Comment Of The Week: One-Way Judgment

Hugh G. Rection correctly notes:

Women basically want a monopoly on judgement. She can judge reject men as she chooses, but men are not free to reject/judge her or her choices, ever.

This is eau de feminism. The very essence of the grievance whore industry. The animating lifeblood of the degenerate freak mafia and crass SWPL status whores.

Freedom to judge for me, but not for thee.

And as if right on cue, here’s an indignant fat anchorwoman (meme alert!) spending four minutes of televised air time complaining about being bullied for her big beautiful womanliness by a viewer who wrote her a rather innocuous letter lightly chastising her for not trying to lose weight. (“There’re no bones in the ass, lady!”) Spot the irony: she judges the letter writer for being a “bully” while she herself should remain exempt from all judgment. I’ve got real news for ya, lady. You are a bad role model for young girls. Fatness is a character defect, and your inability to lose weight after years of television exposure is a stretch mark on your soul.

(I do like how the femcunt foot soldierettes tried to “out” the letter writer and discovered he is a muscular athletic bicyclist. Immediately they were robbed of hours of joyous but totally irrelevant ego assuaging snark.)

Runner-up comment winner award goes to Matt Parrott:

Before civilization added multiple layers of complexity, there were essentially two super-categories of humans:

Environmentally Selected Humans: These are populations which survived in low population deserts, rainforests, tundra, remote islands, and such. For them, the greatest obstacles to mating were freezing to death, dying of thirst, being eaten by a tiger, or whatever. They had relatively high testosterone levels, robust skeletal structures, and long penises. Why our common ancestor had a long penis is an important question which I’m going to set aside for now.

Sexually Selected Humans: These are populations which survived in the fertile temperate habitats, especially the major river valleys and deltas. For them, the greatest obstacles to mating were other males, increasingly intelligent and vicious males hellbent on killing you and taking your wife, mom, sisters, and daughters for themselves.

The human brain isn’t large enough to decipher differential calculus and program Facebook apps because that’s environmentally adaptive. It’s not. It’s environmentally maladaptive…a massive calorie sink, a nightmare for child delivery, and a huge vulnerability in terms of instincts becoming secondary to whichever abstractions are dumped into it.

It’s our anthropocentric vanity that lulls us into seeing environmental selection for intelligence as natural…despite common sense and the record clearly demonstrating otherwise. The only (and I do mean only) reason human intelligence exists as it does is as an instrument of male territorial aggression. The human male brain is designed by and for war. And human females have massive brains for the same reason human males have nipples.

Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten about penises. I’m merely sketching up the background hypothesis so that the answer makes sense.

Male territorial aggression in the most fertile (and therefore populous) regions was ubiquitous before the transition to sedentary civilization, resulting in a chronic gender imbalance. While polygyny ensured that all fertile females would be mated with, neoteny and attractiveness determined whether a female would manage to mate with the most powerful (intelligent and therefore militarily successful) males.

The acute selection for neoteny and feminine attractiveness selects against testosterone and other “manliness factors”, including, incidentally and accidentally, male penis size. It’s one of those gender selection trade-offs, like how women who are busty have brothers with bitch tits.

1. The greater the percentage of temperate zone ancestry, the smaller the penis.

2. The more recent the temperate zone ancestry, the smaller the penis.

The final wrinkle with this is that Caucasians have rather recently stumbled across a series of adaptations which serve as misleading indicators of neoteny: white skin, blue eyes, and blonde hair. This changed the equation, easing the selective pressure on the “master switch” of testosterone which was evolution’s only option for making Asian females more attractive. White females could retain the lantern jaws, broad shoulders, and other less feminine features because they had cheat codes which made them appear more feminized than they actually are.

The comment section on this renegade outpost of the internet may be more like a lunchroom food fight than a roundtable of erudite punditry, but one thing you can say about CH commenters is their willingness to tackle tough, impolite subjects with truly open minds. You won’t find gems like this one illuminating the pages of the Washington Trope or the NewYorkBetaTImes. Or National Review.

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The Dark Romance Genre

chris suggests:

Heartiste, you’re a good writer, given the current popularity of dark-romance novels (i.e. 50 shades of grey, twilight), have you ever considered taking your own shot at writing an erotic romance novel for women, and seeing just how dark and twisted the female sexual psyche is, just for the fun of it?

