I doubt the authenticity of this clip, but not its wisdom:
Happy Wife, Happy Life. pic.twitter.com/QalbtQmDn7
— The Saucee Sicilian (@SauceeSicilian) September 24, 2016
Some people like dump trucks.
I doubt the authenticity of this clip, but not its wisdom:
Happy Wife, Happy Life. pic.twitter.com/QalbtQmDn7
— The Saucee Sicilian (@SauceeSicilian) September 24, 2016
Some people like dump trucks.
Noah, it seems, fantasizes about Zoë. Zoë, we may be certain, is Not Interested:
My friend who's a 5th grade teacher just sent this to me! I'm dead!!! pic.twitter.com/FSDBxs9Vtq
— Denny Dimples (@WhosDenverJones) September 15, 2016
Noah, dear lad, I feel for you. Believe me, I do.
There is, I suppose, something to be said for knowing that I won’t leave some poor woman a widow; but I don’t think I’m the one to say it.
I wrote once an essay on “The Modern Spinster” — a class to which I added women who had (by war and accident) long outlived their husbands. Born, typically, before the turn of the last century; widowed perhaps in the Great War; some had survived into the 1980s. They were impressive figures of pedagogical authority. We had, even here in the once admirable Province of Ontario, women I would rank with empress-dowagers of China. They were irreplaceable pillars of a society that I have watched disintegrate, over the decades since. Not one of them was a feminist, or could be interpreted as one by any fanciful act of the imagination. Each was instead not an ism but fully a Woman, without mistake or compromise.
There are two converging strings, which I shall try to knot together here. First, that their power can be neither appreciated nor understood, in a society that has so far degenerated that sex (not imposed grammatical “gender”) is dissolved in an androgynous slurry. Second, that there can be no such thing as an independent woman, who exchanges her position for that of a little man. For it was the function of such women not to seek “equality” with these strangely unnatural, mole-like creatures we see today — whining, whimpering, whinging and wimping off to their “safe spaces” whenever reality approaches. Rather, from a station of absolute moral superiority, that Modern Spinster would corner and intimidate; leaving them a choice between personal resuscitation, and complete psychic annihilation.
“Be a man, or get away from my nostrils,” is what e.g. a certain Edith Carson, of blessed memory, could communicate by no more than a slight inflection of her sensitive nose. She and her like were, and with God’s grace will again be (after the collapse of progressive disorder), bestowers of the White Feather. They were guarantors, not only that women will be women, with their privileges defended and intact; but too, that men will not dare to let their women down.
“Equality,” while we weren’t looking, got redefined as “interchangeability” by individuals of the female persuasion who failed to grasp the concept, reinforced by several of those “strangely unnatural, mole-like creatures” who pass themselves off as feminist in the vain hope that it will win them an occasional ejaculation. This is something else in dire need of correction.
… this coming from one of those execrable “PUA” sites (PUA = pick-up-artist, which means “a guy not actually looking for a relationship but seeking a bit of fun and maybe a good-looking woman to impress his friends with”) about talking to women with headphones. And my slightly-sad response was that there have been plenty of times I wasn’t wearing headphones and would actually have welcomed someone talking to me (well, maybe not a pick-up artist, but I’m not the type of woman they would be interested in anyway) and no one does.
Given my own distinctly non-PUA approach to the matter, I think I’d just bring along a set of headphones — I have a spare — and see if I can direct the conversation this way:
Me: “Here, put these on.”
Me: “I’m afraid I might want to talk to you. Trust me, it’s better this way.”
I have, of course, no reason to think this would actually work. But it does fit my modus operandi almost perfectly.
A teenage boy has died after getting a love bite from his girlfriend.
Julio Macias Gonzalez, 17, began convulsing at the dinner table with his family in Mexico City after spending time with his 24-year-old lover, The Sun reports.
It is thought the woman gave him a hickey earlier that evening which caused a blood clot that travelled to the teen’s brain, triggering a stroke.
Paramedics were called to the scene but Julio could not be saved.
I expect this will show up in the appendices to all those Thou Shalt Not books that nobody actually buys.
