Psycho Stalker

Psycho stalker
Qu’est-ce que c’est?
fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa far better
run run run run run run run away
oh oh oh

When you experience the love of many women you are bound to have an unfortunate run-in with a stalker. The formula goes like this:

Number of girls in your lovemaking career + Disparity between your higher value and the girl’s lower value = Odds of wild-eyed stalker ruining your carefully cultivated lifestyle.

Based on my experiences and the stories I hear from friends, you can expect one potential stalker for every 10 women you bed. If you’ve bedded 100 women without incident, the odds of the 101st woman being a stalker are still 10%, but in the bigger picture you are really playing with fire. Your luck will run out. Even worse, if your value is more than 2 points higher than hers, the risk of initiating her stalker module sequence doubles and the degree of psycho behavior intensifies as the market value differential increases.

Example:

1,000 girls banged + 5 point average difference in value = 99.99% chance you had at least one bunny boiling stalker in your life.

Glenn Close’s character was 5 points lower than Michael Douglas’ character, so the result was no surprise to any man who understands how the market works. What were the writers thinking? Glenn Close is a horseface.

To be sure, there are other factors that influence any one girl’s chances of having a psychotic episode on your ass after being dumped. If she came from a broken home, that will boost the odds considerably. Past or present drug addiction is a leading indicator of latent stalker issues. Flakes are especially prone to transmogrifying into crazy stalkers; the airheaded dippiness that annoys the crap out of you when you are trying to get your notch with her is the same mental imbalance that causes her to thrive on the manufactured drama of an emotionally explosive breakup.

Here are some warning signs to watch for:

• Did she come onto you? Major red flag. Desperate, exceedingly horny girls don’t take kindly to being dumped. If a girl says “I have a bet with my friend that I’m going to take a man home tonight”, and then she publicly assaults your mouth with her tongue, you had better have an extrication plan ready after you’ve banged it out.
• She’s a different race than you. “Exotic” girls are more likely to freak out on you after a dumping. My guess is that girls who date outside their race are the type of outliers who engage in all sorts of crazy behavior.
• She’s a former fatty. If you’ve been pumped and dumped your whole life, you’re really not going to like it when you get dumped as a thin girl. She’ll think to herself “I look great now! Why am I still being treated like a one night stand?” On the other hand, many former fatties are so inured to getting dumped that one more doesn’t much faze them.
• She’s a virgin. Be gentle with these rare birds. They are a dying breed.
• She’s under 25. The more hardened and cynical a woman is, the less likely she will go insane after a breakup. Young girls are flooded with bonding emotions that older women simply don’t possess anymore.
• She orgasms easily and vaginally, multiple times. If the girl cums effortlessly during intercourse, your cock will be like a drug to her. Withdrawal is a bitch.
• She’s making plans for the next date before you’ve finished shooting your load across her back. These are the types of girls who spend more waking hours living in fantasyland than in reality.

What to do if you have a stalker:

• Number one rule: CUT OFF ALL CONTACT. Ignore her calls, texts, emails, etc. If you see her on the street, walk on by as if you don’t recognize her. The most innocent backsliding on your part will only encourage her to continue stalking. You don’t want to give her even the slimmest shred of hope. In 90% of stalker cases, total radio silence usually does the trick in two to three weeks.
• Lay down the hammer of hurt. If ignoring her doesn’t work, and she’s stepped up her stalking to sitting on your stoop waiting for you to return from work, you’ll have to get medieval on her. “You dumb fucking psycho cunt, I despise you, I hate you, your pussy is gross, you disgust me beyond words, I want you gone now and if I ever see you near me again I will notify your family and friends what a raving lunatic you are” should put an end to it.
• But if it doesn’t, you’ll need to escalate to defcunt level 3: Actually DO notify her friends and family. She needs an intervention, and public shaming is your best ally.
• In case you’re worried she might do something drastic: Threaten to call the cops. Some girls are so fucking crazy they’ll come at you with a weapon, or they’ll enlist the services of some big meathead they know and make up a story about how you hit her in a bar, and you’ll come home one day to this guy hiding in a bush with a bat in hand. If you think she is capable of doing that, you may want to consider calling the cops for real. It sounds kind of pussy-ish to deal with an obsessed girl by slapping a restraining order on her, but it’s more pussy-ish to explain to your future wife that you’re infertile because a girl kicked you in the nads.
• Trump card: Move out of the country.