Examples: Jack the Ripper, a misunderstood man who just loved too much. [ed: i laughed.]
or

SS Nazi Officer, blonde haired Ubermensch, whose steel cold and ruthless determination would give way to heartfelt whispers of love and tenderness.
or

Jaws, a tale of unrequited interspecies romance.

My guess is the second one might actually prove popular if done right.

Have I considered writing a dark romance novel? Who says I haven’t already? 😉

The time is clearly ripe for it. Millions of Western women, removed from the emotional grounding of real struggle, surrounded on all sides by lapdog betas, inflamed to uncontrollable passions by the rare aloof alphas, are screaming out for quenching of their suppressed desires (suppressed, in part, by women’s own lifestyle paths).

I don’t believe it’s a coincidence that sketchy pulp romance porn like Twilight and Fifty Shades of Sadism are currently very popular with women. The contours of our fantasies are most starkly delineated when feeding desire that is least fulfilled in reality. A society of more seductive men would dampen women’s inner world of secret desires. A society of beta males stokes it.

Women, of course, have never been sugar and spice. The female sexual psyche shades and twists in degrees, ebbing and flowing according to social or ecological pressures, but it never ceases being a land of shadow and maze. A subversive romance novel that humanized some alpha male monster via a woman’s love and hamstering genuflection would simultaneously satisfy female desire and send it up. I like the second one, too. SS officer shows soft side, woman who loves him sets out first to win his trust and kill him in his sleep, but can’t help following her heart. He implants his Hitler youth in her womb. Fin.

Here’s another idea:

Unusually cute feminist who writes pointless blog liberating fatties and cunts from bowel-shaking judgment is seduced by lacrosse playing frat boy son of a Republican bigwig. She finds out he has murdered three black prostitutes and buried the bodies in a remote Virginia wood, but by that time her heart swoons for his hot-cold-hot-cold, dread-inducing relationship acumen, and her vagina struggles against her conscience for dominance. One night he takes her to the spot where the bodies are decomposing and asks if she wants to be tied to a tree. Fear and tingles grip her, and she relents despite her misgivings, overcome with hot lust to fulfill a long-held fantasy of getting “play”-raped against a stately oak. He asks increasingly demanding questions, to which she answers affirmatively, her vagina glowing hotter with each reluctant submission. A French poodle trots into the scene, film noirish, and it triggers a lost memory from her youth, when a niceguy beta with a good job and kitchen skills loved her and promised her a life of domestic contentment and backrubs. A single feminist tear creases her face, now ripped by agony and pleasure as frat boy’s turgid paddle rends her furrow. He is wearing a Zorro mask. She mewls like a cougar in the throes of post-meal delight.

Months of dangerous sex punctuate a rise in feminist stardom, but she keeps her secret well, suffering the endless indignities of his increasingly deranged intrusions upon her body and claims on her womanhood, going so far as to construct a locket for her to permanently wear as reminder of his love. The spiral of passion imprisons and releases her, until one day he unceremoniously dumps her after she catches him anally boffing her radical feminist co-editor. Now presumably freed of his inexplicable power over her, she makes plans to reveal his crimes, but every time, just when she is about to pull the trigger, she steps away from the brink to collect her thoughts on long eatpraylove straycations, the last one to Morocco, where a swarthy fellow selling exotic wool carpets that cost five cents to manufacture in a Chinese factory accosts her in a dusty alley and introduces her to sexy jihad. From there, she comes down with an extreme case of Stockholm Syndrome and follows him on a pilgrimage to London, where she is initiated into the chain migration family through one-sided arranged marriage. She becomes a zealous Muslim convert, and feels a love and emotional calm she has never felt before, except when memories of that one man sidle into her dreams…

A tall, blonde-haired figure in an extra-tight European blazer slips into the used book shoppe she now runs with her Moroccan sister/aunt/cousin-in-law. He places a dog-eared tome on the counter: “My Secret Garden”. Her fingers tremble and dance along the spine of the book. A nerve shake sends ripples along her flesh. She peers vainly for his eyes under the fedora with the rim pulled down low. All she sees is a studded metal plate covering half his face and a whimsical smirk.

“It’s you?”

The man taps the book cover with a sinewy index finger. She stumbles at the cash register and rings him up. A knife sits gamely in the pence slot. She stares at it for a second, before composing herself.

