Game Can Save Lives

A sexually frustrated beta has sublimated his pain into a murderous shooting spree aimed at his ex-girlfriend. He left an online diary behind offering a glimpse of his blackened soul:

Sodini’s Aug. 3 online diary entry, which included a date of death, was full of disturbing musings about religion and his plans for the attack. He noted that he hadn’t had a drink since 2:30 on Friday as part of his preparation.

“Total effort needed. Tomorrow is the big day. Unfortunately I talked to my neighbor today, who is very positive and upbeat. I need to remain focused and absorbed COMPLETELY,” the diary read. “Last time I tried this, in January, I chickened out.”

The diary also indicated that Sodini hadn’t had sex since 1990 and that his so-called “practice papers” — details about the planning of the attack — are welcome to be published afterward because “maybe all this will shed insight on why some people just cannot make things happen in their life, which can potentially benefit others”.

When men kill women, the underlying reason is almost always an unfulfilled psychosexual need. This goes for spree shooters, rapists, and serial killers. I’m not surprised Sodini hadn’t had sex in nearly 20 years. As I’ve written before, to some men on the losing side of the desireability bell curve celibacy is walking death and anything is justified in avoiding that miserable fate.

Click on the first link to see a picture of Sodini. He’s not a bad-looking guy and he’s in shape. There is nothing outwardly repulsive about him that would cripple his chances with women. But as we know the physical appearance of a man reveals little about the state of his spirit. A decent looking guy can harbor the sunken ship of a broken beta heart, and clearly Sodini was a beta, if not an omega, as his 20 year dry spell attests.

If Sodini had learned game he would have been able to find another woman and gotten laid after his ex dumped him. He wouldn’t have spent the next 20 years steeped in bile and weighed down by his Sisyphian blue balls, dreaming of vengeance. Game could have saved the lives of the women Sodini killed.

I agree with the gist of what commenter Whiskey has written — as the West reverts back to the ancestral sexual market that is currently in operation in sub-Saharan Africa, we are going to see a growing eunuchracy of involuntarily celibate betas and the marginalized men in their ranks decide that exiting in a blaze of hot lead beats living in loveless obscurity. And ex-girlfriends are target #1.

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The Self-Made Beta

Leaning against a pole as the train lurched forward, I noticed an older man, late 40s and clearly marked with the curse of the herb, standing with his young daughter by his side. He was talking with a curvaceous, big bosomed woman in her early 20s who looked like pre-meltdown Britney Spears. She was quite stimulating to the eyes and crotch. The man and Britney were having an energetic and friendly conversation which, when my ears were tuned to the words coming out of her mouth, was about the man’s daughter’s soccer team. Britney’s wide, C-shaped smile indicated she was enjoying this harmless herb’s company, while the herb’s studiously affected flat facial expression and stiff nodding movements suggested a swell of discomfort with his arousal that was threatening to lumber awkwardly through the polite veneer of their phony interaction.

I observed them for a few minutes, until the train reached my stop. A wave of bilious disgust curled my lips. I thought to myself that I never want to be that man who is so inoffensive — that man who has relinquished the last faint hope of his masculinity — that hot co-eds feel perfectly at ease shoving their bountiful breasts and plump, juicy flesh in my face to prattle on about the daily trifles of their lives or to chatter cloyingly about my kid’s soccer practice, taunting by their estrogenic proximity the ape-shaped contours of my cockcentric desire as the beast rattles the bars of its ganglial imprisonment, begging for release.

Only men know men. Women have no conception of the mind of man and what it is thinking at any given time. I know what was going through that family herb’s head. He was hearing her words but inside he was pawing her ass cheeks, his tongue flicking up the length of her vulnerable neck, his pudgy sausage fingers squeezing her tits then prying apart her legs to stroke the folds of her labia, his cock dribbling the pre-cum of urgency as it poised itself before the entrance to her womb. Straining against the silent symphony of his horniness and the feelings of uselessness and shame for the void with which the young women around him now perceived his once dangerously virile sack, he would shuffle home, shoulders sunk, to masturbate despondently in the bathroom. I imagined the wife he would go home to is the typical American fat, nagging sow. No doubt this brief platonic conversation with the cute young woman standing before him was the sad highlight of the last fifteen years of his life.

Did Britney know this was on his mind? Such a capacity for self-delusion women possess!