I remember this time I banged it out with a chick who, in hindsight, met five of the bullet points I listed above. I made the mistake of replying innocuously to one of her many texts she sent throughout the following week. Two weeks later, on a Saturday night at 1AM, my doorbell buzzed. I jumped because my doorbell sounds like a cow being zapped with 10,000 volts. (If I could locate the wiring, I would disconnect it.) I could hear her outside, shuffling around and mewling for me to come to the door. I turned off the bright hallway light, locked the bolt lock and chain lock on my door, and peeked through the blinds for half a second. Her eyes were spinning. Luckily, I didn’t have a girl with me in my place at that moment, so I didn’t have to worry about explaining the situation. I went back to watching my movie, hoping she would go away. Ten minutes passed. Silence. Phew, she left. Relief.

At 2AM, the doorbell crashed against my eardrums again. Fuck the bitch is back! She must have rung all the doorbells in a spastic panic because my adjacent neighbor answered the door. I overheard their conversation. “Is [moi] in? … I don’t know, you want to check? … Yes, could I? I have these snacks for him.” He let her into the building and she knocked on my door. My heart raced. “I don’t think he’s in … Ok, let me just try once more … Ok, suit yourself, but people are trying to sleep.” Knock knock knock! I turned off the TV, computer, and all the lights and sat in the quiet dark, wondering if I should confront her or call the cops. No worse time to start a battle with a psycho chick than at 2AM. I imagined how a confrontation would go. She would cry and scream and maybe accuse me of rape as my neighbors gathered at their stoops to watch the drama unfold. No, I decided against it. She was unstable enough to cause a major scene, and if I could escape without being identified as “that guy” who has weird stalker chicks coming to his home in the dead of night, I would. So I played possum. I jumped into bed and pulled the blanket up to my chin, dreaming of happier times.

Twenty minutes later (although it felt like a year) she left. I woke up the next morning, bleary-eyed, to a bag of snacks sitting outside my door and a text from her:

i’m so sorry i don’t know what got into me. i’m erasing your number. i’ll never contact you again. best of luck.

I did not reply to that text. I noted with wry irony the “best of luck” face saving maneuver and then proceeded to show her text to all my friends later on. We scornfully laughed in that way guys laugh when we’ve dodged a bullet.

Update

Commenter PA wrote the following:

Half-seriously, how about this as the very last resort against a stalker chick, if leaving the country doesn’t work:

Tell her you are deeply in love with her, send her a new gushy Hallmark card every day, tell her that you see yourselves married, tell her that she’s special, call her at work about how she’s the most beautiful thing that ever walked into your life, and then break into sobs when you tell her that it’s been so long since you were touched when the two of you first made love…. and so on.

If nothing else, that oughta kill the stalker-love, no?

As I wrote in reply, this is the nuclear bomb of counterstalker tactics, and like with all weapons of mass destruction, you run a high risk of catching a lethal dose of fallout. *When* it works, it works perfectly. She will run to the hills. The problem is when it doesn’t work. If you’ve been an alpha for too long, you may have a hard time effectively simulating a lovesick beta. If it backfires, you are stuck with a stalker who is setting up a gift registry with Williams & Sonoma.

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Secrets

A while back, I was sitting in my favorite bar savoring a delicious bison burger and a beer which I imagined was the best beer in the world because it had a long German name. It was a slow Sunday afternoon and the bar was nearly empty. Across the bar, about fifteen feet away, a leggy blonde walked in and settled on one of the stools, chatting up the bartender. She noticed me noticing her, and a flicker of nervousness froze her face momentarily. I had banged this girl on two separate nights many months ago. After the second banging, we (her? me? it’s unclear) cut off all contact. This was the first we had seen of each other since then.

A minute later, a guy came in and sat down next to Blondie. He leaned in to give her a kiss and she perceptibly flinched away from his approaching puckered lips. She looked annoyed. He smiled at her doofily while her face was turned the opposite way, then ordered a meal and talked about the game on the TV with another bartender. Every so often, I caught Blondie glancing in my direction. I made sure she knew I caught her.