[A]lmost without exception every man over 50 in this country appears to have the same basic approach:
Hi, blah blah you’re very pretty blah blah … (hugely passive-aggressive discussion of everything his ex-wife did to him)
It’s just proof positive that the 85/15 situation that one encounters in one’s college and young adult years, where 15% of the guys are sleeping with 85% of the girls, just never ends. The world is full of lonely old men. They send photos of themselves that look like nightmares an eight-year-girl might have about her creepy uncle; taken from below, triple chins in evidence, crazed look in the eyes, backlit. They talk about their feelings a lot. Whatever characteristics once distinguished them from the bland mashed-potato mass of humanity have long since disappeared or been rendered vestigial. They are jealous, petty, needy. Many of them have hydraulic-pressure issues that only resolve briefly, in the occasional sunny morning. One wonders why they continue living.
At least I don’t send photos of myself, a lesson I learned half a century ago after sending a photo of myself to a cheerful Canadian girl from whom I never heard another word.
I do, however, talk about my feelings a lot, which can’t be a good thing.
One is also reminded that human society evolved to its 1950s (or whatever) apex for particular and specific reasons. You’re supposed to be happily married when you’re old. Or, failing that, just married. There’s not much dignity in old-person dating. Not much joy, either. Even the sorrows are diminished — and that’s a shame, because sorrow in a relationship is the engine that has powered many a creative effort since time immemorial. Still, one question remains, put to you by a man who is staring down the rifled barrel of forty-five himself. What is better: to fade away into harmless grey sexless irrelevance, or to be tormented until death by a mind, an attitude, a spirit that is essentially and defiantly teenaged? Do you want to come home to old age with your shield, or on it?
I’m fading, though the torment occasionally breaks through. (The spirit pretends to be willing, though the flesh checked out years ago.)
Our 45-year-old correspondent, however, has some distinct advantages:
Even when I wasn’t really single, I was able to fill my dance card and as five minutes looking on this site will demonstrate, I’m a hideous fucking chud who weighs an eighth of a ton, has the speaking voice of a ten year old girl, and is fundamentally incapable of being pleasant to anybody.
We should all be so fortunate.
They met on Tinder; they had a wonderful time together. And then he sent her this the next day:
Thanks for a wonderful evening last night. I really enjoyed your company and actually adore you. You’re cheeky and funny and just the sort of girl I would love to go out with if only my body and mind would let me. But I fear it won’t.
I’m not going to bull***t you … I f***ing adore you Michelle and I think you’re the prettiest looking girl I’ve ever met. But my mind gets turned on by someone slimmer.
Shallow? It’s not meant to be. It’s the same reaction you get when you read a great author or see an amazing image, or listen to a piece of music you love, it has that instant reaction in you that makes you crave more.
So whilst I am hugely turned on by your mind, your face, your personality (and God … I really, really am), I can’t say the same about your figure. So I can sit there and flirt and have the most incredibly fun evening, but I have this awful feeling that when we got undressed my body would let me down. I don’t want that to happen baby.
Shallow. I mean, we’re talking bas-relief here.
I did appreciate this bit from her return volley:
What truly concerns me, the real reason I’m responding so publicly, is the fact that you have a 13-year-old daughter. A talented illustrator, who collects Manga comics and wants to visit Japan as soon as possible.
I want you to encourage your daughter to love, enjoy, and care for her body. It belongs to her and only her. Praise her intellect, and her creativity. Push her to push herself and to be fearless. Give her the tools to develop a bomb-proof sense of self-esteem so that if (I’ll be kind, I’ll say “if”) the time comes that a small, unhappy man attempts to corrode it, she can respond as I do now.
She shoots, she scores.
Oh, there are pictures at the link. She’s not at all a tub of lard.
Every time I think I’m the least-successful guy on the planet, dating-wise, I hear tell of someone like this:
Walt The Pituitary-Enhanced Uber-Creep: You’re a very attractive woman.
me: Uh … thanks. Your total is $6.69.