Here is my call to arms. I believe it is every man’s duty to impolitely flirt and pass sexual judgement on each attractive woman who crosses his path. I believe it is every man’s right, no matter what his age, to refuse to apologize for his natural desires, to make no excuses for his deviant wants, and to grab any opportunity to hit on women in his field of view. I believe it is every man’s mission statement at birth to disturb a woman’s banal self-satisfied sanctuary — her cultivated immunity from unsettling intrusions of the psychologically erectile form — whenever she cavalierly insults his primal urges with naive overtures toward tepid, desexualized friendliness. I believe in all this because a man is happiest when he is demonstrating by his actions a proper respect for his masculine prerogative. I want there to be no mental safe haven for sexually enticing women in public places where men are present. I want them forced to confront what men are truly feeling and visualizing underneath their threadbare civility, and to understand there is no walling off the ever-encroaching predatory chaos of the jungle. I want them to be psychologically groped, everywhere there are men like me at ease with our voracious sexuality.

If I were that herbly father figure, as soon as she attempted to box me in with bland, asexual chit chat I would have negged her.

“Hey you look like Britney Spears. Later years Britney.”

This would have made her go quiet, if it did not shake her into a tremor of attraction, and by the lascivious smirk on my face she would grow suddenly uncomfortable with the realization that I was seeing her as a sexual creature to be plundered. She would then gaze downward at the ugly carpeting, and scurry through the sliding doors when her stop arrived, reminded as she was of the crude fuckworthy animal object she ultimately is to this one man at least.

And I would walk out proudly, head held high, dignity intact. A victory for my balls. A defeat for polite society.

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I Once Banged A Girl Who Was Banged By A Rockstar

A girl with whom I was having a sexual fling (squirter) once challenged me, while we were out together, to pick up a woman sitting at the bar by herself. I suppose the thought of me seducing another woman turned her on. I’ve dated quite a few slutty freaks like her. Naturally, I obliged. Seducing women is why Our Lord Below put me on this good green earth. (I wonder how a beta male would have responded to such a request? “Stop being silly, honeybunny, I’m not going to hit on another woman. That’s just WRONG. I’m with *you* now.”)

Donning my war mask (shit-eating grin and eye twinkle) I sidled up to the statuesque blonde sipping her Guinness. She was around 30, and quite attractive. She had a proudly feminine face of Scandinavian origin and wide, child-birthing hips. Even though she was sitting, I could tell she was very tall, perhaps six feet. Inspired by the jealousy I would provoke in my audience (who was standing only 10 feet away with an unobstructed view of my full-scale assault), I ran some of my tightest game. Blonde warrioress had no chance. She withered into a puddle of warm arousal. Occasionally, I would look over at my date to see how she was reacting (mouth agape) and the blonde would catch me doing this and ask if I knew her. “Yes”, I said, “She’s a friend.” Coast cleared.

I number closed the blonde in fifteen minutes and told her I had to get back to my “friend”. When I strolled back, triumphant, my date didn’t look too happy, but I’m sure she was turned on. I was worried she would attempt to sabotage my chances with the blonde by making out with me right there, so I shuffled us both out of there in a hurry. Later, after a rigorous interrogation, I lied to my date that had I erased the blonde’s phone number. If you’re gonna play a high stakes game, don’t expect the rules to be fair.

A couple days later I took the blonde on a date to my favorite dive bar. We hit it off. Drinks, walking around the park, making out, sliding a hand down her pants and diddling her taint. The only thing I remember her saying was that she once had a two year relationship with Anthony Kiedis. She was a teenager (possibly underage) when she met him backstage at one of his shows. He was bigtime and had just crossed the Pussicon into rockstardom; girls were his for the taking, like so many juicy grapes plucked off the vine.

Intrigued by her admission, I pressed for more details. The thought of her having gotten fucked by Anthony Kiedis inexplicably turned me on. “Wow,” I remember thinking at the time, “I’m gonna bang the same hole that Anthony Kiedis’ supermodel-banging cock has been in. That’s one vulva of separation.”

Turns out that her definition of “relationship” was highly fluid, dependent on the desirablility of the man she was “seeing”. For the typical beta male, “relationship” means “ball and chain”; for a guy like Anthony Kiedis, “relationship” means he continues fucking tons of hot young girls but looks more deeply into your eyes than he does into the eyes of all the other women, thus making everything OK. Which is pretty much how it went between her and him. She was dating him, but would sometimes catch him fooling around at his shows. Despite that, she was never worried that he didn’t love her.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because once he saw me he would immediately drop whichever girls he was kissing and come over to tell me he loved me.”