She gives him the change. He lets his hand linger in hers as the currency empties into his palm. He taps the book again, and walks slowly out the door. She opens the book and finds a marked page. Nestled between the pages is a skeleton key. She collapses to the floor. The iron locket that has pierced her for ten years presses sharply against her pubis. A note flutters from the book and lands in her lap.

“I forgive you.”

She weeps as a powerful orgasm paralyzes her. The key waits for her. She picks it up, caresses it, and throws it into the trash.

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White Woman

I think white nationalists, though I sympathize with the lie-smashing spirit enlivening their mission, will have to come to terms with something unsavory: their “natural allies” answer to no master save one.

Eh, this pic is too good to not meme-ify.

Scoot over to quickmeme and the “Perverted White Woman” theme. Add your own caption and amaze your friends and secretly dirty little girlfriends!

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Women Don’t Handle Rejection Well

Rum writes:

On a parallel track [to women being less familiar than men with continual horniness]; modern American women have no skill at all in coping with sexual rejection. If they come on to you straight-on and you tell them “No!!” – you will not see much gracious-ness or even sanity in their response. They may well try to hit you as their brains short-circuit and go into panic mode.

Astute observation. I’ve had a few girls whose looks I didn’t much care for come on to me in the manner of a man on the hunt. When I say “come on to me”, I’m not cavorting with literary license. I mean, the women cold approached me and asked me out, asked me to join them for a drink, or, in one memorable case, asked me to take her back to my place.

Since these women were not physically acceptable to me, (and since I was dating around at the time and had my sexual urgency dampened), I turned them down. I was nice about it. A simple “No, thanks”, and the girl’s hopeful bright face would immediately darken, her features turn upside down, and she would shuffle back into the shadows a crestfallen hunchback of unanticipated crushing defeat.

One girl I did this to nearly broke into tears, and even in the dim lounge light I could see her lower lip tremble. She then re-approached me later in the night and shouted at me that I was an asshole, jabbing a finger into my chest. (My steel-reinforced pec easily deflected the projectile.) Of course, all eyes turned accusatorially in my direction. You can never say the white knight brigade, men and their female instigators, pass up a chance to fly to the aid of a woman in distress of her own doing. Just a friendly reminder that the unforgiving, stark reality of the sexual market and sex differences massages perception so thoroughly that witnesses to female tribulation automatically assign her any and all benefit of the doubt, and guilt is readily and instantly assumed to be the burden of the man ensnared in the altercation. This perception breaks only under a preponderance of unassailable evidence to the contrary, which is almost never gathered or examined in the cock-propped hothouse of a nightclub. I thus beat a hasty retreat.

It’s fair to say that all these girls (not many in total, but enough to draw a generalization about women who would be in similar circumstances) reacted to my rejecting them in a despondent, tail-tucked way that would rival the most maudlin beta male display of public sexual humiliation.

It’s easy to figure out why. Most women are not accustomed to sexual rejection, delivered straight up like a hot lance to the soul. Not even the less attractive ones have this experience, because there is usually a man sufficiently low enough in the mating hierarchy, and desperate enough for sexual relief, who would accommodate these lonely ladies’ wishes. A woman who approaches a man for sex instinctually believes, with some justification, that her offer will be received with pleasant surprise and cooperative eagerness.

Since she believes this, and since taking the approach initiative feels so strange to her female sensibility, the less attractive woman who pursues this inverted courtship strategy will generally approach only men significantly higher in value than the men she would normally get by waiting to be approached and pursued. Some of these out-of-her-league men will abide, because a convenient one night stand, even one that will be less exciting for him, is hard to turn down. But some of these men won’t, for a variety of reasons, not least of which is the fact that dating attractive babes tends to sour men on wasting even minimal time perfunctorily pump and dumping good-to-go plain janes.

The average woman doesn’t have the wealth of experience that the average man has with direct, active sexual rejection. When, on those rare occasions, she does experience it, her state control is shattered and her negative emotions come flooding to the surface, bobbing like dead fish on a polluted lake. This manifest wretchedness will evoke feelings of sympathy and even misplaced guilt in the man who did the rejecting, which is a point against any belief in the moral superiority of women, who rarely, if ever, feel similar sorts of sympathetic outpourings for the much greater numbers of men they reject in the course of their (fertile) lives.