WTPEUC: I mean it. *to the waiting line* Ain’t she the best thing you’ve seen all day?
me: Stop that. $6.69.
WTPEUC: You need a man like me telling you that ever day, you hear me?
me: I don’t want to be told anything, I just want $6.69.
WTPEUC: I bet you go out with a whole lot of men, doan you?
me: I’m married. Very very married. Unavailable. Is this cash or debit?
WTPEUC: Food stamp, ‘course.
me: Yeah. Okay.
WTPEUC: I’m coming back. You wait and see. I cain’t see that face only once.
me: Holy shit.
Next Guy In Line: What the hell?
me: Commerce is a dangerous world.
And to prove she was right, he did come back. Sheesh.
According to OKCupid, a majority of their users are liberal. This makes sense, because it is so unlikely that anyone who actually knows a liberal would want to date one. The kind of guys who vote Democrat are such dangerous creeps that women who know them in real life avoid them, and so these weirdos end up on OKCupid. Research indicates a male-female ratio of 3-to-1 on OKCupid, and women users say that 80% of the men on OKCupid are “below average” in looks. Of course, these men are also below average in intelligence, because in real life the male-female ratio is 1-to-1, so an average guy actually lowers his chances of success by dating online, where the odds are always against him. This is why there are no decent guys on OKCupid. If a guy was decent, he’d already have a girlfriend or, at least, he’d be sufficiently optimistic about finding a girlfriend in a real-life face-to-face encounter that he wouldn’t bother with OKCupid. Because the available pool of men in online dating is such a notorious swamp of inferior quality, only women who are truly desperate for companionship would sign up for OKCupid.
Disclosure: I had an OKCupid account for several years, but let it lapse.
I’m not sure which is worse: that she asked this in the first place, or that she asked it in Cars & Transportation/Maintenance & Repairs.
You probably don’t want to try this at home:
On your next date, you might not want to try vomiting bioluminescent mucus, but for male crustaceans called ostracods it works like a charm. The female ostracods like it, say some researchers.
Makes for some semi-compelling video, too, even from Other Species:
“When you’re there watching this display it’s spectacular. You can have up to nine species all in the same area displaying at similar times. I don’t know how the females do it, but they’re really good at figuring out who is their correct male,” explained Emily Ellis. She and Todd Oakley are scientists at the University of California, Santa Barbara who study ostracods in the Caribbean.
A giant squid was not available for comment.
Bonus points for starting with the verb “screw”:
Screw going to the doctor for your bedroom performance problems. You can fix them yourself WITHOUT worrying about expensive costs or side effects.
Don’t believe me?
All it takes is concocting 3,000 year old drink recipe that consists of:
1. 6 herbs
2. 2 fruits
3. 1 amino acid
Whip it up. Put it in a cup. Drink it down. And watch your woman’s sexually frustrated frown turn upside down.
Best of all, this drink only costs 30 cents to make. But I guess you want to know the specifics, huh?
Well, no, not really.
Extra spam words with the package:
/Medvedev/ folgende /eid /earlier /profile /hike /thank /please /stations/ wave /morning, reset /format /Turner/ core /date /customer/ jullie /dirty /hist /Va /virtual /gloire /quits /soumises /musique /argot /659 station /sweater /sorten /regulation /priest /Schumacher /orde responsibility /aan /welle /outside /everyone /driven /3 /HILFE /idbzymo /unfiltered hitchhikes /zxyxhjg /315-1952 /pesa /unhopedly /xkawgiygzs /ductive /hastening trinken /attendance /300-3314 /Candido /restaurant /vuwdn /weighs /dll /spread /in FILETIME /Food /3D /completed /1BC31C80 /signing /Thanks /PLEASE /buys /bens cameronian /1em /01C2DDA1 /2 /version /subscription /buckmast /matamoros /that’s Visit /cfm /elevation /is /example Howells /JENNIFER /led /Thank /second /general /lyngbyeae /multiplies /disastrous PermSize /desto /al /OK /XX /3D3D128m /Iran /regular /beenBelleville /axhwjvf ozyys /scroll /parliamentarians /other /James /Courts /verdriet /separately /Moz collector /filth /P’North /ghzyrr /EMAIL
Followed by several hundred more. This might be explainable, but not by me.
