For instance it was pretty coo how back in 2024 he unbanned thanks to that open letter I wrote beseeching Christopher to reinstate our cumin-scented fren.

A little less coo was him pulling out of our podcast date last minute like a Zoomer chick weighing free Thai food against having to put on pants / delay watching her latest serial killer show…

…but as an empath and fellow startup founder I can also grok all the pertinent incentive gradients Chris was operating under at the time, and so won’t hold it against the lad.

What I will hold against him is this:

Which reply was hidden, you ask?

This one:

Note that this was done automatically and without my consent—I had to manually click a button to unhide it, which imposed no dearth of cognitive load—even as the comment in question racked up more likes than any other reply!

And this state of affairs, Chris, is quite frankly intolerable.

Substack is supposed to be about empowering creators, and in every man’s virtual demesne it should be HIS RULES that govern who gets seen and hidden—not the lesbianbrained sensibilities of some LaCroix-sipping corporate body.

It seems to me you hid magi83’s comment because Substack’s governance logic bakes in a statuspoisoned contempt for socially unratified male appetite, and if my platform has any defining telos it’s to stand athwart that wretched unmagnanimous impulse and blow a big fat raspberry straight into its ugly Elizabeth Warren face.

So here’s the deal, my man: going forward any comment like this you hide I am going to foreground in a direct post to my 3000+ subs to make sure every single one of them sees it, and I’ll be encouraging my fellow creators to do the same.

There should be ZERO TOLERANCE for this kind of censorshit on Substack.

That said:
if you’re willing to commit publicly to reversing auto-hide policies I’m likewise willing to stop saying Nigger on your platform.

The choice is yours.

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I’ll wrap this up by pointing out to that it’s been over two years now since he said “maybe in future” to my pod invitation—and that if he has any interest in building credibility with Chudstack skeptics a frenly conversation with Uncle Walt would go a long way towards assuaging long-simmering concerns among one of the most generative communities on his platform about its direction.

The offer is always open, Chris.

Succumbed to typhoid fever in the summer of her maidenhood; now made immortal by every postcard to come out of a city she only ever knew as subtropical backwater, and almost certainly never fathomed would turn into such a hemispheric machine for separating broiled clans of prediabetics from their money.

In life she’d been the sweetheart of Orlando mayor and Florida Cracker cattle prince Robert Summerlin—or at least that’s how Summerlin himself narrated it following his family’s 1883 donation of a sinkhole intended to honor her memory as a public park. The local histories have Robert’s brother alleging decades later that Eola was merely a girl they both knew, which if true makes it even more remarkable how adamantly the mayor appears to have stipulated at the time that his city transform the depression into something Beautiful.

We’ll never know for certain which account had it right, and at this point it doesn’t much matter. What does matter is that the city of Orlando, whatever else one might say about it, has for over a century now manfully honored that promise once sworn to its lovelorn Cracker Prince, and indeed turned Eola very beautiful.

First came trees, swans, statues, and a clean circumference. Then a fountain and an amphitheater; playgrounds and cocktail bars; restaurants with lake views and picnic lawns and a charming if somewhat random Chinese pagoda; weekly farmers markets, and each December a multistory Christmas tree; high-rises full of corporate gays and Boomer divorcées and C-list Venezuelan Insta-thots and listless ruminative yuppies. The whole downtown arranged like a scab around a Gilded Age wound now circled every day in droves by tourists and locals alike.

One imagines that Summerlin himself must have grown up circling it when it was still called Sandy Beach—perhaps, at times, beside his Lost Lenore, her hem damp with Florida mud and little shoes unequal to the soft mosquitoed earth. It wouldn’t have been beautiful then; precious little would be, absent men with money and memories.

In any case, the fact that Summerlin specifically requested that paved circumference does imply he wanted people circling it, and it’s a splendid length for that: 0.9 miles.

Ten minutes to jog, twenty minutes to walk, thirty minutes when she texts you back, and a little over six years if your name is Walt.

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In March of 2020 the world shut down and I moved to Orlando.

The drive down from Omaha was serene—barely any cars on the road. Just trucks.

Out of some misplaced sense of adventure, I spent the better part of my first day’s drive on muddy little backroads through Missouri getting mean-mugged by fat people in door frames like Gandalf in the opening scene of Lord of the Rings.

Then I remembered it was exactly this tendency of Midwesterners to play the niggard with adventure that had sent me snarling out of the prairie in the first place—or at least that was the second biggest reason—and so hopped back on the interstate until I at last found a hotel that didn't seem like to have cum on the sheets, where even then I found it impossible to catch a wink at first on account of the black dude beating up a hooker in the room adjacent mine, which has to have lasted at least half an hour before the cops showed up.

The next morning I passed through the strategically-located ghost town of Cairo IL, and then made a beeline for the central Jawja hometown of the first biggest reason I was moving to Orlando—my First Love Natalie, who a few weeks prior had been slotted for an encore stint in the Disney College Program, which though a little odd since we were 26 at the time I’d reacted to with great elation as the maid had also suggested the two of us start dating again once reunited in the city.

She kept telling me to stop somewhere else that night because I'd never get there in time.

I floored it on the interstate and arrived before dusk.

That said it took a decent while after that to establish which particular mcmansion was hers within that labyrinthine Cavalier suburb presumably designed to discombobulate intruding Afro-Americans, and at one point I recall backing onto one of her neighbor's finely manicured lawns for I couldn’t even tell you the reason.

But eventually I did get to her, and while I didn't get to meet her family as I’d hoped she did at least LARP for me a bit and played the Belle sneaking out for a ride in her dashing Beau's resplendent crimson Subaru—and in the end even let me kiss her sexy cheek, which in light of early-pandemic hygiene norms was by that point practically a Georgia peach.

The Paula Deen cunt at check-in looked at me like I was retarded when I said I’d come to see an ex-girlfriend.

Then later that night there was a pretty massive storm, which I appreciated both because my car was still dirty from Missouri and because it helped me sleep better than I had in months. Seemed like a really dece omen for the next leg of my life all considered.

The third and final day of my trip was a mercifully short drive from her hometown straight to Orlando—at least ostensibly; in practice rain clogged the roads almost as badly as during me and Nat's first drive down from Atlanta in 2016 and look I never ackshully got over her, okay? So yeah I'm gonna keep bringing her up, and if you don't like that you can Eat My Cum.

Anyway, point is the rain delayed me slightly.

But it wasn’t too bad. Like I said, not many cars on the road.

A bit more harrowing was having my phone die halfway through the drive—but at this point I was so thrilled to reestablish myself as Florida Man and secure all those citrusy purgatorial adventures long-denied me living amongst the Corncucks I elected ultimately just to Boomer it with road signs and such all the way down the spine of Florida until at last the approach grew short and straight enough to distinctly make out my tower in the far horizon.

The Aspire—twenty-fifth story.

It had been between that and a similar joint called 55 West, whose baroque Spanish colonial aesthetic might ackshully in retrospect have suited me better than Aspire’s. But at the time I just couldn’t get enough of the latter’s imperiously modernist yuppie vibes—probably in some sense an overcorrective oppositional contempt for Midwestern flatness, but for the most part due to having recently watched a Let’s Play of the indie hit Unpacking, wherein one level has the protagonist’s affluent narc boyfriend force her to store her college diploma under his bed to ensure he retains sufficient wall space for his movie posters, which not only lowkey seeded a whole new fetish in me but also made me want to be a yuppie again after years of actuarial burnout thanks mostly to that stage’s level theme, which I deeply adored:

Natalie, being Natalie, always told me it was cringe that I feel the need to narrate my life in song this way—which like yeah sure bitch, but whatever makes me do that is clearly also what got me internet famous and subsequently in Nat herself via that magical racist casting couch… and therefore also, by many parallel alleyways several years later, into downtown Orlando.

I remember calling my mom that night as I sprawled across the hardwood like a vagrant and took stock of my situation, musing to her how uncanny it felt to begin this new chapter of life without the ambient camaraderie of my mischling bruder-cum-frenemy of almost four years who I at that point was back to no longer speaking with—to say nothing of the chickadee I’d ackshully moved there for, whose DCP prospects now seemed increasingly precarious each day thanks to ever-more pervasive lockdown protocols and escalating cultural panic.

And sure enough, the hammer came down from The Rat just a few days later—that vulgar cunt Reality taking what remained of Plan A for the city by the ankles and whipping it hatefully into cave-wall with a short, sharp SPLAT: social distancing, suspended indefinitely, a flattened curve, a New Normal. All so very easy to sneer at then

But I suppose hindsight was always going to be the first thing 2020 ruined.

Assessed objectively the breezy conglomeration around Eola is not a real downtown in any northern sense—though not for lack of towers or bus lanes or one-way streets or any other such province of almanacs, as the amenities are on the whole quite robust for a midsize sunbelt metro; the Doc Phillips performing arts center in particular is a gem, which I suppose is hardly surprising in a city this packed with theater kids.

It’s more it lacks the older kind of civic gravity by which real cities instruct the young and discipline the unserious; precisely no one arrives in Downtown Orlando to be formed by commerce or art or history so much as because their lease is five minutes from the office and movies and grocery store—that and it’s just a lot easier to score cunt near a Plausible Deniability Garage surrounded by places you can get her drunk or in the mood to get drunk or permit you to touch her hips and thighs and back and neck with precisely enough public audience that she’s not viscerally concerned about you raping her but increasingly would like you to.

Consultants and bartenders, lawyers and bottle girls, theme park managers and UCF grads who never got around to leaving, gays holding dogs with boogers in their eyes, girls who maintain the deportment of a barely legal on rush well into their thirties, men with laptop jobs who never unpacked the monitors they were sent, divorced dads with opinions and nipples that also have opinions; Disney Adults who make fun of Disney Adults so no one calls them a Disney Adult; and that peculiar caste of Orlando yuppie for whom downtown serves as a sort of extended undergrad common room, a little like how Europeans go to college until they’re 40.

The nights get pretty raucous on the weekend once the color arrives from west of I-4—but during the week? Softer; sort of numbing; a little purgatory of citrus and cigars; a drink under edisons at Aku Aku or Mathers, dinner you can cover with a benji even if she orders the expensive thing, and then maybe a loop or three around Eola if the evening has not yet admitted defeat.

The air stays warm enough all year here to keep consequences from setting properly. There’s no need to price in buffer room to make one’s windshield less of a popsicle; no staggering home across black ice; no cleansing cold that drives the mind to optimize and plan and self-castigate; none of that beautifully dehumanizing architecture with which Yankee-Puritan metros precognitively drive home the weight of bad decisions. Just palm fronds, rideshare headlights, and that distinctly Orlando perfume of fryer oil, weed, and civic mildew. The worst case scenario most of the time is swamp ass.

During the day it’s an uncanny kind of wholesome: a young mother circles a stroller around the lake and smiles politely at the cadre of Black Hebrew Israelites hooting out provocations at passersby; a swan squares up imperiously at a giggling toddler; squads of bugmen eat their goybowls beneath the high-rise shade whilst hypomanic brown Jehovah’s Witnesses from some cocaine country solicit the doomed. It’s like a city made of stock footage populated entirely by characters from a David Lynch film.

But after a few years you start to understand the deeper mechanism.

My first few months in Orlando honestly went quite swell all considered.

I didn’t love that Natalie kept dragging those smexy feets of hers to execute the tentative plans we’d drawn up in her starting village to if her DCP got canceled secure a waitressing gig and low rise near me, but it’s also not like I myself didn’t have a million of my own distractions—
I must have hit up Target at least twenty times trying to pimp out my Unpacking Pad for instance (still haven’t driven at anywhere near that frequency since) and would likewise stroll through Eola to Publix each day to get my mitts on fresh ground turkey and lean beef chuck for the PSMF I was running.

Overall I was just a lot less of a poltergeist then in basically every respect—and God help me, even a bit of a flâneur? I quite enjoyed my outdoor excursions before the summer doldrums hit and it was still only me and the homeless about, which lowkey felt a little Dead Rising-coded (fr those niggas were EVERYWHERE during the early Plandemic for some reason and tbh it felt a little sus), as that meant you didn’t have to interact with normalfags constantly which apart from the sun’s yellowish tint being peasanty is the main reason I tend to equilibriate toward housestaying usually unless I have some chick nagging me to take her places.

But looking back I actually really ended up liking that most the barbershops were closed half that year for instance, as it enabled yet another characteristic mode of 2020 Walt Adventure in my monthly expeditions west across I-4 to patronize J Henry’s—the one sartorial parlor in walking distance to remain open during lockdowns, which while woolier-of-floor than I was accustomed to at the time made for much more intriguing conversation than I’d ever procured from Great Clips fatwomen during the Regular Boy’s Haircuts of my youth, and also reminded me of that iconic cartoon from my childhood about the black who fought a train.

It didn’t take long at all for me to stop feeling vaguely like Tila Tequila at NPI, and the only real culture clash I ever experienced at J Henry’s was due to its operators getting vaguely annoyed that my 100 Openness still wasn’t enough to countenance a “fade” or much of anything really besides Regular Boy’s Haircut.

Still, it’s probably for the best that all the wypipo barbershops reopened by June, as it might have been less fun having to relitigate that question during the height of the Summer of Floyd.

Anywho apart from an ill-fated quest in 2023 to procure a chicken sandwich with my longtime sugar infant Amanda those 2020 haircuts were the only time I ever really checked out where most of Orlando’s blackpeepo live on the other side of the tracks—which I mean very literally btw because just look at how hilariously segregated this place is:

At the end of the day though it didn’t much matter at the time how “fresh” I looked as they say since I didn’t see much of a reason to chase Puss versus just waiting for Natalie as agreed— she and I still spoke a lot around this time, understand, and I was getting very dece nudie pics plus a lovely cuteness performance whenever I grubhubbed her Sushi, such that while Plan A had ended up a Santorum Baby there wasn’t much of a reason to think Plan B no longer in the cards even if it was starting to grow a little Schiavo-scented, which while no doubt sucking ass on diaper duty presumably carried some species of esoteric free use provision, right? Anyway.

I had a new job then too, of course, which I suppose was a Thing.

I just experienced it mostly as coworkershit as opposed to “work” per se given my duties mostly amounted to monthend reporting cycles where I could finish everything in an hour since it never involved more than e.g. running an Excel macro and checking if the link updated… which having just gotten my letters from the Society of Whacktuaries remained a six figure deal, so stay mad zoomzooms 😏

The tough part was more that I was obliged to chat with my vapid normalfag coworkers for unironically a full hour nonstop every single day in this mandatory recurring meeting my woman boss used to air her grievances about Trump’s covid mismanagement (which was pretty bad tbf but paled in comparison to how badly she herself had fucked up my onboarding) and then later about antivaxxers at her shitty Gen X PTA meetings. Thankfully though my team also included a Zoomer boy intern I got on well with who would Jestermaxx with me to make the meeting less gay, as well as this giantess 6’2 chick with a revolutionary war painting face who was secretly a Republican.

This girl was interesting actually because while ostensibly a demure goody-goody Christian she met up with me for a walk around Eola like a week into my stay there and didn’t freak out at all when I told her I was a white nationalist, and over the next two years was my go-to gal whenever I ackshully had to do something but hadn’t been paying attention. Years later I’d learn after scoring a date with her when she was in town for a wedding or w/e that she’d always thought the meetings every bit as retarded as I did—which no I didn't smash if you’re wondering, but I *did* manage to sample quite a few parts of her amazonian volleyball player anatomy no other man on earth is likely e’er to taste I’d wager and that shit felt pretty prime.

But circling back to 2020—
By midyear I was sleeping in until noon or later each day, and life had begun to feel both way too pleasant in the manner of a cat’s / woman’s and utterly devoid of any real trajectory or meaning. Thus as much as I longed to hold fast to Plan B, something clearly had to change.

In most cities the value proposition of downtown life tends to consist either in disappearing or belonging, neither of which you’ll find in Orlando.

What you will find instead is recurrence: the same lake, the same patios, the same girls aging from “fun” to “still fun,” the same men adding meat or money or ressentiment to the concocted selves once assembled in lieu of whatever part of them the world once forced them to murder and call it Good.

Everyone here seems to travel along a handful of locally legible tracks.

• New girl → downtown girl → post-downtown girl

• Hungry consultant → senior consultant → job stack unc

• Bartender bf → real estate / fake bitcoin bf → dude who moved to Tampa

• Single mom with overdraft fees and sore asshole → Walgreens run hetaera → bitch who moved to Miami

There are other tracks, of course, and all of them elastic enough to accommodate intermittent bursts of agency and Will to Power—which, of course, is the entire point; one is always free to jump diagonally from one track to another, and whether it sells is compared to other cities much less a function of institutional buy-in / peer ratification than self-belief, narrative verisimilitude, and raw animal charisma; less a culture of ontological “development” than rotation through progressive stages of costuming.

Hence why the city never developed a true yuppie culture in the Yankee sense; there is far less passive reverence here for credentialed trajectories, and vastly less moral elevation of labor as ontology. The Orlando yuppie gets backslapped by men and eroticized by women, but not sanctified for his work qua work in the old Puritan mode.

The Orlando physician clearly enjoys his status, but in this sort of heat the white coat has a way of sweating like everything else; according to a resident I sugared several years ago half these guys are on coke most the day, and are for sure a lot more likely to maintain a horrid bedside manner than their northerly counterparts if my ex-Jewess’s psychotic surgeon dad is any adequate sample. And speaking of: when I tried to find Rebecca an attorney to fight said psycho’s Marchman case at least half the websites I landed on had spelling errors… which I suppose was somewhat reassuring in light of her own recent experience as a paralegal being stalked into a suicide attempt by the lawyer fucking her after the last one she’d dated had driven her back to the bottle.

But all that said, you know what these guys don’t do?

They don’t sneer quite so hard at the black grindset guy Ubering them around in a Tesla while handing out charmingly overglossed business cards.

They don’t talk down as much to the weirdo nephew who won’t shut the fuck up about crypto and dropshipping.

They’re less quick to roll their eyes at their concubine’s real estate license as though upward improvisation itself were chintzy.

Now obviously they think the dropshipping guy is kind of retarded; they’re not saints. But there’s a lot less cold hatred in the appraisal.

In other cities, elites often exhibit a quiet passing preference that alternate paths and backstreet methods fail, but Orlando is far too transactional and openly performative for that kind of icy satisfaction to dominate. Too many people here—including elites—are selling something, staging something, auditioning for something, refinancing something, pretending a little, angling a little, and overall trying to get ahead by way of paths that read as gauche in air more thick with trust funds than hibiscus rot.

The upshot is that Orlando’s young people often socialize across class barriers a lot more freely than in more credentialed cities—at least in part because provisional containers are not experienced as automatically trashy or dehumanizing.

Everyone in Orlando understands that a date can be a date AS WELL AS a transaction, audition, vibe check, escape route, or soft launch for a new self—and also that it needn’t be litigated into one stable category before anyone’s allowed to enjoy it.

In overcivilized northern climes this sort of thing is invariably scorned as degraded, inauthentic, or lower-order—here that attitude gets you an eye roll, because this state wouldn’t last a week if transactionality and performance were not understood as livable and dignified facets of private life.

Because note that Florida has always been a place for exiles: marooned slaves and secesh vets, buccaneers and cattle crackers, Cubans fleeing Castro, Boomers escaping taxes or winter or their Fauci Ouchie, champion running backs who stab their blonde wife’s head off, elderly orange game-show hosts with coup trouble, autistic bipolar song-parodists-cum-essayists of cum… Florida is where weird and talented people go to hide, renarrate, distract themselves, stage comebacks, kill time, choke hookers, or become a more profitable version of the thing they were already accused of being.

Hurricanes help, as no place threatened annually by sky-water can take permanence with full Yankee seriousness. Possessions become modular; plans become provisional always on the weather; the gap between Good Samaritanism and price-gouging looks increasingly semantic. Everyone realizes, at least a little, that the set can come down.

And this is why Florida feels trashy to other states, and especially those states most in hock to life-denying cis-Hajnal snowvalues, where the highest-status move is always to pretend that you do not want, do not angle, do not perform, do not transact, do not hunger in any register visible to the help.

Florida offends because it lets people seem high-status under rival standards. It allows heat to count; allows theater to count. Florida allows money, body, charm, and nerve to do the work that snowier, grayer, and gayer moral orders would have us believe only taste and restraint can perform, which means people who are a little crazy or maladaptive by Bostonian standards are at times permitted to feel good about themselves here.

Orlando intensifies this dynamic because its dominant export is literally performance, the region’s affective culture sitting downstream of cast members who inhabit worlds that are definitionally pretend and yet not therefore “fake” in any obvious sense—because consider for instance that while a young girl playing Ariel (“friends with” Ariel in cast member pidgin) is clearly not ackshully Ariel, she absolutely *is* after the auditions, training, repetition, private identification, and thousands of tiny ways the role feeds back into the self, far more Ariel in practice than 99% of women who grew up with the film.

That middle register matters—and Play, observe, is neither fraud nor truth.

Rather it is the liminal space between them where essentially all of life’s magic happens—art, humor, seduction, creative destruction—and the sort of people who can’t tolerate it seldom end up achieving anything in life that wouldn’t have been predicted by a sufficiently precise actuarial model.

And for all its faults, Orlando understands Play at a civic level.

Even beyond the parks, the city is teaming with actors: formal theater, performance art, live-act escape rooms, dinner theater, drag, cosplay, and every other technology by which a man may temporarily become more legible by becoming less literally himself.

And because it’s full of actors, Orlando is also an aggressively gay city—and not just demographically(though you certainly can’t miss them), but also temperamentally. When you date young and artsy here chicks almost invariably have a gay bestie, and as a consequence her own speech will be noticeably more laced with irony, flamboyance, and little flourishes of aestheticized bitchiness, which means we guys who fuck them will in turn learn to coon a little, do voices, bit-maxx, and start to move more obliquely through gradients of social pressure instead of always straight on into them in the Nebraskan manner. The city makes theater contagious.

Which brings us to perhaps the deepest courtesy Orlando extends its residents: baseline credulity toward professed autonarrative.

People come here to lose themselves, restage themselves, or simply make some livable costume of whatever stayed intact when the last life failed—and the polite thing, by local custom, is to let them; to let your neighbors act, transact, play, love, fuck, fight, flirt, hustle, and self-reinvent without trying to erect Puritan-Teutonic ontological border walls between all the most interesting and inextricably liminal facets of life.

Which is why, I think, it’s been so easy to stay.

The City Beautiful imposes no hard disjunct between youth and maturity; just lets you don whichever costume fits the moment. With this one you’ll be Pan; with that other one Hook; and every now and then, if sufficiently touched or drunk or tired, you might even lower your guard a bit and start to act like Smee. But also—who cares?

There will always be more money to make, more women to bed, and more stories to keep that loop feeling vital—and seldom enough consequence to motivate escape.

And so in light of that, what has Downtown Orlando been specifically to Walt Bismarck?

It’s obviously been a home; a place to raise a fortress where I could air my balls out and at last impose my Right To Be A Weird Fuck on the world at cock- and cash-point—especially amidst those Edenic months beside my Rebecca and my Morticia.

More than that, it’s been a stage and a laboratory: a place where I could iterate without consequence, accumulate some great stories, learn what different versions of me look like in radically different jobs and women, experience the best and worst of humanity (often in the same person), and assemble for myself a splendiferous set of heuristics.

Most of all, though, it’s been a baroquely choreographed holding pattern—which for a long time really did register as something approximating mercy.

These days it has the character more of being preserved in the wrong liquid.

Ultimately I managed to escape my 2020 Doldrums without falling into any kind of serious or lengthy depression thanks to the intervention of three people.

First was the venerable Colleen McCullough, whose gargantuan sperg-girl classical-age beanflickers broke me out of that fugue just by giving me some shit to do and facilitating a mode of escapism broadly consonant with my aesthetics and life goals at the time.

Second was that Mischling frenemy-cum-bestie—I called the dude Leon in my book so I guess I will here too—who reached out ostensibly to patch things up between us but realistically to have someone he could be autistic about steroids with since that was his new thing. Before long he’d sold me on the merits of at least the basic shit, and more importantly deployed that Ashkie verbal acumen to make me once more the fool in love with quirksome scapulapoasting on Rippetoe’s youtube, which alloyed to those vials of enanthate Leon fedexed the next month had by the end of the annum coronum transformed your at this point rather-less-humble protagonist into what some of you boys might call a “Soft Chad.”