Men of all stations in life have to deal with sexual rejection more often than do women, and as such they develop a strong shell that protects their egos and allows them to hunt another day, instead of curling into the fetal position and waiting for death, or the next episode of “The New Normal”. Women have never developed this purposeful shell, this strength of self-possession, and their inability to handle unambiguous rejection with dignity testifies to their underlying emotional and ego weakness. Men who get nervous at the thought of approaching women would do well to keep this in mind: you are far better equipped than your prey to surmount a temporary setback. Your masculine detachment is a gift. Take pride in it. The qualities that every societal siren blares that you should be ashamed of are those very qualities that will serve you so well.

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Womanese-to-English Translator

Online translator services are really helpful in a pinch when you’re overseas, but what do you do when you’re talking with a woman who speaks your language? American women speak English, at least syntactically and grammatically, but the meanings of their words and sentences often mislead as much as inform. After all, if women said what they meant and spoke clearly and honestly, wining and dining them with all-expenses paid dates would be a thing of the past. You’d know within a few minutes whether she was going to put out for you or not. And if she was interested in sex, you’d know exactly how to proceed to ensure it happened.

So for those times when you actually care what a woman says to you — i.e., those times you’re talking with an attractive young babe you want to crotch smash — your life (and sanity) would be immeasurably improved if you had a Womanese-to-English translator at your instant disposal. Imagine the following conversation:

YOU: Hi, can I buy you a drink?

HER: Sure!

YOU: Cool.

HER: Thanks. [drinks up, eyes room, alpha male pops up out of nowhere and she leaves with him, laughing all the way]

YOU: fuck.

Now this is how the above conversation would go if you had a Chateau Heartiste Womanese-to-English Translator on hand:

YOU: Hi, can I buy you a drink? [turns on W/E Translator, patent pending]

HER: Sure, I won’t turn down a freebie, but it will hurt your chances to have sex with me.

YOU: Nah, I changed my mind. I won’t buy you a drink.

HER: So… you seem kind of interesting. New around here?

See how your life would be so much better with the W/E Translator at your side? Here’s another sample conversation that many of you will encounter in the course of your pickup career:

YOU: I collect walking sticks. Come, let’s go to my place. I’ll show you my collection.

HER: Ok, but nothing’s going to happen tonight.

YOU: [dejected face] oh, ok. Well, can I get your number?

HER: [gives fake number]

Feel like a lah-hooo-ser? You should. But you don’t need to ever feel that way again with the W/E Translator (patent pending, internationally copyrighted)! How would the above conversation have turned out when run through the W/ET for accuracy?

YOU: I collect walking sticks. Come, let’s go to my place. I’ll show you my collection. [turns on W/ET]

HER: Ok, but nothing’s going to happen tonight if you give up trying.

YOU: [smug face] Don’t worry, I won’t.

HER: [takes your arm]

Beautiful love, with an assist from the W/E Translator. Can a price be put on such a product? It can’t, but now you can have it for the low low price of $49.99, an infinity dollars-minus-$49.99 savings! You’d be crazy to pass up this opportunity.

More game-changing, dick-wetting, money-saving, sanity-sparing magic, courtesy of the W/ET:

Before W/E Translator

YOU: [making bedroom move on your wife]

HER: [turns over] I have a headache tonight. Maybe another time.

After W/E Translator

YOU: [making bedroom move on your wife]

HER: [turns over] Can’t do it. My vagina is still sore from fucking my boss.

Before W/E Translator

HER: When are you going to dust the cat hair balls like I asked?

YOU: Sorry, honey, I forgot. I’ll get right to it.

HER: Nevermind, I already did it. You obviously don’t care.

YOU: What?! Of course I care about you! Where did this come from?

HER: Just forget about it. I’ll be at the spa.

After W/E Translator

HER: When are you going to stick up for yourself and say no to me?

YOU: So this is what you mean. I get it now.

HER: My complaint about the cat hair balls is really a passive-aggressive taunt directed at your repulsive feeble betatude.

YOU: It’s refreshing to know how you really feel instead of making me read between the lines.

HER: I’ll be filing for divorce in less than a year.

***

Since I doubt your woman will stop talking anytime soon, the W/E Translator is useful in every situation. Just read these typical obfuscating female words and watch them transform right before your eyes into distilled truth.

HER: I don’t deserve you.

W/ET: Treat me like shit if you want to get in my pants.

HER: I’d rather not corrupt an innocent man.

W/ET: Your inexperience with women is a turn-off.