Sometimes you just shake your head and wonder “What’s next?”
A firm in Geneva plans to open a café where customers can enjoy oral sex while they sip their morning coffee. Not everyone is happy with the idea.
The idea for the sex café has been brewing for several months, Bradley Charvet of the Geneva firm Facegirl told Geneva’s Le Matin newspaper recently.
Modelled on similar establishments in Thailand, the proposed Geneva café would add a new dimension to the sex trade in the city of the Protestant reformer Calvin.
Put simply, the business model would see men ordering a coffee and using an iPad to select a prostitute they want to perform oral sex on them. They would then sit at the bar.
“In five or ten minutes, it’s all over,” Charvet explained to Le Matin.
[insert “Bangkok” joke here]
Base price is 60 Swiss francs (about €55). Charvet’s probably right about that time frame, so there should be a steady, um, stream of customers.
Can’t get the babe you want? Let them build one for you:
I am a Hispanic guy but some people think I look Asian or at least part Asian. I am attracted to Latinas and white women but it seems that these women prefer other races of men. White women only date black men when dating interracially and the beautiful Latinas I like prefer white men. I feel like I would be swimming against the current trying to get these women to like me and honestly I don’t want to have to put in 3 times the effort as men of other races to get the women I like. Sex robots should become mainstream in the next decade and the technology for them seems to be improving. I am thinking that I should just stay single forever and get a sex robot. I can customize this sex robot to have the skin color and hair color I want. They could make it look like a beautiful light skinned Latina or white woman. I am tired of being racially inferior and not being able to get the women I like because of this.
Most guys who aren’t getting any usually find some excuse, and this guy’s excuse is, um, being “racially inferior.” I don’t think so. And while he bewails the “current,” he’s trapped in an undercurrent of sexism: it’s okay for him to have his preferences, but apparently not okay for the women to have what he imagines are theirs.
Furthermore, I have to wonder how he calculated “3 times the effort.” If he got turned down twice, he succeeded once, n’est-ce pas?
I’ve never aspired to the life of an autojourno. Driving lots of cars might be a whole lot of fun, but that’s the part you hear about: all the little ancillary duties, I suspect, would turn things into work in a great big hurry.
That said, I get to envy Neal Pollack in the July Road & Track, partly because he gets some seat time in a Rolls-Royce Dawn, the new drophead (don’t call it a mere “convertible”) that costs only three and a half times as much as my house, but mostly because of the occupant of the Dawn’s second seat:
My drive companion for the day was a Spanish lifestyle journalist who is also an architect and a former ballerina. Done up in a headscarf and glamorous La Dolce Vita glasses, she sat beside me luxuriantly.
This sort of description, regardless of its level of accuracy, invariably drags my heart over to the nearest abandoned mineshaft, haunted by the ghost of Rick Springfield.
I’m allowing Jack Baruth 48 hours to tell me just how full of it I am.
In a spamlet received last night, “Carley” (not her real name) asks if I have any interest in a “sexy depraved pussycat.”
More deprived than depraved, I am, but that’s another matter. Anyway:
Hi stallion, this is your girl. I am Lakisha.
I want you to bonk me as a little bitch. I bleed juice with desire to feel such sex!
Don’t forget that I’m waiting with impatience for a depraved man on this site.
Again: more deprived than depraved, “Lakisha” (not your real name).
The only really amusing aspect of this item, really, was the domain name used, or feigned, by the sender: megabulkmessage207.com. Due to a most lamentable dearth of dubious sites — only one link offered, and it wasn’t even obscured — this thing failed to break 2.5 on Spam Score, where 5 is my normal threshold and 25-30 is entirely too common. To borrow a phrase, this thing doesn’t even leak juice, let alone bleed it.
I know them well, and not just because I did even better on the math portion of the SAT than the verbal portion:
Math tells us three of the saddest love stories pic.twitter.com/QZCZjLJebI
— World and Science (@WorldAndScience) May 24, 2016
(I did, however, resist the effort to reply “Cosine.”)
