Archive for the ‘Love’ Category

Men and women love differently.

I don’t mean they feel differently when in love. The emotional flavor of love feels I’d imagine the same for men and women. A sizzling of the neurons, a swelling of the thorax, a stinging of the loins. The heart palpates for anticipated meetings.

I mean what’s different is what causes love to erupt in men and women.

A man’s nice body and face can arouse a woman, but it’s not the source of her love for him. His physical features are fuel for a few weeks twixt the sheets. A woman’s deep, true, sensual love is triggered instead by a man’s attitude, his charisma, his dominance, his SELF-POSSESSION. When she idly daydreams of him, it’s that smirky sparkle and the way he speaks to her that flutters her labial shutters.

A man’s love can and often is triggered almost entirely by a woman’s body and face. Love at first sight is a timeless trope passed along by generations of romantic men because it is men who are wont to fall deeply in love with a woman merely at the sight of her exquisite beauty and banging body. Women often don’t understand this about men, and as such women will project their own love triggers onto men, and wonder, befuddled, how it is a man can fall in love with a woman after a few minutes visually soaking her up. This explains why attractive women have the bad habit of castigating easily smitten men as “creeps”, because filtered through a woman’s evolved sensibility it *is* creepy to fall in love with a man simply by looking at him and not delving more rigorously into his anima. Women don’t drink from the same love potion, and so, being the solipsistic sex, women assume the love potion form which men drink is a toxic brew.

Of course, men also fall MORE deeply in love with a beautiful woman if she also has a feminine disposition and shares traits and values with him (#1: she gets his humor). This is the kind of cementing love that is familiar to women, who operate near or at this level from the first date, always with a mind and a heart toward a stronger connection than that which is obtained via visual inspection.

I sometimes suspect that on the basis of their primal lust coupled with their yearning romanticism, men love more powerfully than most women, but a few women who have had the pleasure to submit to a dominant alpha male will love more powerfully than anything in the universe, even stronger than a mother’s love for child.

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This is real:

Beautiful on the inside as well as the outside, Melania wore this jacket on her way to visit border babbies. She was obviously sending a message to phonyfuck virtue signaling self-righteous sanctimonious shitlibs screeching hysterically about a twenty year old border apprehension policy that temporarily separates children from parents until the parents’ fake asylum claims have been reviewed…AND FOUND WANTING.

For this epic troll, the MOAB of trolls, I award Melania the coveted Shiv of the Week.

*hands golden shiv to melania*

*melania lightly grips it in a delicate feminine hand, running the pointer finger of her other hand along the edge of the blade, the sparkles of the shiv matched in luminescence by her hot rod red fingernail polish*

“do you think i didn’t pick up a thing or two watching my husband deal with scum in rat-infested new york?” she purrs.

Melania is the only First Lady about whom I’ve wondered what she’s like in bed. Sensuous, I bet.

Between Corey Lewandowski’s WOMP WOMP and Melania’s triggerjacket, it almost feels like we’ve turned a corner in the battle between the degenerate freak mafia and the MAGAmen, and we shitlords are now on offense, beating the freaks back to their hug boxes.

I’m not the only one to notice the change in momentum:

The snipdick blue ticks accounted for.

FYI it’s very easy to push the already mentally ill over the edge. A WOMP WOMP here, a jacket there, and a ‘umble blog outpost of realtalk dedicated to opening hearts and minds playing the background score, and mass shitlib suicides are not far off.

PS Monkfish adds,

Nothing a woman wears is by accident. Now we’ll be spending the next week’s news cycle talking about Melania’s jacket instead of Mexican children in dog kennels. Do our enemies never learn?

White shitlibs aren’t as SMRT as they like to imagine themselves. Their abstraction-weighted intelligence leaves them vulnerable to the reality-grounded concrete intelligence of the Chad. Cucks are beginning to learn this lesson: be more like Trump and less like an insecure lackey trying to win the admiration of your enemies.

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From commenter Cultural Resilience,

O/T from Managing hysterically Jealous Girl to see if I’m still stuck in mod
I’ve just played this tactic and it worked a fucking treat. I got the sense that the current long term gf has stopped giving of her best. I know that she has checked my phone before so I changed the lock code to one that she would find easy to break. I’ve been having flirty online text exchanges with a foreign girl and started closing my phone of quickly when ever she came near. Sure enough I come home one day and I immediately recognise the atmosphere.

“Something wrong?” “No!” (In that no means yes tone that only a hurting woman can use). “Ok then” I reply, while thinking I bet she doesn’t last five minutes. Sure enough before my post work drink glass frosting has even begun turning to water droplets. “I’ve found those messages on your phone” which, by the way include hot nude pics. “Knew you would” says I. “I feel like its a betrayal” “I knew it would make you feel like that but it didn’t stop me” “Doesn’t is bother your conscience?” “A hard dick doesn’t have a conscience”

A few sulky days laced with occasional comments about wether or not we have a future, tears and of course picture with no sound. (Its cute how they think that a few days free from continual vocalisation of every empty female thought is a punishment.)

Bam! Hot make up sex, and texts confessing undying love and her desire to make everything right with me. This shit just cannot fail. Its a kill or cure strategy, but it is certain to end in cure if properly executed.

Dread Game is like two Quimfinity Gauntlets of Pussy. Two snaps, and all the snapper promptly dissolves into a frantic bawling mess of lovesick conciliation and devotion.

It’s so powerful it has sex-independent properties; it can work on (beta) males as well, although not as powerfully as it works on women and rarely does it work on alpha males with options (it does work particularly well on hot babes with options because they have no defense against it given that they rarely experience it).

