal arrangement in an anarchic sex bazaar where the broken incels and insols pile higher than the 99% vacancy rate Burj. Neophyte beta males increasingly getting shut out of the sexual carnival can get their rocks (and their apprehensions) off in the dusty muffs of grateful cougars, while older, suaver players can scoop up the younger morsels for long time love.

*Hand-Alternative-Threshold-Exceeded (HATE) Fuckability is a simple concept: Given a den of cougars (or other category of mostly undesirable women) and a lack of better options, how many are more interesting to your penis than your crabbed hand? For most normal men with functioning self-esteems and some experience bedding younger women, there will hardly be more than a tiny fraction of cougars capable of stimulating arousal beyond that which can be accomplished with one’s hand and imagination. The few cougars that can outclass your hand are said to be HATE fucks.

The HATE fuck ratio is actually a very useful stat for measuring a man’s standards and discriminating taste (which, ultimately, are themselves contributing factors as well as conspicuous indicators of his overall SMV). For example, if urgency and circumstance dictate an opportunistic cost-free 30 second rutting, and you are willing to fuck one cougar in a roomful of one hundred stalking cougars, then your HATE fuck ratio is 1:100.

The higher your ratio, the lower your standards, and the more you hate yourself for requiring the shabby hole of a bottom shelf jezebel to alleviate your incel. That is the essence of the HATE fuck… a tepid squirt of pallid pleasure in exchange for your dignity and psychologically distressing confirmation that this is the best you might ever do.

Consider yourself lucky if you have a HATE fuck ratio of 1:100. Some omega males shuffle along this mortal coil carrying the burden of a 1:2 HATE fuck ratio. Imagine being that guy who surveys the wrinkled menu at a cougar convention or the buffet at a NAAFA mixer and thinks to himself, “Yeah, I’m desperate. I could make myself sexually available to at least half of these assembly line rejects.” If you’re that guy… WAYSA?

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A very homely, urbanely decayed spinster has taken photographs of herself posed with male and child mannequins, presumably as some sort of statement on the present condition of her bifurcated ego.

If you thought 21st Century American women have plumbed the depths of crazy, you’d be wrong. There’s totes crazy left in those desiccated wombs and cock-ravaged holes where their feminine hearts used to reside. Expect to see a plague of crazy visited upon the women of the West, as the modern diversity industrial complex and no-holds-barred sexual market drives the wedge deeper between their mothering and materialistic desires. We have only begun to bear witness to a total meltdown of the American woman’s psyche.

My advice to American men: If you didn’t get lucky and find yourself a sane, feminine American woman before this late-stage twisted empire in rapid decay corrupted her, head overseas. You’ve got to know when to hold an American woman, and know when to fold her. And right now, she’s coming up 2-7 off-suit.

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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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