“I see.”

This was a grown woman saying this.

So two years dating a rockstar and finally they drifted apart. She was divorced (she left a rich lawyer) and had dated other men since, but the only fond memories she had were of Mr. Anthony Kiedis, womanizer extraordinaire who made her heart swell with love when he stopped fucking his groupies for one second to kiss her gently on the cheek. Her ex-husband and ex-lovers may as well have never existed except as feeble also-rans throwing in stark contrast the powerful nostalgic glow of her blood, sugar, sex, magik memories.

On our second date, I drove her home to her cavernous suburban mcmansion and fumbled backwards through the dark into her bedroom, stripping off clothes along the way. I stepped on something rubbery and heard a squeak. Since I was fully turgid and throbbing with urgency, I paid it no heed. In the morning, I woke up first and rubbed my eyes. There were children’s toys littered on the floor.

Nordic Princess woke up. “I guess I should tell you that I have kids.”

“Yeah… interesting. So… how many?”

She replied, sheepishly, “Four.”

“Wow, that’s… impressive. Very, um, active.” I was right about her child-birthing hips.

“They’re with my ex. Two of them are already in school.”

“Uh, huh.”

“Are you OK with that? I was worried you might freak when you found out.”

“Perfectly fine. Kids are great,” I lied.

“They spend a lot of time with my ex-husband. He’s a good father. So don’t worry I’m not searching for a replacement father.”

“No worries!”

We ate breakfast and I kissed her goodbye, promising to give her a call. On the drive home I deleted her number from my phone.

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War Of The Roses

There is a local radio station that runs a prank every week called “War of the Roses”. The station enlists a willing participant — usually a girlfriend/wife — who suspects she is being cheated on by her boyfriend/husband. Sometimes the girl gives the name of the other woman she suspects her boyfriend is banging. The DJ will then pose as a flower merchant and call the boyfriend to tell him he has won a contest and the prize is a free bouquet of flowers he can have delivered to anyone he wishes. Over the station’s phones, the poor dupe’s girlfriend will secretly listen in on his decision.

Almost every guy falls for this prank. And nearly all of them are confirmed as cheaters, because nine times out of ten the boyfriend will have the flowers delivered to his mistress/downlow lover, and hysterics of varying dramatic force by the jilted girlfriend/wife will ensue over the phones. It’s good fun for everyone but the couple.

The prank, besides its entertainment value, serves to demonstrate quite clearly how alpha males behave and how women react to alphas. As I’ve written before, when you are starting out the best way to learn game is to observe a natural alpha in field — his mannerisms, speech, attitude, and deftness with which he handles a woman’s shit. (You can also learn a lot about what *not* to do by observing the natural beta in the field.)

Since it’s self-evident that nearly all men who have the option of cheating on their girlfriends are alpha (1. they have a girl, 2. they are attractive to other girls, 3. they have the testosterone to not give a fuck about the repercussions), the “War of the Roses” prank is a window into the relationships of women with alpha males, and Exhibit A on how alpha males react when they have wronged their women.

What you will learn from this prank won’t be surprising to anyone who is a reader of my blog, but it’s fun to have the theory proven correct — again and again — by real life examples, and proven so incontrovertibly, too. So how do the boyfriends react when the prank is revealed, their unfaithfulness uncovered, and their girlfriends’ voices cracking with tears and anger?

• He will never apologize or get defensive. One guy said he was sorry, and that was the only guy I can remember whose girlfriend dumped him over the air.
• He will first curse out the DJ before acknowledging his girlfriend’s presence on the phones. This can go on for an amusingly long time as the girlfriend tries to get a word in edgewise.
• He will go on the offensive, accusing his girlfriend of “blowing things out of proportion”, “being a bitch for calling him out on the radio”, or “getting way too dramatic”. He will often tell his girlfriend to shut up and stop crying, then in an ominous tone of voice, “we’ll talk about this later”. He preempts his girlfriend’s fury and indignation with his own.
• The girlfriend will try to get him to prostrate himself, asking “Why?” and “How do you think this makes me feel?” He will never oblige.
• The girlfriend will ask about the other woman. “Do you love her?” “Does she have something I don’t?” He will never oblige.
• If the girlfriend hurls imprecations at him, and the drama level reaches Code Irate, he will hang up with a jaded “Fuck you”, “This is horseshit” or “I’m done” while the DJs beg him to stay on the line.
• After he has hung up, the DJs will ask the girlfriend if she will stay with her alpha cheating boyfriend — or rather, they’ll try to persuade her to dump the guy — and, invariably, she will hem and haw and make excuses and you just know she isn’t going anywhere. Some of the girls even mention his positive qualities, which are funny in themselves as these qualities often take the form of “he makes me feel special”.