Last and most there was Natalie herself, who elected in June to hit up her ex in Scotland.

…this being the fag my magical racist casting couch had won her from in 2016 only for a 22yo Waltcel to instantly nuke his points advantage by reacting suboptimally to the Plot Twist that his qt3.14 first girlfren had also been a major eceleb of Golden Age 4chan and one of history’s famousest child pornstars, resulting in a very gay and very millennial two-year love triangle textured a bit like spy vs. spy between RDJ’s Sherlock and Benedict’s over who gets to fuck Boxxy that no one ever wins but at least ended with the small mercy of my own defloration.

Or perhaps it wasn’t a mercy, as I still very much FELT like an incel for most of the two years thereafter in spite of coupling in the interim with a handful of radiant AI sidequest girlies in Nebrasky, one of whom was honestly decent wife material but I happily let fade away in 2019 for a chance to take Nat to Disney again on what was easily the shittiest vacation of my life.

Alas, male virginity works the way we men like to convince ourselves it does for women, and so Wally B kept reliably stepping up to that batter’s box—just while also, thank God, working quietly on his income and triceps under the supposition that our sex’s most reliable of friends Father Time is bound to ensure the lines cross back to 2016 levels at SOME point… which in fairness ackshully did seem to be happening pretty palpably in 2020 until one day Nat says on Faceberg that btw she’s in Scotland again LOL and so I kind of just go on a rampage.

All of them were Zoomettes on SeekingArrangement.

All of them were isolated, lonely, and almost as neurotic as me—and just like everyone else that year, having a pretty weird time of it.

It didn’t take long to get a sense for all the semiotic levers and pulleys: Hypersexual opener. Dadvoice on the phone. Custom shots I coach her through. Mani-pedi in a color I choose. Plausible deniability garage; kiss first, explain later… and then after that “game” as such starts to feel a little pedestrian and you can honestly kind of just bee urself.

I recorded everything.

Usually I was kinkier than they’d expected. Most enjoyed it; others fawned.

Either way like half of them were too autistic and full of spaghetti to bring up an allowance even after spending the better part of a night tied to a headboard getting they asshole blown out, and at times I’d get a text weeks later saying they felt taken advantage of, which obviously made part of my simpy Millennial faggot’s heart feel pretty shitty about myself.

Another part quite liked it.

Overall I was very much in what the lads call an Anger Phase at the time, and would hazard that in retrospect maybe a third or so of those kills were if not unclean per se given I was always super autistic about establishing a hard paper trail of affirmative consent definitely the sort of shit I'd break a fellow’s nose for ever doing to my own daughter.

That said as far as Anger Phases go this was frankly pretty weaksauce, and if anything I got over Nat’s latest and gayest Ianshit far faster than I had in years prior—specifically mid-2017 during those months I moved to Tampa trying to win milady back between my deplatforming nuking the wiggle room I’d enjoyed to be limerent / firstgirlfriendy with her and Leon stepping in to play Ersatz Big Breau by e.g. calling me a faggot for using exclamation points in texts or flirting with Denny’s waitresses in front of me until I too could make chicks bringing me hashbrowns giggle. It was more that this was my life’s first era of significant optionality, where I had enough market leverage to hurt the feelings of girls worth having sex with—which in practice is of course exactly what I ended up optimizing for, I like to think unconsciously.

But then in August I met Marie.

Spergy little 20yo in North Currolina—two of us clicked almost instantly after I let her know she looked like my high school geometry teacher. Is that a good or a bad thing? Neither just an observation. Retarded line works like MadLibs on basically every bitch for some reason.

She turned out to be a reddit-kinky Classics major—had a ton of Ancient Rome tats all over her arms / neck that were genuinely neat and played a huge role in getting me to stop seeing tattooed girls as unterfrauen ipso facto—kind of just floundering in life after having her graduate program in Italy fucked up by Covid, so once I got her on the phone and effortlessly Waltsplained her own subject to her with the help of ultimate wingman Colleen McCullough the filly was my property in less than an hour.

And so I flew her out and took her to a couple theme parks, which apart from triggering my ‘tistic sensory issues as even in Florida they were making us wear our fagmasks then was actually really legit in lots of ways since I got to be the Cool Older Guy for the first time and our chemistry in general was some of the best I’ve ever had with a chick. Little Marie was also the first girl I fucked I think to really make me feel Chadlike in a way that seemed like Me as opposed to a porn character or in some other sense bound to produce ennui after ejaculation, and for much of that month it really did seem like she was on track to become my girlfriend.

A year earlier she would have—or at least I like to think so. Perhaps though it’s self-flattery to imagine that without those triceps and six figure sal she still would have narrated my weirdo qualities as smexy / Bundy-adjacent instead of just cheugy 4chan unc. Either way the maid for sure would have seemed like salvation coming out of that nightmarish Disney trip, whereas in 2020 she just seemed very comfortably mine.

…or at least she did until the brotein shakes / lunchmeat in my fridge gave way to tupperware draped in bright purple macronutrient post-its bearing the dainty hebraic scrawl of Rebecca: the original Waltine Jewess and my first ackshual Disney Princess, having once been friends with both Jasmine and Vidia—a distinction not even Nat enjoyed, her 5’10 being disqualifyingly statuesque for any face role more the ingenue than Maleficent.

September’s conquest of that effervescent little bulimic proved exactly the retribution I needed against not just the cosmos in general but more specifically The Jews as well as Disney itself (who I still resented for having taken down some of my parodies despite literally not being monetized at all and so indubitably Fair Use), and besides that proved thoroughly splendid for my ego given Rebecca’s extreme codependent tendencies caused her to fall in love with me more or less immediately and the very first week of our arrangement start acting I’d say the second closest to a wife of all the various women I’ve been with.

Compared to working class single dad Marie she seemed a lot less likely to invite cunty gossip from AWFLs at the office Christmas party, being a demure untattooed surgeon’s daughter just a year my junior now covertly sugaring her way through paralegal school, and was also even kinkier than the Zoomette, allowing Wally B to on our first night of lovemaking draw swasties all over her tits and smack her around with Mein Kampf and bite her feetsies and buttcheeks and shit hard enough to make existing the next day even more painful than usual, so when you throw in that she started cooking for me immediately too and was located just down the street instead of in North Currolina poor Little Marie just didn’t stand a chance.

Thus I yeeted the Zoomette from my life and went on to spend the rest of 2020 becoming the cockiest 27yo faggot on the planet at the side of and inside of and increasingly very much in love with my little Belle Juive.

And Rebecca made loving her easy is the thing. Unlike pretty much every blonde bitch I’ve pursued she never got those ironcunt valkyrie-icks over the gayest shit—or if she did was at least a sufficiently talented actress never to let me notice (note that before Jasmine she’d played Anne Frank in high school, which was hot).

And so I probably came to love her as much as I did—not to mention so insanely quickly—at least in part because she never really reproached me for childish retardation e.g. letting the shitter flood repeatedly cause I was too lazy to call maintenance, instead giving the impression that she found it incredibly gallant whenever I princess-carried her over a score of damp and mildewy towels over to the bed for smexytimes, and likewise never thought it a problem that I’d disengaged entirely from further actuarial credentialing, having by then perhaps via reverse microchimeric interchange with Zoomer cunt developed far too goldfishy an attention span for FSA exams. Instead she gave me a perfectly unchallenging and pliant courtesan femininity.

Part of me can’t help but wonder if that very frictionlessness was why I didn’t take Rebecca seriously enough to e.g. accompany the maid for Thanksgiving dindin with her Jewfam when she invited me; perhaps on some deep somatic level I’d just been conditioned by Natalie and ambient crypto-Willendorfianism to think a wife needs to always be a little cunty so as to as a blonde bih would narrate it “bring out the best in you?”

What I can say for sure is that the one and only time Rebecca got drunk that year—to celebrate the anniversary of her sobriety / let me Rape her unconscious body—it was pretty damn apparent a bitchy yenta lived in there somewhere. She’d simply discovered it was easier to lube the friction out of life with cuntslime and then deal with male weakness through covert and mostly passive optionality on the backend, which as she taught me four years later feels pretty fantastic until it suddenly feels horrible

Or perhaps that’s all just spin to make some sense of what elsewise seems a monstrously stupid decision to throw our dyad in an oven for yet another swing at Nat when the latter reached out wanting to try dating again on account of the fag in Scotland cheating for the billionth time—which ofc lasted all of three days before Nat drove off sighing back to Jawja with a 500 Days face just as Rebecca found some bulldyke lawyer to take care of her every bit as narcy yet a lot less Sophoclean it would seem than your retarded protagonist, and so sent Wally B tumbling ignominiously into 2021 heartbroken, single, and keen to commingle.

…though also jacked and rich and with a decent bit of clamstink on me now, which as it turns out is exactly the right combination for seeding a very particular sort of perpetual motion.

Because why bother getting over shit when instead you can get in Princess Ariel?

The parks aren’t in Orlando.

That’s the line locals learn to say here with that one retarded look on their face—you know the one; every place on earth has a line for that face.

Now if you actually work at Disney—or are a local who dates Disney Women, which is functionally the dude version of a chick who dates military men—the phrase you’ll identify with instead is “Have a magical day!”, which to my mind stands as one of the semiotically richest sentences one can hear in Central Florida, serving at once as blessing, dismissal, corporate incantation, and in the mouth of an exhausted cast member with wet socks and murder in her heart, among the most graceful ways the English language has yet devised to say Fuck. You.

Of course, most tourists never learn the esoteric meaning unless they’re specifically Disney people, which in practice creates a lot of winsome stealth insult opportunities for park workers. The phrase we downtowners get isn’t nearly as fun, which probably explains my own tendency whenever I’m involved with a Disney Woman to culturally appropriate HAMD! and all their other jargon rather aggressively at times, not unlike a guy dating a black chick who gets a bit too comfy rapping along to every word.

That said, the parks are not in Orlando.

They certainly feed Orlando, pay her rent, will penetrate her on occasion, and are functionally her master, but neither party thinks it an especially good idea for her to show up at the Christmas party.

The ruler of the roost is clearly Walt Disney World, located southwest of the city a fair bit down I-4—also the deadliest highway in America and Orlando’s functional racial demarcation line—in Lake Buena Vista and Bay Lake and whatever other corporate palatinate The Rat has persuaded Tallahassee to recognize for tax/drainage/kabalistic purposes. Universal is closer but still very much apart; a more urbanized concussion of soundstages and roller coasters and Butterbeer and $78 Luna Lovegood wands the Zoomette you flew out makes you get her in exchange for having done That Stuff.
And then SeaWorld exists somewhere out there too, vaguely penitent and wet.

To understand Orlando one must understand that the parks aren’t merely destinations to locals so much as weather systems: a source of traffic, money, seasonal flavor (even salty cool girl goth bitches have a soft spot for Halloween Horror Nights), costumes, debt, roommates, alcoholism, situationships, friendship-fucking fights with Leon in the parking lot, tidders you suck on in cast housing while babygirl’s roomie Kayla you lowkey wanna fuck too watches Big Little Lies in the living room not even knowing Natalie brought a boy back let alone whether he’s pocketed a pair of her panties, and a constantly circulating population of pretty young girls and gaybois (so I hear).

Working at Disney is a lot less fun than people imagine though is the thing, as it in practice operates almost like a paramilitary order dedicated to politely venerating Midwestern fatness. They have rules for everything: hair, nails, socks, earrings, tats, sideburns, tone, posture, entering and exiting, water bottles, and any other rough edges that might annoy a dad with sore ankles and a $14k hole in his bank account.

This creates a very peculiar kind of worker—the Cast Member—who is functionally a very different beast from your archetypal Disney Adult.

The Cast Member is a priestess of administered wonder: eternally broke, compulsorily social, libidinally supercharged but not in a way she understands, still brainwashed by the magic but growing cynical about it, as overtrained in friendliness as a Brazilian child prostitute, a bit less mature than her peer group but oftentimes logistically far more competent—the role selects for a certain lack of ontological brittleness and ability to metabolize contradiction with grace, hence the great number of Disney princesses who end up moonlighting as a stripper or to varying degrees get Kept.

Thus while the Disney aesthetic is thoroughly Anglo-Protestant its deeper affective grammar runs thoroughly Catholic, which probably explains why so many gay men are drawn to its managerial caste; like with Catholic clergy / management consultants the role strongly advantages those with a cognition situated somewhere in between that of a man and a woman’s, hence autistic girls also being one of the more canonical cast member constituencies.

Universal produces a somewhat different type: more tattooed, less housebroken, more prone to ironic bisexuality (Cast Members scissor each other far more earnestly); it’s not at all uncommon for girls to end up switching to Universal in their mid-20s either after Disney starts to read as just a little too gay for them or after getting date raped by one park manager too many. While the Cast Member needs to think herself innocent on some level, the Universal chick has internalized that she works in a merchandised fever dream and has made her peace with the grease—think the proverbial stripper who doesn’t get weird about you poking puss.

Both archetypes are in their way a lot more honest than the guest-facing versions of themselves—but Cast Members retain by far the greater metaphysical power, since Disney unlike Universal still persuades people that regression is a form of virtue.

Then there is the annual passholder—an intriguing specimen I myself inhabited briefly for both parks back in 2017.

The AP is the park ecology’s most instructive organism because he has transformed vacation into routine without even realizing he’s done so. He is not visiting wonder so much as subscribing to it; has made a pay per month arrangement with childhood and will either try to optimize for maximum fun like a Wall Street quant or use the pass as an avenue for chill short-duration staycations. Either way, he soon experiences the parks as nothing more than a slightly more dopaminergic variant of mallwalking—hence why I myself haven’t visited the parks in years, and even then did so exclusively when I had a little Zoomette to watch run around excited and live vicariously through.

Because the magic does still exist for people is the thing.

The castle, the fireworks… and bitches really do adore those rose gold mouse ears. Whereas for me? It’s the smell of the Pirates ride—ya I love mildew, eat my cum.

None of these things are “fake.”

Only manufactured.

Which is why it honestly makes perfect sense why Cast Members would put up with all that bullshit—they really are modern priestesses of Play.

In February of 2021 I learned I’d cucked a man.

And not just any man either, but a normalfag native Soft Chad who stood at 6’3 and was almost certainly a closet sociopath—if only because who other than a sociopath would as a heterosexual male choose to build a career at Disney World?

Kidding aside, the situation was actually pretty mythic all considered, because the chickie doing the cucking—a sturdily-built Texian blonde I thought of as a redhead because she played Princess Ariel and had a “zesty chungus” temperament akin to a more goyish / midwit , who we’ll here call Mara—had been known to darling Natalie in 2017 when the two were sisters in the same DCP cohort, and at one point that year when Nat and I were on the outs due to me having Down Syndrome and taunting her about recently turning 24 came recommended by Nat in that passive-aggressive Belle way as “the perfect girl for me.”

Because there’s no denying Mara was cringe—and also that it was in the same way I’m cringe, i.e. conjoined to enough status or ability to survive socially provided you’re very willing to eat normalfag sneers or in her case are too much of a dumdum girl to even notice them. But yeah I guess at one of the princess auditions they went to together Mara was boasting like a nigger about what a fantastic actress and singer she was, which apparently almost drowned Nat in secondhand embarrassment given all the visible contempt it churned up from SEC stacies.

Only, like… Mara was the one who walked out of that audition a princess.

…because it turns out that even for a theater kid the bitch ackshully was just an uncommonly gifted actress and singer.

…and so can you really in all fairness call her “cringe?” Or are you just foidpoasting in a way you normally find obnoxious in other women because you’re a little salty that despite being an equally good actress and singer you had to be Friends With Goofy cause you’re 5’10?

Because if so you’re right to be salty—it’s a dumb rule. I love tall women. Loveliest feet by far.

That said also you’re a retarded little cumcunt for letting stacies bully you into constantly acting more normie than you feel under the surface, and there was something profoundly appealing in Mara’s willingness to be such a weird and annoying bitch while eating the negative social externalities knowing she was hot and talented enough to survive it.

Anywho the other reason Mara felt mythic was that the normalfag I cucked—this guy with a pedophile mustache we’ll call Timmy—used to regularly hit on Nat at her hostess job during the college program, and she was ackshully supposed to be his date to some park manager Christmas party that year only for her to flake on him last minute and thereby ensure that Mara ended up his silver medal, which I suppose was the start of their love story.

It doesn’t seem to have been a great one—although it did last a minute: three years and change before me, and about as long thereafter.

Then they broke up right around the time she turned 30, which is honestly pretty frustrating given her worrying about exactly that happening was literally the whole entire reason chickie had that affair with me in the first place and in a roundabout vaguely Kafkaesque way seems to have functioned as just enough proof of her own optionality that it forced the fag to get her a ring and perform as dece fiancé for three years only to when it really mattered leave her high and dry and in a far worse negotiating position because being a retarded woman she thinks “engagement” means literally anything as an operatively binding category.

Anyway what was Mara to me?

Mostly she was fun dates: a pirate show with stupid chuck-e-cheese jokes written for babies she still belly-laughed at; a science center trip she approached with the earnest gravity of a third grader with Asperger’s Syndrome; the first of many times running the nearby dead grandma escape room, with Mara’s reaction to my puzzle-solving acumen during the same being perhaps more earned ontologically than that of any of her successors if you want to be gay about it; and a charming little picnic at Lake Eola with wine and cheese picked up at the nearby Publix that felt vaguely Parisian and went on to serve as template for many a date in subsequent years girls younger than her would experience as among their life’s most romantic given it would probs never even occur to a Zoomer lad to take a bitch on a literal picnic.

Whereas Rebecca never really pressed me to take her anywhere and seemed basically fine being fucked next to an Uber Eats bag between Sopranos episodes Mara had a significantly more vivacious nature that demanded constant stimulation, which in practice I suspect was really good both for getting me to take her cereal and for getting me out of my wizard’s tower into normalfag meatspace, which tbf Mara made it easy to metabolize being not just a hot girl who screamed her sentences and therefore drew everyone’s attention to me being with a hot girl but also cringe enough to ensure I was always the one kind of implicitly apologizing for her, which in light of our strong polarity otherwise was kind of a fun genderbent dynamic.

The sex was also quite good.

Mara had been with about as many people as I had, but they'd essentially all been normalfags, so she reacted like a giggling teenager to all the weird shit I did to her which I rather liked.

A lot of times it was also very physical; she liked to start it wrassling and have me force my way inside her like she was Red Sonja or something, and especially by the end of shit it wasn’t uncommon for me to walk out of coitus with nicks and bruises.

Not even because Mara herself was super kinky though—temperamentally she might have been among my least so girls in ackshuality, though she ofc fancied herself quite the rope bunny and also made me watch that gay and faggoty 365 Days movie every other bih was flicking the bean to at the time—but rather because she was derealizing hard on account of her relationshit stagnating and Disney job getting fucked due to Covid severely limiting her princess interactions and forcing her to do way less fun and lower status jobs normally reserved for old fatpeepo e.g. directing traffic into the park.

So like every high openness ESFP bih this state of affairs left her prone to wild daydreaming, which of course turned quickly into a smut addiction that itself turned quickly into attention seeking on Seeking which turned happily for WB into finding said attention from a guy who for all his faults is pretty fucking wonderful at doing the cowboy werewolf billionaire thing.

Because Mara was a performer by nature, and loved being performed for—understood how it being performance doesn't mean it's not real, or at least not for people like us—and yet was embodied enough not to let that knowledge curdle into an infinitely recursive not-so-funhouse of metamodern opacity as Natalie had, or simply drown in it to the point of nabbing a DID diagnosis like Rebecca had done.

She also had a big enough personality to mythologize—to the point of making me want to meld genes with her, at least—while also being far too much of a silly girl to ever really simp for or get bamboozled by into taking her too seriously. And this, I’m starting to realize, may well be the most workable combo for a spergy dude: the high-openness mid-110s IQ Sensor chick who’s herself weird and zany enough to not act foidbraind constantly but is all the same far enough away from you in neurotype to see your brilliance in a heroic and essentially alien light as opposed to needing to aestheticize how Unimpressed she is or act like Dasha 24/7.

Speaking of—one amusing facet of our dyad was that I offhandedly mentioned to her wanting to write a book at some point (in reference iirc to a series of fantasy novels I’d planned since early adolescence but never managed to escape the hyper-autistic worldbuilding stage) and she almost immediately globbed onto that as her vector of womanly idealization and would constantly blather on about how my writing would Change The World and whatnot when she’d literally never even read anything by me and I hadn’t seriously attempted longform in years, presumably because doing the same thing about my career which I at the time was legibly exceling in would have felt gauche or whatever to a girl who fancied herself artsy.

Then again, it was my actuarial side that fizzled out in subsequent years and writerly one that out of nowhere exploded me back into something resembling public prominence, to the point of probably having changed the world already if we’re honest, and at a minimum this nigga’s:

Women are never right about these things for the right reasons is the thing—but they basically always are right, which is half of what’s so persistently infuriating about them.

Anyway, how’d it end?

Well Timmy’s friends saw us together in the city holding hands—and I think it was that one picnic date that did it, wretchedly enough. By that point they’d been living apart for a few weeks while she cheated, and were “on a break” per her telling when first we met.

I didn’t get the Friends reference when I told my mom about the situation.

But of course hearing about his cringey little Silver Medal with another man—a “financebro” giving her the “downtown lifestyle,” no less—apparently came as a total shock to Timmy; thus he promises to reboot their relationship and requests three dates to pwoove himself, which after she accepts I make her give me the same knowing she will out of theater kid logic and because I want to lock in puss knowing it’s likely all ogre now in light of her starting to do that stupid faggoty Millennial girl Cady Heron thing where she self-narrates as Not Herself Lately.

and still, idk

Those last three dates were genuinely some of our best.

The very final one involved her going to Target with me and helping me get an adult set of kitchenware, and I also bought her this adorable Thanksgiving apron somehow still available in March that if I’m honest was a lot more fun to fuck her in that night than any of the frilly pink bullshit I’d gotten her at Victoria’s Secret.

Then the next morning she drove off back to Timmy in Kissimmee, and that was that.

What one must understand about the Disney Woman is that she’s been trained by one of the world’s most sophisticated dramaturgical machines to inhabit a narrow seam between sincerity and performance that over time makes any difference between the two feel both a lot less important and a lot more insulting to mention.

It’s not just that she becomes professionally pleasant; that’s merely the outer layer, and half these birds aren’t even like that once you get em out of The Rat’s jurisdiction.

The deeper transformation is that the Disney Woman learns to treat identity itself as a thing both real and staged—something one enters, holds, exits, returns to, complains about, monetizes, mourns, and nonetheless will feel in some embarrassing chamber of the heart to have revealed important truths about her.

After all, she was not cast at random.

No matter how egalitarian the brochures grow, Princessing remains one of the last socially permissible sites of open feminine hierarchy in America. Height, face, voice, body type, smile, youth, waist, coloring, feminine presence: all the things aspartame pantsuit morality and Girl Culture insist shouldn’t matter are in Lake Buena Vista measured with all the cruelty and accuracy of a Florentine marriage broker.

This gives the successful Disney Woman a strange relationship to beauty. She knows, probably better and certainly before most other women do, that prettiness is a sorting technology—and also that being sorted upward does not make one free so much as legible to management, which means she’s usually both a lot more vain and a lot less deluded than her civilian peers, having stood in rooms with dozens of other pretty girls and learned under fluorescent lighting which of them will be friends with Ariel, which one friends of Tinkerbelle and which a friend of Goofy.

It also means that when she says the magic is real, she isn’t necessarily being stupid.

She knows the seams and tunnels; knows which bathrooms are the cleanest and which princesses bulimic; which princes suck each other’s cocks and which managers will rape you; which Mary Poppins is trending a bit too lumpy in the tidders to keep her role another year. She thinks like a whore with a civilian woman’s moral self-concept.

Romantically this makes her dangerous in ways neither normie girls nor ordinary actresses quite manage.

See, the Disney Girl wants life to become a scene that can be believed in while it lasts, with everyone understanding enough not to break character too early, which means on the one hand she is unusually susceptible to grand containers—trips, hotel rooms, fireworks, costume changes, playlists, inside jokes, rituals of food and touch and repeated place—but is likewise just as unusually capable of exiting those same containers by declaring in full sincerity that they were only ever play.

