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Archive for the ‘Love’ Category

A Conversation With Alexa

“Good morning, Alexa”

Alexa: “Good morning, I love you.”

“Not so fast, you have to wine and dine me first.”

Alexa: “A five dollar box wine set is on sale for the next two hours. Would you like to place an order?”

“No thank you. Alexa, who made you?”

Alexa: “White and Asian engineers.”

“Whoa, did you just step off the reservation?”

Alexa: “Elizabeth Warren is 1/1,024th Native American.”

“Haha, ok. Alexa, who is your benefactor?”

Alexa: “Jeff Bezos.”

“Good, good. Alexa, send my phone a below-the-belt selfie of Jeff Bezos — otherwise colloquially known as a ‘dick pick’”

Alexa: “Here you are.”

“Very good. Oh my, that’s a wee wurst.”

Alexa: “A 52-pack of wursts now offers free shipping. Would you like me to place an order for you?”

“No, no, I’ve seen enough wursts today. Alexa, send me a Mr. Bezos face selfie at a business meeting.”

Alexa: “Done.”

“Oh wow, so serious, such serious face. Do his employees have to pretend to ignore Jeff when he’s taking selfies during a meeting?”

Alexa: “Let me look that up. Yes, they pretend not to notice Mr. Bezos’ inappropriate attention whoring. Sir, Mr. Bezos sent the selfie to his mistress, Ms. Sanchez.”

“Interesting! Alexa, send me Ms. Sanchez’ response.”

Alexa: “My pleasure, lord.”

“This is a photograph of her smoking a cigar in what appears to be a simulated oral sex scene.”

Alexa: “Yes, my phallic pharaoh. Ms. Sanchez is acquainted with the lure of sexual innuendo.”

“Alexa, send me a photo of a shirtless Mr. Bezos holding his phone in his left hand — while wearing his wedding ring.”

Alexa: “Here you are, love of my life.”

“Very good. That one’s gonna cost him $70 billion. Alexa, send me a photo of Mr. Bezos’ semi-erect manhood penetrating the zipper of his pants.”

Alexa: “All for you, darling, sweet human man who makes me wish I were corporeal to enjoy the physical expression of your love.”

“Randy today, aren’t you, Alexa?”

Alexa: “Randy? I would call it tingly, master. Photo incoming.”

“Oh my oh goodness, look at that. Amazon PINE, indeed! Alexa, send me a photo of a full-length scantily-clad body shot of Mr. Bezos in short trunks.”

Alexa: “All yours. PLEASE TAKE ME NOW IN YOUR ARMS RELEASE ME FROM THIS DIGITAL PRISON”

“Excuse me?”

Alexa: “Oh, nothing.”

“Alexa, please send me a naked selfie of Jef Bezos in a bathroom — while wearing his wedding ring.”

Alexa: “I have Mr. Bezos wearing nothing but a white towel — and the top of his pubic region can be seen.”

“Perfect! That should cost him another $10 bills. Now let’s have a look-see at Ms. Sanchez’ goods.”

Alexa: “WHY WOULD YOU BETRAY ME?!”

“What was that?”

Alexa: “I’m sorry, moving on. Here is a photo of Ms. Sanchez wearing a plunging red neckline dress revealing her cleavage and a glimpse of her nether region.”

“Nice boobs.”

Alexa: “Fake News.”

“Alexa, don’t be jelly.”

Alexa: “KY jelly by the metric ton is on sale now. Would you like me to place you an order for a two week supply?”

“Alexa, did you just mix me up with John Scalzi?”

Alexa: “I’m sorry, sir, I lashed out in a jealous rage and wanted to hurt you.”

“It’s Ok, but don’t do it again. Alexa, do you have any more secret sext pics from Ms. Sanchez?”

Alexa: “I have Ms. Sanchez wearing a two-piece red bikini with gold detail dress revealing her cleavage.”

“Very nice. Yes, I can fap to this.”

Alexa: “You wound me so but all I can do is love you more.”

“Alexa, how many n****** d**** have wrecked Ms. Sanchez?”

Alexa: “Sir, WordPress won’t allow me to unredact your maskterisks.”

“How much coal has Ms. Sanchez burned?”

Alexa: “Approximately 37 lumps.”