HER: I’m not nearly as nice of a person as you are.

W/ET: I’m really nice to jerks, but I won’t be nice to you.

HER: I’m a bit too immature to appreciate a guy like you.

W/ET: Call me in ten years after I’ve ridden the cock carousel and my looks have taken a hit.

Act now, and we’ll throw in the bonus W/E Nonverbal Translator! Just hold it up to visually record your girlfriend or wife, and receive a verbal confirmation of her real state of mind.

HER: [scarfs down ice cream]

YOU: [activates W/ENT]

W/ENT: “This ice cream is more exciting to me than your dick.”

***

HER: [parks her fat ass on a sofa to watch The View]

YOU: [point W/ENT at her]

W/ENT: “I no longer feel motivated to please you because you are an uninspiring beta herb.”

Amazing stuff! And guess what? The W/ET even has a super secret algorithm that can tell which words women speak are truthful. That’s right, it knows what needs translating, and what doesn’t! When a woman says something unexpectedly candid, the W/ET flashes a green light. That’s green light for “go to your nearest chapel and profess your belief in a higher being, ESP, and Bigfoot”.

HER: You’re too safe and predictable for me.

W/ET: *green light*

HER: You’re giving me too much power and I resent it.

W/ET: *green light*

HER: I wish you’d stop doing as I say because you logically figure it’s how to avoid a crushing break-up.

W/ET: *green light*

There’s even a setting that allows you to program the W/ET so that the closer a woman comes to speaking the unadulterated truth, the brighter the green light shines in your face.

HER: My vagina burns for violent sexual adventures with an emotionally opaque, aloof badboy who makes me a little scared for my life.

W/ET: *GREEN LIGHT GREEN LIGHT GREEN LIGHT*

Sold yet? You should be! $49.99 will give you such a massive competitive advantage over every other man it’s a wonder this product isn’t ILLEGAL! Buy now before the divorce lawyers find a way to classify the W/E Translator as Schedule I contraband! (Operators and coping therapists standing by.)

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Incentives Matter

There’s a great thread going on over at Libertardian Central you might want to read before Cheap Chalupas™ gets the ethnic hives and decides to mass delete impertinent commenters who tweak his mood affiliation.

btw, [david] brooks is wrong. as john stated, men *are* adapting to the new reality. when women start becoming economically self-sufficient and thus price out larger swaths of lower or equal earning men, men respond by competing for their attention by emphasizing different traits where they still can exert a higher value signal that appeals to women’s hypergamy. charisma, for example, is one such alternative trait that women are drawn to in men.

also, the female obesity epidemic is doubtless skewing the mating market against men’s interests (and ultimately against women’s interests). more fat undesirable (but i repeat myself) women means more men turning away from providing for women in favor of pump and dumps and porn. ya know, incentives matters. and men aren’t very incentivized to provide, materially or emotionally, for unattractive, self-sufficient women.

it would also be remiss of me to forget to mention that mass migration of tens of millions of lower iq lower skilled peasants to gut the wages and the spirit of working class american men has not exactly assisted their ability to attract women the traditional, civilization-building way. but hey, to the libertardian, that’s just collateral damage in the great free labor dream of eradicating national borders.

Hanna Rosin and David Brooks are tag-teaming in their claims that women are more adaptable than men, or are better at adapting to the modern economy and culture.

To that, I say magnificent bullshit. Men are adapting. They’re just not adapting in the way that women, and NYBetaTimes pundits, would like them to adapt. The means to acquire a good wage, and the incentive to leverage a good wage to attract women, have both diminished to the point that caddishness and porn have become better alternatives for many men. If feminists and lefties and rinos and tradcons like BIll Bennett don’t like this turn of events, well… they have only themselves to blame. You should have turned back form the brink when you had a chance.

I’ll say it again: Never before in modern American history has there been a time when game was as effective, or as necessary, as right now. Game is no longer just a matter of getting your weekend jollies at the clubs; now it’s a lifestyle. For some, it’s survival of the soul.

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Hot Girl Crazy

Spiralina observes:

It’s SO boring to be a hot girl. People are designed to evolve by struggling against the greater forces of survival. When everything is just handed to you with no effort, you lose your sense of purpose. You become dissolute and reckless. You start abusing your sexual power in petty ways, just to see how far you can push it. When you find someone who finally pushes back, it elicits an intense (albeit temporary) thrill.