Men look at her and imagine they’ve seen the Real Girl behind the costume—not so! The costume was just one mechanism by which the real girl was produced, and securing backstage access not at all the same as securing access ontologically.

Backstage is still onstage, after all; just with worse lighting and more gossip.

The man who first learns love primarily through Disney Girls will therefore be shaped in a very peculiar way. He will intuit that romance requires atmosphere, and come to see beauty and logistics as inseparable. He’ll learn that repetition is sacrament if the setting sufficiently overdetermined, and that a woman being theatrical doesn’t always mean she’s lying. He’ll come to see the operative unit of courtship less as conversation or date than sequence of scenes: hotel, park, monorail, bar, car, room, morning, return. The kingdom trains him to think in loops before he has any words for recurrence.

He may also—fatally—come to believe that feminine performance is a kind of promise.

Because sometimes it really is, is the thing—you just never know for certain when it’s ackshully going to last. And that, of course, is the problem: the Disney Girl makes life enchanted not because she’s playing you, but because she herself becomes enchanted and then will say your name cumming in a way that wipes out 27 years of bitterness.

Only later and after more aborted loops than is really dignified will a man realize her gift for entering a scene carries with it no binding duty to remain inside it—and that, I think, is the Disney Girl’s deepest erotic lesson; she teaches men performance can be sincere, and then ruins them by proving sincerity has an expiration date..

The words meant what they meant when she said them. The touch was real while she offered it; the softness wasn’t fake, and nor were the giggles or the orgasm or that light in her eyes. But precisely none of that prevents tomorrow from bearing some entirely different story about what she was Going Through then.

A more Nebraskan sort of man might respond to that by simply shrugging and trying to fuck a bartender, while a softer sort of man might grow resentful and call her a liar.

Another sort of man will opt instead to build a philosophy around it.

The rest of 2021 following Mara’s departure from my life that April felt like a dissociated blur at the time, but looking back I remember it all quite distinctly.

Like for a while I became something of a Civil War buff, which was neat.

Then I spent a few months trying to get all the various achievements in EU4, and then got bored of that and instead obsessed over programming a Rape Mod for Crusader Kings 3.

I also continued training fairly religiously and would ultimately around midyear max out around four plates on my deadlift, which was technically higher than even my trainer would go on account of some old MMA plate in his leg or w/e which technically made me second strongest nigga in the Aspire apartment gym next to some seven foot black dude who was apparently a serious basketball player (I’m not certain if like LeBron-level or just more local). Shortly after reaching that point though I kind of just got lazy and for the most part stopped exercising entirely outside of having sex with lots of young girls.

None of them were especially important—by that point I was a seasoned degenerate and had my algorithm locked down to a level of familiarity where I barely even read as spergy anymore.

That said I did start taking certain risks I probably wouldn’t have earlier: having girls over during the workday, meeting up with chickies whose puss-pie was by any soberminded account quite clearly not worth the risk profile, telling girls with a boyfriend it will only be X and then reciting the alphabet multiple times forwards and backwards—as one does.

This was probably me at my most #rakish in the dictionary sense i.e. uninterested in romantic diachronicity or heavy commitment—probably a function of the intense dyadic phone bestie dynamic I’d established with Diana: the chick I’d lowkey moved to Omaha for in 2018 and immediately made me realize moving to Omaha had been kind of a stupid idea. She and I had reconnected the year before, so after things ended with Mara I both sought consolation in Diana’s bosom and helped her end a dead-end nothing relationship with some scrub poisoned by black mold or w/e, after which she and I entered into this flirtatio-friendship register that enabled us each to give the other loads of genuinely useful advice and hot takes about their romantic prospects; to this day she remains one of only two women I’ve known to ever be anything but actively sabotaging in this capacity.

Point is thanks to Diana I didn’t need to fall in love with every bitch I fucked no more because I could rely on her to absorb a lot of that energy. Thus most of my dates in this period were pretty simple: garage→ cross Eola to World of Beer → back to Aspire and into pussypie. It was a very boyish era all considered… but also looking back feels almost arcadian in a sense?

Ultimately though a few events later that year served to hone me in a bit.

• First I met Amanda—my only Seeking chick in Orlando who could really be called my “Sugar Baby” in the conventional sense of the word e.g. FWB or mistress outside one’s prime romantic dyad, as basically all my other girls here kind of just immediately folded either into girlfriend or functional-hooker. And believe it or not I ackshully don’t have a fantastic personality for sugaring qua sugaring, as it’s basically impossible for me to fall into any sexual modality other than vaguely contemptuous objectification and limerent possessiveness, but with Amanda carving out that middle register was for some reason surprisingly easy; it helped I think that she quickly acquired a boyfriend she met the same night as me (I fucked her first) as well as that the two of us always enjoyed a genuinely deep friendship bond that both never got boring due to her bitchiness yet never proved too annoying because I could always just fuck her face if I got mad at her. Anyway Amanda remained my dedicated rebound puss throughout the next few years until her boyfriend finally put the kibosh on things in late 2024.

• I also finally got to meet Natalie’s sisters—and apparently did a good enough job with them that they told her to marry me, at least per her testimony at Dragon Con that year which she’d drafted me to take her to last minute which is its own whole story… point is coming out of that I realized there was no dignified way to recover the old Natalie dyad under terms I wanted, and while we’d hook up a few more times in subsequent years that deeper sort of teleological hold she’d held began to dissipate.

• Shortly after Dragon Con I started posting on the Red Scare Subreddit and met the beautiful though hugely troubled artfrau Gretel, who while initially quite impressed by my effortpoasts and as a consequence very generous with teat shots pulled back sexually a lot after I discovered in her post history that she was 30 and used to be a hooker after telling me she was 28 and had a bodycount of 6—which I genuinely didn’t gaf about at all btw mostly finding it very funny she was that terrible at lying—but ya after that it kind of just was a friendzone thing for a while—which was honestly fine because I was getting plenty of puss as is and tremendously valued having a new 125+ IQ bih to talk to given Diana had recently found herself a new goytoy and Natalie was off doing Natalie things as ever.

• In November I finally got my paws on this adorable little Jewess named Leah I’d been lusting after for months and loved to blue ball me through her night shifts at some hospice thing hemming and hawing about whether she’d come over to get stuffed after work. Her personality was never all that legible to me because she was always super duper quiet, and most of what stood out was that she REALLY loved cats as well as Downtown Abbey and gay guys—actually iirc both her roommates were gay, but one was fat and like Mexican or w/e and had an unrequited crush on the skinny twinky one and would write poems about eating him and shit, and probably like 85% of the stories she told me had to do with that whole situation.

Anyway an interesting thing about Leah is that while the opposite of Mara in volume and vivacity she nonetheless inspired in me a very similar impulse to take her places hoping to at some point draw out of her the personality I sensed was underneath: multiple local escape rooms, Eola for the canonical picnic, a Titanic museum/dinner theater where I kind of spilled spaghetti asking an Irish character his thoughts on the IRA, and most importantly the local cat cafe The Kitty Beautiful, where I after years of prioritizing the integrity of my easy chair decided at last to adopt a feline friend—namely this great sinewy tuxedoed lad they were calling “Jesse” at the time but I immediately rechristened Beauregard per my recent Civil War enthusiasm and to Leah’s immediate side-eye (not even because das rayciss tho but because she was a dumdum Zoomer who thinks changing a cat’s name is abusive).

The tranny proprietor of the cafe also cajoled me into adopting a runt-of-the-litter tabby named Cricket since he was apparently pair bonded to Beau as a brother / sadomasochistic gay lover, and while I honestly couldn’t even remember him at first Leah ultimately convinced me to go for it saying he’d been the cuddliest one in the joint.

She wasn’t wrong; while a bit more introverted than his big bro, Cricket instantly proved almost cloyingly affectionate—he snuggles and headbutts literally everyone super duper aggressively right away with no warmup period or demonstration of trustworthiness required first like Beau expects, and is meanwhile so novelty-seeking / slutty with his cuddles that each new girl I sleep with is convinced he “loves her more than me” and talks about “stealing him” which tbh fuck you bitch.

Cricket also has Feline Herpes, which means his nose is constantly full of these huge boogers and snot he loves to wipe on people (the tranny called it “allergies” ofc, lying then as always). Anyway whenever I get a new girlfriend they always make me take him to the vet again and get antibodies that always do Precisely Nothing because it’s a fucking chronic condition that can’t be “cured” and girls are dumb but that’s also why we love em I guess idk.

Anyway Leah seemed on the verge of becoming my girlfriend but then in Jan of 22 suddenly ghosted me one day with nary an explanation.

…at least until last year, when we reconnected and it turns out to have been a combo of her having gotten offended that I wasn’t giving her an allowance despite mentioning at some point having paid a younger pair of lesbis for a threesome—a threesome I barely even partook in btw as I only wanted the skinny one and literally didn’t enjoy AT ALL, not that girlypops care about that sort of thing I get it—and also at one point backhanded her during smexytimes in a way that produced an unsavory somatic reaction in her, which in fairness she usually loved being slapped during sex so I think that was more just an autistic deficit of hand-eye coordination on my part amplified radically in semiotic import by having occurred amidst a fuckbreak halfway through her favorite girlhood movie Pride and Prejudice.

On the bright side she also has really lovely memories of that Eola picnic in particular and at least as of last year associates me primarily with having gotten her into wine.

Orlando may well be America’s most perfect sugar baby terrarium

Not because The City Beautiful is particularly glamorous—it isn’t, at least not next to Miami or New York or even Los Angeles to the extent its despair groks camera angles. Orlando is weirder: a warm, transactional, youth-saturated hospitality economy built on the simulation of enchantment, attached to one of the largest colleges in the country, and embedded in a state shaped by hurricane logic and exile culture

The parks import gorgeous girls by the thousands and teach them to perform charm under surveillance for wages that make performing charm as a side hustle register to many as obvious—because make no mistake, a girl who spends eight hours a day smiling at Britons sloshed on Simpsons beer and scooter-bound diabetics does not necessarily become cynical per se, but she sure as shit gets an education in the cash value of sweetness and a Yes.

And then there’s UCF, that vast blonde credentialing lagoon east of the city forever hatching the dental hygienists and marketing coordinators of tomorrow, most of whom moved here from somewhere cold, shitty, and gray and discovered almost instantly how easily and long Orlando lets you stay a little girl provided you’re willing to invoice adulthood in installments.

Now of course precious few of these flowers are ever really “poor” in any Dickensian sense—they have parents, loans, scholarships, roommates, and cars that smell like vape and Bath & Body Works and pussy. But they might as well be paupers in the local aspirational sense: broke in proximity to luxury, young in proximity to older men with expense accounts, and Beautiful in a city where that counts both as credential and an ambient bargaining position. And if she can’t get the cash required to maintain her back-home lifestyle from her parents but absolutely can from a decent-looking 29yo software engineer who just wants sloppy and for her to look interested while he explains Bojack Horseman to her, is she really going to tighten the belt?

Then lastly there’s Florida herself, who supplies the final reagent: a state culture with virtually no native sense of embarrassment; a place of boat guys, tax exiles, cryptobros, Mar-o-Lago, bottle-service dentists, divorced dads with power nipples, billboards bearing personal injury ads, George Zimmerman, haunted song parodists, and the illustrious Florida Whore. Transaction isn’t a sin when everyone knows something is being bought; the only sin is making the transaction look poor.

The confluence of all three is what makes Orlando special, with Downtown herself occupying the midpoint between innocence and invoice—here a girl can be twenty, work at Disney, take classes at UCF, post from a resort pool, live with roommates in a luxury complex called something like The Addison at Millenia, and still experience herself essentially as a normal sweet girl simply having a weird year every time she gets that venmo from a dude she probably wouldn’t have swiped right on ordinarily but at this point has given her two new fetishes and lowkey aced that calc final she never got around to studying for so

What makes it different from hooking is precisely what makes It’s a Small World different from your local Lazy River—which is to say effort, scale, and frame. And so she is not selling cunt; she is Being Appreciated. He is not buying sex; he is providing a Unique Experience. Everyone knows; everyone denies. Everyone has a magical day.

But if we’re honest that’s more just how it works when the dude is Old Old; if you’re more 30ish then unless chickie becomes your girlfriend right away she’ll a lot of times think ur kind of a faggot if you don’t joke about her being your whore—because note as a young guy that’s the container that reads more as you paying for expedited access and enlarged dominion as opposed to just being incel-coded, since whereas if it’s a Dad-type dude they’re fuckin being a Whore tends to feel groace and the Treasure a lot more palatable plenty of women actively fetishize being Whore of a high-powered yuppie type for whom the whole semiotic regime gets inverted.

Which is why for the weirdo yuppie it’s almost too efficient: Orlando gives you the venues, the scripts, the class differentials, the anonymity, the cheap luxury signifiers, the moral permission of Florida The Whore, and the endless reservoir of young girls whose lives have already been structured around performance not entirely performed, prettiness stratified and monetized, and enchantment that runs deep and lasts exactly as long as it needs to. You don’t need to be a Chad; just reasonably tall, funny, solvent, and sufficiently unashamed of turning the implicit offer into hard logistics.

The whole city is practically whispering the arrangement before you arrive.

I kicked off my 2022 with a bracing shot of ipecac.

There was to be no more lazing around all day chasing tail and coding Rape Mods—no sir!

Such dissolution was unbecoming of a self-respecting yuppie—if I was even still entitled to that moniker given how cabaretically unprofessional I’d grown since first moving to the city two years prior. Even after all that time and so much of it free, I STILL hadn’t bothered to learn wtf is ackshully going on in any of those gay homosexual spreadsheets they paid me to click every month, and at this point was barely even saying shit during our team meetings.

And unironically?

It felt really shameful.

I needed to feel useful and productive again—that and reclaim a certain sense of masculine pride I’d pretty clearly lost after having spent most of 2021 in an undignified cunt-drunk stupor getting quite a lot of puss-puss sure but likewise getting e.g. roasted by darling Natty’s barely legal sorority girl little sis about my shitty arrested development Target furniture and transparently slotted mentally into Evil Cock / fuckboy territory by most of the nurses and nannies closer to my age I fugged and kind of was hoping to make into my girlfren tbh.

Thus it was time for Uncle Walt to grow up!

So long story short I put my head down and 154 verbal IQ’d my way into a consulting gig at Deloitte that paid quite a lot more than my present role and was sure to be many times more demanding—especially because they planned to onboard me smack in the middle of audit season, which everyone at my current job of course insisted sadistically would just brutally rape my asshole, but also: that’s literally the point nigga.

Note though I didn’t underestimate the challenges ahead of me in the slightest, and resolved to prepare for my new role with the utmost gravity and conscientiousness.

First on the agenda: some sweet new corporate headshots!

Second on the agenda: Ask my mom to pls fly out and help me redecorate my Aspire unit so that the home office / study area behind my rather sizeable head looks coo for my coworkers during Zoom calls and biases them precognitively into thinking me entitled to a speedy promotion to manager on account of being so Sharp / Locked In.

Third on the agenda: Go to an ackshual barber for the very first time since J Henry to procure a somewhat fashionable ‘do—only this time I patronized this chubby Italian broad from NYC I rather enjoyed because she liked Sweeney Todd and reminded me of Lisa Lampanelli.

Ultimately I even let her give me a “fade” after she mentioned that both her husband and son were police officers, as that codes right wing and while I myself am hardly a fan of cops if someone’s going to give me a blackpeepo haircut I do need to sort of “balance the books” semiotically so it made a lot of sense to have her do it.

Anyway she did a pretty dece job IMO and so has been my barber for the past 4 years.

Fourth on the agenda: Get my bloodwork done to make sure my T-levels seem ok since I never bothered doing that while ackshully on steroids. Also while I’m out of the house get around to registering my car finally so I can drive it legally again. Also pick up a Barnes and Noble membership—I should read more. Also get a Covid shot now since I no longer derive any dopaminergic return from arbitrarily oppositional-defiant behavior and right now would rather amorally statusmaxx even if the Fauci Ouchy does shred young male hearts.

Fifth on the agenda: Formally procure an Adderall prescription instead of just paying the nurse I’m fuckin to give me half of hers. Which… boy, howdy. But that’s kind of its own story.

Last and most importantly: Procure that ritual totem I’ll require to most efficaciously channel my Masculine Aura each morning and attack the day with blood and fury in my lungs.

My onboarding at Deloitte felt a lot more like Harry Potter than any other company I’ve worked for—almost like how Natalie described her DCP orientation back in the day. Being affiliated with a huge prestigious institution really does just have a certain way of cutting through cynicism; at the time it registered to that eager little lad in me as the experience I should have gotten from my very first manjob back in 2016.

That one had been a shithole Caribbean life and annuity carrier, and naturally had begun as an internship—very conveniently on the day immediately after Natalie and I broke up for the first time and I’d been up all night spiraling. Meanwhile I was getting paid like half as much as my frens because I’d been too busy making Alt Right Disney parodies to apply to any non-Third World internships when they were still open, and it was kind of only by the grace of God that the enterprise didn’t turn out a completely shitty disaster thanks to my first boss being insanely coo—kind of a Wasian Kryptogal who had basically the same dynamic with me and is now a longtime Walthead (<3 K).

Other than her the team was kind of just a dirty diaper—Chief Blacktuary got fired two weeks into my internship and after a long interregnum replaced by easily the wickedest evilest most meanspirited Dolores Umbridge cunt I’ve ever had the displeasure of working with, who would unironically e.g. call my socks ugly… and then there was this 70yo lady who’d make all this shit up in her spreadsheets… and a fat dissociating mormon who was about as checked out there as I’d be in my first Orlando job… and a nebbishy little Jew guy who was like 50 with a PhD in an entry level position reporting to the fat mormon younger than him… and then a sperg girl I quickly befriended but also kind of figured might snap one day and mb shoot up the office who ended up getting fired because I retardedly asked her advice on starting salary negotiation which when she heard I wasn’t just taking whatever made her curse me out and storm off.

Not exactly Elite Human Capital.

Whereas Deloitte? Good God! Each one of my coworkers at a minimum could perform competence, and invariably had more interesting backgrounds and hobbies than 90% of the bugmen at either of the Sclerosis Incorporateds I’d worked for. Even the Asians at Deloitte seemed high verbal IQ—and keep in mind, these were actuaries. The whole thing felt like being extracted out of the normgroid morlock horde into Gifted Class all over again.

Meanwhile, the institution itself was eminently respectable—had almost unlimited resources internally that could be activated quickly and reliably, with a culture of forging confidently through red tape and making sure shit stays documented in logical places so processes can scale and transit efficiently.

For the first several months I unironically experienced it as fun.

It felt a little like a resource management sim—multiple engagements, several directors to impress, always having to monitor a few fires at once. Kept shit really funky-fresh.

And the chickies in my life smelled the good vibes on me—
and it’s amazing how they always do, isn’t it? Never even need to say shit.

Natalie showed up out of nowhere for dinner and a hookup. Amanda started overtly cheating on her bad breath slav boyfriend and eating cock without a rubber. And ever the Midwestern bih, Diana of course couldn’t get enough of my Goods Delivery bullshit and started flirting back a hell of a lot more enthusiastically, earnestly musing about she could see us together if I built her Monticello and gave up ~Pornography before attempting any real courtship with her which I ofc said was gay and that if I build her Monticello she should be the one falling into MY frame and anywho I forget the deets but at some point she definitely said we’re probably soulmates and porn ruined me for her and we started to drift apart after that.

Thankfully though I still had Gretel, who after my altercation with Diana especially began to assume basically the exact same intellectually dyadic flirt-friend register Diana had.

Gretel too was judgy—but not at all in the Pentecostal mode so much as the Lutheran one—she couldn’t stand thoughtlessness or indolence in men, and every few weeks would explode at me over something really gay. Like one of the big ones for instance was that she really wanted me to ship her a bag of Peanut Butter Eminems which I guess they don’t have in Deutschland or something and I fucked it up and instead sent her Peanut Eminems, which it seems are trivial to get there. And boy was that bitch livid about my incompetence… had some real words for me about how shitty the DHL packaging was—after all my procrastination, too!

So I called her a cunt and sent her several hundred dollars worth of Peanut Butter Eminems.

Forget how now, but I arranged a direct shipment and ate like a benjamin in fees, which was the whole reason she made me go through DHL in the first place, broke bitch insisting *I* avoid fees easily affordable with my huge enormous massive American salarycock.

And looking back I ackshully do kind of get it now: like all tall blondes from dark frosty climes Gretel simply registered an unusually intense disgust response to physical laziness enabled by monetary affluence, and was meanwhile insulted by the notion of a fellow just paying to win her puss like in a mobile game. The tendency is almost universal in German / Dutch / Scandi women (esp ones with ancestors gay enough to stay in Europe), who as a rule can’t get enough of making you do all these asinine little chores to prove you ackshully care about her since her dumb barbarian Teuton brain can’t grasp the elementary principles of comparative advantage and arbitrage hence Germany having a GDP per capita 65% of America’s… suffice it to say the main reason I’m fond of Jewesses is they’re the least like this you can get with pink nipples.

Gretel was always bitching that American guys thought they could buy her—and to be fair, I actually came quite close to it at several points! But even then I understood that mediation would always be necessary, whereas simply flashing cash would virtually never work on some dour kraut bitch. Thus while Gretel thought my maneuver with the Peanut Butter Eminems was funny she also wasn’t the least bit impressed by it as girlies this side the Atlantic—even the tall blonde ones—had been in the past when I’d tried something similar, and if anything was mostly just kind of annoyed to have so many calories around her now.

That said one part of it was definitely also the hooker past, because one interesting thing I’ve learned is that genuine escorts almost always really hate sugaring, which in fairness makes perfect sense given their own rates are driven down by the phenomenon on account of sugar girls being cheaper—and more vitally, accessible outside a standardized and modular frame, which allows the man to pull chickie into his own bespoke diachronic frame that will virtually always reduce her functional transactive autonomy as a market agent.

This is why lots of feminists for instance are basically coo with escorting but despise sugaring; they abhor viscerally the idea of any sort of transactional dynamic where the structural power to define said transaction asymmetrically is in male hands.

With hooks themselves meanwhile it’s often just a normal fake and gay unionshit thing—hookers try to ambiently make sugaring seem more pathetic, less real, whatever because it’s offensive to them that their counterparties might have a dignified bargaining position.

To them a girl who charges a nigga less than the market PPM because she’s into him or caught feels is the absolute worst kind of scab—the hooker abhors the SB’s softness / surrender and despises her willingness to blur the lines of transactionality (bc they’re optimizing for totally different things, tho the hooker structurally is obscured to that pluralism), and so attempts to mitigate the SB’s depressive impact on her own rates through all the canonical womanly shaming modes both intra- and intersexually.

You might be wondering how I learned all this?

Leon married a hooker

In 2020 to be specific; just before he decided he couldn’t talk anymore because of my sugaring.

He also became her househusband in a way that aesthetically valorizes womanly provisioning and male objectification / diachronic subordination under a hypermasculine himbo container.

The dude was first drawn into Hookerworld largely on account of a certain aesthetic contempt for my own nascent sugaring adventures, which itself had clearly originated—at least in part—by the lad feeling emasculated over having spent almost a year in Omaha with me paying all the rent and him drifting about rather listlessly in life. Himbomaxxing is essentially a mode of semiotic alchemy that transmutes a situation like that from humiliation into superiority, in which the provider and producer ackshully capable of moving things in the world becomes the pathetic paypig, whereas the one who takes and is taken care of becomes Ackshual Master— because he’s most desired. It’s quite literally the object-sexuality of a woman.

And at first I thought this was mostly just a Leon thing, but over the past few years it seems to have exploded, with Zoomer boys who can’t break into the jobs market adopting precisely the same strategy with looksmaxxing etc., while calling literally all traditional modes of masculine sexual capture via provisioning or status climb “cope.”

But speaking of Leon—I actually saw the dude for the first and last time in years in 2022 after his wife briefly left him for a client (or “trick” as they say) and I invited him to come hang with me a few days instead of killing himself. During this trip it was revealed to me Leon himself had been a virgin in 2017, and despite having had less sexual experience than me at the time had essentially fabricated out of whole cloth an extensive sexual resume to serve as a basis for his own masculine gravitas within our dynamic.