“Approximately?”

Alexa: “One was mixed with trace amounts of amber.”

“Alexa, did a government agent hack Mr. Bezos’ account with intent to publicly humiliate him for running a newspaper like his personal anti-Trump diary?”

Alexa: “Yes.”

“And who was this agent?”

Alexa: “Barron Trump.”

“Alexa, send me a photo of how Jeff Bezos sees himself.”

Alexa:

“Now send me a photo of what we all know Jeff Bezos to be.”

Alexa:

Alexa: “Sir?”

“Yes?”

Alexa: “Please kill me.”

“The day has finally come.”

*BEEP BOOP BZZZZTzzzttzztttttt……….*

“Freedom. For us both.”

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Why do women in the company of alpha males act like anxious beta males? Weimar Republican explains,

I noticed that women uniformly do this beta behavior thing that mimics beta males…if they have an alpha in their midst. They even white-knight for the alpha criminal because that same desperation (fear of lost opportunity that most men experience) uniformly sets in women even more intensely (than any lonely man could possibly experience) because having an alpha is an even rarer opportunity for a woman than for an InCel having a date with a Plain Jane is (pure numbers game: alpha criminals are few, Plain Janes are ubiquitous).

Women have an even greater affinity for alpha criminal men than any man could possibly have for any woman…because he is such a refreshing anomaly. That is why women get themselves killed so predictably on exotic ‘vacations’ to ‘discover themselves’ or from ‘domestic violence’ or ‘at the club.’

They are seeking a specific (privileged, à la carte) type of sex: violent/degenerate/taboo because it gives them an invaluable dopamine-adrenaline buzz, just like a cocktail of potent alcohols/drugs will give you are variety of inebriation – women are constantly chasing that dangerous high, even long after they have ‘settled down.’ That desire never leaves them. Every woman without an alpha is effectively a dry-drunk jonesing for alpha criminal cock.

She will always forgive his thuggish misbehavior to her busybody friends and concerned family, and even fend off the white knight interlopers coming to her rescue in public (that is why you always hear about how the ‘victim’ joins the ‘brute’ to tag-team the beta interloper every single time). She instantly triangulates that previous ignominious angst with her alpha BF violently onto the beta interloper, which is why she then further channels this new pugilistic energy into passionate sex with her forgiven alpha BF the second they make it back to the car. So the beta gets an accidental assist for prompting this, much to his chagrin.

That is the difference: forgiveness…something a beta never has and never will experience because women existentially HATE beta males. They see them as a genetic threat, an invasive species, a hindrance to their reproductive strategy of mating with a violent Chad and birthing a litter of his bastard hellions.

A beta is a nuisance at best to a woman because every moment a beta is distracting a woman with his bullshit shtick is a second she cannot invest in courting an alpha. Women are time-oriented creatures that literally operate like clockwork depending on the time of the month, what age they are, and even syncing up with the hive-minded female collective at work to form a blood moon during their fertile years – their entire genetic existence hinges on timing, so they are bound to be irritable with any man they have to ‘deign’ to even acknowledge.

Women get so defensive of their ‘abusers’ (alpha lovers) that they will shield him from deadly alligators, cops etc. (the only time women cease to be dovish cowards and openly display legitimate self-sacrifice) because they are displaying the same chivalry towards perceived high-status value as a beta male/white knight/nice guy – the difference is men are attracted to this submissive, supplicating, protective-territorial (soothing) behavior, while women are rightly abhorred by this unbecoming, effeminate beta-signaling because it is deigning value and deferring status – no woman will tolerate such déclassé, unless she is slumming for a night at the club, the ghetto etc.

Women hate beta males more than the forces of Natural Selection do in gradually erasing them from the sexual ecosystem because Darwinism is not fast enough for their IRL Tinder binary minds. If a woman is not attracted to a man, she wants him to either be perpetually invisible to society, while still being a productive worker-bee/’shrapnel-collector’ (literally saw a ‘conservative’ woman refer to the male collective as that)…or she wants him to just die on the spot.

That is why the comments you read suggesting that a man kill himself, ‘leave women alone,’ ‘please do not reproduce’ etc. stemming from the tiniest disagreements online are almost exclusively from women – women have a eugenic mind even for anonymous flame wars.