I remember her mentioning something about a boyfriend she was planning to move in with when we hooked up, but like any well-bred devil-may-care alpha, I breezily dismissed it. An abstract concept. Not my moral crisis. The choice to cheat or not rested entirely with her. And now, here was the flesh and blood boyfriend, sitting mere feet from a man whose dick had penetrated his girlfriend’s wet pussy while he was setting aside separate dresser drawers for her panties, happily oblivious and looking very much like a normal dude.

I wanted fun. Feeling like a cenobite summoned by a fire and brimstone hellgod of the underworld to dispense the cruel justice of a sadist who loves to watch his victims squirm, I walked around the bar and stood next to her boyfriend pretending to get closer to the TV. Blondie wasn’t there; she had gone to the bathroom.

Me: Hey man, I don’t think the Skins can take Pittsburgh. Too much depth. [My inner voice: Your girlfriend’s pussy has depth.]

Him: What? It’s only the half. Pittsburgh falls apart late in the game.

[more sports small talk]

Me: This place is pretty good on a Sunday for watching the game. No drunk college kids. So you and your girlfriend come here a lot? [I saw your girlfriend’s labia.]

Him: Oh yeah, she’s a regular here, so I come once in a while when I’m in town.

Me: Yeah, I’m a regular too. I pretty much know everybody here, but I’ve only seen her around once or twice. So you’re from out of town? I respect someone who can make a long distance relationship work during these times. [I held your girlfriend’s long legs up pointing straight at the ceiling as I pounded her into submission]

Him: I’m planning to move into DC. We’re getting a place together. The long distance thing is tough, but you do what you have to to make it work.

Me: Yup. Number one thing: trust. Long distance can work if you can trust the girl. [She let me fuck her without a condom. I don’t know if I pulled out in time.]

Him: [looking over his shoulder at the women’s bathroom door] And if she can trust me!

Me: You know it! [She has blonde pubes.] Anyhow, if you’ve found a girl like that, hold on to her. I can tell you, those types are rare. [She sucked my cock like it was her last.]

[Blondie exits the bathroom and walks up next to the boyfriend, slowly taking a seat. Her face has gone ghostly white as she sees me talking to her boyfriend. I smile and wink.]

Me: Hey, what’s up. Nice to meet another regular. We were just chatting about the Skins’ chances for making it to the show this year. [Did your clitoris just quiver?]

Her: [eyes wide] Um, hi there. [her voice sounds artificially chirpy.]

If I had a hidden camera I would have taken a picture of her face right at that moment. The expression of fear, shock, shame, and even the blush of arousal was priceless. I detected a hint of nipple hardening. The hamster on her brain wheel was spinning frantically.

Me: Well, anyhow, I’m gonna get back to my food. I don’t want somebody else to eat it while I’m away. Nice to talk with you guys. [I shot a white hot load across the bow of her chest. A blob landed on the pillow next to her head. The pillow you have pressed your face into while sleeping.]

***

Tyler Durden has written about the Secret Society. One where nearly all the attractive women, their best gay boyfriends, and a small number of alpha players share the bounty of glorious pussy. It is an organically emerged society no one talks about, or even recognizes as such. But exist it does, in practice if not in formality. Sluts are left to be sluts. Fidelity is an anachronism; a false morality for those ignorati outside the secret society. Everyone lives for good feelings. People who cause bad feelings are excommunicated. Everyone is cool. No one is beta. No one judges, no one pretends to care. The spice must flow. These are the rules.

Then a real sadistic prick comes along. A gatecrasher. A puppetmaster. The rules were made to be broken, he says. And he does. Gleefully.

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FYI

Take some time this evening to peruse the comments I bunker busted into the comments sections of the past week’s posts, going back to the How To Handle Femmes Fatales Part 3 post. I really feel it is some of my finest work. Art for the demonic heart.

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Sarah Palin Inspires Feminist Hate

I predicted that Sarah Palin’s most fevered foes would be the modern single urban childless feminist:

But Sarah Palin’s worst enemy is not the mincing liberal betaboy, oh no. It’s the childless, career-tracked, urban slut machine, government-as-daddy-and-husband-substitute, spinsterette. Palin shits grizzly-sized dung all over that lifestyle with her outdoorsiness, large brood, and prole tastes. The thing about her they really can’t swallow are her FIVE kids. There’s no better way to remind a hip clubgoing single chick in the city who loves to travel and sip pinot noir of her impending infertility and genetic obsolescence than with the image of a woman who’s chosen not to ignore her biological imperative in favor of playing the field indefinitely.