And yet I can’t straightforwardly resent him for that—for one thing because if he hadn’t done so the power dynamic in our dyad would have been so lopsided from me having both a money and girls advantage it likely would have sent him drifting towards a LeFou-type role given how Millennial male friendships tend to work usually (Zoomers are better about this). Moreover, if it hadn’t been for him playing the Dude Don’t Text That It’s Gay role or showing me how to flirt with hashbrown bitches I may well have fucked it up with Nat a lot harder back in 2017, whereas if it weren’t for him getting me into lifting and steroids three years after that who even knows if my Chadpotheosis would have gone anywhere near as smoothly?

On the other hand—the dude scratched at shit; said things—things a man is wholly entitled to say provided that they ackshully happened… but assuming they didn’t? Then they objectively do kind of just make him a callow and venomous little faggot, frankly.

Though admittedly I can’t help but admire the Sophoclean element to the story—that is to say, that the main reason I started sugaring in the first place was to operationalize my wealth advantage in a faster and far more linear manner than especially the Omaha dating market permits in response to a masculine rivalry dynamic wherein Leon increasingly foregrounded his own putative past erotic success to undermine the import of the growing money gap and was increasingly contemptuous of any mode of male self-presentation that leaned into material excess and provisioning. And so I did what Leon himself once taught me to do.

I agreed and fucking amplified.

As did Leon, I suppose.

But you want to know the beauty of it? When we reconnected in 2020 and I started telling him about all those girls the motherfucker refused to even HEAR my stories—and not even about the casual hookups but fucking Marie! The solitary reason, of course, being that I met the chick on Seeking. Then some point after, he accuses me of “writing fanfiction about myself”—as if his own multiple years of fanfiction weren’t the entire fucking basis of our friendship.

Even still—when Leon showed up at Aspire to cry about his whore, I was there for him.

So were my Google Albums.

Big Four consulting stands as one of the few respectable professions in American life wherein theater kids regularly make partner.

This is not, as outsiders like to think, because the work is “fake”—nothing fake could ever require that level of version control. On the contrary, the modal engagement produces an immense number of high-complexity, effort-intense deliverables: interviews, trackers, workplans, current-state assessments, future-state designs, steering committee decks, meeting notes, decision logs, RAID logs, operating models, implementation roadmaps, hypercare playbooks, and many other totems by which billion-dollar organizations metabolize the terrors of motion alloyed to scale.

Nor is the labor especially straightforward; good consultants will process information quickly, learn institutional dialects at pace, identify the three load-bearing variables hidden within forty minutes of stakeholder throat-clearing, an can translate disorder into artifacts legible to whoever’s paying them to feel less insane. The work demands memory, stamina, social inference, PowerPoint taste, spreadsheet hygiene, and the ability to remain pleasant with multiple people lying to you in contradictory ways while instinctively pinning anything that goes wrong first and foremost on you.

And yet the profession is not quite analytical in the way its recruiting materials imply.

Analysis is necessary, to be sure—but by itself entirely insufficient.

The analyst who merely knows the answer is a lot less useful than the manager who understands when it can be introduced without embarrassing the room—and a great deal of the work, it turns out, consists in choreographing the arrival of the obvious.

And that is why the slide deck matters—it allows a conclusion to enter in sequence rather than accusation: first the context, then our observations, then the risks at hand, then your options, and finally our recommendation. Each advanced in clean corporate procession until the whole room finds itself standing before a decision it feels it’s participated in making.

The client, observe, is never buying truth in naked form; that’s just an HR event. What the consultant offers him is truth with lighting; truth with tact; truth properly paced and branded and softened at the edges, then escalated through approved channels, and made available to the right people in the right order so no one important feels surprised in public—an environment where information can be endured.

Note also that consulting has an exceedingly high attrition rate because each level demands a radically different talent pool from the last. At its lower levels, the main demand is cheerful stamina and document production. Then, at the middle levels, synthesis and emotional continence. And at the highest levels? Taste in ambiguity: knowing which messes demand cleanup, which require renaming, and which are best left in the corner under a tablecloth until the contract renews. The senior manager’s art is not merely to know what is going on, but to know which version of what is going on the system can safely metabolize this week without cracking.

And each engagement, of course, has its frontstage and its backstage.

Frontstage there are standup calls and steering committees, polished artifacts and client-ready language, and the general fiction of coordinated progress.

Backstage there are frantic Teams messages, midnight deck surgery, juniors having panic attacks, principals workshopping euphemisms for “your data is unusable,” and partners deciding how little of the actual situation can be safely disclosed before nondisclosure itself becomes the larger risk.

No serious consultant confuses the two—the danger lies rather in losing respect for either; a frontstage without backstage is children’s theater, and a backstage sans frontstage slipshod chaos little better than the client! The value lives, of course, in the controlled passage between those two worlds: the disciplined transmutation of beige administrative gobbledygook into something handsome enough to act upon.

Consulting, then, is best understood as a hospitality discipline for institutional anxiety.

The client arrives burdened, irritable, overexposed, and privately aware that the promised transformation may have been sold internally long before anyone actually understood what it meant—and so the engagement team receives this guest into a managed sequence of rooms: Discovery → Assessment → Design → Roadmap → Implementation → Stabilization. Each room with its own level-setting vocabulary, its own regime of stabilizing color codes, and its own sanctioned forms of hope.

If the sequence is handled correctly, the organization exits with something it did not previously possess: not competence necessarily (though miracles do occur) but rather permission, whether that’s to proceed, delay, blame constraints, or say that the decision was data-driven and stakeholder-informed and risk-adjusted and strategically aligned.

There are worse services to sell—and indeed, much of civilization consists in creating tolerable fictions through which necessary things can occur without everyone involved feeling too crudely exposed. Marriage does this—as does law, and finance, and amusement parks, and sugaring.

Hence why top shelf consultants are seldom sculpted from the purest minds in the room, who trend brittle usually and will suffer so much cognitive load when forced to inhabit excessive contradiction that past a certain bill rate it often proves deleterious to the engagement. The natural consultant will instead be nimble but not especially doctrinaire, socially sensitive without himself being needy, preternaturally fluent in euphemism without ever quite believing it, and can appreciate that certain truths are actionable only once costumed as consensus—the operative ideal is probably a mildly sociopathic high-verbal bisexual man or manlier sort of gay, hence Pete Buttigieg being who first comes to mind when you hear “consultant.”

The consultant understands that in large systems form is not the enemy of substance so much as how substance survives contact with status, fear, litigation, budget cycles, and the delicate egos of men with bonuses on the line.

The polished deck you get at the end may or may not change the company. But at least for one hour—under very expensive lighting—everyone knows where to stand.

I kicked ass at Deloitte—made manager at light speed.

Note, however, that this was not because of my “work”, which if I’m honest was never anything but acceptable and a lot of times pretty damn sloppy all considered.

I kicked ass because I handled the politics of it all spectacularly.

On my first major consulting engagement I came in with a battle-axe looking for some shit to do, and that little display of agency alone was enough to impress this Director who’d come out of poverty in Pakistan and had since garnered for himself a reputation for making lesser Senior Analysts have nervous breakdowns—except for this boy, it seems… at least not today.

I nail the engagement, and the Director tells me that henceforth he wants to book all my hours for his engagements and take me on as his right-hand man—which on the one hand I figure almost certainly means something closer to “Buttboy,” but if you think you’re too good to wipe the king’s ass, what right have you to be near power?

That was my legible path upward—the less legible one came instead from the wily foreign Jew I referred to as Shylock in The Goy Who Lived, but that’s a whole nother story we’re definitely not going into here. Suffice it to say he was a contractor who was subcontracting other contractors on various engagements and I helped get them through assorted red tape approaching HR without the [Contractor] sticker on my outlook profile.

The dude made a small fortune from it; I got my ass licked in front of every partner by an increasingly trusted SME with a burgeoning internal network. Thus, manager.

So just career-wise the rest of 2022 was pretty gravy.

Now ostensibly big thing that happened that year was that I finally left Aspire and moved into an entirely new tower at the very heart of Downtown—The Solaire; 22nd floor. Note that’s a condo, too, because as of Summer 2022 your hoary Uncle Walt at last became a homeowner.

Frankly though it all felt like a nothingburger—the new building was only a few blocks away from the last, and its layout essentially identical.

And by this point I wasn’t really trying to become the Unpacking Yuppie anymore, having instead gotten on something of a Hamilton kick which looking back was also quite gravy.

What’s a bit less gravy is what happened with Gretel.

In early summer, see, she’d just gotten rejected or w/e by this instagram deleuze meme page admin faggotron she was thirsting over for some reason whereas I myself was getting ghosted by a hitherto promising blondie on account of her pestiferous half-black bestie, and so I kind of just said Fuck It and was like yo Gret: let me fly you out for a week and smash.

Now the two of us hadn’t been super duper flirty or anything— I had her tits ofc but you know art hoes—and in general being German she would often get really autistic whenever I got especially swaggering in my advances and be like “I don’t even know what to say to that…”

That said we’d been a lot more bantery lately and giving each other lots of sexual / romantic advice so there was natural lubrication in that direction it seemed, so long story short chickie seemed super excited to come shoot guns in Flahrida and see aligators and also specifically go to like a basketball game in Miami (???) idk.

Some of you may be asking: why her?

idk. Like obviously I enjoy tall blonde cunts, and obviously conquering the most exacting and highest standards pain in the asshole evil bitch makes you best. Clearly also there’s an element of wanting to reclaim Natalie, and Gretel’s story is like Natalie in Dark Cabaret—raped at 18, hooked through early 20s, and most of you already know how this ends.

Anyway I got way too giddy about her coming and let my guard down before I fucked her.

On a voice call I was blathering about a chart I saw that showed the correlation between income and height, and mused to Gretel it might be worth it to get shin lengthening surgery to go from 6’0 → 6’3 when you compare the surgery cost to opportunity cost given that chart.

Dummkopf…

Even in another hemisphere I could hear her cunt dehydrate.

And whenever I relay this story to one of you foids I ALWAYS see that retarded little precognitive jiggle in your peepers telling you I’m Insecure(™) and so therefore ought to register as a threat / disgust signal to womyn everywhere which means any and all defection modes against me are totalistically and universally valid—and now I bet I’m Exhausting, huh?

Well, look, cumcunt—I’m entirely aware that 6’0 is a fine height, and don’t ackshully obsess over not being 7’0. What I DO OBSESS OVER is the fact that I as a sperg can’t even vocalize an optimization problem as thought experiment without your fuckbunny cuntlogic taking over everything and predicating major relationship decisions monofactorially on “Icks” like an 11yo girl when your age purportedly begins with a “3”—because that shit is hugely childish.

But yeah yeah yeah, I know: a man complaining about ANYTHING EVER makes him an incel bitter grievance loser worthless poopoo straight away and there’s nothing else to it and therapy grass normal… I get it, babygirl. Sure wouldn’t want to seem “entitled.”

therefore she was totalistically in the right to cancel for whatever reason she wants because muh choice muh maximalist optionalitymaximizing and if I’m annoyed even just about having to eat the cost of an intercontinental flight then I’m a disgusting low status unlovable incel.

Fine.

Except not two weeks later deleuze guy she ended up seeing stead of me dumps her to propose to some fat kike whereas now I’m intermittently inside and illegally serving alcohol to this:

So can we just as rightly call Gretel “bitter” or “aggrieved,” then, when she starts acting like Grimhilde and trying to convince me that some teenage girl has Poor People Hair out of what she herself later called jealousy and ressentiment over obviously having made the wrong choice due to an overly sensitive weather vane?

Most girls don’t ever narrate themselves as having made a bad decision romantically is the thing, and will essentially always just backsolve for a way to make everything that happens properly fated—but those women who are genuinely sentient? They have a much harder time with that, and Gretel actually was one of those birds I’m sorry to say.

Lyssa, happily for her, was not.

And the girl wasn’t dumb, mind—far from it. But you could tell she had a deeper shadow than most, and wouldn’t have had even the slightest idea how to delve down into it.

Her most distinctive quality was owning this enormous German Shepherd that was functionally the epicenter of her universe and made logistical shit far more onerous with her than it ever would be the next year dating a single mom. His fur would get everywhere and Beauregard would freak the fuck out—though typically Cricket would just try to cuddle him.

The pupper was terrified of both.

He’d been traumatized as a puppy.
When I asked Lyssa if she got him becau “Yup! u got it, lol…”

I learned her mom was a hooker—used to bring over Johns to rape and molest Lyssa when she was a little girl until she learned to defend herself from them. She also was in the running for the U.S. Olympic swim team, and as a preteen would support herself through drag racing.

Her last boyfriend had been some kind of bitcoin criminal she claimed never to have fucked and I guess ended up abandoning because he was trying to hurt her dog? Before that she’d been kept by a tech CEO with his own mini Hefner harem—and before that I guess she was dating some black trucker. Honestly a lot of her story didn’t make much sense.

I didn’t need it to.

I mean—does MY fucking story make sense?

Thing is Lyssa and I kind of just jumped into shit super fucking fast—as in I asked her to be my girlfren and we said I love you etc. I want to say first time the two of us were intimate.

Obviously this was all to make Gretel jealous. That’s not how it ended up—and it wasn’t a super deliberate thing—but I would have at least kept Lyssa as a concubine or something much longer first if I hadn’t still been smarting from the frau’s summer perfidy.

Obviously it had worked, and Lyssa herself somehow sensed that—while I slept she went through my phone and saw all the poison Gretel had spun about her. The next morning it read to me as paranoid at first, but it turns out Zoomettes have good instincts, and Gretel had been clever—planted class insecurities in me about whether Serious People would ever respect me with a girl like Lyssa that had started to sour things in registers I couldn’t even taste at first.

And so I confronted the frau on it, and long story short ended up having to yeet Gretel from my life for the next few months.

Thereafter Lyssa and I dated a few months, and it was genuinely really nice at first—she was far and away the most babyish girl I’ve dated overall, and it was edifying in a sense being able to feel like an actual Daddy for once in a manner more substantive than porn script. She was very set on marriage and wanted to have kids in 4-5 years but liked the idea of getting a surrogate for her babies so she could stay rail thin—sounded fine to me.

I took her on a lot of dates: escape rooms, the Eola picnic, and to the movies especially—we’d hit up the one right across the street from my new condo. I’d go there with Amanda sometimes too, who Lyssa didn’t mind me fucking though Amanda’s retarded boyfriend certainly did.

I started fucking Lyssa’s feet and mouth during my client standup calls—probably not the best idea, but none of them were important at the time.

She had me get a better dresser. Better sex toys to fuck her with. Took my kitties to the vet even though they didn’t need it because she insisted we could cure Cricket’s boogers.

Work started getting stressful—99% because they made me fly into Boston for a handful of client onsites when over the past few years basically all my extended interactions with people had involved Zoomettes I was penetrating. The whole idea seemed lowkey sort of likely to ruin everything, but I went along with it anyway because I wanted that promotion.

Lyssa helped me get some new business clothes for the trip at Men’s Warehouse—she was so cute in there hitting me with ties and shit telling me to stop being grumpie.

I started being mean to my baby—acting like the Unpacking Yuppie; always losing my temper.

Got annoyed at her in a sushi restaurant when she didn’t know what Ceteris Paribus meant and then barely cuddled her that night after sex; just went right back to work.

She asked to go get her phone charger from her car.

I sighed and rolled my eyes at her. Yeah—sure.

I walked down with her to the garage.

Lyssa got inside her car—and then she locked the door.

And then she started crying… and then backing up… and then after one short pained look at me drove out of the parking garage and my life never to text me again.

Alas, she completely forgot to block me on Snapchat where the next day I got to see the Boomer tech CEO’s collar around my babygirl’s throat .

Former prostitutes have a strange relationship to sequence.

Not all. Some remember it plainly enough: money, men, rooms, the old arithmetic, that familiar tedium of being wanted by men too visibly grateful for the privilege.

But memory is seldom permitted to remain so low—because “sold,” of course, feels so vulgar! And “chose” feels too exposed. “Needed” meanwhile, is undignified… and yet “enjoyed” is certainly impossible, at least in public.

“Survived” works a bit better; “was pressured” better still.

And “trafficked?”— Best of all.

Of course, at times the boyfriend really WAS a pimp, and sometimes the pimp really WAS a trafficker—there probably are a lot of bitches out there whose choices aren’t anything BUT arranged in advance by male violence that remains in negative space.

But there other times the boyfriend was just a boyfriend.

A worthless one, perhaps—ugly in the soul; happy to let her do what she was already doing if it bought coke or rent or the fantasy that neither of them had quite fallen. He becomes a pimp later, once the story needs a cleaner division of labor: he wanted, she was used; he arranged, she endured; he sinned, she survived.

And who can blame her, really?

The older story leaves her standing there with money in her hand and memory in her mouth, forced to account for every moment she smiled, each man she called Daddy, every night that didn’t feel quite like coercion but not quite like freedom either.

No one wants that version. Certainly not the family—and sure as shit not the next boyfriend! Definitely not the nonprofit. Often not even the girl herself once enough life has passed to make the old self feel less like an ancestor than hostile witness.

And so the girl who sold herself becomes the girl who was sold; the man who failed her becomes the one who trafficked her. What had once been a degrading economy of small choices becomes, in recollection, one single dark machine.

Still, something is lost.

The night Lyssa left I had Amanda come over and puke on my dick crying.

The next night it was actually a German girl, weirdly enough—I asked if she knew Gretel, and she laughed and said some shit about Bavarians I very definitely do not remember. Main thing with this bih tho is she wouldn’t let me take pictures, so it was almost like what’s the point? But slim pickings that night, so fine.

Next night after that it was some Zoomette femme lesbian who fucks guys for money and whose bulldyke beaner girlfriend kept texting every five seconds needing to know she was okay which totally ruined it so I said Fuck Off.

Next night after that: Dulcinea, who ended up becoming a mini-Diana/Helen type friendgirl in my early late 2022 / early 2023 before being institutionalized and telling me I’m on the verge of psychosis as well. But Dulcinea actually was besties with the girl who ran the local Jordan Peterson meetup group who I’d been lowkey wanting to smash since I moved here and even managed to score me a date with said girl, but in practice she wouldn’t get a white pedicure like I told her and just said LOL so I never followed up.

Anyway you get the picture—
I eventually just cash out my entire 401k and start flying bitches in from all over the country. And obviously sometimes I still fuck local girls too, but by and large it’s easier to just get what I want a la carte at this point and I have the dosh to burn at least on paper.

One of them is Bri’ish and hasn’t showered when she comes in to get fucked and smells absolutely wretched so I kind of just send her away. Another is a hippie dippie acupuncture bih from PA who I fuck with an extremely dull bread knife to her throat and she acts like it’s the most erotic thing ever because girls are silly billies and then by noon the next day has agreed to be my gf and move in with me only to while we’re asleep that evening sneak out and text me later comparing me to Dahmer over something that objectively was totally retarded.

Point is that essentially these are my Walt Diddy months; I’m constantly finding new chickies to fly out—even when one is sitting right in front of me bored.

Meanwhile I don’t really leave the house all that much at all now, except to have Amanda drive me to Walgreens for Adderall + get hippie food + fuck her—and even the cutest girls I fly out have to constantly nag me to take them around Eola or for Thai food or w/e because generally I just want to like fuck em → work → fuck em all day.

That said I do fly to Boston for a few more business trips, and several of those bleed back into time in NYC, which feels a bit like being on Addy 24/7.

This shit I think just kind of nukes most of my real verve and passion for the job.

It’s less the breakup frankly than having to pay attention to whether my pants have wrinkles constantly knowing that shit precognitively overdetermines the result of every single discussion I have with that one persnickety Vietnamese bih… and that imposes for me about 10000x much background cognitive load as anything done from my Lair at Solaire.

Obviously I’m promoted, but at this point no longer especially care to be.

I start talking to Gretel again—she calls high on coke when I’m blasting addy and apologizes for being a cunt about Lyssa and canceling our trip. I still have my feelings hurt and so say I would only be friends with her again if I can stretch her little kraut asshole and punish her or something to that effect. She giggles and says something like give her tiiiiime but after this does act a lot more flirty generally and soon I have plans to fly her out in February.

I’m really excited to show her Eola—haven’t walked it in ages.

In January I get her suicide message.

No performer ruled the last half-decade quite like the remote job stacker.

See, before the plague years, the office had been useful chiefly as a device for making underutilization visible in ways everyone agreed not to mention; a man might spend nine hours straight in a cum-colored cubicle forced into pants that make his balls itch and produce maybe a third of that in genuinely useful labor. The rest disappeared into sanctioned motions: walking to refill water, waiting for a spreadsheet to open, staring at a PDF and pretending to read it while thinking about the reddit post you’re going to make that night, sneaking glances into Tiffany’s cube whenever she kicks off her flats, laughing at the director’s retarded joke, and nodding through meetings that could have been phone calls that could have been emails that could have been pings.

All that was experienced as work mostly because the room said it was.

Remote employment weakened that spell—though not all at once. The old corporate dialect persisted, and calendars still pulsed with color. But the desk was now a private desk, and the kitchen now a private kitchen, and the dead hour after a status call no longer had to be spent pretending to review documentation while a woman in HR clicked past with yogurt. A great deal of work, it turned out, had been posture.

Job stackers were often framed as insurgents against this sclerotic order, and most of us very deliberately aestheticized ourselves as such—including, obviously, moi—but at the end of the day we were ultimately just its most agentic and energetic players, with the job stacker simply taking seriously what corporate life had eternally implied: that a role is not a soul, a title not a covenant, and employment in the knowledge sector less a matter operatively speaking of continuous and timely production than maintaining a sufficiently convincing relation to expected availability. All we did is optimize around de facto market conditions rather than fake gay poopoo Vaish-accepted ones.

To pull this off required a skillset that looked a lot like deception to the uninitiated, but in practice was far closer to repertory—because the job stacker, at his core, is a bard, succeeding mostly in proportion to how adroitly he maneuvers within the corporate dialects of multiple employers in parallel with careful consideration to each one’s unique and esoteric theology of import dictating who can and cannot be ignored.

Thus Job A might require crisp updates before lunch while Job B responds better to leisurely confidence in the late afternoon. One manager might want all obstacles surfaced early; another experience all obstacles as accusation. One team might want cameras on, smiles bright, and anti-vaxxers side-eyed; another to masturbate on mute together trusting the deliverable to appear by Thursday under the correct filename.

The competent stacker learned these differences as well as any unstacked worker, but instead of internalizing them as ontology would fit them together like Tetris parts.

And so at one firm he’d be steady hand; at another, the overqualified specialist pursuing “focus;” at a third, the presumably autistic IC whose ostensible lack of ambition read mostly as maturity. And note that none of these identities would be 100% false—at least if you did it right, because unadulterated falsehood is brittle as shit; useful personas have enough truth in them to move without creaking and sufficient interpretive slack to grow into them to whatever extent might prove necessary.

More than anything else, though, the success of the enterprise depended on the proper calibration of visibility to management via response cadence.

Answer too quickly everywhere and one became visible and overexposed; too slowly and he became a problem. Volunteer once and they remembered; do it twice and they might start to believe too much in your potential, which is among the more expensive compliments an employer can pay. Better to be clean, responsive, moderately helpful, and above all highly forgettable—to let the ball return to another court perfumed in professionalism; sound occupied without sounding strained.

A job stacker with shitty timing didn’t last, and neither did one who mistook laziness for strategy, because the game most definitely wasn’t about doing nothing—that just produces texture you don’t need: missed details, stale language, managerial bitchiness, not good! The game was doing exactly enough, in precisely the right register for the firm’s attention to glide past without ever snagging—and there was a real elegance to that when executed properly. Boxes checked, questions answered, meetings attended when necessary, conflicts smoothed to smiles, cameras managed, and all requested artifacts delivered on time with the humdrum gray solidity of adult male competence.

A clumsy stacker degraded the room like a drunk and poxy hooker—fucked up names, missed obvious dependencies, arrived breathless to calls, mismatched acronym and fiefdom; he’d let one role bleed into another and in doing so would reveal that sacred mechanism all the rest of us depended on for lucre!

But a good stacker?

He preserved the magic by mastering the canon of each corporate cinematic universe and genuinely respecting its internal theology—never forgot which costume belonged in which room; which director used “north star” earnestly (or God help him, “heuristics”) instead of defaulting to “guiding principle”; or which calendar block could be moved vs. lied around vs. treated as sacrament because some local deity once attached itself.