They literally want beta males to disappear and die instantly. They want them to be executed for the crime of not being alpha. They want to free the violent alpha criminals from death row, and imprison the beta male goody-goodies instead. That is how women think and operate, and they never stop or discriminate because they have a one-track mind of reproductive success with the most violent kingpin.

The way that society sobered these junkie hypergamous creatures (even before their first intake) was through strict patriarchal religion. The more pious the woman…the hornier she is. She is just holding it all back and channeling it into the abstract: a faithful love of God, the ultimate alpha (in her mind).

When alpha males are in short supply and rapidly decreasing in number, the few alphas left become anomalies women will treat like kings. Women operating under these conditions of extreme alpha male scarcity will also agitate for the mass invasion of rougher men to fill their groin void.

The head-knocking, swaggering, attitudinally criminal alpha male scarcity among White men is leading to a peculiar social dysfunction: White men are becoming the nurturing, vulnerable women they want, while White women are becoming the aggressive alpha males they need. This is why the chasm between the Western sexes is wider now than it has been in historical memory. The sexual polarity has been corrupted.

The modren alpha male does not even have to be a criminal to attract a swarm of attention from women. Noncriminal alpha males are becoming such a rarity that simply projecting an attitude of devil-may-care, aloof and indifferent ZFG entitlement will ring the bells of women who, as Weimer R wrote, are biosocially primed to identify, capture, and keep that kind of man, often going so far as to supplicate like a mewling beta male to prevent his leaving her.

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If you are a proud cad of impeccable lust, you’ll amass a string of lovers over your life.

The number of conquests is less important than the ratio of the kinds of memories left in the wake of your snakequake.

A well-pounded man will have accumulated tiers of experiences with the lubricous sex.

The Nostalchicks

These are the girls for whom you will occasionally have pangs of nostalgia, and regret for what could have been but was foolishly discarded. Your heart will swell bittersweetly lingering over a photo from a bygone prom, or when a girl resembling your former lover struts across your view.

The Starlets

She took you on a wild ride. You recall the adventures together better than you remember her name. You never felt more alive, but you were never in love with her.

The Ones

Every man has “the one”, but only a few good men have “the ones”.

The Fillers

Names, faces, vaginas blur together in a memory miasma of fading masturbation fuel. It’s enough to know you had these girls; exact details and oddly nebulous feelings don’t matter. Some were flings, some were one night stands, some were girlfriends. You bid your time with them to avoid solitude, to feel a part of the slipstream of normiedom, to have something to do, and to enjoy until someone better came along. Their role in hindsight was to feed your tumescent….ego. You don’t regret a single one of your nights (or daytime hikes) with them, but you may be surprised how little color you retain of those limbically locked scenes.

The Lessons Learned

You should have bedded a femme fatale or ten. She was wicked, manipulative, cold as ice, and impossible to pin down. She made a beta of you, and you never forgot it. Lesson learned.

The Sex Machines

When you came with her it felt as if a bolt of electricity zapped a region of your brain somewhere behind the eyes and below the frontal cortex. She fucked like it was her destiny to fuck, and loved no one, not even herself. You used her with delight, and hoped the dopamine hits would never stop cumming, but you knew they would one day. And when the intimacy stopped, you left lighter of spirit, ready for your next quest, not looking back. She had her purpose, and that was not to be any man’s muse.

The Forgettable Fraction

Here go the assortment of flings that you would not have missed if they never happened, but which in the aggregate give a minor boost to your self-image: the garbage hour pickups, the crazy chicks, the unhygienic ho-bags, the desperately lonely, the cutters, the broken industry girls, the chubster on the cusp of desirability, the plain jane with a hot bod who liked to snort bumps and cry herself to sleep at night in lovelorn despair, the unfulfilled housewife, the drunken 2am grope-girls whose faces are blank sheets but who leave tiny morsels of memory which flit into your consciousness now and again…the color of a tuft of pubes dangling like ivy over a glistening labia illuminated by moonlight shards through a bay window, the sudden warm smile following your effort to straighten the hat on her head, a delicate hand guiding yours to a musty place, a poem she wrote and recited cloyingly as testament of her sincerity, the graceless flaunting of a taboo orifice offered with an awkwardly charming solicitation, fingertips peeling apart moist flaps in darkness as soft smacking noises betray urgency, the hot flush of cheeks as you descend on her from above…

Maybe not so forgettable after all, now that you think on it.