Occasionally, a cheating boyfriend turns out to be a beta at heart. (Yes, natural born betas sometimes cheat, but it’s rare because the opportunity is limited.) You can always tell these guys, because they are the ones whose voices go shaky as they mousily deny wrongdoing and then apologize profusely when the jig is up. After his confession, he is in ankle-grabbing mode and his girlfriend and the DJs anally rape his dignity on the air. He will shower her with promises. She will then threaten to dump him, her voice tone having switched abruptly from hurt girlfriend to ballcutting bitch lawyercunt, and she will usually hang up first, while he futilely laments “Man, I fucked up.”

Maxim #49: If you plan on cheating and get caught, act like a total dick who did nothing wrong. Your girlfriend will then wonder if it’s something she did.

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Chris Brown Is Alpha

Commenter DF wrote:

Oh yeah, Chris Brown is alpha. No doubt. If rumors are true. The beat down stems from a booty call text. So he beat down Rihanna when she confronted him about it, probably tapped the other chick that very night, and has Rihanna drop the charges. That’s fucking alpha.

Yep, it’s alpha. Many people, despite their revulsion, will believe these rumors because these kinds of stories are all too common. Alpha isn’t always “amused mastery” or grace under pressure. Sometimes, in fact a lot of times, it’s a flying flurry of fists to the face, in the case of Rihanna leaving its demon mark as shadow horns on its victim AKA enabler.

Chicks dig power, and slapping a girl around is a form of power, whether we like it or not. Girls get moist in the nether regions for men who hit them, as we can deduce by the fact that most of the masochist victims go back to their punch-happy lovers. Many women drop the charges entirely, until they have taken one too many blows to the head and desperation finally severs the powerful bond of their emotionally paralyzing love for their tormentors. And make no  mistake, it is LOVE they are feeling for their savage boyfriends. If you watch Cops, the domestic abuse emergency calls are very revealing. Often, the cop will arrive after the woman or a neighbor has called 911, only to find that getting a full accounting of the events from the victim is like pulling teeth. She will hem and haw, and ask the cop to go easy on her boyfriend (it’s usually a boyfriend, not a husband), and even give the boyfriend, who moments earlier was knocking her across the room, a hug and kiss as he’s being pushed down into the squad car.

Understand: Nearly EVERY woman — even upper class and educated women — has buried in the recesses of her feminine mystique a vulnerable center that will yield entirely and gratefully to a violent alpha male who will hit her. When you have a fear of approach, and you’re feeling intimidated by all those sharply dressed and tightly coifed yuppie chicks striding purposefully down city streets and in office buildings, Blackberries in hand and eyes cold as ice, just remember that each one of them possesses, in varying degrees of will to surrender, the capacity to submit her heart and her pussy to a violent thug.

When you begin to see them this way, I promise your fear of approach will become manageable. To be successful with women, you must destroy the last vestige of the pedestal you put them on and the unearned respect you’re impelled to give them.

Why does beat down game work? Answer: It’s asshole game x100. And it’s particularly effective on the hottest, most desirable chicks. In Darwinian terms, any guy who has the cojones to hit a woman is a guy who gets so much pussy he doesn’t care about the risk that she’ll leave him. And what that attitude encapsulates — Imperturbable Aloofness — is attractive to women. Very attractive. When I talk about psychological dominance as a core component of male power, I’m referring to that Stone Cold Take It Or Leave It attitude. Think of Game as the software app that installs this attitude into your superego. No plump 401K or fancy car needed.

The face of a beautiful woman in love with an alpha:

No charges have yet been filed by Rihanna. Just the opposite. She wants him back. On message boards, Rihanna fans have been begging the singer not to drop any possibly forthcoming charges against Brown. Seems people are very aware, deep in the dark echoing chambers of their ids, that beautiful women like Rihanna are prone to run back into the arms of violent men. We expend a lot of mental effort pretending we’re blind to the reality of human nature, when we act in accordance with its precepts all the time. We are fallen sinners not from Adam and Eve, but from Travis the chimp. We haven’t evolved as far from face eating as some would hope.