The catch is that you need a shiny set of brass ones to pull it off with genuine feeling. You have to be willing to risk total relationship implosion and be ready to walk, no looking back. Many weak-willed betas don’t have the stones for Dread Game, so they get played relentlessly until their half-committed girls tire of their supplications and execute a mercy dumping. (Many girls get so disgusted with the cajoling, cloying behavior of their beta borefriends that they will throw away a reliable source of resources and sounding board feelz just to get away from their betas’ icky kisses and gimp seed.)

If the girl senses you’re bluffing, she’ll double down and turn cold as ice as she calmly explains why “this isn’t working out”. If you’re unprepared for this, you’ll cave like a Florida sinkhole and beg for forgiveness and a second chance. If you were prepared to end it right there and then, you’ll say “Ok” and watch as everything changes between you and her. Where she had been holding all the cards and leveraging her sex and love withdrawal, suddenly you’re sitting in the cadbird seat and she’s hysterically trying to smooth things over so you’ll stay with her.

It’s a brutal psy ops, but no one said the sexual market was a soft pillow landing of genteel trade and barter. The sexes have competing reproductive goals, and though fraternization is the point the battlefield clashes to reach the victor’s tent are winner take all.

It’s not as insurmountable as it sounds if you don’t regularly swing a heavy sack in all your interactions with women. If your girl has “stopped giving of her best”, you have to tell yourself that she’s already one lab flap out the door. She’s gonna leave you in time if you do nothing, so you may as well take a chance on Dread Game. Either she leaves now (rather than in the near future), and you get a few extra months of character building field experience chewing into fresh meat, or she capitulates and returns to giving you her best.

Dread Game is win-win for any man who has the least bit of confidence in his ability to pick up a new chick. But if you’re a quisling beta accustomed to licking the glitter sneakers of your girl hoping your abject uxoriousness will keep her loveless attendance tethered by a frayed string to your life of endless anxiety, then Dread Game is a grenade you’re holding after you’ve thrown the pin into her trench. You won’t be able to handle it hot, she’ll know it, and the damned ploy will blow up in your face because deep down you’re afraid to risk losing her to be alone, sexless and unloved, straitjacketed by your fear of meeting new girls to find a replacement.

I want to add that Dread Game is so powerful it can resuscitate relationships which by cosmic law should die and stay dead. Exploit it wisely. It’s a great relationship management tool for corralling and bringing back under your tonically masculine auspice a wayward girlfriend or permanent girlfriend; but it’s a devil’s bargain if you use it to keep a determined, manipulative whore in line. Accept that if the girl isn’t right for you, Dread Game offers tremendously satisfying short term rewards at the cost of long term frustration and cancerous resentment. If the mutual love is poisoned or missing, you’ll have to administer a constant PIV drip of Dread Game to keep what is essentially a zombie barge afloat. Some men have enough ice in the veins (and fire in the main vein) to happily sign on for such a commitment. But most don’t. Dread Game administration for the duration will eventually heighten the loveless disconnect until it explodes with a fury or deflates to a perfunctory, impassive goodbye long past its due date. And by then you may wonder why you didn’t just cut the cancercunt out sooner so you could spare the time saved for other women who would be a better fit for you.

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Too much love is servility.

Too much hate is malice.

Too little love is cruelty.

Too little hate is self-destruction.

Hate is as natural as love, and as necessary.

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Adorable American Beauty is the sister series to Exquisite European Beauty, and the purpose is the same: to celebrate and consequently encourage White women to embrace their White-bred femininity and to push away from the table (and away from beauty-destroying open borders third world invasion cheerleading).

The emailer who submitted Zooey for consideration in the Hall of Dame writes,


Glad at least one actress is just unapologetically, devastatingly feminine.

FYI pic is from Season 2 of New Girl, and before she birthed a White champion, i.e., her nubile prime. Sweet and quirky…squirky.

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The Laundry Test

How do I love thee? Let me smell your panties.

A good test to determine if and how much you love your girlfriend is what I call the Laundry Test. If you shack up with a chick, or even if you don’t but you spend a lot of time together at each other’s places, you will eventually do a load of her laundry (one load deserves another HEH). Usually this will happen when she tosses her clothes into your pile, and by then it’s more work to fish her stuff out than it is to do the whole mess at once. After a few times, she’ll just ask if you can wash her clothes when you wash your own clothes. You will consent. Don’t fret it. It’s no demerit against your masculinity score if you don’t maintain 100% PURE PATRIARCHY all the time.

When you drop her unmentionables into the washing machine, do you act as if your hands are tongs for transporting nuclear waste? Does your face scrunch up and do you force your thoughts elsewhere? After you pull her clothes out of the dryer, do you toss them in an undifferentiated heap, annoyed with the chore?

You don’t love her. Not like you used to, at any rate.

Alternately, when handling her soiled snatch hammocks do you sneak in a sniff? Gaze at the centerpiece fabric for a moment, wondering if her tube lube has left a Rorschach test of romance for you to decipher? Rub the fungal foundational between your fingers? When pulling her dainties out of the dryer, do you caress them individually, allowing the warm scented fabric to linger under your nose. Do you perhaps, when even your God isn’t watching, press your lips against her slips and inhale like you’re taking an epic bong rip? Do you longingly admire her cleaned G-strings, and fold them neatly in a pile, enjoying a moment to reflect on the happiness she has brought to your life?

You love her. Like you used to, and as you will until the Wall fights you to wrest your love away.

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When she gives you the doggy dinner bowl look:

Related, if a girl glances downward or upward when you pass by her on the sidewalk after making eye contact, she wants you to hit on her. If she looks sideways after you have made eye contact with her, she’s probably not interested.

If she bites her lower lip, I hope you brought a condom and a favorite public sex location.


Therajraj adds,

when you get a married girl to momentarily forget she’s Married.

If a man’s wife gives this look to any man other than himself…trouble brewing!

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