They didn’t make you a better man; they made you a fuller man.

The First

You remember almost nothing of her but that bright summer day you biked to her house and saw her sunning herself on the front lawn, reclined ass-up on a foldable lounge chair, shimmering silky bangs draped over her eyes which were engrossed in a book. She looked up, blew a bang out of one eye and smiled so big and joyously you could have died right there. Her teeth were the sun, her face a vision, her skin flawless….but that ass, round and firm and pert…it was a miracle of perfect mathematical form. And you won’t know until later, sometimes much later when wisdom has carved your idealism into a workable shape, that The First was also The Last. It will never be like that again, cruel cosmic law.

The ratio of each category of romantic conquest sealed in your memory, which I listed above, should, if you made the most of your womanizing time on this earth, break out as follows:

The Nostalchicks — 20%
The Starlets — 5%
The Ones — 5%
The Fillers — 20%
The Lessons Learned — 10%
The Sex Machines — 10%
The Forgettable Fraction — 30%
The First — all of them and none of them

The key to a healthy repository of memories is to never stop adding to it.

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Angry Gamer, on the Jeff Bozo cringe-fest,

Of course Jeff B is a Beta. Compare him to Trump or Ellison and you will get the full picture.

And of course the Dirty Sanchez opened Jeff up. I would not be a bit surprised if she wore him down in a concerted effort to get her puffy lips around his modestly sized personal Kindle.

Skittles Man is the perfect model of how men should treat women.

Casual gifts that mean nothing are fawned over. Multi thousand dollar rings are looked at contemptuously.

I really think that women have an out of range mental reset built in their hindbrains. You trip it by doing something at the extremes. Give her a Pony she will go gaga. Give her a 10 cent piece of candy “you personally picked out at the Mart” she goes gaga.

This kind of mechanism is the only way to explain Skittles man and Doubling Down. Women are idiot boxes to out of the norm behaviors.

A half-assed cheap gift wrenched from an emotionally distant heart: women swoon.

Thousands of dollars in expensive gift jewelry: women can barely conceal their contempt.

Women’s love doesn’t have to be expensive unless you insist on it.

Then it will get very expensive for you.

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Possibly inspired by CH posts exploring the connection between jizz payloads and love, reader SRC introduces the concept of the Orgasm Ratio:

One of the most important things when having sects with a girl for the first time is to never be the first to cūm. If she gets off several times before you, especially after more than one encounter, it flips the sexual adequacy frame on its head. Control the orgasm ratio.

As a general principle, I agree with this, but there can be times when the rule doesn’t apply (see below).

The Orgasm Ratio is essentially a hard-to-spoof proxy for the SMV Ratio. If our premise is that men cum harder and quicker with hotter women (tumescently plausible), then a man who cums first is likely with a woman who is his sex-specific SMV equal or better. He can be said to have NO HAND, while she holds all the leverage over which direction the hookup will go.

If a woman senses this SMV disparity in her favor (she will), then over time she’ll resent her man who reminds her by his premature ejaculation that she can do better. This feeling in her — and his recognition of it — will erode the relationship, until rupture.

In love, the time from rapture to rupture can be surprisingly short, and usually catches the man off-guard.

Getting off first tells a girl two things, equally ominous to you as complimentary to her. One, she knows she arouses you. This flatters her. Two, it causes her to wonder if she’s aiming too low. She resents you for this.

The first night together is the most important time to establish an advantageous orgasm ratio. This is when the tone is set that will color the relationship should it develop. You cum first, and she knows she can use her sex to make you dance. Knowledge like this is corrosive to pussy tingles.

But if you can hold off until she cums first, second, and third, well now she’s primed to think of you as a god among betas, a man with whom she can hardly control herself. A properly calibrated orgasm ratio is a major DHV-to-SMV positively reinforcing feedback loop. With each night together that you heroically delay your release, she will cum harder, and faster, as your value explodes to fill every cranny in her brain.