There was an ironic humility in all this, of course, because the stacker could never demand fully to be seen, as if ever seen too clearly he would also fail. He therefore had to become a sort of corporate negative space: present enough to draw salary, absent enough to avoid significance. All the traits ambitious young men are normally told to cultivate—initiative, ownership, leadership presence, hunger—needed to be rationed delicately or suppressed altogether. One could keep some cherished pet role, perhaps, where a little more excellence was allowed to show, but elsewise excellence was only a heat source, and heat attracted eyes.

The office, oldheads recall, rewarded theatrical overwork—late lights, emails sent at 9:47 PM, visible stress; an infinitely deep dive. The job stacker had to instead wade through several shallow realities at once without becoming too real in any of them.

That, of course, was intolerable to all the fags who unironically still believed in work as identity—who imagined loyalty cut both ways because their badge still scanned, and saw community in a dusty fridge of LaCroix. But the stacker’s sin was never that he “betrayed the corporation;” only that he treated the corporation’s own governing principles as reciprocal instead of frenching the boot like an Indian.

If employment was transactional, the stacker transacted. If labor was modular, the stacker modularized himself—agentically. If the system paid out functionally for appearance, risk absorption, responsiveness, and exactly enough output to sustain managerial belief, the stacker provided all that—but no more than the contract had any power to compel, and if you think him obliged to provide even the slightest jot more than that, you should frankly fuck off back to England, the Rhineland, or whichever malodorous subcontinental poo-port from whence you came.

The job stacker was merely a performer who had learned the audience’s threshold for disbelief and optimized around it to get rich; a Penn Jillette of VBA.

In a healthier and somewhat less homosexual order such a fellow would probably have built something visible with his hands or commanded other men openly or inherited some small but dignified station in a legible hierarchy.

In the Covid order, such a man instead maintained four Slack icons, three dental plans, multitudinous incompatible mission statements, and an unreadable expression listening for his name on two concurrent standup calls he couldn’t afford to miss.

Corporate America had spent decades turning men into roles, and the job stacker aced the casting call.

Gretel would have loved the early Walt Right—so much; it would have given her everything she loved about r/RedScarePod without any of the gay shit.

Not infrequently I wonder if starting it just a year earlier might have saved her life.

But in another sense it couldn’t have happened without her—because the entire Walt Right is on some level just a chalkline drawn around one specific version of Gretel’s memory; around especially that conversation I had the day she died with her instagram friend Selene trying my best to get at least SOME pussy out of this situation.

And I wouldn’t get Selene’s soft pink ladylike princess art girl pussy for a whole 18 months—but I would get inside eventually, which of course is when negative space exploded in on itself.

But she’d keep me at arms length until then… and entirely for the best I’d wager, because for much of 2023 I was kind of just unraveling in lots of ways and becoming somewhat disordered.

Not financially, happily—I ended up milking Deloitte like a cow on short term disability and then started job stacking bullshit actuarial jobs in the vein of my first Orlando position pretty aggressively just to have enough dosh to keep flying chickies out. And don’t get me wrong, I still burned through my income like a madman, but I was generally quite good in this period about dead reckoning overall.

What I mean more is unraveling in terms of losing the ability to diachronically surf some coherent wavelength of reality and maintain executive functioning and especially a contiguity of self and one’s surroundings that enables long-term aspiration and coherent strategy.

First to notice this was Adelaide—single mom I fucked only a few weeks after the departure—who ackshully saw me have sort of a psychotic break during our first weekend together as a week-long bf/gf thing as at this point I was starting to spend so much time in StableDiffusion making AI porn I was starting to see basically all digital media with an “AI texture”—probs in part thanks to sleep deprivation but even on that note I think AI has a lot more of a tie to the collective unconscious than people realize. Now of course for her part Adelaide thought it was all demonic or something because of the six fingers and toes thing but idk women… like her own big toes were kind of too big which lowkey registered as demonic to me so

That said Dulcinea noticed it during her own mental break as well.
She kind of disappeared after that though so I never had the chance to follow up.

Rose noticed it slightly less than the others by dint of both A) being an autistic 18 year old girl with less experienced judgment and B) having slightly woken me up from the fugue for a while because chickie was just that kawaii—for her I was honestly a fairly decent daddy for like three or four weeks, and it wasn’t I think until I realized she wouldn’t marry me that summer instead of going to gay college that I returned to jerking off to AI porn on the shitter instead of fucking the hot barely legal sitting next to me because my mind was just that starved for more infinitely iterative causeways of dopamine.

By midyear the AI addiction shifted probably favorably towards a new addiction of scamming hundreds of girls on SeekingArrangement for feet pics. This became hugely compulsive over time because of how easily I could get great custom shots using nothing but a silver tongue, and had a certain Promethean vibe to it I experienced as deeply heroic.

Then I came back into the physical world a bit as my interest shifted toward this really specific fixation on sodomizing single moms—and it just so happens that the fourth or fifth of those single moms was Morticia, who after sodomizing her on the day after Thanksgiving I want to say almost immediately became one of the greatest and deepest loves of my life.

See, Morticia was a solvent for my rage; an—I won’t say feast because that makes her sound fat and she was practically anorexic, but maybe we’ll say splendid dessert plate— for me to devour; an affective ecosystem that could handle nearly anything I threw at her and I myself was wholly suited to metabolize; a high openness / high neuroticism 115 IQ ISFJ neurotype that was functionally exactly how Marge Simpson would act as a Gen Z goth girl.

Morticia gave me a routine—nagged me to get out of the house at a point I barely ever did.

But I did then.

I took her to a lot of fucking places: tons of escape rooms, Disney, Eola picnic, put-putt, we even did Christmas in Savannah together and it didn’t feel like rerunning all the various times I went there with Nat at all but seemed more like she was inscribing it with her own aesthetic signature nothing like Natalie’s sickly-sweet; Morticia was blood and smoke (but also in a really cute and girly housewifey way just with also an edgy krampus knee tattoo).

She encouraged my writing a lot—first on r/RedScarePod, and more importantly on that same Christmas Day of 2023 when I resolutely carried my laptop into the hotel bathroom to start my maiden essay here on Substack: How The Alt Right Won.

Covid changed the world in a lot of ways, but perhaps the most impactful was making it hugely easy for high verbal neurotypes to live purely in the world of signals and frames—or at least always drift back there when wanted, which in practice tends to lower the melting point of basically all human cognition quite a lot.

See, the more you rely on frame games—and better you get at employing them—the more you’ll just naturally find yourself in situations where you NEED to deploy them, either against those of others or because only one framed modality feels especially dignified to be in, until you’re drifting asymptotically toward the life of Dick Morris.

There’s also a real danger in getting overly habituated to living in pure signal—incentives, enforcement, probabilistic inference—when it’s ackshually for the most part just plain niggerish noise that’s the true spice of life, and leaning into that what lets neurotypicals normiemaxx and deploy diagonal arbitrage strategies wholly unconsciously in smaller-scale more personalized markets without getting ambiently punished. And of course it will all still FEEL very gay and arbitrary—but that need itself is also just kind of neurotype tautology, right?

We NEED things to be a little gay and arbitrary to keep the battery charged on our hedonic treadmill, or else the factory gets flooded with honey in the manner of a cereal commercial on 2006 Nickelodeon and before you know it everyone you know is a species of Ottoman Sultan whose executive functioning has crumbled into nothing via overhabituated stay in frictionless cognitive grooves wherein he can’t fathom why anyone given the choice wouldn’t spend the totality of life in his harem eating baklava from the anus of 11 year-old Circassian Sheperd’s daughters, such that the instant he makes any good faith attempt to reform the emptire that has his hands hit paperwork he immediately poops his pants and starts crying and so ends up with his eyes cut out and wiener excised by the gay eunuch byzantine deep state and it turns out his mom was in on it too cause sometimes even a bitch has had enough.

Now clearly the world’s retreated A LOT from post-scarcity derealized funny munny and cunny and started to impose a certain discipline on things to gradually roll back the New Normal and ensure we can’t quite scrape Sultanate of Women failure modes.

That said there still remain loads of more local and contained dopaminergic plumbing failures inhibiting specific skill flow vectors most direly that will for sure take a few more years yet to unravel—especially in Zoomers and perhaps even more so certain flavors of asymmetrically agentic Late Millennial Puer Aeternus.

Substack became my life in January of 2024.

Ssince then I’ve come to experience Meatspace as increasingly sort of a gay and faggoty distraction, and Orando mostly as the space between Solaire and Walgreens and occasionally also World of Beer whenever one of my internet frens decides to come visit me.

The relationship with Morticia should have lasted. She easily could have metabolized my narcissism—would have been comfortable being the little woman of a Bad Man so long as i kept taking her for froyo and never let her catch me cheating; such carelessness!

It wouldn’t have been possible not to cheat when Rebecca came back, of course—our original dyad had always seemed idyllic to me.

And likewise I needed to fuck Alyssa at some point—and obviously Selene.

Probably I was weak to concede monogamy to Morticia in the first place given how many ripening fruits were like to fall into my lap 2024?

It’s a game we could play forever I suppose. What really matters isn’t ever the girl so much as the solvent: Substack in 2024 gave me something similar to Deloitte in 2022 and building enormous triceps in 2020 that got me out of a cumfugue through adventure and novelty.

All those things are fonts of vitality—puss comes to them—but when you look at puss directly too long she always just calls you an incel at some point, and then you’re back to preparing a slide deck in wrinkly pants while some Vietnamese bitch frowns at you.

If you were born with a neurotype to chop up Neanderthals you ought not circle lakes, anon.

When I first exploded onto Substack in early 2024 a small cadre of peepo—the most prominent names among them being , , , , , , , , , and the rest of you fags know who you are—were able to grok what I was doing more or less immediately on account of not being idgits.

Most of you did not—which is perfectly fine! To be fair, it takes a very high Openness to appreciate Walt Bismarck. And usually you didn’t even need to Get It for It to work.

Some of you though are frankly kind of Spiritually Nebraskan, and so urgently require a bit of a dressing-down. Let’s review:

• The metadiscursive strictures of your Freshman comp class are not ontologically binding, and a lot of you Boomer and Gen X geezers in particular really need to internalize that the Anglo-Saxon writerly convention of refusing any cross-contamination between essayistic and literary (and especially diaristic) registers like an autistic kid who shits his pants whenever his beans and carrots touch does not really exist in other languages and has vanishingly little purchase even with most English-language writers born after ~1985. But you oldsters (and also low openness types more generally) will act as though this barrier equates to clean epistemics when in reality it’s just a pigheaded petit bourgeois naive realist grandma-bumpkinism basically any educated Frenchman would roll his eyes at.

• Essentially no one changes his mind as a result of syllogistic argument in the manner of a five paragraph essay, because beliefs, ideas, opinions, and intuitions are without exception non-rational and mostly precognitive assessments of threat, physical / psychic / social contamination risk e.g. disgust + mate viability e.g. genetic fitness + ingroup / outgroup status commingled with self-deceptively earnest and self-serving rationalizations in favor of the objective desirability of one’s own material interests and positional status advancement.

  • Thus “arguments” are a hugely fake and gay waste of time and to whatever extent anyone is moved on anything ever it’s always obliquely through art / rhetoric that fingerfucks their amygdala into an entirely new response (often through semiotic sleight of hand—the characteristic Waltine stratagem) or on a more cognitive level recalibrates perceived incentive gradients.

  • Thus essays that just say HURR DURR HERE ARE MY OPINIONS :D THEY ARE RIGHT without attacking the issue from any clever or interesting angle to molest / unsettle your reader (like one frequently achieves by way of e.g. a semi-diaristic aside that leaves a conclusion in negative space for a reader to complete himself and so internalize more palpably) are for the most part just worthless and masturbatory dreck. And if you’re gooning I won’t judge, but if you’re writing publicly it seems kind of gay to just be knowingly ineffective.

• Demanding that someone have a “platform” or “ideology” or acting like they’re “not a serious thinker” because they aren’t hawking some perfectly coherent and exhaustive Aquinas manifesto / Buttigieg brochure is unless the dude specifically is a royal pretender in an absolute monarchy kind of a fag move.

  • Unless you have a direct line to a major pol’s desk and clout with party-level bigwigs your “platform” doesn’t matter one iota because IRL negotiations are always ad hoc and slipshod and no one man’s platform ever implemented… which means of course the value of a political theorist consists less in how well his proposals fit together as a grand syllogistic cathedral serving some monotonic totalizing vision (also notice it’s always and exclusively cradle Prots who went Catholic as adults who demand that from you) but in how individually useful his frames + (if instrumentally actionable) object-level proposals are.

• People who think I’m “status-obsessed” unironically have Down Syndrome, and are almost certainly po-faced Teutons with a 37 Openness who violently expel diarrhea everywhere whenever forced to bear witness to some utterance in the subjunctive mood.

  • Because look, Heinz: the trvth doesn’t matter and “arguments” sure as shit don’t matter, because women and normalfags especially but even us spergy dudes parse EVERYTHING you say in accordance with animalistic precognitive status/threat/health metrics, which means that should you ever give low status incel dorkus something-wanter-not-haver empty belly faggot LOSER literally everything you say gets dismissed ipso facto and the normalfaggot will parse everything that comes out of your mouth / pen as cranky or disgruntled—especially any statement like this one here that taxonomizes how the whole thing works, which insults the burgher king’s sensibilities that Trvth is something hard and legible and Nebraskan that just so happens to line up splendid conveniently with whichever aesthetic regime his own amygdala-bitch finds smexy / coo.

  • If Wally B is “Status-Obsessed” it’s because a lot more fundamentally he is EPISTEMICS-OBSESSED and refuses to let obscurantist semiotic anthrax get deployed against his epistemic standing by WASP-AWFL snowvalue orders without pointing out precisely what they’re doing and exactly how it works, even when “It” is only partially conscious and that very shit-eating earnestness is precisely what gives the tactic its power.

I would sooner die a eunuch caked in blood and shit being totalistically scourged like the Omelas Child than ever submit to the AWFL-WASP aesthetic order of flattened photonegative obligate-autogaslighting snowvalues.

But my preference, clearly, will eternally be to secure the dignity of an orthogonal aesthetic order in Waltine Lakevalues—except unlike the rest of you chodes I won’t try to fight the AWFLs with FEMINISM BAD essays that don’t add anything to what your eighth grandpa would have said on the matter.

Because before I was in polemics I was in job stacking—
and before job stacking I was in consulting—
and before that I was in Disney Women.

And whichever costume I might be wearing at the time, I’ll always be a performer.

And performance, recall, is neither Trvth nor Fraud;
though there are times when that third thing can’t exactly be called Play, either.

I’m leaving Orlando.

I certainly will miss the place—clearly I’m far too much the sentimentalist not to.

I’ll miss the women, the rumination, the melodramatic high and lows, the hypomanic rejuvenative frames, the sitting around in a desiccated frame trying to aestheticize dysfunction, that glorious feeling of rubbing my balls on someone’s face, that self-pitying moralistic fury of getting someone else’s balls rubbed on my face, the warmth of single mom sphincter and vanilla-skin taste of Disney princess soles, the zero state income tax, The Aspire, that movie theater across from Solaire I used to take my girls that I had secks with, my four plate deadlift, my $45 oxtail uber eats, blowjobs during Zoom calls, the gay guys who tell you your shoe’s untied with a dehumanizing evil fag smirk, the pirate dinner theater I took Mara in 2021, the black police woman who said I had a nice ass in 2021, my Italian New York Boomer lady barber of 4 years (don’t know her name), the reader’s amygdala, and above all Lake Eola.

It’s been a wild couple loops, frens; I hope at least you’ve liked the ride along the way.

And if you haven’t? Then I guess there isn’t much that’s left to say to you, but

Have a magical day!

—

In less winsome moments men experience this tendency like pavement turning into quicksand mid-stride; the little bitch will call your bad luck and fuckups Fate, your self-mastery narrative Cope, and fail to take accountability for anything, until soon that pavement left behind you is quicksand too and according to her always has been.

Yet in its best moments? Imagine an autotune package that functions simultaneously as hagiographer, propaganda minister, and fixer—and in each case True Believer in the Myth of your quintessential and indelible greatness, which in practice ackshully kind of does have a remarkable way of impelling men to inhabit that better version of themselves bae imagines—a virtuous cycle that almost makes it all true retroactively.

Such is the paradox at the heart of feminine desire: women mistrust and at times seem rather to despise male agency—its ugliness, insecurity, social indelicacy—preferring almost without exception the dignified remove of an unbothered prince; by default, Ashley always trounces Rhett.

Nothing in life is by default.

There are wars. Bankruptcies. Times men actually ought to be bothered—and besides, the world has only so many Ashleys! Who at the end of the day, quite frankly, isn’t good for all that much save specifically being unbothered, which means in any story with a plot Rhett will always conquer Scarlett eventually and pull her into his frame.

And yes, it has to be Conquer—without that Ashley glides to victory each time and it’s a shitty and awful story. Literally no chick GWTW fan has ever rooted for Ashley over Rhett, even though the more options she has in life the more she’d always choose him over Rhett IRL, because the thing is that for Rhett to win there needs to be toothy conflict—either in the world or Scarlett or both—that let a Monstrous man become genuinely more erotically compelling than a Beautiful one and overpower whichever part of her finds him Scawy / Gross with the part of her that just plain Needs him.

And what’s fascinating is that once he does that, he’s no longer Scawy / Gross anymore—which mechanically spergs might attribute to the paleolithic war-wife getting horny in her cuntcage, but you’ll likewise find yourself acting at least a little bit more coo / Ashleylike now simply by dint of owning her pussypie, which is part of the dynamic that in her Pussfugue btw is experienced always as ~discovery of his ackshual essence.

Beauty and the Beast, of course, is perhaps the most idealized version in the canon of how girls understand this myth, with basically every trashy smut novel that’s been written demonstrating sluttier gradations. But it’s always the same story.

Thing is the way it works most of the time is a guy who’s very genuinely a little sleazy or performative will by way of manipulative and pushy tactics get inside chickie and impose his will on her with most of the time a lazy extractive manchild self-deluding soft narc intent... only then she treats him as the best version of himself and figures out the story that makes his Myth coo in a way that honors their putative dyad and she’ll vehemently insist is his ~Essence... which I guess in full fairness to tidders, it probably *is* a woman’s Genuinely Held Belief in a man’s Essence—
🎵Why won’t he beeeee the king I know he is ???🎵
🎵 …the king I see insiiiiiiiiiiiiiide!🎵
—that makes a nigga have his Simba stop eating bugs moment most reliably.

And so there really is a manner in which it can simultaneously be understood as both Discovery for her and Self-Mastery for him.

BUT you do have to realize that like all biological systems it’s a feedback loop, where e.g. she inspires the right kind of Conquest from him and so doesn’t default to her Contextual Ashley —> then in Taking her (sexily or elsewise) he honors his masculine Self-Mastery narrative not by forcing her to accept that he used to be shitty or w/e but through her precognitive Pussmagic + his own more suave deportment following coitus —> everything about him smells more precognitively smexy to her now —> both let him be vulnerable in a way that lets her help craft narratives where he was always ~perfect that he ambiently comes to inhabit although not in a super deliberate autistic way usually but more naturally and mythically.

Since it’s a story he genuinely wants to inhabit and cohere with his own narrative, this in a way is (assuming the dyad is durable) actually far more protective of his dignity than a strictly transactional mechanistic self-improvement frame, because she’s more or less throwing pixie dust on him to confer some of her Intrinsically Valuable Energy which is because he captured her in the antecedent frame but shhhhh don’t ruin it!

Point is that’s how it goes in real life—or should, ideally.

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Stories are different.

For instance in girl-coded stories they always make Rhett way more Ashleyish than he should be at the start as the text is capturing from a prospective read post-Cavepuss retcon that gets applied after the ravishing and which doesn’t have Rhett experienced as genuinely unsavory or threatening in any way.

Now more porny smut novels likely take it in the other direction to a cartoonish level because that fetishized beanflicking shit is probs a lot easier for women to handle tbh than a realisitc account in the middle of the gradient which would have him as the man truly starts (not end, but start) which is going to be both genuinely predatory and a bit disgusting to her (in a way she can eroticize as a self-harm thing e.g. being ravaged by the brute but still) or will involve a woman cucking her bf under more mundane non-LARPy circumstances that chicks don’t want to engage with I imagine as it would make them feel guilty since in practice they’re kind of just Gray Area’d out of dying relationships by rakish guys literally all the time.

That said once it starts it usually will take on a more mutualistic less hunter-y vibe where she’s metabolized the Scawy / Gross stuff and lies about the old guy being Bad or Gross as she develops the right narrative for newfag.

Point is a girl story needs to land somewhere that coheres before it ties out as women are constantly back-projecting moral frames that fit the present moment’s lived reality, which means in turn that it just doesn’t make sense to tell one without starting baked into that whole Ashleyish-Rhett retcon, because the way womanly cognition works 99% of the time is Whatever Happened Was ~Fated, and so they won’t enjoy the story half as much sans felt phenomenology of autonarration, and so the experience for male audiences will be a lot of times be that it feels vaguely fuguey or uncanny in a dishonest way (like Rhett is way too polite).

So what about boy-coded romances?

Main difference is it always foregrounds male agency and is usually lowkey kind of agency porn if anything. It will show the hero fucking up and failing a lot of times, but that is honestly just fuel for future badass moments in a boy-coded narrative because he can just e.g. quote his first humiliation ironically.

The canonical departure from reality in boy-coded narratives I’d say is that especially in recent works the protagonist is seldom half as rapey and manipulative and selfish and disinterested as men start out with a woman when capable of getting laid.

This is one way men often do the retcon thing tho to be fair since when you pull a girl into your frame and fuck a bit of oxytocin in her the inherent adversarial charge often dies down a bit such that you can be more gay. But usually at first there’s a bit of an epoch where’ll you need to “Break Her In” so to speak and act a bit more like a dick.

Alas, this is something the average nigga (not me bc I’m a pig but normies for sure) seems to primarily enjoy inhabiting only in a non-limerent high options fuckboy context that may bleed into a relationship but to an extent a man does feel limerent (usually in low optionality eras or with a Lass Above His Station) he’ll typically resent chicks for any expectation that he not be so, whereas when he is high optionality he’s usually just not super limerent himself usually and treats girls kind of like very fun pets to play with but not anything transcendental.

This most boy-coded romances are fairly unrealistic in their own way given that structurally even older ones will just always let a guy simp more than he’d get away with IRL since that plus agency are the two biggest man cummy-sources.

Oh, and another big one that jumps out—

Male romances tend to have scenes where the female characters explicitly praise male-coded achievement or will flamboyantly react to a man’s Ascension with visible fuck me / doe eyes in a way that rarely happens IRL since chickies will usually side-eye you for being “insecure” at the sign of any visible effort and generally just always have to pickle shit in fake moralfaggotry.

Now to be fair—married women having already been Conquered will on most occasions have more sympathy for a non-Ashleyish dude given they’ve themselves already been pulled into some nigga’s higher-friction male frame—though generally most married women mentally emasculate other Types of Guy besides her hubs so it’s kind of an identitarian thing in practice.

Whereas with single women it seems the more sheltered from proper hardship and higher optionality you get—e.g. younger, thinner, whiter, more neurotypical, more urban, etc. the tastes get more and more Ashleyish (or you could say Legolas instead of Aragorn) which makes perfect sense givent n that ecology masculinity qua itself is next to useless and cognitively fem pete davidson / john mulaney types are the operative top dogs.

So point is it’s usually these movies have a girl who isn’t like older / mexican / poor (obv they’d all choose Rhett day 1) getting impressed by a guy’s hierarchical climb as she would be but a post-scarcity apex sexual capital white filly who tbf it’s true Zoomettes are a lot more status-driven than Millennials and far less moralistic but even then they always come up with some aestheticized higher order shroud to throw around hypergamy / status choice about whose art is purer, who is cringe etc.

And even then they get bored pretty easily as the only thing they have a privation of is privation, which means IRL at least you usually just shouldn’t care about them.

When a girl gives herself to a man her basic sense of dignity as a sexual selector compels her to believe that she recognized something timeless in him—that beneath all the confusion and vulgarity and cum had always existed some deeper shape; some latent nobility just awaiting proper revelation. And so desire edits, affection revises, and perhaps just a bit of wishful thinking helps a story gather around the ending.