Palin makes blue state SWPLs nervous because she is the chill up their spines that they are being outbred into insignificance.

Commenter Sebastian Flyte forwarded a NY Sun article to me confirming my prediction:

“All of my women friends [editor’s note: Samantha, Carrie, Miranda, and the fat friend Rosie O’Donnell], a week ago Monday, were on the verge of throwing themselves out windows,” an author and political activist, Nancy Kricorian of Manhattan, said yesterday. “People were flipping out. … Every woman I know was in high hysteria over this. Everyone was just beside themselves with terror that this woman could be our president — our potential next president.”

Ms. Kricorian allowed that she was among those driven to distraction, upon occasion, by Mrs. Palin’s nomination. “My Facebook status last Monday was, ‘Nancy is freaking out about Sarah Palin yet again,'” the writer said.

Facebook! Fuck her fiercely with a ferret. Here’s a Facebook status update for these freaked out feminists: “My life is a joke. A triviality. A nothing. A barren womb of emptiness. Politics is my religion substitute and gives me a belief to cling to when my life is a meaningless, mindless void of handbag shopping and mimosas.”

There. Much better.

“What I feel for her privately could be described as violent, nay, murderous, rage,” an associate editor at Jezebel, Jessica Grose, wrote just after the Republican convention wrapped up. “When Palin spoke on Wednesday night, my head almost exploded from the incandescent anger boiling in my skull.”

“I am shocked by the depths of my hatred for this woman,” another commenter, CJWeimar, wrote.

This is an endless font of humor. Recall what Devlin said about women who delay childbirth:

“Motherhood has always been the best remedy for female narcissism.”

When you have your own children to raise, the sight of a mother on stage at a political convention won’t fry your neural network with murderous impulses. This kind of acute self-absorption naturally places great emphasis on fighting those whose lifestyle choices mock your own.

“It is impossible for me not to read about her in the newspaper in the subway every morning on my way to work and not come into the office angry and wanting to kick things,” a commenter using the name ChampagneofBeers wrote. “My boxing class definitely helps.”

Oh christ, the stereotypical absurdity never ends. I can picture this broad in the latest trendy gymwear, huge oversized boxing gloves, grunting ridiculously while swinging like a tankgrrl at a punching bag and cursing red state women who rub her face in her failure with their large broods. I bet the next time she storms out of class fired up with righteous anger and belief in her jujitsu boxing skills, she makes the mistake of giving some homeless bum lip and winds up knocked out when he takes a swing at her.

Even some prominent figures admitted to being overcome by anti-Palin feelings. “I am having Sarah Palin nightmares,” an acclaimed playwright and writer, Eve Ensler, wrote on the Huffington Post.

Eve Ensler: divorced, ugly, 0 biological children.
She’ll need to call her next play “The Nobody Wants My Vagina Monologues”.

“I think a lot of women felt insulted by the idea you could just take any woman,” a longtime editor of women’s magazines, Bonnie Fuller, told The New York Sun. “A lot of women feel it was a very cynical decision. … What got some women’s backs up was the idea she didn’t earn her stripes. It’s been so hard for so many women to get ahead both in business and in the political worlds and she just seemingly slips in.”

Oh, Palin earned her stripes. The problem is that she didn’t earn the *right* stripes as dictated by the Loony Kommissars of the Crusty Cunt Revolution. Send her to the reeducation camps!

Ms. Fuller also said she and other women were troubled by Mrs. Palin’s decision to have her daughter, Bristol, 17, on stage at the Republican convention, despite news reports about her pregnancy.

Cute, young, pregnant teenagers drive these ugly shrikes right over the edge. How dare they not delay childbirth and devote a decade of their most fertile years to climbing the corporate ladder alongside the boys?

Ms. Grose posited that some of the anger was because Mrs. Palin, a former beauty pageant winner, resembled a high school homecoming queen. “She has always embodied that perfectly pleasing female archetype, playing by the boys’ game with her big guns and moose murdering, and that she keeps being rewarded for it,” Ms. Grose wrote.