For any female readers who are disturbed by this post, take it up with your sisters who reward guys like Chris Brown, over and over again. I am the messenger you lash out at for revealing a truth about yourselves that hits a little too close to home. Shame the messenger and in doing so you hope to silence the sway of your darkest natures.

Nothing to see here but cold hard truth. You’d best move along, folks…

Related: Keeping Your Woman In Line. Reports from the front.

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Justice Is Served

Hope and change is in the air (hat tip: commenter Butters):

An adulterous Spanish woman has been ordered to pay €200,000 in “moral damages” for the suffering caused to her husband by her illicit affair.

The woman, who had three children by her lover, pretended for years that they were fathered by her husband, according to reports.

God bless the Spanish. While the Anglosphere countries are grabbing their ankles for their feminist and kleptocratic Overcunts and incomprehensibly, malignantly going down the path of forcing cuckolded beta husbands to continue footing the bills for the non-biological children of their whore wives’ adulterous copulations, the Mediterranean-style cultures — AKA the Jealousy Belt — are taking the exact opposite tack and squarely putting the blame and the punishment where it rests — on the cheating wife.

Of course, some women will cry “What about the kids?!”. Too bad. She should have thought of them before fucking around. Any harrowing consequences that befall the children are no longer the cuckolded husband’s moral crisis.

DNA tests showed that three of their four children had been fathered by the other man, the Times reports. The husband then took his wife to court, demanding compensation.

The court in Valencia, southeastern Spain, ordered her to pay €100,000 for the suffering she caused him. She fought the ruling, but the Supreme Court has upheld it, and doubled the damages to €200,000.

God bless DNA paternity testing. Besides the Pill, has any technological innovation in the last 40 years leveled the playing field as radically as paternity testing? Widespread use will have cultural — *and* genetic — changes we can only begin to fathom now. The last 10,000 years may have been a whirlwind of human evolution, but that will seem like slow going compared to the hurricane of human change I foresee arriving in the next 500 hundred years. When our distant descendants gather in their gleaming labs to pry apart the recent course of human history and evolution, they will all agree on one thing: The observers of our time severely underestimated the Tunguska-level impact that the pill, condom, abortion, and female economic empowerment would have on the very foundations of the human species.

And can you imagine an American judge having the sack to do what that Spanish judge did, and doubling the damages because the bitch showed no remorse in fighting the initial ruling? I can’t, which is too bad. It would be a step in the right direction to restoring America’s greatness. This story is so delicious it needs a Hollywoodization:

WHORE: But, your Honor, I did nothing wrong! My husband never paid attention to me. What choice did I have but to find love elsewhere? I am a good mother, I deserve respect!

JUDGE: Bitch, sit your whore ass down. You fuck around like a filthy slut, have three kids by another man, and then foist them on your bamboozled husband who works his ass off supporting you and the family, and you expect to be coddled like a small child by this court? Make it $200 grand!

WHORE: But…

JUDGE: $300 grand! Keep going, tramp…

The wife was judged to have “acted negligently in the conception of her children”, and the concealment of the truth “only added to the pain caused to the husband” who should be compensated correctly.

No shit. I guess it takes a Spaniard to demonstrate common sense.

In her defence, the woman told the court her extramarital activities had been “passionate and irregular” and blamed her husband for being cold, unfaithful and disinterested in the children.

Ha haa! I hadn’t even read this part when I wrote my short play above. Good to see there are still some people who understand the amoral nature of women.

The court ruled her claims were not credible.

Justice… is served.

I’m beginning to see a welcome trend. While I don’t expect women — solipsistic creatures of child-like, morally underdeveloped minds — to ever lead the righteous in advocating for fairness and justice of the sort meted out by the Spanish courts, I do expect them to step in line and follow the strong men who will fight for these basic rights and for real justice, not Oprahfied, Lifetime channel justice. This will happen when men grow balls and stop kow-towing in fear to the lesbian bulldyke mafia who runs the womens studies cuntdustrial complex, because women by nature are followers, and where the pack goes, so go they. Women self-govern by a simple (simplistic) motto: “It’s all in the numbers.” Once a tipping popularity point is reached, women will abandon their old principles for the new principles with a speed that will prove the shallowness and expediency with which they hold their beliefs.