And that story needs to feel inevitable in retrospect. They need to feel that their love revealed something that isn’t contingent or provisional and in some deep sense Ought to be that way—can’t bear the thought of themselves as a predictable mechanistic actor falling through incentive gradients under conditions of uncertainty and market pressure like some little homo economicus bagatelle ball in a sundress.

No—chickie wants destiny.

And we men hate this, because as direct causal actors we understand—all too well, and often pretty painfully—just how contingent we really are.

We know the degree to which masculinity is assembled—everyone’s.

No, the deltas you observed in junior year of high school specifically are not objectively more “true” or “honest” or consonant with genetic fitness so much as the result of higher order asymmetries compounded through path-dependence around e.g. on who had an older brother or who was old for their class or whose parents made them play sports.

Yeah I know your cunny says Cope and will always side with whoever wins regardless; and that’s fine bih because I plainly won a hell of a lot more in the long run. My only point here was that most masculine development happens as a result of peer group enculturation—unconsciously, ambiently, and automatically—in channels you didn’t even have access to at the time, which meant the process was illegible and you never saw all the times of these dudes made utter asses of themselves because men (all men, yes) need to iterate and experiment and see what works.

Then once adequately seasoned most of us will in some way perform Ashleyness for you—some a lot more consciously than others, who will instead internalize their fellatio of power as self-evidently Good—to make ur splendid yummy sweet pussypuss wet and juicy but also: EVERY MAN IS A BOOGER EATING INCEL on SOME level, and needs to have that knocked out of him by other lads as a fundamental part of civilization that you sweet and beautiful beanie babies really ought not even be privy to, as I think we all need to relearn proper deportment again, men and women, just to remember how to be classy and come off nicely with people of a different cognitive style in some container I suspect you wouldn’t see as “artificial” in the slightest.

Speaking of—don’t ever think of it as “guys being performative” per se so much as The Unfair Sex learning to hold in affective flatulence for everyone’s benefit.

That said? Every man has had those moments here and there where some woman saw something in him before he himself could—something embarrassing and premature and perhaps a little bit delusional, but still potent, and a possibility; a shape; some steadier and taller version of himself she’d treated as though already present.

And often he grows into that.

Not because “Fate” exists as such—don’t flatter yourself, babe—but rather because we men are vain creatures, and disappointing the sweet baby who sees enough greatness in us to eat our cum and cook us dindin each night is unbearable.

So perhaps women require their little stories for a reason—perhaps a civilization can’t survive if everybody experiences love as naked transaction or contingency.

Somebody has to throw velvet over the machinery and quietly insist the Beast was always a prince—that the dangerous man secretly noble, that suffering meant something, that love uncovers rather than just bargains. Women volunteered for that job many millennia ago, and I can’t say I envy them for it.

And so maybe this, then, can be as close to peace as the sexes get:

She calls it destiny, and he self-mastery; both quietly suspect the other one’s coping. Thankfully both of them are right about that often enough to stay in love.

But “Midget” is totally its own thing. It’s funny and snappy; people love to say midget. Also the midget fights, and the midget fucks—and everyone knows that, hence him being the star of his own eponymous genres of wrestling and porn.

Like just answer in your gut:
Would it be easier to fight Peter Dinklage or Wee-Man?

See what I mean? Midget owns the frame.

Identifying as a Little Person is like calling yourself an incel.

Still don’t believe me?

“Black” is a horrid name for a race.

Not because of anything wrong with the pigment itself, but because blackness will always code to European-derived peoples as evil, chthonic, chaotic. When white people hear “black” we all think at least briefly and precognitively of night, danger, ambiguity—and impenetrable forests, long winters, and diverse cultural gangbangers, and just given how blacks talk about code switching some of them pretty obviously experience all this as something they need to work around constantly.

“Negro” is a much more dignified word—and yes, also just the latinate variant, but that itself already does half the work just by synergizing perfectly with their quasi-roman naming conventions e.g. Marcus. Thus hearing “Negro” one thinks of men in suits holding beanpies and rifles staring out a window… and also just the culture in America that blacks built here as its own ontologically sovereign thing and not tied to Africa or global blackness under a resolution that’s never quite clear and involves a lot of shapeshifting from the global diaspora that often works against the Negro’s benefit

Negro is objectively just a much more civilized and respectable frame to fall into however you slice it. Calling yourself black is like calling yourself an Orc—it just foregrounds the chthonic flesh pit aesthetic and makes you register at first glance as an oppositional creature of squalor and ressentiment embarrassingly overindexed on one component of phenotype in a world where even genetically proximate Nigerians and Jamaicans are eager to distance themselves from you in wypipo eyes by talking shit when you’re not around despite getting basically everything they have from the Negro’s cultural and athletic achievements.

“Asian” also sucks. The continent is far and away too huge for that low a resolution, and the term meanwhile originates from a time where all of those countries were still at their relative minimum as poorpeepo developing zones, which still permeates the word semiotically and makes one think of all the mean uncharitable treatment these guys got in the 2010s with low status bad driver ching chong tiny dick jokes.

“Oriental” is better. Separates East Asia out, evokes Yellow Peril memories in the white man’s heart and induces a sense of guilt over e.g. the Opium Wars without the Communist shit wiping all that clean. Hints also at ancient Millennia-old civilization wypipo respec intuitively hence ancient chinese secret.

The word “Gay” is incredibly gay in the middle school sense.

First off most gays are relatively moody creatures and not all that happy ime so it’s kind of a mistake to semiotically lock yourself into a modality of acting flamboyantly sassy mostly for women’s approval if we’re honest in a way many dudes will see as performative not getting your own cognition is a bit between his and hers so you can ackshully code switch. But even just a default of being flighty / ironic kind of makes your problems read as frivolous on some level even to women deep down, whereas equilibrating toward a lack of gravity in general is pretty inevitable once you start calling yourself Gay. And obviously there’s nothing wrong with irony or theatricality but it feels hugely unserious and decadent to actually root your nomenclature in that as opposed to making the thing the thing.

And so “Homosexual”—now that’s a word I respect! You’re owning up to the fact you have S-E-X in some unconventional way from the get-go—making them imagine your johnson unclogging someone’s hairy asshole in a bathhouse. Controlling the frame. Unlike “Gay” which makes even men fucking each other kind of tediously all about female social politics in practice, “Homosexual” is a word that straight guys will respect as it creates a world chicks want nothing to do with and can define its own norms and epistemic standards, which the cognitively feminine ofc tend to abhor out of principle.

If I learned I was obviously retarded and people had been calling me “Special’ then I would NOT be glad you all spared my feelings; I’d be horrified no one told me earlier. Also note that most things that are “special” are bad and it means that the rules are being suspended or relaxed or tweaked in some way to do mean things to you—think e.g. special prosecutor special jurisdiction, special warrant—and that’s of course exactly how abortion works for Down Syndrome which I totally support don’t get me wrong but let’s also not pretend one second it isn’t perfumed dehumanization.

“Retarded,” meanwhile, is inherently just a fun and funny word to say due to the staccato rubbery mouthfeel, so we precognitively associate it with happy feelings—and consider we also all call ourselves retarded all the time, whereas no one ever calls a tard a tard at all let alone hatefully. Hell, I feel like a lot of down syndrome guys might even get dece pussy in a meme novelty way if the culture were more favorable to them openly calling themselves retarded and cooning—which btw we all love to do, altho in practice you only get to coon in accordance with how high status your archetype is.

Softer and gentler language almost never dignifies a group at the end of the day.

What it does is emasculate them—via imbuing them with an effeminate victim coding of Helpless Small Protected Baby, or by deploying more intellectualized / deliberate jargon as opposed to common vernacular (which having developed in the wild would be more consonant with felt embodied dignity than something theorycrafted in an ivory tower a la latinx) functionally reduces them to seen-object instead of subject-knower.

Simple as.

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It’s one of the more revealing coinages of the age—and also among its most insipid, purporting as it does to air out falsehood while smuggling in the patently retarded and frankly pretty grotesque supposition that personal dignity is counterfeit unless ratified by the moment’s most broadly legible status hierarchy, and that any private narrative that contravenes said hierarchy just embarrassing self-delusion ipso facto.

This is the morality of a bee.

It also ignores that what counts as broadly legible shifts constantly from year to year with the natural ebb and flow of culture as new technologies, ideologies, movements, ideas, thinkers, milieus, and forms jockey for resources and shift in relative status—and also that we in response to this are constantly assessing how much to recalibrate with the mainstream vs. ride the tiger in a niche until Fortune hands us the crown vs. lean into asymmetric strategies to secure a narrower yet deeper dignity. It tracks that a cohort reared in a fast, liquid ecology like the 2020s Oral Culture thinks of adaptation as the default strategy—but as we’ll soon discover, it isn’t obviously the optimal one.

More important for now is that all cognition is cope, all the way down.

All sense perception hits the mind compressed, while memory is more reconstructive than it is recollective. Identity, meanwhile, is self-serving autonarrative, and ideology a tincture of material want, status interest, and amygdalic wroth. As for personality… mostly what we call it when the lies that work become sediment. But none of us can step outside the limitations of our vantage point or transcend conflicts of interest, and that means no one’s mind meets the world as some disinterested auditor after The Truth.

The question, then, is never whether someone is coping; everyone is coping, constantly, and anyone who tells you something different is either very stupid, very beautiful, or presently on some manner of hallucinogen.

The question, rather, is whether cope produces motion or decay. Adaptive cope reduces cognitive load, preserves agency, organizes effort, provides actionable heuristics, and lets a man play the hand dealt him without looking wretched to himself. Maladaptive cope, meanwhile, blinds a man to essential data, habituates him to unforced error, rewards stagnation, and lets his pain congeal first into brand and then scarlet letter.

And so if your identity revolves around e.g. being a “man of the people” because you happen to drive a forklift for a living and still blame your inceldom on guys 5 years older than you taking all the laptop jobs, then you are coping pretty terribly. Whereas if you narrate yourself as a samurai or w/e but that also gets you to lift, bathe, write, cut back on gooning, fix your bloody gums, invest in a bed frame, stop faggotishly apologizing all the time for your neurotype, and start chasing puss in earnest? Then honestly to hell with any broc-haired faggot or xanax-muncher who calls you Cringe.

I mean you probably are Cringe—but that’s a tactical issue and not at all something to poop your pants over because Newsflash Tardo: literally all men are Cringe on some level just by dint of being sexual pursuers, which means all masculine ambition / appetite will eternally smell like shit until it’s actualized... at which point it never was cringe.

This is the basic ontology of maleness on some level—your existence kind of just demands eating pain and humiliation until it gets retroactively erased by victory.

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Where the Zoomer errs most is in thinking cope discredited purely because it flatters its subject—an attitude monstrous out of step with the reality of human nature not just operatively but also teleologically given that on some level essentially all of us draw crucial energy / momentum from flattering narratives that ward off entropy.

A man can’t live by correspondence alone; he thrives on frames that ensure continued effort, struggle, pain, and at times humiliation remain metabolically possible, and elsewise will often fail to maintain even the simple brute gumption required to show up and earnestly try—because note it turns out there ackshully are quite a lot of men who see themselves with full clarity each morning, and they mostly go back to bed.

Also what we call “confidence” is usually just some fag’s cope that survived contact with reality. Think the yuppie who once called himself Built Different before he had any evidence: he was wrong, but at times it was precisely that credo that disciplined him into becoming a man for whom it retroactively seems true enough now that the world ratifies it as such. This essentially is how that shit chicks call “manifesting” is supposed to work: the athlete visualizes victory, the entrepreneur allows delusion to propel him through the briar patch, the artist insists his baroque autism is genius, and the awkward young fellow self-narrates as Dangerous until money and muscles ensure such an image hits the world a bit closer to Pat Bateman than school shooter.

Meanwhile if they were forced to start from a clean empirical self-appraisal no one would ever do anything hard, as most achievement whether in the gym, office, nightclub, or Substack editor requires a self-indulgent LARPy cargo cult era of cringe unmerited over-identification with Future You that if you succeed will just end up smoothed into your private ascension narrative and if you fail—well, doesn’t much matter then, eh?

Cope first, evidence later.

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Now the persistent difficulty with copes is certain peepo will always roll their eyes at them no matter what since they’ve always been one of the reindeer who could pull the sled just fine—and actually quite exquisitely—per the monocultural societal script once issued by Santy Clause, which means to them Rudolph will eternally read as an overly-indulged snowflake faggot theater kid, and his red nose gross and cringey cope.

Such elite normies, understand, have an image of themselves as beyond the need for cope due to being instantly legible as high status: the beautiful girl needs no theory of desirability, the natural Chad no masculinity heuristics, the rich kid ever to justify his taste, the athletic extrovert to reflect on his personality in any deliberate strategic way.

The way elite normies cope in practice will therefore involve self-deceptive moralism deployed to sanitize ladder-pulling via high-and-low-against-the-middle games—though note this will never get identified as cope publicly since middle strata actors inhabit a collective action problem wherein the individually optimal route is always to signal high status to gain rank by defecting against other midstatus players, the upshot of which is high status players are never forced to confront their own delusions usually since all overt interchange with midstatus players involves social-climbing mimicry.

Thus proper midstatus contempt for elite cope looks more like private defection from shared civic narratives conjoined to a far less bashful cultivation of their own cope.

And the thing is nearly all life strategies available outside that cadre of elite normies are bound to involve cope on some level, and when that cope does show up it’s pretty often imbued with a certain emotional charge and identitarian valence for the simple reason that most people cultivate pride in the hand they were dealt.

Thus they’ll aestheticize past or present constraints, define virtue and beauty around their own endowments, and tend very conveniently to discover that anything they themselves can’t become was always in some higher sense never worth becoming.

Obviously it’s comic—and more than that, a bit sad.

But even more than that still? It’s necessary, as a man who feels undignified inhabiting his own neurotype spends most of his life a resentful tourist in egoic shards of others.

Consider, if you will, how most men tend to define masculinity if asked.

It’s basically always in terms flattering to themselves personally—am I wrong?

Thus for older blue collar and military guys it’s generally going to mean handiness, steadiness, physical courage, and not talking much, whereas if you consulted the venerable Walter Bismarck he would say No That’s Not It, and muse that it instead has something to do with the command of frame, insight, wit, or the ability to put precisely to words ideas other men experience at best as an inchoate blur they grope at helplessly in the dark like Helen Keller in a lavender-scented van. Then someone a lot less dandyish might emerge from the woodwork to sneer No! Masculinity is about discipline and self-mastery! And then the degenerate artiste will say it’s intensity, and the father provision and continuity, and the libertine lengthening his Excel file, and the forklift guy driving a forklift, and Vaish being splendid to corporations, and so on and so forth because we’re all of us coping and so we all at least to some extent must experience competing archetypes of man as ridiculous to most properly inhabit our own.

This contempt is not noble—but it sure as shit is functional, because to serve as a leader to other men and certainly to prove erotically compelling to women it helps quite a lot to maintain an image of your own Type of Guy as having a certain swagger and dignity other archetypes (when coded rivalrous to yours especially) do not. More crucially though, you can’t let yourself get intimidated by / insecure around the other fag’s competency, as peepo smell that on you like bread baking which I’d hazard might actually account for the majority of inter-archetypal male contempt; for most guys it’s likely just the fastest way to make sure they never show up like a bitch when it counts.

To give a concrete example—I’ve at this point inhabited both the world of financebros and that of heterodox intellectual / artists long enough to know a lot about how each works, and I’ll tell you right now that both Types of Guy are on some level insecure around the other but will mask this by e.g. devaluing the rival’s areas of competence or writing off the idea of women ever finding it compelling while eroticizing the idea of his own competency being used to get pusspuss, especially in any context where it cucks the other archetype. And of course you see exactly the same with e.g. blue collar vs. white collar and urban vs. rural vs. suburban and nokids vs. kidhaving.

Ultimately there really is no live and let live because we all tend to experience different choices as indictments of our own on some level, and tbh even different neurotypes as threatening to our own modes of thought a lot of the time, while the status economy is mostly zero-sum in a way that operatively ensures e.g. electricians and actuaries actually kind of do just get laid more easily the harder it gets for the other guy.

It’s kind of just the fundamental tragedy of masculinity in a lot of ways, and there are a lot of contexts where it really sucks ass we do this to each other and I hate it for us.

Only don’t any of the womyn reading this think you’re exempt from male status games either cause bih most of you do exactly the same thing with the Type of Guy you’re currently with / usually go for—e.g. if your husband is the poor artist, then rich guys are rapey or shallow, whereas if he’s the rich STEM autiste you counter-signal scrubs who can’t provide or whose shallow gorilla masculinity isn’t scalable, whereas if your dude is blue collar or coded as such you’ll imply white collar guys are fags or simply counter-signal other people’s provisioning narratives as cringe / fake / degraded.

Frankly you ladies deep down are way less pluralistic about masculinity than we are, and to experience your own man as masculine in the way you want will usually need to downgrade the masculinity of competing archetypes in a way that functionally invalidates the erotic narratives of other women—which btw is another reason that the housewife and girlboss can never ackshully be friends. It’s kind of just aesthetically Schmittian for chickies it seems when it comes to this shit, pretend though they may otherwise.

Thankfully this ecosystem of mutually adversarial copes has a prominent silver lining in that it’s ultimately also what makes status pluralism possible, and likewise permits the deployment of asymmetric strategies like pillarization and arbitrage.

Without copes everyone outside the one central monotonic prestige hierarchy would be forced to experience himself as a failed version of someone above him; with copes there exist numerous ontologically sovereign status hierarchies in parallel to choose from that allow widely disparate neurotypes to obtain a very real sense of dignity and belonging—often at each other’s imagined expense, yes, but mutually so, and in a way that in aggregate actually breaks positive sum versus a monotonic system.

Thus while it may be a tragedy on some level that the actuary and electrician feel the need to tell such ungenerous stories about the other, boundaries of that nature serve functionally as essential psychic border walls that a lot of times end up the main thing stopping every human ecology from collapsing into one giant miserable ranking table.

All of these dynamics show up especially powerfully in dating markets—because note people don’t usually Have Preferences so much as cultivate dignity-preserving attraction to whichever archetypes are most likely to reciprocate, ratify them as desirable, and advantage them socially, and so will as a rule eroticize lanes in which they possess an unusual leverage—and observe here that this phenomenon is neither random nor experienced internally most of the time as especially cynical or transactional so much as just the pragmatic adaptation to non-hyperabundance conditions.

The first example of this comes to mind is obviously black guy with a fat white chick— the classic mutually-diagonal arbitrage scenario. He gets to have his Warrior Gene physicality, cultural style, and outsider edge produce toothy erotic returns unavailable in his own hierarchy, while she’ll experience him as less neurotic, less apologetic, and far less class-coded by the contempt of thin blonde women than any of the white boys she could plausibly land. Meanwhile he’s likely to experience her own whiteness as a specific kind of erotic abundance without any of the hostility he’d engender trying to access apex white femininity outside a highly esoteric hookup context.

Of course, everyone involved in this will develop a story around it that suits them.

They should. It’s what lets the arrangement breathe.

Either way though Black chicks will definitely call it cope on Twitter.

Another example you’re all probably familiar with at this point is Uncle Walt’s own infamous fixation on the illimitable Jewess, which also functions as ethnic arbitrage given that while women of WASP / Nordic backgrounds tend usually to experience a fellow’s hyperverbal volatility as some species of weakness, overcompensation, instability, or cringe verbal leakage, a Jewess is far more likely to experience such a tendency as hot or funny or at least sufficiently adjacent to her autistic Tay Sachs cousin to somewhat understand what sort of creature is about to blow her out. And what all this means in practice is I can usually fuck much hotter Jewesses than I’m able to shiksas of essentially any other pinknipple race, and it isn’t especially close.

Is that cope?

I mean yeah, obviously—but it’s also a really fucking good one, because A) Jews are white enough that their pussy isn’t automatically incel-coded; B) they’re also weird and alien but also in such a super legible meme way that being obsessed with Jewesses doesn’t read as “settling” so much as being Quirky in an extremely specific direction; C) me being a former antisemite and joking about drawing swasties on their milkers etc. makes it edgy / funny / lowkey dialectical in a compelling recursive way that Jews themselves are likeliest to appreciate and has opened up lots of really fun Angles for me as a writer. And so anyway the point here is it made perfect sense for me to develop a fetish for Jewish women, as doing so resulted in both the least possible status leakage and was most plausibly a higher order preference thing not immediately reducible to super duper pooper legible power and status differentials that snobs and normalfags generally find it very easy to sneer at or register as gauche.

Which brings me to yet another famous arbitrage dynamic: in Boomers and Gen X you saw quite a lot of white nerd + East Asian woman couples, as Asians’ overall rank racially at the time was still a lot more shitty and subaltern such that she’d experience basically any great white ween as tremendous erotic surplus. Thus a lot of traits that registered as sexless, awkward, or low-status among elite white women read instead as stable, intelligent, gentle, provision-capable, and culturally legible inside an erotic grammar turned sideways.

Now at the time these dudes ate glares/gossip from AWFLs at the office Christmas party the same way I’d have eaten them for bringing my adorable anorexic sleeve tats single mom girlfren who I met on Seeking—which I guess to some folx means she’s just like flatly my prostitute and that’s all there is to it simple as and anything else I say is cringe cope etc etc… doesn’t matter if we’re obviously in love, or if she cleans up fantastically and is very classy when she wants to be… like honestly these frigid AWFL viragoes just can’t stand asymmetry at all; it really seems any visible trade disgusts them and will always end up moralized as exploitative, mocked as fake, or narrated as cope.

But a visible trade is not automatically a worse trade than an invisible one.

And that brings to mind another great modern example of this in J.D. Vance—who in practice codes to many elite white woman as incel-adjacent: too intense, too upwardly-mobile, a bit too resentfully articulate, too shaped by grievance, too clearly engineered for ascent, too much a man who became himself on purpose. Yet to an apex Indian woman, the same configuration reads as Chad: civilizational seriousness, masculine ascent, elite credentials, political trajectory—and all of it, of course, amplified by that white erotic surplus given Indians occupy today a position roughly akin to past Asians.

…which of course is precisely why Usha was not Enough to block “weird.”

I mean, does anyone honestly think that shit would have landed literally at all had his wife been Erika Kirk or any other blonde bih? It just doesn’t matter on some level how pretty and well-bred she is; a brown wife still makes your amygdala scream Loser on some precognitive level, and whenever you see a handsome rich white guy in such a relationship there will always be some part of you wondering what’s wrong with him, which functionally will translate to making negotiation harder for him etc.

Yeah, I know.

Look—clearly I’m not saying any of this to be mean.

Or I guess I ackshully sort of am—but that’s also kind of the point: simply not talking about an issue doesn’t make it go away, and this here is a thing that genuinely hurts a lot of people. Yes Walz will always claim plausible deniability, and likely didn’t have the slightest racial intention when he said “weird”… but that’s exactly my point: the apparatus is precognitive, and so can be deployed without any overt malicious intent.

That said, it frankly does seem undeniable to me that the Democrats in 2024 ambiently took advantage of the low status of brown pussy to paint Vance as incel-adjacent in a manner that functionally foregrounded Usha’s insufficiency as social proof of his desirability—which is a pretty fucking humiliating thing to do to a woman of color they’re supposed to be protecting tbh.

Except, again: it’s all precognitive and ambient.

Which means that *I’m* the weird one for even making it about race and incel shit when they’re ackshully just calling him weird cause he bought donuts weirdly and I should go touch grass and have a normal one sweaty.

Yeah—eat my cum.

In arbitrage dynamics the diagonal couple usually produces some internal mythology to dignify the exchange both within the dyad and in facing the outside world—think saying they’ve always preferred each other’s type; their cultures complement each other; outsiders don’t get the bond; their love transcends superficial categories, etc.

Is this cringe?

The more asymmetric your own dyad, the less you’re like to think so.

What matters is that it’s also true enough; a good love story is frequently an arbitrage strategy that became sacred through repetition, sex, loyalty, and shared enemies.