Just what are they telling us in this TV listing?
THE ONLY PERSON without a penis. All y'all United Kingdom ladies have something to tell me…? pic.twitter.com/ipAnlvvlTz
— Sara Keeth (@KeethInk) May 29, 2016
I knew the birth rate in the EU was declining, but I had no idea it might be due to something like this.
(Via Will Truman.)
Robert Stacy McCain offers several bits of advice to young women who might be frightened by various feminist manifestos, of which this is the last:
Get yourself a husband — Preferably one who lives in someplace like Alabama or Oklahoma. The comparatively low cost of living in rural America makes it possible to do very old-fashioned things like getting married, having children and driving pickup trucks. Also, in rural America, a woman can keep a firearm handy so she doesn’t have to worry about “sexual violence EVERY SINGLE DAY.” (Scarlett O’Hara: “I can shoot straight, if I don’t have to shoot far.”)
I know a pretty fair number of women — or, perhaps, a number of pretty, fair women — who can wield a gun with more grace and/or accuracy than I can.
Now here’s a pitch I’m surprised I hadn’t seen before:
- Classic literature is filled with memorable male protagonists
- These works of art contribute to patriarchal gender norms
- Everyone grows up reading about worlds where men have the knowledge, adventure, power, and personal struggle
It doesn’t have to be that way!
“Call me Trishna,” begins their Melville rewrite. And rewriting is what they do: they take an old classic (and, of course, public-domain) novel with a male protagonist and flip the genders throughout. I spent a few bucks on their inversion of H. G. Wells’ The Invisible Woman, so to speak, and while there was an occasional failure of whatever search-and-replace scheme they were using, it’s still a very good story, and it’s not really any less believable with Grisella instead of Griffin. I would expect this to be the case with others in their ongoing series, though I expect the main audience to be the hardcore feminist for whom everything on earth is the fault of those tall guys with the dangly bits. Consider this an amusing side theater in the Gender Wars, and feel free to give the stories a try if you’re curious. (Frankly, I’m keen to see A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Woman, probably not by Joyce James, due out this summer.)
Quite a lot of “regular” men would never dare to approach a major star like Jennifer Lawrence. Unfortunately, the overwhelming majority of the men in her “peer group” — i.e., other celebrities — are users and untrustworthy philandering assholes with vacuum for brains. Fame can do that to you.
Still to be determined: whether showbiz makes assholes of people, or if assholes are somehow drawn to showbiz.
A good man will have a career of his own. How many such would be willing to abandon their careers for a shot at the affections of a celebrity? Celebrities are notoriously flighty, which is part of the reason most celebrity romances are brief and go down in flames. That’s what made Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward so noteworthy.
See also Swift, T.: “So it’s gonna be forever / Or it’s gonna go down in flames.”
Then there’s the admittedly atypical example of Carl Dean, who runs an asphalt-paving operation in Nashville; he’s been married to Dolly Parton since May 1966. Then again, Dolly was still a long way from superstardom in May 1966. Maybe that’s the trick for the J-Laws out there: fall in love before you get your Entertainment Weekly cover.
The fictional “Carol Van Meter-McDougal” comes up with something with the ring of truth, or so it seems to me anyway:
[F]or generations, men objectified women by assessing value to them based on their physical appearance. During more patriarchal times, guys were the ones who determined which women were pretty. But since the feminist movement finally gave women the right to objectify ourselves according to our own standards, there are now two kinds of pretty: guy-pretty and girl-pretty.
Guy-pretty women are the kind of women whom men want to be with, and are therefore women who bear traits that men find exemplary in women, traits that are generally associated with sexuality — pouty lips, a curvy figure, and a general “come hither” look, or at least a look that doesn’t scream “I smell like cats.”
Girl-pretty women, on the other hand, are the kind of women that other women want to be like, and are therefore women bearing traits that we ladies find exemplary in ourselves, traits like a fit but not surgically enhanced body, eyes that say “confident but not arrogant,” and a general aura of “flirty but not skanky.”