What’s interesting to me, and not surprising given the clearness of my vision regarding human nature, is that this reinvigoration of basic gender justice is happening in the machismo cultures like Spain and Brazil. Perhaps those cultures’ experiences with the animalistic and passionate boiling sexual impulses of men and women, and the jealousies engendered, gives them a better grasp of the stakes at play. Perhaps in the Anglo-founded countries, where monogamy and beta cooperation have been the norm for hundreds of years (up until recently), this understanding of the volatile and untamed nature of women’s sexuality is missing, or weak, and thus there is less inborn defense against falling under the spell of the siren call of postmodern, feminist claptrap.

But that is now changing. It’s just too bad we have allowed our culture to regress to such depths that the emergence of this change was necessary.

If men would follow my sage advice, they could avoid all this bullshit and still have plenty of sex and love from women:

Don’t get married.

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Girls Rip Each Other To Shreds Behind Smiles

I remember this girl I dated when I first moved to DC. She was one of those types that had trouble keeping female friends but collected male orbiters like stinger-less bee drones to honey. Perhaps she incited the jealousy of other women with her brazen sexuality, or perhaps she tried to make friends with women out of her social league. I wasn’t sure and I didn’t care, even though I had to put up with listening to her woeful stories of victimology.

I’ve learned many mythbusting realities about women over the years of loving them, but one of the most disappointing lessons I’ve learned is how threadbare, shallow and tenuous are their friendships with female peers. For all the jabbering they do amongst themselves, the bonds that hold girl friends together are a surprisingly superficial amalgam of Machiavellian maneuvering, parched politesse, feigned sympathy, self-absorbed clucking, and fickle loyalty. It’s as if female friendships exist only to serve the banal purpose of group cohesion and social climbing, in stark contrast with male friendships that can strengthen unencumbered by ulterior motives and which often require nothing more than the tacit assumption of “I’ve got your back”.

One time I took this girl to a party where female friends of mine would be in attendance. (About 1/3 of my friends are women, and 2/3s men. After 5pm, that ratio reverses.) She noticed one of the girls was flirty around me. I agreed that she probably was nursing a long-held #1 crush. Out of earshot, my date then proceeded to call this girl fat, and grabbed my hand to walk with me in front of the girl, ostensibly to provoke seething jealousy. I didn’t appreciate it. This was evidence that my date was a woman of poor character.

Some months later we broke up, and through intermediaries I learned that she had become good friends with the chubby girl she formerly ripped to pieces with a gleam in her eye. I wondered if she knew of her new friend’s less than complimentary opinion of her, or if it was all bitchiness under the bridge.

Gossip is a natural property of human nature and something in which almost everyone, men and women, indulge (though women to a far greater extent than men). It is probably an evolutionary outgrowth of human status hierarchies, and so isn’t going anywhere soon. For that reason, I’m generally bemused if I hear that friends are gossiping about me. It’s all part of doing business as a DNA carrying replicant. Nothing much to get worked up over. But there is a line crossed where gossip becomes corrupted and twisted by resentment and ill will; when it becomes less a feature of human social dynamics than a bug. The caustic whisperings and barely concealed snarls behind phoneyfemme smiles and exaggerated “Hiiiiiiii!!!”s that hit six different musical notes hide a dark, bitter soul. Invariably, it is women who are the shameless practitioners of this viciously psychological ego-feeding art. Occasionally, the poisoned opinions get out there in the ether like slimy tentacles, afflicting every social circle conversation with a brute manipulative face-saving veneer. But most of the time, the vaj vector of dirty gossip is skilled enough to keep her real feelings under wraps.

Not every girl is like this. I have dated girls, bless their hearts of gold, who had nothing but kind words to say about their girl friends behind closed doors. In fact, one of the key indicators that the girl you are dating is girlfriend material worthy of your non-penis time and attention is what she thinks of her friends when she has the opportunity to unload on them. Listen to what she says about her friends when it’s just you and her. This will give you tremendous insight into how she will treat you over the long haul.

To those girls who possess a depth of untarnished loyalty for their friends — in the middle of the night with the shades drawn and no one but the company of your conscience, you know who you are — don’t think for a minute that we men don’t notice your good character. You are a rare catch. Most women have no need for the virtue that makes you stand out…

Integrity.

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