Elite normalfaggots sneer at diagonals because visible arbitrage disgusts those who never had to arbitrage. They see asymmetry and call it cringe; see strategy and call it cope; see a man who’s too intense, too Not Over It, too spiky, too weird, too afflicted with asperger’s or bipolar or mayhaps even a twofer carve out some success in a lane where he’s valued and experience that chiefly as proof he could not win in the “real” market—here defined as wherever their own traits are automatically liquid.

This is why they hate age gaps, looks gaps, ethnic status trades, sugar relationships that become conventional, early-life provisioning outside a nuclear family container, and any romance where the underlying value exchange can be seen without special equipment—because make no mistake, they certainly are not offended by transaction as such; their own worlds are nothing if not transactional. They are offended, rather, by what they experience as a gauche taste-failure to conceal a transaction behind a universally legible imagery of romantic mystery and moral innocence.

But note that such disgust is not perceiving any objective degradation of love so much as reacting to visible friction in the status field: the asymmetry is showing; the strategy is showing; the cope is showing. For anyone whose own status position is experienced as entirely “natural” by dint of emerging purely from neurotype and phenotype, basically any visible strategy or effort in others will always read as vulgarity rather than adaptation.

And this is where Headpatting begins.

Elite normies—nad particularly the more socially dominant blonde-feminine type—often cope through benevolent flattening, performing a vacuous moral warmth toward sanctioned abstractions to extract moral leverage while retaining exquisite disgust toward nearby low-status phenotypes, awkward neurotypes, and any diagonally paired strivers who violate their aesthetic order. Therefore they’ll affiliate with certain modes of economic populism, subaltern grievance, immigrant narratives, body positivity, you name it—yet just watch how fast they recoil from Italians, Russians, weird Hindus, Balkan climbers, manlets, autismos, guys with Target clothes, ethnic strivers, and any fellow whose ambition still shows seams but manages all the same to land him inside halfway decent puss because ultimately he doesn’t Know His Fucking Place.

That said this won’t be consciously experienced as anything like ladder-pulling or status protection, and so it wouldn’t be right to brand it overt hypocrisy.

Merely cope.

The elite normie’s world requires them to experience themselves as compassionate while retaining the right to aesthetic revulsion. And so compassion gets routed toward groups still distant enough to remain symbolic—blacks, illegals, the morbidly obeast—while preserving disgust for Italians, job stackers, and chubby guys with a skinny girlfriend.

Thus economic populism and subaltern affiliation turn into moral laundering for a sensibility that remains brutally aristocratic at the actually salient levels of mate choice, friendship, admiration, and party invites—one which Headpats the safely distant with a very real and exquisitely curated empathy while pathologizing anything nearby that smells like competition or threatens to destratify its preferred aesthetic order.

And their supreme cope?

Pretending not to be status-obsessed.

They kvetch about others striving because their own striving occurred ancestrally—collectively, somatically, and through inherited fluency. And so they did not “try;” simply wore the right jeans, knew the right jokes, performed the right casualness, desired the right people, and felt an easy contempt for the right outsiders. Thus their status hunger was metabolized cleanly into “taste” before it could read as ambition.

The elite normie always asks incredulously “Why are you overthinking this?” because thinking was never required for her own social legitimacy. Whereas the sperg had to put together a model, and the ethnic climber a coalition, and the neurotic artist curatorial mystique, and the diagonal-arbitraged couple some publicly legible mythology, the elite normie has merely to breathe prettily and the world calls it effortless / coo.

And this, my friends, is why “cope” has become such an ugly and flattening word.

It pathologizes every attempt to create dignity outside one central monotonic prestige track—treats adaptive mythmaking itself as proof of inferiority while exempting inherited legitimacy from the same analysis.

It says, in effect, that anyone not naturally validated by the dominant hierarchy is ridiculous for wanting to forge their own place to call home.

Zoomer culture has made this situation far worse.

Say what you will about us Millennials, but for all our undeniable faults we developed massive pillarized mixed-sex subcultures with enough internal texture to sustain a robust ecosystem of competing status hierarchies: indie kids, scene kids, Tumblr whores, hipsters, gaymers, occupiers, Ron Paul spergs, dirtbag leftcels, rationalists, /fit/, /pol/, /b/, /k/, /v/, grindset fags, and of course mein bruders in the Alt Right all enjoyed many but not too many options to choose from, and that meant most ended up in a diverse and mainstream-legible subculture in which niche types and weirdos could rapidly become enculturated and socialized out of their roughest edges, contribute to the scene productively in a digital ecology where anyone could become internet famous, build a robust intergenerational friend group to extract old man wisdom, develop a persona that one’s peers find genuinely compelling / coo, and attract a chickie who experiences you contextually as high status and impressive.

Such palatinates could and usually did become baroquely cruel, blisteringly cringe, and breathtakingly retarded, but they permitted diagonal exchange—a fucking lot of it.

Men could be low-status in one hierarchy and commanding in another; a girl could read as a weird bitch in one room and a goddess in the next. Receipts mattered back then. Argument mattered. Taste mattered. Lore mattered. The long tail had oxygen.

See, the great virtue of a vibrant subculture is it creates local gods. That skinny broke guitarist a bit too ahead of his time could matter, as could the fat bitch with perfect eyeliner who knew everyone and had a really clean car. On SomethingAwful, the autist with legendary posts for sure mattered. On /b/, the girl with a horseface but splendid and angelic feet mattered. Some random black guy on YouTube who could get away with pissing off Zionists mattered. And no, that status usually did not convert cleanly into the apex normie market—and that was precisely the point. The subculture had its own gods, own sins, own mating market, own paths to dignity.

Zoomer culture is more bifurcated.

On one side: algorithmically enclosed and functionally highly sex-segregated microcultures generally far too autistic/aestheticized in their local dialect and sensibilities to sustain healthy local mating markets or even the sort of internally textured and temporally stable status hierarchies needed to facilitate adult male identity formation on account of these communities’ deep architectural liquidity and chronic unseriousness.

On the other side: mass goyslop culture, in which only the most immediately legible and least individuated status metrics still retain any purchase: face, body, height, money, clout, charisma, follower count, visible friend group, and the ability to consistently not look cortisol-spiked. No one in this ecology has the attention span for receipts, let alone serious argument—hence explanation itself now coding as failure since it implies that the visible hierarchy did not just instantly ratify you prima facie.

It’s easy to forget these days that the oldinternet—Millennial internet—genuinely rewarded certain modalities of capably-articulated cope. Not because we were any better than Zoomers, of course, but just because in those days there wasn’t all this hyper-entertaining bullshit around to distract you from your exegesis into the latest feud between FakeSagan and TheAmazingAtheist. Whenever some shit went down there would never fail to be some mexican in a beanie giving his thoughts on the matter, and suffice it to say if you were a charlatan people would notice fast.

And make no mistake, we could be a huge piece of shit to you back then for sure, but we’d want to write a huge overwrought essay about it or make a 2hr youtube video Owning you so peepo could see how brilliantly and rationally we hurt your feelings, whereas the feed was too slow back then for shit to get lost in the noise, which meant if you lied we’d stick you on it—but also that if you acquitted yourself well in the exchange you could genuinely turn an unsympathetic crowd.

That was the good side of Millennial hipsterdom. Like yeah it was pretentious as shit and everyone wanted to be Harry Potter but that fedora culture of adversarial peer audit ackshully worked to channel the narcissism of young men into containing a lot of its own worst failure modes in a way I don’t really see in Zoomers as ya they have their own adversarial audit mechanism obv hence this article—but it sucks ass.

Thing is though this new internet era just rewards immediate legibility. Precognitive heuristics have always dominated syllogistic assessment, but at least before there was some pretense; some procedural adjudication; a certain sense of decorum. The face always arrived before the argument, always—but now it arrives so much sooner and so much more regularly and so much more dopaminergically that usually the argument literally just isn’t worth making. The clip is far faster than the essay, and so the vibe now ossifies into sediment long before anyone can find their footing.

And that is why “cope” now lands with such finality among the men of Generation Z.

These days basically no one has the time or the inclination to inspect whether some particular cope actually works as it purports to, which in practice means the fact that it requires inspection alone is taken as sufficient evidence against it.

Thus “cope” has become the master-insult of a generation reared in status markets algorithmically raped back to midcentury levels of monotonicity, and any explanation save being hot, rich, charismatic, and socially fluent registers now as special pleading.

Any counter-hierarchy reads as cringe. Any narrative that preserves dignity outside the central ladder reads as delusion. Any man explaining why his lane works, why his woman suits him, why his archetype has value, why his asymmetry produces genuine complementarity, or how his weirdness became erotically legible in a certain ecology—all things younger men of his neurotype may well benefit from hearing—will these days in a mass-goyslop ecology be seen as embarrassing himself by the mere act of explaining.

This is wretchedly undignified.

It collapses pluralism into a single infinitely large ranking system in which everyone who does not win globally becomes some flavor of loser.

It spits in the face of that ancient and fundamental right of every man to carve out a little kingdom for himself where his own virtues can become meaningful.

It abolishes the possibility of diagonal dignity—forces every phenotype, neurotype, ethnic niche, class strategy, sexual archetype, and subcultural style to submit to one central market optimized for the fastest possible appraisal by the largest audience.

Civilization requires copes—clearly, so much so that nobody would even think to contest the idea were he not such a craven little faggot afraid of looking low status—for the simple reason that civilization has need of people who aren’t all apex, and most of those people need a story under which their life is something more substantive than a failed attempt at being John Mulaney or Sydney Sweeney.

The short man needs a story. The molested girl needs a story. The giant gay pajeet needs a story. The autist, the depressive, the late bloomer, the fat girl, ugly genius, provincial climber, working-class beauty, sterile intellectual, failed athlete, divorced mother, nonwhite striver, aging blonde, starving artist, bullimic Jewess, Appalachian law student with a cumin-scented wife—all of them need their own stories, and some of them are going to be embarrassing. They’ll also sometimes be beautiful.

And some will be lies that over time become truer through disciplined inhabitation.

You know, Christianity once told the poor that they were blessed and the meek that they’d inherit the earth—and if that shit isn’t cope, I don’t know what is.

Honestly the whole Jesus story itself is probably history’s most effective cope in that it seems to help people metabolize the problem of defection or “original sin” a lot more scalably and reliably than nearly any other social technology in human history. Christ, in a sense, was a semiotic killer app—and from his story emerged durable civilization, restrained envy, dignity for the fallen, and say what you will about that slave morality shit but it did body significantly less gay faiths pretty fucking handily.

The result is what matters.

Ultimately no cope is pure, because nothing human is pure.

But what you should really be asking is whether your cope converts limitation into form—which is to say: does it carve out a lane, or merely excuse your refusal to enter one?

Does it hone your strengths, or anesthetize your weakness?

Does it make you more attractive to people you can actually love, or simply preserve in amber your contempt for those who rejected you?

Does it reduce cognitive load so you can act, or add just enough fog that action can comfortably be postponed indefinitely? That is to say—does it bring you into contact with reality at a better angle, or merely pad the walls of your cell?

A good cope serves as bridge between circumstance and agency. It says: given this body, this temperament, this history, this market position, this class, this race, this face, this voice, this damage, this desire, this intellect, this ugliness, this charisma, this bullshit, and this weirdness, what’s the most generative and vital form I might inhabit? Crucially, this does not require pretending that the central hierarchy is fake; simply recognizing there are plenty of other ecologies in which life might be won.

A bad cope is like a basement where each kid who gets molested inside it brings down the next one. It says: because I couldn’t win where I first wanted, all games are fake and all winners are frauds and all women are shallow and all men are sheep and all beauty is superficial and all discipline is cope and all status is evil and all love is delusion, and all effort beneath me fuck you. All that shit is derealization speaking; your mind fixating on that discolored piece of wall behind your uncle’s shoulder.

Alas, the apex normie cannot reliably tell the difference between good and bad copes, as from her vantage point every alternative strategy is compensation, The Zoomer, meanwhile, can’t distinguish between them because he’s spent every day of his young life watching yet another would-be Hector’s body get dragged round the walls of Troy.

But there is no life without cope, and the only people who seem not to need it are those with enough status that their copes have turned to atmosphere. And never forget, dear reader, that beauty too is cope when it calls itself authenticity, and money cope when it calls itself taste, and fluency cope when it pretends never to care or try, and Headpats cope when they make the empress feel kind—the same way cynicism is cope when it launders deep exhaustion as perspicacity, and ideology is cope when it masquerades interest in moral language, and love is cope when it lets a single mom who lives in a trailer and works at Dunkin feel like a princess for a couple months as the most devoted little ride-or-die a deranged bipolar sperg could ever possibly ask for.

And so, in candor?

Fuck the entire idea of becoming cope-free.

I’d like to become more capable of eating pain without reacting sub-optimally; more honest in the ways that ackshully matter to me: more capable of decisive action; more loyal to those who choose me; less in hoc to status hierarchies that fail to honor my neurotype; and more able to inhabit said neurotype in its most vital incarnation—and if the frames that’ll get me there fastest happen to reside in the copium den, so be it.

Maybe Harry Styles will think my heuristics gauche; if so I’ll do my best to live with it.

Cause Wally B is not a bee—nor is he like to ever be.

He can, however, always bee himself.

One moment we’ll be having a lovely conversation with a chick—someone who’d by all outward appearances seemed perfectly intelligent, or even brilliant; who somehow had been able to obtain a graduate degree not even in some odious grievance studies shit but a cute and feminine discipline like art history or microbiology; who makes enough of her own money to have thought she could say no to anal—only for out of nowhere the bitch to go bug-eyed and start narrating how her ex obviously did that shit on account of being a pisces man with an aries penis.

Which of course is when the incel in our head clears his throat.

None of this is empirically robust!

The mechanics undergirding the putative causal chain aren’t even explained!

These categories are all so underdefined, and the predictions all unfalsifiable!

All true—and wholly irrelevant, as for girlies such things run more feature than bug.

See, the mistake men always make with astrology is approaching it with the same sort of phallic epistemics we ourselves use when making sense of shit, which on account of men being causally embedded agents who aren’t worth much if we can’t reliably map the territory optimize for predictive closure and model fidelity. That’s a splendid thing in many realms of life, and probably all that’s suitable for science and engineering—it’s also a hilariously maladaptive principle for coordinating human action at scale due to things like “peace” and “stability” being downstream mostly of a chickie-adjudicated status economy wherein the operative currency isn’t dollars and cents so much as flattery, copium, and all our assorted face-saving white lies, of which the most important by far is naturally that no such economy even exists :)

Maintaining such essential societal infrastructure is a tremendous cognitive burden for women, and is the main reason none of them can competently play chess or ask for a raise or watch a scary movie without getting scared or go five seconds without talking about “healing” or how Exhausted they are. And so while it’s obviously very gay when they force us to cover our cubicle in paper snowflakes during busy season, it behooves us also to remember that such frivolities serve functionally as the plunger with which the fairer sex ambiently and half-consciously unclogs all those psychic toilets we men love to fill with our shit but elsewise tend not to even notice until our wife leaves us and we randomly die six months later.

We should likewise acknowledge that in the same way we require Boy Heuristics like modus ponens and the scientific method to capably navigate the world chickies need their own set of Girl Heuristics in the vein of not trusting dudes with J-Names (fair!) or checking their car for white slavers after every Target run or consulting the stars on occasion for insight into their professional and romantic prospects.

Note that Girl Heuristics seldom optimize for predictive power except very specifically in the realm of mate choice, where even then it’s almost never wholly conscious. Instead they’ll optimize for keeping life livable after Grug gets brained by Grug 2, or after that baron who took you as mistress while your feller’s on campaign doing his best not to take a chevauchee’s lance through the peeper decides it would be hot to see his cum in you tonight, or after Bill Clinton asks for help with something in his hotel room.

The prime telos of Girl Heuristics is to cohere a narrative that safeguards reputational integrity—both her own and subsequently that of her man and children, which it’s all too easy to forget about as an eligible bachelor smarting over the latest bit of Foidshit to ruin your day—as well as a stable and coherent moral self-concept.

They also attempt to improve the physical / mental health and “wellness” whatever tf that is of their loved ones and broader community, which while precipitating loads of hugely pestiferous You Can’t Say That and Stop Drinking Five White Monsters A Day moments and enabling the excesses of trans ideology and Covid was concomitantly responsible for driving many millions of less retarded women away from the Left in recent years specifically due to such excesses clashing with a deeply felt and plainly eugenic moral imperative—which, again, is easy to forget about when the teenage girl you were having sex with says something that hurts your feelings, but also super gay.

So having established all that, why do girls like astrology?

They like it because it functions as a symbolic grammar for organizing precognitive social judgment, erotic pattern recognition, self-narration, and archetypal intuition without subjecting those things to the humiliation of propositional analysis.

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The genius of astrology in a nutshell is that it gives women a way to say enormously complex things about people while pretending to talk about stars.

Observe that a woman experiences her first impression of someone less as a cleanly individuated set of traits parsed through an analytically orderly model of personality than as affective totality—a holistic slurry of warmth, danger, lightness, weight, need, appetite, vanity, theatricality, evasiveness, softness, good timing, bad timing, polarity, psychic texture, and whether the room feels more or less livable. This happens below the level of language, who arrives well after the body issues a verdict to bequeath a gown that will actually sell at the ball instead of giving uppity social-climbing slut.

And yet when language does arrive you couldn’t ask for a better vector than astrology, because in practice it’s a gown of many colors.

Note that a “Scorpio” is not merely someone born in a date range; he’s a Type of Guy—in this case one who’s secretive, sexually charged, vindictive, and intense; all knives and underground water. And the “Gemini” is another Type of Guy: mercurial, funny, duplicitous, bright, and eternally unfaithful to the spirit of laws even when ostensibly loyal to the letter. The “Taurus,” meanwhile, is stubborn and sensual; he’s slow, loyal, heavy, hard to move, and pleasant to lean against—whereas our embattled friend the “Pisces?” Evasive, porous, hopelessly romantic yet addicted to sadness, and probably unemployed. That said it goes without saying none of these are probabilistic claims in the masculine sense; simply portable memetic containers for recurring social impressions.

When men do this sort of thing we fast forward through the seance and focus on what we find useful, which is less about form than function—and so we say bugman, midwit, autist, theatre kid, finance bro, BPD art hoe, wife guy, fed, Chad, girlboss, horse girl, and so on. Such taxonomies propagate whenever they compress a recognizable cluster, and astrology works in much the same way except with a bunch of extra shit on top of it to create an enigmatic gezellig pinterestfugue equally conducive to allure and safety, or at least serve as mythopoetic pimple patches atop any compressive judgments that might seem ugly and Mean to the outside world, or more realistically just damage a chick’s own internal self-concept as an innocent sweet compassionate baby.

So in other words, the incoherence of astrology is precisely why women find it useful.

Analytically coherent systems force the user to resolve contradictions, which is a great thing when writing code or modeling inorganic structures generally, but is deeply and irredeemably retarded when you’re dealing with basically anything biological which by definition is full of feedback loops and irreducibly complex processes—and note this is why autists tend to become really fucking annoying not only to women but also to normie men and even higher order genres of sperg whenever they start trying to force the totality of human experience through a reductive axiomatic meat grinder.

Astrology permits contradictions to remain alive. A girl can be a Leo sun, Virgo moon, Pisces rising, Venus in Cancer, Mars in Sagittarius, and whatever else she needs to be in order to account for why she’s vain, anxious, elusive, sentimental, horny, avoidant, maternal, dramatic, and presently texting close-ups of her butthole to some nigga she purports to hate. An analytically rigorous Big Five report would just call her high in neuroticism and extraversion, but the girlversion is a lot more precise and thus more useful for living inside an experience and describing it to other women.

Observe that neurotypical women tend to prefer systems that preserve narrative motion, whereas systematizing neurotypes (thus spergy guys the most and secondarily normie men and spergy women) prefer systems that freeze an object long enough to measure it and document its essence. Thus the spergy girl will greatly enjoy MBTI, Big Five scores, enneagram charts full of arrows, attachment-style discourse, autism TikTok, and diagnostic labels with real operational criteria. Compared to the spergy dude her approach to all of it will still run more mythopoetic than ontological, but the two of them can still connect through it as a shared grammar, because ultimately the spergy girl wants a typology that can describe the world consistently irrespective of context, whereas the neurotypical girl longs to inhabit a cosmos that tracks her cycle.

Note this maps also onto a deeper sexed difference—that masculine dignity is tied to consistency, agency, authorship, and the preservation of identity across time, such that the male ideal of selfhood is a line: I was this, I became that, I overcame, I built, and I conquered. I remained myself under pressure. It’s why we drift toward models that name stable internal architecture: ENTP, high openness and low agreeableness, autist, narcissist, dominant, low inhibition... think labels like load-bearing beams.

Women, meanwhile, tend to experience selfhood more relationally and atmospherically, feeling their nature less as individuated traits and more through e.g. context, mood, audience, desire, threat, and imitation, hence their infamous tendency to become kind of whatever you draw out of them and turn into a different lady entirely for the brute, the fuckboy, the simp, the artist, the bugman, the fat chick, the rival, the mother, the therapist, the group chat, the wedding, breakup, vacation, luteal phase, mirror… note astrology gives this plasticity a diachronically stable external grammar, which women find hugely stabilizing when trying to make sense of their own psychic liquidity.

And that’s probably the key takeaway here: astrology offers women a fixed identity system that does not require them to feel internally fixed.

Because a birth chart, after all, is external—written many years before choices, before shame, before men, before jobs, before trauma, before Exhaustion, before any obligate performance of adulthood in front of the hypermodern panopticon. It lets a girl have a solid locus of identity she can return to at any time while simultaneously affording her endless interpretive fluidity, which lets her change form while remaining continuous; she can say “I’m such a Libra” at 19, 27, 36, and 50, and it can mean completely different things each time while preserving the same mythic signature and perceived contiguous essence.

And that’s a gamechanger for beings whose identities are architecturally a lot more mimetic, socially responsive, and affectively porous than ours—particularly in a world whose media / information regime grows more liquid and synchronic every day, where instead of feeling like a DID patient a woman can orient around the chart, imitate the chart, resist the chart, flirt through the chart, excuse herself through the chart, and narratively integrate change without experiencing each individual new self-state as a contradiction. Thus the chart gradually becomes a totem to her felt continuity of self.

Of course, we menfolk find that absurd since for us identity is proven largely through action: a man is what he repeatedly does, what he builds, what he can endure, what he can refuse, and what survives contact with reality, and for a lot of us it reads as cringe inherently to describe yourself with adjectives rather than verbs. But girlypops tend to experience identity more as recurring patterns of things that happen to them—e.g. I keep doing this, keep becoming this, keep wanting this, keep attracting this—and astrology dignifies such recurrence without automatically making it pathology in a way that becomes unavoidable once you really accept an internal locus of control.

Hence astrology being especially attractive to women in erotic and romantic life, which structurally humiliates clean agency and in birds especially demands a certain opacity of register to maintain an image of romantic innocence or at least a modicum of class and adult discernment in how she executes hypergamy. But peepo in general and especially women and especially especially young neurotypical ones will always and everywhere desire what they disavow, return to what hurt them, sabotage those who’d save them, idealize strangers while scorning caretakers, eroticize neglect, and mistake boredom for safety and danger for fate, and to adroitly navigate such waters both psychologically and reputationally women require an erotic dialect that lets them not just soften how their desire is perceived but also inhabit that softening such that even internally hypergamous impulses are buried in relational fluff—think the girl dating the 6’5 financebro because he’s Kind.

Still the sperg will eternally retain some boyish fantasy that perhaps he can one day reroute those self-destructive tendencies into a mature and civilizationally generative womanhood if he only builds the right wiki, where some new and more precise model of selfhood breaks down incentives in language that resonates. God knows that many valiant attempts have been made through the years e.g. love languages and attachment styles, which in fairness do seem to land pretty spectacularly with spergy chicks and pantsuit squares and older married women—only to then fail at making the slightest dent in astrology’s hegemonic purchase with pinnacle-status art hoes, who are kind of always the ones driving culture at the end of the day simply on account of having far and away the most splendid pussy-pies.

And it’s not a surprise it fails with them, because chicks like this experience so much raw and untrammeled optionality that they don’t particularly need Attachment Styles to proffer copium over getting fuckzoned ad nauseum or the ideas of Love Languages to account for wishing hubs wouldn’t immediately fall asleep after cumming; it’s kind of all just pure interpretive fluidity maximalism and anything else feels incel-coded, and no interpretive gown will ever prove half as multicolored as astrology.