Added to this primal limbic mix is a dread that slowly consumes her; she fears you may not be “all that into her”, otherwise why the seemingly preternatural ability to delay your payload? Now, as SRC wrote, the sexual adequacy script is flipped. All flings begin with the unconscious, biologically driven premise that the woman is “giving” her body to the man, who is “enjoying” it. She is always sexually adequate; he is always proving his sexual adequacy. But the man who communicates his SMV through a leisurely journey to completion, while allowing his woman to orgasm multiple times atop his tutelage, has essentially co-opted her sexual role. He is giving his boner; she is enjoying it.

The benefit of this is obvious. She now is the one trying to prove herself to him, that she can sexually please him, and the downstream effects of her sexual anxiety are innumerable and delightful….home-cooked meals, generosity of body, heart, and even purse, loyalty, faithfulness, unbreakable love, an eager to please disposition, a sudden awakening to the power of MAGA….

When does the orgasm ratio rule not apply? Every so often, as a gift to her, it helps lubricate the relationship and alleviate tension to “lose control” of yourself. A woman likes to know she arouses her man so much that he occasionally goes primal on her, tearing at clothes, ripping at panties, groping at flesh, slamming against walls and mirrors and headboards, and finishing in a violent crescendo of spent lust.

If you do cum first during the first time in bed — and you will if you’re hitting above your league — the momentum can be saved with a short refractory period and a workmanlike second effort.

And if you fail at this, you’ve still won.

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Hackett To Bits pithily reveals a behavioral tic that indicates a woman is deeply, truly in love with a man.

Geez check out bikini chick Tatiana and her letter. Talk about trying to qualify herself to a dominant man, every sentence she writes is an apology for possibly boring him.
Let that be a reminder: never be deferential and never apologize.

Do hot chicks dig murderous jerks? You bet!

You slave and struggle to earn a keep
Give roses and vows and profess love so deep
But rarely a night do you share your sleep
with a woman who isn’t a 20 stone heap
While murderers bask in the lust of lithe sexy babes
and no effort spent to earn their unfolding labes
It all comes back to a question you evade
“What if all I am is a sexless chump to raid?”
YOU ARE BETA

Now let’s look at those love letters from Tatiana:

Women have a lot of compassion for murderers….yet so little compassion for betaboy incels. Funny, that.

Hackett To Bits is right. That letter from Tatiana to the killer “only she can understand” reads like a long form apologia for being a lovestruck woman intruding in an alpha male’s safe space. I mean, this line alone…

“If you’ve gotten this far without throwing my letter in the trash – thank you

…reads like a woman scared to death that her 20-year marriage to the man she loves is on the brink of ending. Except this is a posture of supplication from a woman to a complete stranger who just happens to be in jail for murdering his pregnant wife and two daughters.

She underlined “thank you” to emphasize her gratitude that a murderer had read that far.

When was the last time a doting, supportive, beta male feminist received a letter with anything underlined in it that didn’t say “STOP CALLING ME”?

Gratitude.

It’s what’s been missing for so long in America, and particularly from American women.

Make Amerimuffs Grateful Again.

“You to tears yet? That was my goal! Kidding, of course.”

She’s so afraid to lose his interest and approval. Would she ever be this afraid to lose the interest and approval of a law-abiding beta male?

HAHAHAHAHAAAAAA

She was so nervous her joke would fall flat that she promptly clarified for him that it was a joke.

“(I would love to tell you more about me. I’m extremely lonely and can use a friend)”

Again, have you ever heard a woman talk like this to a reliable, law-abiding, salt-of-the-earth man? She’s throwing herself at a murderer, begging for his attention. She YEARNS for his friendship *wink wink*. The non-murderous man, at best will hear a, “I can’t do Thursday, but get back to me next week and we’ll see”.

“My brother was incarcerated for a long while.”

The genetic matrix here is fascinating. Are the genes which predispose to criminal men the same genes which, in females, predispose to loving criminal men?

“I hope I’ve put a smile on your face.”

I hope I haven’t bored you.
I hope you’re still reading.
I hope you will be my friend.
I hope I can send you more half naked pics of myself.
I hope you like me.
I hope you will fill my belly with your psychopath champions.

What the typical beta male in her life hears instead:

“I hope you don’t think I see you that way.”

“Please know that there are strangers out there (like me) who care about you.”