Childbirth makes it all settle, and gives the hot girl a greater sense of purpose. That’s why most hot girls, if they stay single and don’t have kids as they get older, slowly go insane.

What Spiralina has described is hot girl crazy. Hot girls, by dint of their immense, immediate, and unearned power over men (and over women, to a lesser extent) start out life being less grounded than plainer girls (pretty girls as young as four know they are more attractive than other girls), become sadistically crazy in their primes (15-25 years old), and then pitifully deranged by their late 20s and 30s if they have not leveraged their hotness for an alpha male and little alphalets by then.

Hot girls live in the closest approximation to a fantasy world that exists in the state of nature for human beings, and in no time in history is that fantasy more fully fleshed out and intertwined with the threads of ugly reality than right now for the modern Western looker. This is why hot girls are some of the most illogical, deluded, and naively optimistic people alive: You don’t need a firm grasp of reality when a line of suitors and suckups stretches around the corner to wait on you hand and foot.

The “struggle against greater forces of survival” has been the norm for most people, most of the time, and evolution, as Spiralina has noted, has equipped us, more or less generously, with the flexibility and fortitude to bear this struggle without turning batshit crazy. There is actually a scientific term for this psychological — and, reduced to its essence, biological — phenomenon: hormesis. Or: that which doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.

The hot girl in her prime, though, has rarely had to struggle. Or, if she thinks she has struggled, she has no idea what real struggle is like, particularly for ugly girls who foetally slouch through waves of human eyeballs invisible and ignored. The hot girl’s problems are other girls’ wish lists.

Freedom from struggle, as with all quasi-realized utopian ideals, lets slip unintended consequences, many of them worse than the struggle the utopian was trying to eradicate. Hot girls begin to despise their catered lives, and attempt to fill them with drama. This is why the expert seducer will quickly ascertain that it is the hottest girls who insufferably crave the most manufactured drama. He learns from this, and knows to give it to them on an intermittent schedule, like a scientist in a lab might drop a heroin-laced pellet to a rat to condition its responses.

And what kind of drama do hot girls crave the most? Dread. The hot girl wants what she doesn’t have: struggle. She wants to feel again, and the asshole lover who cavalierly tosses aside her feelings, who exhibits scarce consideration for her, fires her up like no lapdog or lackey ever could. Spiralina says this thrill is temporary, but here I disagree with her. I have been the beneficiary of, at the risk of crass first-person immodesty, the love of very attractive girls, and as long as the drama flows, the thrill remains the same. This thrill can go on for years, sometimes lingering after the breakup in her memories in the form of unexpected late night calls months past sell-date.

For as long as supplicating beta males exist, the selfish bastard boyfriend is king.

As stated, one cure for hot girl crazy is kids. Not just any kids. She has to push them out of her own wet incubator. Nothing grounds a mentally imbalanced woman quicker than childbirth, and the heavy responsibility that follows. Unfortunately, Western Civ is in a tailspin of single moms, dysgenia, endemic zero marginality, pathological Stockholm Syndrome, and soft concubinage. The womb issue within the confines of sanctioned pairings that would have sedated the self-destructiveness of attractive women in the past is now put off until a woman’s 30s, giving over her entire teens and 20s to marinate in the crazy. Poor beta males are then stuck holding her bag of bonkers when she’s nigh wall splat and resentfully settling for Mr. Subpar.

Another cure is the alpha male. Hot girls can be tamed into reasonableness with an unfaltering belief in one’s own entitlement (the hot girl LOVES LOVES LOVES the self-entitled man, perhaps because she enjoys the mirroring of her soul), a refusal to suffer crazy gladly, and subtle reminders to her of the inevitable price paid by the passage of time. The man of unshakeable self-confidence — better yet, overconfidence — is so rare among the men who have wormed their way into the hot girl’s world, that she is enamored of him instantly, and in moments of lucidity will tally the value of her catch and shudder what her impetuousness might risk throwing away.

It behooves the attentive alpha male to know when his hot girl lover is beginning to show symptoms of renewed crazy. Awareness is half the battle, and a girl crazy left unattended can rapidly escalate to incorrigibleness and even cheating. Of what signs should you, the aspiring womanizer, be cognizant?