Jealous much? High school never ends. Adults just dress up their status jockeying with social niceties.

“Their entire image of themselves is based on the fact that they are paving the way for women. What do they see? Women getting ahead, women being empowered who don’t agree with them,” Dr. Santy said.

Fear and ego are being disinterred for public scrutiny. The id monster emerges from the depths of its subconscious lair. And what do they fear most of all?

Judgment.

Palin’s attractivness, femininity, fertility, and “wrong” politics are the perfect storm to batter the psyches of the SWPL modern feminist. I have loved every minute of this national Rorschach test. It has paid truth to everything I’ve written about the blue state vaginacentric culture in which I swim and exploit for my own uses and pleasures. I hope it never ends.

To fathers everywhere I say: Continue sending your daughters to the big city in droves. I, and those like me, will be waiting.

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Marry Shag Kill

Also from yesterday’s post, commenter Sebastian Flyte highlighted women’s natural inborn revulsion for beta males with the example of the fun bar game Marry Shag Kill:

Another aspect I’m increasingly seeing – WOMEN ARE PITILESS ABOUT BETAS. 

Most gamers who run the routine “murder, marry, shag” quickly realise this.  For those who don’t, you and the girl point at various people around the bar and state whether you would murder them, marry them, or shag them. 

Sometimes I point at wallflowers and guys with no game. I normally just feel bad for them, there-but-for-the-grace-of-god and so forth, me a year ago, he just needs to learn… but women_are_brutal.  Murder of course, but they embellish it further with unflattering observations on their penis size, acne, relationship history, masturbation habits… the vitriolic hate they have for these guys, it’s scary.  If a couple of alphas walked in and started ripping on the betas, women would join in.

I have noticed the same thing with women when I play Marry Fuck Kill with them. After an initial hesitancy, they get comfortable playing and suddenly the claws and fangs are out, revealing in high definition surround-sound glory their barely submerged joyous hate for the hapless beta male.

The nicer ones might try to think of alternate ways to dispose of the losers.

“Uuumm… yeah I guess I would kill him [pointing at rumpled shirt herb]. Do I really have to kill him? Ew, yuck, could we just have him shot into space or something? Or moved to China?”

If the guy is really emanating the stench of loserness, her killing instinct sharpens:

“Yeah, kill him. Oh god, yes, just kill him.”

You have to understand why women have this curdled reaction to betas deep in their bones. If a man spills his seed in the wrong woman, no biggie. He can still bang other women and fulfill his genetic programming. If a woman gets her eggs polluted by the feeble seed of a beta, she’s stuck for nine months, and probably longer.

This is why Marry Fuck Kill is an excellent litmus test. I now use the game to screen for women with good character. If she is *really* uncomfortable killing off men she doesn’t want to fuck or marry, and refuses to pull the trigger, I know she’ll be more likely to want to please me and less likely to cheat. I put her in the “long term prospect” mental bin. If she chooses to marry what I consider marriage-worthy men (and I pick sample targets for her with my screening process in mind) I give her an extra point. If she chooses to fuck the dude wearing the skull and bones bandana with tribal tattoos on his arms and a perpetual sneer, I subtract points from her and put her into the “short fling” mental bin.

Marry Fuck Kill does not work the same for men. When the girl plays the game with me, and I haven’t yet fucked her, I have to be careful how I answer.

“Her? [looking at the fat girl she picked] Hmm, I dunno… If she was good to animals I miiiiiight marry her. I guess I have to kill someone here, eh? Maybe that chick over there. [pointing at the hottest chick in the bar] She looks high maintenance.”

If I simply told the truth and chose all the hot girls for fucking and marrying and killed all the ugly and fat chicks, occasionally with unbridled glee, she would become self-conscious and never agree to be videotaped during sex.

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Through The Valley Of The Shadow Of Human Nature

Commenter NotSursprised in yesterday’s post linked to this story:

20-year-old Nihita Biswas is engaged to Charles Sobhraj. They plan to get married after Sobhraj gets out of prison. These pictures are from Nihita’s recent interview with Kantipur TV. Charles (Gurumukh) Sobhraj (born April 6, 1944 in Saigon, Vietnam) is a French serial killer of Indian and Vietnamese origin, who preyed on Western tourists throughout Southeast Asia during the 1970s. Nicknamed “the Serpent” and “the Bikini killer” for his skills at deception and evasion, he allegedly committed at least 12 murders and was jailed in India from 1976 to 1997, but managed to live a life of leisure in prison. He retired as a celebrity in Paris, then unexpectedly returned to Nepal, where he was arrested and sentenced to life imprisonment on August 12, 2004.