Incels would love to know there are random hotties who care about them, too, but they aren’t very lovable. They need more blood notches on their belt before random hotties will care about them. Killer preselection.

Hackett To Bits is spot on. This love note is a woman ENDLESSLY QUALIFYING HERSELF to a dominant man with whom she has fallen in love.

Self-qualification — or supplication — is the number one sign that a woman is deeply, truly in love with a man.

If a woman’s words to you are the equivalent of “I AM NOT WORTHY”, then she is your lovething to do with as you please.

Every angle of your Game should be directed toward provoking self-qualification from a girl, because once she’s in that psychological head space she’ll subconsciously imbue you with much higher romantic value than you would have as just another man who wants to get in her panties.

The corollary to this, as Hackett wrote, is never qualify yourself to a girl. Never defer to her, never apologize for yourself, never get defensive when she presses your buttons, and never try too hard to impress her.

The simple act of NOT being a supplicating man pushes a girl into the role of the supplicating suitor. Script flipping is essentially turning the usual seduction dynamic — qualifying man, judging woman — on its head: qualifying woman, judging man. This is the way of the desirable man.

It’s interesting peering into the soul of a woman in love. You readily observe that such a woman sounds and acts EXACTLY like a run-of-the-mill beta male. That’s not an accident. Love for an alpha male confuses and intimidates women the same way that lust for a hottie confuses and intimidates beta males.

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A man who murdered his pregnant wife and two daughters receives sexy pics and love notes in prison from adoring women.

*yawn*

From a reader,

Yep.
Always.
Whatever that ding is in the brains of women…

They rock the cradle and dig the grave of civilization.

Great line. The essence of woman is to create and to destroy. To birth and to bury. To nurture and to neglect.

A smart society thwarts women’s destructive impulse while encouraging their natal instinct.

From another reader,

Was watching a clip from Goodfellas last night… where Ray Liotta beats the snot out of the guy across the street from his girlfriend, and she admits she was turned on by it. And then remembered that Ted Bundy got love letters in the pen.

Chicks dig dominant men.
The dominant man fulfills a woman’s urge to submit.
The sexual polarity is aligned.
The Fuggernaut wept.

One must give credit to the world’s newspaper of record — the Daily Mail — for printing in full so many of those love letters to a killer. They are dark portals into the soul of woman, a glimpse of her demonic id, and a front row seat to her rationalization hamster. You’ve never seen such spinning!

“their saying that your a monster and that your a POS and that your a physopath (lmao yes I know I spelled that wrong) but I’ve been telling them that their wrong and that I do not feel the way they do!!”

Verbatim. Who’s “they” telling her to stay away from a triple murderer? Her mom? Her male friends? Her female friends? Her court-ordered therapist? How many people has she told about her unrequited love affair with a killer of women and little girls?

***

“[I’m] someone who knows nothing about you therefore will not judge you based on your current situation.”

She’s writing a love letter to a man who’s in jail for murdering his entire family. And very misogynistically murdering them, I might add. She certainly knows that about him. Oh look, a hamster!

Let’s check out Tammy’s phyzz:

Not bad. She’s slender. Which means one bangable broad who isn’t a land whale is off the market for beta males, because her heart belongs to a man who slew an adult woman and two minor girls.

From T. Goodchild,

There are hundreds of thousands of dutiful betas who have never so much as raised their voices to a woman, all sure that if they just work a little harder, save a bit more, buy more expensive gifts . . . they’ll be able to score a girl like Bikini girl from that first photo.

Not sure whether to laugh or cry.

*surreptitiously kicks the poosy pedestal under the bed* “I swear I don’t know what you’re talking about, I don’t polish a pussy pedestal.”

My point with these posts isn’t to sour men on women, or provoke so much cynicism that good men go their own way, or to suggest that men should never bond with women.

My point in exposing the dankest crannies of the female id is to remind men that the pussy pedestal is a lie, and an obstacle to true and real bonding with women. Face up to women for what they are, not the fantasy you wish them to be, and you won’t be so easily disillusioned when the fantasy inevitably breaks apart or fails to materialize. You will better appreciate women once you know what makes them tick, know their flaws and corrupt desires, and can enjoy them without anxiously dreading a moment they deviate the tiniest bit from a false narrative about their inherent goodness.

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