Crib sheet of girl crazy

– She has begun accusing you of things you clearly have not done.
– She play acts at keeping secrets, real or imagined, to incite your jealousy. (“Oh, just some guy I know… don’t be so nosy!”)
– She has begun to take her birthday and assorted holidays and ceremonies way too seriously.
– She’s contemplating more than one cat.
– She has taken to calling you from public places, especially those of ill repute.
– The ratio of call-to-called has flipped, and she now calls you less frequently than you call her.
– She gets snappy with you for no particular reason.
– She puts words in your mouth for the sole purpose of inventing fights.
– She begins to favor fucking over lovemaking. (The usual BF/GF ratio is 2-to-1, lovemaking over fucking.)
– She’s gossiping more about her friends’ love lives, and with an air of envy.
– She’s started having those moments when she doesn’t want you to touch her.
– She cries inappropriately when she sees cute things, or during maudlin, anti-climactic rom-com scenes.
– Many of her conversations start with the words “Did you hear…?” or “I just want to get away for a while…”.
– Her spending sprees have become more frequent, and less cost-conscious.
– She’s begun commenting on feminist blogs.
– She’s staying late at work. (99% of hot girls do nothing vitally productive for the maintenance of the economy, so late hours in the office are a major red flag that she is boffing the boss.)
– She’s started hitting you, and not playfully.
– She’s started making demands of you in the bedroom. (“You can put it here, but not here.”)
– She’s become obsessive about fishing for flattery. (Appease her, and you will pay a dear price.)
– She’s gotten annoying about insisting you don’t photograph her from bad angles.
– She begins mouthing equalist and feminist shibboleths with sincere urgency.
– She has begun striking provocative poses at inappropriate venues and events.
– She’s become compulsive about rearranging your home’s furniture and repainting the rooms.
– She has started comparing you and her to other couples. (“Why don’t we hold hands as often as John and Geri do?”)
– She begins believing your hobbies are personal slights directed against her.
– She overanalyzes the most trivial and innocuous inconsistencies.
– She has a sudden onset of strange sexual appetites. (“I got us a purple saguaro. Looks like fun!”)
– She wants to moonlight as an art class model.
– She erects monuments to your presumed unfaithfulness, and wallows immoderately in the oddly exciting notion (to her) that you may be cheating on her.
– She begins challenging you. Over EVERYTHING.
– She thinks the world is against her, and you’re not helping.
– She pushes and pushes and pushes. Rock solid stoicism doesn’t seem to be working on her like it used to.
– She confesses to fantasies of you fighting another man for her hand. Then she actually tries this maneuver by instigating trouble in a bar.
– Her wardrobe has recently acquired a lot of red hues.
– She’s started asking you for money, instead of tokens of romance.
– Her “I love you”s have become chants of self-reassurance, often deployed immediately after she has flirted with another man.
– She needs to “do things” with you, because chilling out just doesn’t cut it for her anymore.
– She can’t believe you don’t agree with her on everything.
– Your playful teasing has become inadequate. She needs more edge, and more of it.
– The sine wave of her hot-cold routine has begun oscillating at a higher amplitude.
– She’s begun fighting you for control of trivial decisions.
– She acts “fake offended” when she catches you eyeing another girl.
– And the craziest sign of all? She tells you to “stop smothering me!” and you’re half a state away, balls deep in another woman.

As soon as you observe any or all of these girl crazy signs, run, do not walk, to your nearest alpha male reinvigoration chamber and fuel up, so that you can demonstrate once again in no uncertain terms that your company is not to be trifled with by the likes of her. A hot girl falling victim to her crazy from a growing perception of ease and entitlement needs another dose of struggleporn. Give it to her, good, long and ♥♥♥♥♥.

PS For those wondering, there is an alpha male version of dissolute entitlement. Men who have had the road cleared for them from birth, and their way with women unobstructed, tend to drama of the sort that appeals to men — multiple lovers, risky infidelity, public sex, emotional distance (the opposite ploy engaged in by women on the cusp of crazy), sadism and cruelty. Men of this sort are never fully tamed, except by a severe reversal of status. The women who are best at corralling the self-satisfied man are usually very feminine, sweet and nurturing, and operate by evoking the alpha man’s natural predilection to protect frail lovers who have assuaged him of their natural preference for faithfulness. Careerist empty vessels and ambitious, tankgrrl feminist sluts should imbibe the lesson that they are living and behaving exactly the wrong way to inspire the love of men who have their choice in lovers.

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