He’s a 64 year old serial killer. She’s a cute 20 year old girl who may or may not be low class but, if so, doesn’t look it. She is in love. They are engaged. Let that sink in for a minute.

The commenter Marcus Halberstam mentioned in the comments to my post that the world has been getting more peaceful (by what metric? random crime or full scale warfare?) and this proves that women are not selecting thuggish killers for mating opportunities. He suggested maybe 1% of women get horny for bloodthirsty sociopaths.

1% is lowballing it. If Scott Peterson receives nearly 40 phone calls from bold women pledging their love for him on the first day of his prison term (when the techie guy who updates the software on my computer gets zero calls from women year after year) then it’s a small leap of conjecture to imagine that a lot more than 1% of women are at the very least mildly turned on by the thought of sex with a dominant alpha killer. I’d estimate more like 50% of young, fertile-age women get aroused thinking about what it would feel like to be in the presence of someone like Ted Bundy. The obstacles stopping them from acting out are social controls like shaming and the relatively small pool of available sociopathic prospects.

Do I hate women for pointing this out? Or do you want to believe I hate women so you can continue la dee da-ing with your head in the sand and hope in your heart? The way to find love is to be clear-eyed about what kind of dreck it germinates in.

If you are a young man searching for meaning and trying to make sense of the world, forget the array of religions and philosophies meant to help you discover the truth. They obscure more than they illuminate. I’ve found the best way to gain understanding is to keep these two observations in mind:

At every NAAFA mixer (social events for fatties and the oddballs who want to fuck them) there are 30 obese women for each fatty fucker man.

For every cold-blooded killer getting sentenced to death, there are 30 women begging for his hand in marriage.

That is really all you need to know to guide you on the right path to personal fulfillment.
The rest is filler.

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The Dark Side Of Alpha

Pedro Espinoza, the illegal alien murderer of Jamiel Shaw, was dropped off at the killing location by his girlfriend:

A woman testified Wednesday that she drove the alleged killer of a high-school football star to the victim’s street at the time of the shooting and heard a gunshot after her friend got out the car to run an errand.

Yisenia Sanchez said she did not see her friend [editor’s note: by “friend”, she means a guy who has fucked her in the ass], Pedro Espinoza, 19, fire a gun or see whether anyone was shot, but said soon after Espinoza got out the car, a shot sounded, then he came running back in an agitated state.

I’m sure after he breathlessly relayed the details of his dirty deed to his secretly admiring girlfriend, she scolded him for his evil while her wet vagina belied the words coming out of her mouth. Later that night, Pedro got some, and shot a load into her happy face.

Here is a fact for those of you still laboring under the rapidly withering illusion that women are the fairer sex with superior moral guiding principles and emotional intelligence: There are many MANY MANY more young, cute women willing to fuck the likes of Pedro Espinoza, Alpha Killer, than the guy who avoids brushes with the law, dutifully goes to his 9 to 5 McJob, and saves money for the future purchase of a home to start a family.

This is a question for my female readers. What do you feel, at a gut level, when you know that more of your kind go for guys like this:

18th street gang coming soon to all the other street numbers.

than for guys like this:

"maybe if i learned how to shoot computers instead of build them."

I can already hear the protestations to the contrary. “Yeah, but only low class girls go for cold-blooded killers and criminal filth like Espinoza.”

From a penis’s perspective, what is the difference between a low class young, cute girl and a high class young, cute girl?

Answer: Nothing.

Marriage and the attendant class considerations are end game, not start game. Sexual attraction must come first, and a woman’s social, economic, and educational status have nothing to do with that. A girl’s class is irrelevant to her ability to excite a man. For every thug complaining that all he bangs are whores as he facefucks his girlfriend and her sister, there are a hundred betas complaining that they can’t bang anything at all.

I’m glad to see men are reawakening to the reality of women’s depraved animal natures.

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