On this latter scale, Jennifer Aniston is ne plus ultra, though, speaking in my capacity as a guy, I find that she doesn’t do a thing for me. (Okay, make that “she doesn’t do many things for me.”)
I concede, however, that I wouldn’t know a come-hither look if it were telegraphed, closed-captioned, and explained in Braille.
(Title from “Don’t Waste the Pretty” by Allison Iraheta. Not sure which of the two types of pretty she might be.)
Guys: Are your pick-up lines no longer working? Well, here’s a new approach you may want to try. Go over to that attractive woman, introduce yourself, and tell her in a quiet but authoritative voice: It’s been a quiet week in Lake Wobegon…
That’s right: Spin a yarn. Newly published research finds women view men as more attractive potential long-term mates if they are good storytellers.
“Stories are not just mere conversation,” write Melanie Green of the University of Buffalo and John Donahue of the University of North Carolina. “Storytelling ability appears to increase (a man’s) perceived status, and thus helps men attract long-term partners.”
As a Bard with -6 Charisma, I am not likely to achieve results of this type.
What’s more, this is not supposed to work in the opposite direction. Per the abstract:
Results suggested that only women’s attractiveness assessments of men as a long-term date increased for good storytellers. Storytelling ability did not affect men’s ratings of women nor did it affect ratings of short-term partners.
Color me “outlier.” Then again, I may be remembering Sir Richard Burton’s description of Scheherazade:
[She] had perused the books, annals and legends of preceding Kings, and the stories, examples and instances of bygone men and things; indeed it was said that she had collected a thousand books of histories relating to antique races and departed rulers. She had perused the works of the poets and knew them by heart; she had studied philosophy and the sciences, arts and accomplishments; and she was pleasant and polite, wise and witty, well read and well bred.
Wiser than I, surely. Still, one of us has to be the brains of the operation, and I’m not particularly adept at it.
If you’re the suspicious, distrusting type, this may well make you more so:
A mattress company out of Spain is marketing a new smart mattress, brilliantly named “Smartress,” that detects whenever the bed is in “use.” As you likely realize, the main purpose of this is to see if your partner is cheating on you.
And the video promoting the smart mattress isn’t shy about that functionality:
“With Lover Detection System.” Heh.
Of course, this device can’t tell you if your unfaithful partner is doing the deed anywhere else: only in that particular bed.
(Via Nancy Friedman, who doesn’t think that name is so all-fired “brilliant.”)
This particular story is somewhat disturbing:
Lauren Buniva explains what’s going on here:
The video, originally posted on YouTube, featured emotional anecdotes of “leftover women,” or those unmarried after 25, in China. These “leftover women” receive shameful treatment as well as intense familial and societal pressure for not being married as they “should be.” The video shows the women interacting with their families and includes some of the brutally harsh and hurtful comments that parents of these “leftover women” spit out regularly. The storytelling is enhanced by compelling visuals, contrasting scenes from the young women’s modern lives with images of traditional China: families, parading dragons and the marriage market.
The marriage market becomes the an important feature of the video; it is both the scene that epitomizes the women’s frustration, embarrassment, and societal isolation, but also where they eventually stand up to their parents and reaffirm their own lifestyle choices. The marriage market is where Chinese parents display their children as marriage potential, detailing intimate information like their height, weight, salary, values and personality.
A meet market, or maybe something that just sounds like “meet market.”
SK-II, headquartered in Japan but owned by Procter & Gamble, decided to do something about it:
SK-II took over a marriage market, and did so beautifully, by posting photos of hundreds of “leftover women” accompanied with simple statements that assert their desire for independence and self-driven happiness. Viewers are then shown the parents’ tearful acceptance of their daughters, coming to the realization that these “leftover women” are actually outstanding, confident, beautiful and something to be proud, not ashamed, of.
Apparently this campaign is running through the Singapore office; the SK-II US site has no mention of if whatsoever.
are you the one? *actual ad* pic.twitter.com/bnfdwWg3em
— Planet Thickness (@bad_dominicana) April 3, 2016
A word of warning, pal: Don’t let her borrow your razor.
“People put me down,” sang Billy Joe Royal, “’cause that’s the side of town I was born in.” And maybe that’s good for his existing romantic relationship, given the problematic nature of relationships with wealthy guys:
Turns out, if you give a man some money, he’ll think his partner is less attractive.
Researchers based out of Beijing Normal University in China invited 182 heterosexual college students (121 women, 61 men) in committed relationships into the lab and primed them to feel either rich or poor using two different forms of a questionnaire about financial status. Afterwards, participants rated their satisfaction with their romantic partners across various attributes, including job prospects, family background, and physical attractiveness. The ratings were completed on a 1 to 9 scale (1 = does not match my ideal at all, 9 = completely matches my ideal). Subjects also answered demographic questions about gender, age, and monthly income.
When the researchers examined the subjects’ answers, they found that men primed to feel wealthy were less satisfied with their partners’ physical attractiveness than men primed to feel poor. The difference was highly significant, a full point on the 9-point scale.
The women? They displayed no differences. None.
The only explanation I can think of for this is Miss Cellania’s: “With a few more bucks, they think they can do better.”
Source: Li YM, Li J, Chan DK-S and Zhang B (2016) When Love Meets Money: Priming the Possession of Money Influences Mating Strategies. Front. Psychol. 7:387. doi: 10.3389/fpsyg.2016.00387
Do not ever imagine that you can evade a woman’s radar in terms of what she wants.
One way to be a loser is to waste your time trying to overcome a woman’s instantaneous default “no.” You could spend years arguing with losers on pickup artist (PUA) forums about tactics, but you are never going to change human nature. Every woman’s default response is “no,” and if you can’t cope with rejection — if you don’t learn to walk away the minute she signals disinterest — you are squandering valuable time and energy.
Some guys (the upper 10% or 15% of overall attractiveness) can score reliably enough in almost any pickup scenario that they don’t really need “tactics” at all. What the rest of you fellows must learn is to stop wasting time trying to convert a “no” to a “yes,” or brooding over your failures.
Guys, if you’re at a frat party, when you approach a girl, understand this: She has sized you up — evaluating you in terms of your desirability — before you even say a word to her. Therefore, if her response to your opening line is not a total green-light reaction, take it in stride and move on. Just remember there are 3.5 billion women on this planet.
Maintain your cool, young man. Don’t flip out, don’t get angry, and don’t let yourself become demoralized by the fact that this girl shot you down. Just keep on blowing down the road, Mister Breeze.
Perhaps needless to say, Meghan Trainor was available for comment, though not a favorable comment.
I don’t know if I could get this scheme to work:
The sexual maturation process, like maturation in general, is wildly variable. Worse, social skills usually lag woefully behind sexual development — the gawky, dorky, yet super-horny teenager is a stereotype for a reason. If, like me, you were born in the Jurassic, and if, again like me, you were one of those gawky, dorky, yet super-horny teenagers, your parents probably compared your fumbling attempts to get a date with a dog chasing cars — you have no idea why you do it, and you wouldn’t have the first clue what to do with one if you caught it.
And that’s the beauty of the Canadian girlfriend. If your social skills don’t sync up with your raging hormones, you can get yourself a little breathing room in your peer group by claiming you met this great girl on summer vacation … but, alas, she lives in Canada, and even though you were totally this close to scoring, she had to go back to, like, Ottawa … but she writes you every week, and dude, this Christmas vacation, it’s gonna be epic…
As a teenager, I was gawky and dorky, though not super-horny; I had desires, I suppose, but at no time did I expect them ever to be addressed, so the subject wasn’t uppermost in my mind, and besides the glands weren’t secreting, or something.
My one adolescent experience, if you want to call it that, with a female of the Canadian persuasion proved to be remarkably unrewarding. She was about my age, she lived in faraway Lethbridge, Alberta, and for one or two exchanges, we were pen pals. Then she asked me for a current photo, and I duly sent one.
I never heard from her again.
Okay, fine. I can take a hint. Not everyone can be an object of desire.