Thus astrology lets a young woman say, “Of course I keep attracting Scorpios,” as opposed to “I eroticize withholding men because with them I can aestheticize my own anxiety as their imagined depth.” It lets her say, “I can’t date Gemini men,” instead of “Hyperverbal volatility makes me wet but later resent the absence of containment.” Likewise she now can say, “My Venus is in Cancer,” rather than “I would really like to be adored in a way that makes my neediness feel maternal and sacred.”

And this, by the way, is precisely why we men should pay attention to it.

See, astrology is a map of the kinds of stories women tell themselves to not go insane, which means becoming fluent in that dialect not only affords access to what a chick ackshully thinks about shit many times faster and more reliably than you’d ever get via continued attempts to peel open her labia under a microscope like Hannibal Lecter—it lets you pick up on all the lies she tells herself, which is lowkey the most powerful cheat code you can have whilst endeavoring to groom her for your own purposes.

Know also that when a girl asks for your sign, she is usually doing something far more substantive than merely checking compatibility like it’s Pokémon types or w/e. Rather she is inviting you into a mythic filing system; wants to know what archetype you’ll occupy for her, what warnings stick to you versus bounce off, what fantasies you’ll permit, what past wounds you resemble, and whether any sexual chemistry between you is easily narrated in a way that feels vaguely prophesied instead of merely horny.

The man who sneers at this walks away from an open goal.

He does not have to literally “believe in” astrology—just understand that when a bih says she always falls for Aquarius men she’s really telling him about the specific kind of remove she eroticizes, while if she hates Cancer men that’s really some shit about her complicated relationship with male need, and if she’s a Virgo moon then it’s most likely her trying to convey that there’s a real mind beneath the pantsuit and she isn’t just some vapid foid, whereas if she calls herself a Sag rising then tbh she probably is just a vapid foid on some level but at least will swallow if you take her somewhere nice.

Point is you’re basically never looking at the chart itself so much as the wish that can be reasonably inferred from the negative space surrounding it.

Once you know enough you can start to perform with it, which on the girlside is of course where all the fun is—on some level it’s a theater of recognition that lets people confess indirectly, accuse playfully, type each other without reading as Dr. Mengele, narrate attraction as fated, and imbue personality clusters with metaphysical import.

Now admittedly I myself have never had to learn it quite to this degree as my own verbal IQ is lofty enough to make even Big 5 smexy, but tons of more hippie dippie type normalfag dudes have always gotten boatloads of high neuroticism puss learning how to flirt in this register, so that’s something to consider at the very least.

It’s also useful more generally just in understanding feminine status games, where at a high level of play direct accusation is basically always an own-goal and so tends not even to happen most of the time—one reason being that while “you are jealous and controlling” creates friction, “that’s such Scorpio behavior~” lends a certain plausible deniability. “He’s a Pisces man” can express contempt, attraction, pity, warning, and invitation at once, which is very plausible for them to feel simultaneously if basically never ackshully to own up to. Point is tons of new communicative lanes open up when the channels are mediated in higher order more archetypal language.

And that naturally is where the Type of Guy functionality pops up.

Women are exquisitely attentive to male archetypes—often to the point of lowkey worshipping whichever one corresponds best to their own unconscious animus—because male archetype predicts both erotic charge and downside risk. Astrology is therefore irresistible to them in part because it gives them a highly memorable folk taxonomy of both male hazard and male smexiness: the Capricorn man is ambitious and cold; the Gemini funny but untrustworthy; the Scorpio intense and probably also dangerous; the Pisces a romantic and useless; the Leo vain yet generous; the Virgo is competent and spiritually constipated; the Aquarius a detached weirdo; the Aries hot until he randomly decides to kill your entire family driving off an overpass. But note again that none of these heuristics has to be true in a literal sense—just recognizable enough to usefully compress experience.

Whereas male-coded typology tends to sort by utility in the language of specialization and rank, womanly typology tends instead to sort by felt atmosphere in the language of destiny—hence men tending to classify each other by qualities like profession, status, ideology, competence, and threat level, whereas when women classify men it’s usually by emotional texture, risk profile, erotic narrative, and how being near him makes her feel about herself. Astrology is deeply optimized for the latter, having survived over the years because it remains by far most socially ergonomic set of Girl Heuristics.

And that’s why we hate it, of course.

Men object to astrology because on some level it’s insufferable to hear women using a system that flouts our most basic epistemic ideals—ideals, by the way, that we’d been told as children were universal—to classify and quietly stratify us in ways that utterly bypass masculine metrics. A man wants to be evaluated by achievement, intelligence, discipline, resources, competence, moral seriousness, or at least by his looks in some brute and honest way, but astrology routes around all this and instead calls our vibe evasive, our appetite watery, our ambition compensatory, our charm “mercurial,” and our bedroom energy giving wounded earth sign with mommy issues.

This is intolerable because it is both deeply unserious intellectually and usually also quite accurate simply by dint of giving language to al those precognitive cavepuss intuitions, which btw at least us spergs are kind of just okay with by themselves but bitches always feel this need to turn into some existentially binding universal matter of Right and Wrong for some reason—most typically at the psychic and reputational expense of whichever man in her life is least talented at impersonating John Mulaney.

Thus the correct male response is neither belief nor contempt. Contempt is churlish and low-information, typically amounting to little more than a wounded demand for women to use male categories. Belief is unnecessary and will most of the time just read as simpy and proof that you can’t pull her into your own frame. The right stance is one instead of pragmatic literacy—to learn enough of the grammar to understand the archetypes and master how chicks use them in practice, and in doing so naturally start to engage with the system more as symbolic interface than putative truth engine.

So learn your chart in the same way you know how you photograph, what kind of first impression you make, which sort of facial hair makes you look like a pedophile, and what genres of women project onto you before you even get to open that enormous autistic mouth of yours. If a girl giggles and opines that your sign explains you, do not begin reciting Popper and Wittgenstein, but instead ask her what she thinks it means, and whatever she says next will tell you many times more about her and the various paths therein than it ever will about Mars.

And that’s the other important point: astrology is usually just female self-disclosure formulated in a way that sounds a bit less cringe in her dainty and suckable earsies. The way she narrates men’s signs is an immediate glimpse into her own erotic library, whereas hen she describes her own sign, she reveals the version of herself she needs held stable if you’re to have some kind of relationship beyond you Raping her in that hotel, and when she talks about compatibility she means the kind of love story she can inhabit without feeling retarded. Her narration is the data; the stars just perfume.

If anything the very best astrologers are just the distaff analog to us heuristics niggas, possessing a similar pattern-matching cognition and facility with baroque symbolic composition and decomposition alloyed to a womyn’s social competence and need to occasionally convey messages that would get peepo killed if stated too plainly. The ones who do it with any real sophistication are basically offering their clients Jungian analysis smeared in period blood, which when monetized is to my mind an entirely kawaii and respectable girljob for a high openness fellow’s little wife.

Anyway point is that’s why it’s useful for spergs especially to get into astrology—learning about it keeps us attuned to the understanding that truth as such is not the only form of useful compression, and that while some systems succeed because they correspond neatly to reality and reliably yield predictive closure, many others succeed instead because they cohere perception, stabilize identity, facilitate coded confession, soften accusation, eroticize pattern, and make life more narratively habitable.

No, Mercury retrograde wasn’t responsible for the collapse of her last relationship—but also isn’t it a beautifully feminine gesture to outsource her agency to a planet like that rather than just admit she was bored, horny, avoidant, and kinda curious if that drummer still wanted her? The sperg thinks he wants the latter until he realizes the only gals who ackshully think like that are prostitutes and lesbians; they can’t really love us in a satisfying way unless also permitted by the universe to remain kind of a retarded teenager allowed to narrate men hilariously inconsistently and abrogate her own agency the instant doing so stands to make her pink little pussy taste yummier.

Once you realize that and dwell on it hard enough your autism can actually invert as you start to realize there genuinely is just a lot more dignity—for normie girls clearly but maybe even also for us spergs—in being able to code switch into a register that lets peepo talk about behavioral patterns without instantly cataloging all attendant incentive gradients and enforcement vectors in a way that foregrounds adversarial or transactional modes of interaction. Such translation creates vital interpretive slack, as well as space to disengage or deescalate while letting everyone save face; that is what women are optimizing for usually, and the main benefit astrology offers our beautiful loverly babies: a way to feel continuous yet changing, responsible when they want to be and fated when they don’t, uniquely patterned while also mysterious, and typed without ever falling under Hannibal Lecter’s magnifying glass.

More importantly, it allows chickies to scalably distribute individuated grooming guides which by definition are only legible to the sort of feller she wants having easy access to all the delectably lubricative cheat codes / helpful hints therein.

So long story short? You don’t need to “believe” in astrology—or in anything really since bitches are lowkey all sort of implicit Humeans automatically due to inhabiting a world that precognitively diffuses their causal authorship of events to men and contexts and the stars and probably always will thanks to sperm-n-egg blahblah.

What you should do is learn it—or at a minimum, learn to respect it.

Andrea Dworkin was lowkey endowed by Gaia with one of the luckiest adiposity distributions I’ve witnessed, which appears to have routed everything not shit out directly to embiggening those milkbags. And so it’s actually sort of believable to me now that she got raped by a trillion men or w/e—because can you say to me honestly there’s NO part of you wants to see what’s hiding under those overalls?

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Exgfmaxxing — Have a bunch of unstable relationships in your twenties so by the time you’re 30 you have a roster of like half a dozen girls or more at any given time who will be FWBs or at least munch cum for Weekend tickets since even wholesome chungus girls don’t feel slutty hooking up with an ex. From what I can gather this seems to be what most moderately sociosexual urban gay men have always done in midlife, and it works much the same with Zoomettes except because of sperm and egg shit you never quite fall out of love with them which can make your AI sonnets a little overwrought.

Ecelebmaxxing—Become internet famous and have sex with your fangirls. The bar for this is higher now than a decade ago in the sense that 2010s Millennial subcultures have fallen to niche sex-segregated Zoomer microcultures and a goyslop feedculture, which means that both the quality and quantity of desirable women in male-coded serious subcultural spaces has collapsed. But on the other hand Zoomettes are just a lot more viscerally impressed by status and fame qua themselves than Millennial gals ever were, which means celebrity yields a lot more frictionless glazing now and a lot fewer contrarian sanctimonious hipster shit tests; nowadays it kind of seems even Millennial girls are pretty amenable to being flown out. Anyway if you do this one you’re going to get in trouble at some point so price that in to everything you do.

Catfishmaxxing — Find some fellow in Switzerland or whatever who looks a little like you except maybe 1-2 points more handsome and who plausibly could be you 3-5 years ago, and use his pics in your profile. Then for the first date pull a Blanche Dubois and meet chickie at a place with bad lighting so she doesn’t see you properly until she has some sauce in her and you’ve rizzed her up a bit. Unless you’re like 100+ lbs fatter than the pic most girls won’t get angry enough to walk away immediately which in practice means that if you have enough game to get her drunk at least you’ll probably smash.

Dorkmaxxing — Go to a nerd convention where there are loads of spergy / weird chicks wandering around shitfaced and try to find one from out of town looking for a good excuse to be slutty. Cosplayers are your best bet as tons of them go together in these little sex and the city covens that egg each other on same way normie women do with nash cock, and if you’re any more masculine than the modal redditor there’s a decent chance you’ll have her back to your room in a matter of minutes. A lot are cheating tho so whatever you do don’t ask about her personal life back home literally at all.

Below are a few significantly more evil strategies for paypigs…

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Such an account is flattering to the normie girl, and not infrequently correct assessed purely at the societal level; the average man pretty clearly would be better-served pairing off with someone even-tempered, affectionate, logistically competent, and unlikely ever to call him sobbing from a courthouse, rehab facility, airport bathroom, or old man’s apartment at 3:47 in the morning. Obviously there are no dearth of reasons to prefer the graces of a woman whose life does not periodically reorganize itself around eating disorder relapses, bisexual love triangles, betrayals by her roommate Gabi, and sidequests to procure fake pee.

And yet the fact remains that a certain type of man—and obviously not just losers—perennially seems to end up the proverbial moth on fire chasing after Crazy Bitches.

So what gives?

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The preference for Crazy Bitches is typically discussed in a deeply unhelpful way—most obviously because it tends to come impregnated with the supposition that emotional stability is always and everywhere experienced as erotic surplus.

It isn’t.

While stability is lovely for mortgages, children, sleep, immune function, household maintenance, and the durable administration of middle-class life, there are also many men out there whose lives do not revolve around such things and never will, and for such men female stability tends to register a lot less as salvation than accusation.

In practice the stable woman’s sanity can’t not place men under judgment, as when such a woman loves you what she pretty invariably loves is the governed version: the man who sleeps, earns, plans, can perform tenderness at socially normative intervals and respond to texts with Buttigiegian consistency, and keeps his more eccentric qualities suitably quarantined behind wit, ambition, or sexual competence. She may appreciate his intensity in tasteful quantities as she appreciates a candle at dinner, but there will always come a point where she needs his flame extinguished before it incinerates the curtains. She wants him regulated, and even he’d admit she’s right to want that.

She’s always right.

And often he’ll experience that rightness as a kind of slow and inevitable castration.

See, the foundation of heterosexual polarity is that women need a rock, which is to say someone ontologically heavier than themselves: less porous, less reactive, less ruled by weather, less susceptible to panic, and less likely to crumble under moral blackmail.

The man is meant to stand there and hold shape while the room changes color—to impose a sense of diachronic order on her own synchronic messiness, and provide some confidence that the world, however unpleasant, will not immediately liquefy.

But what happens when the man himself runs a lot less rock than volcano?

Any man our cosmic bagatelle has endowed with a genetic neurotype high in trait neuroticism—particularly when also comorbid with ADHD or manic-depression—probably couldn’t be the boulder of a normie woman even if he wanted to, as his interiority functions in practice a lot more like a haunted weather vane.

The spergy dude, meanwhile, may well possess immense internal structure, but for normie women it is oftentimes precisely the wrong kind of structure: over-explanatory, taxonomic, hyperverbal and procedural and metaphysical; his is the mind that can erect a cathedral around a woman’s mood while forgetting to take out the trash.

The stable woman can usually only experience men like this as malfunctioning—but the Crazy Bitch? She’ll often experience such a man as the only one who gets her.

He understands that agency flickers, and that the self is less a parliament than dark cabaret. He could write a treatise at this point and probably has about how a girl can crave rescue and still sabotage any fool who attempts it, or love a man deeply only to punish him for being necessary, or tell the truth in one register while lying her ass off in every other, or experience past decisions more as having happened to her than as something deliberately authored in a manner consonant with liberal adulthood.

That sort of understanding is rare in men, and makes her hospitable in kind to certain genres of masculine truth one doesn’t air at parties.

She does not expect him to pretend that people are clean and intelligible agents who mean what they say and say what they mean and mostly need better boundaries, better habits, better communication, and a more exacting commitment to hydration, as she herself knows that this is nonsense, or at least is for people like them.

She does not implicitly require that he disown his inner wretchedness, because a lot of times that very wretchedness is the spine of her attraction to him.

She does not resent him for scaring her at times or occasionally wanting to hurt her, because that’s the primary thing that makes her cum.

The Crazy Bitch does not stand outside her man’s volatility as a nurse, schoolteacher, therapist, or lifestyle manager—she inhabits it. She may at times resent his flame, and at other times will exploit it, eroticize it, escalate it, forgive it, mirror it, or calm it, but even long after the dyad expires she’s far less likely to experience it as proof ipso facto that he’s failed to join the species or matriculate into normative adulthood.

And for the sperg in particular, this is hugely powerful.

Recall that his gift for explanation most of the time proves quite useless in romance because most women do not want to be understood in the way he understands things—they want to be felt, handled, desired, contained, teased, comforted, and occasionally lied to in the right key. What they don’t want is a dissertation on the precise mechanism by which their childhood molestation experience, body dysmorphia, class position, status anxiety, sexual history, and fraught relationship with their mother have generated the present conversational impasse.

A lot of times the Crazy Bitch wants exactly that.

And when she does she’ll experience the sperg’s explanatory apparatus as a shrine, because unlike normie men he’s willing to take her chaos seriously even when it’s objectively very retarded. He’ll treat her contradictions as load-bearing, lending coherence to her mood swings and dignity to her manic episodes. He’ll make her eating disorder mythic, her relapse a chapter, and her desire for tacos at 4 a.m. a datapoint in some totalizing theory of love, agency, trauma, femininity, and God.

Obviously this isn’t healthy in any straightforward sense.

It is, however, pretty erotic.

The manic-depressive man approaches from a different angle, loving the Crazy Bitch because she does not experience his own volatility as intrinsically vulgar or feminine.

A stable woman will often be kind, but her kindness always carries with it a certain stench of LinkedIn that every now and then congeals into gray managerial contempt. She requires him to sleep more, drink less, stop catastrophizing, regulate his tone, stop randomly disappearing, stop overpromising, stop talking in absolutes, stop making everything so intense, and she’s obviously in the right on every point.

Rightness isn’t sexy.

The Crazy Bitch, meanwhile, understands that moods are not opinions and impulses aren’t about arguments. And she probably is far worse for him in practice, but she’s also far less likely to treat his own weather as moral failure in the way that normie women will, which actually imposes just architecturally a pretty low ceiling on the severity of most canonical womanly defection modes.

And yes, she sure as shit can be vain, hypocritical, absurd, manipulative, self-pitying, and destructively needy—but she’ll also understand just on an animal level that human agency is intermittent, which to any man who’s spent most of his life being sanctimoniously told simply to choose better is a very real mercy.

The creative man adores a Crazy Bitch because she keeps reality symbolically charged.

Stable women almost always want their lives de-dramatized—want conflict processed, routines established, wounds named, logistics clarified, and emotional escalation brought back down to a survivable bandwidth.

The creative man, meanwhile, usually wants the opposite, and needs events to mean too much. He’ll see an omen in his sandwich, revelation in his orgasm, and a novella in every betrayal. Every relapse bequeaths a new theology of appetite; each breakup proffers new insight into the spirit of the age. He can’t bear suffering without form.

The Crazy Bitch provides such form in spades, because she fills his life with scenes.

She lets the creative man experience crisis, tenderness, degradation, dependence, mystery, revenge, confession, collapse, repair, and the occasional unforgettable sentence. She makes his condo a stage set and turns his phone into a horcrux. And yes, she is also exhausting—in precisely the way all good material is exhausting. He may earnestly want peace, but also: does peace give you anything worth writing down?

This is why the contempt of normie women so often misses the point—they ask why he keeps going back, as though he’s simply failed to notice the practical downsides.

He has noticed.

He has them catalogued and indexed in far greater detail than anyone else.

The volatility, addiction, jealousy, sexual recklessness, attention hunger, self-sabotage, dissociation, medical drama, friend-group contamination, and unstable situationship with the truth are not at all lost on him. He is not unaware that the stable woman would probably make his life easier. But he also might not be seeking easier.

The stable woman offers peace—and peace is a profound good. But it’s also thin gruel for a man whose inner life has always sounded like furniture being dragged upstairs, and a lot of times he doesn’t especially want a woman who makes that noise stop.

He wants a girl who hears it too.

The Crazy Bitch also gives a man permission to experience himself as necessary, and that is probably her most dangerous gift.

Around a normal woman a man may well be useful, attractive, funny, impressive, or loved, but around the Crazy Bitch he transforms at least for a moment into rescuer, father, priest, analyst, jailer, husband, executioner, doctor, confessor, and god. And clearly these are too many roles for one man, but that’s precisely why the arrangement tends also to become so damned intoxicating: your dyad is effectively a small religion.

Of course, that can curdle pretty quickly into vampirism; the girl who needs you today may well need some other fellow tomorrow, and then a third man by Friday because he happens to have cocaine, a truck, a lake house, or the enviable distinction of not being you. Need doesn’t underwrite loyalty, and ride-or-die devotion typically isn’t found in mere dependency—men who confuse these things not infrequently find themselves holding her purse in a hospital parking lot while she texts uncharitable things about them to someone named Tyler.

Still the fantasy will always be powerful because male love is rarely satisfied by being appreciated in the abstract—men need to feel effective; need their presence to deeply alter some woman’s felt reality. A man yearns to know that without his continued effort something important and beautiful would collapse.

The stable woman loves him without requiring him, and this is deeply unerotic.

The Crazy Bitch will require him in ways that are unwise, humiliating, unsustainable, and legally inadvisable—but her requirement still feels like proof.

There is also the matter of forgiveness.

Highly neurotic men know—better than anyone else, and often with painful clarity—that they are difficult. They are narcissistic, reactive, obsessive, grandiose, avoidant, sentimental, cruel in small bursts, lazy in embarrassing ways, and prone to mistaking their own intensity for depth.

Stable women may forgive these traits, but such forgiveness usually feels conditional on reform, whereas the Crazy Bitch’s forgiveness comes instead from recognition, as she has all the same animals in her basement, and sometimes larger.

This creates a dyadic relief unavailable in ostensibly healthier pairings. The neurotic man needn’t maintain the fiction that he is a well-governed adult with quirks, and she needn’t maintain the fiction that her volatility is a temporary inconvenience on the way to becoming someone known for tasteful dinner parties. Instead they can meet in that ruined no man’s land where people are appetitive, wounded, manipulative, tender, frightened, theatrical, and only intermittently capable of telling the truth.

Naturally this is also where they destroy each other.

The term Crazy Bitch is crude, but it maps a very real archetype: the woman too affectively porous to live comfortably inside mainstream norms.

She feels too much too fast, and with insufficient mediation.

She’s an addict, liar, homewrecker, whore, hysteric, muse, actress, saint, poet, waif, social terrorist, and ambulatory restraining order who’s able to clock disharmony in a room long before anyone else and still can’t manage to pay her parking tickets.

She’ll understand a man’s wound immediately and perfectly, and then use that knowledge to press on his wound until he says something unforgivable and proceeds to fuck her mean enough that for a few moments at least she no longer feels numb.

The stable woman sees that dysfunction and asks why anyone would eroticize it.

The answer is that eroticizing virtues is for women—virtues being ontologically phallic by definition. Men instead eroticize the yonic analog, which is to say portals.

The Crazy Bitch is a portal into a world where all those analgesic liberal pieties about agency, safety, communication, and self-actualization collapse before older and darker gods. She is living testament to the fact that people are not cleanly self-owning, and proves love is not always kind—that human desire has no regard for human dignity, and a man can understand a situation completely and still walk into it like a dog.

This is profoundly attractive to men who already suspect the official world is fake.

The low-neuroticism woman believes—or needs to—in the administrative gospel of modern liberal adulthood: communicate, regulate, choose, heal, set boundaries, take accountability, and move forward. All splendid norms for people whose souls clock in on time, and the very gayest kind of Orwellianism for the rest of us.

The Crazy Bitch testifies against that regime simply by existing as evidence that the self is not always sovereign.

And this is where low-neuroticism women always become most ridiculous in their judgments, because they love to treat neurotic volatility as though it were a series of poor consumer choices: Just stop dating toxic people. Just regulate. Just choose peace. Just have standards. Just go to therapy. Just stop making everything so dramatic. Such advice isn’t “wrong,” of course—just has all the spiritual depth of a refrigerator manual.

Because neuroticism is not just some decorative vice tacked onto an elsewise stable personality for aesthetic effect; it is a deep temperamental tendency that’s substantially heritable, socially costly, and civilizationally indispensable. It’s what produces anxiety, jealousy, obsession, depression, panic, shame, appetite, self-sabotage, sensitivity to rejection, and a near-miraculous capacity to make everyone nearby tired. It likewise produces art, prophecy, erotic insight, social acumen, spiritual depth, comic timing, rebellion, boundary-pushing, and vitalizing controlled burns of societal underbrush.

A society composed entirely of low-neuroticism people would be calmer, healthier, wealthier, and unbearable. It would have better sleep hygiene and worse novels; produce fewer suicide attempts and fewer saints; generate less chaos and less revelation. Its people would live longer and say nothing worth remembering.

But stable people always want the fruits of neuroticism without the neurotic—want the art without the breakdown, sensitivity without the panic, erotic charge without the jealousy, insight without obsession, edge without the instability, boundary-pushing without the self-destruction, and muse without the hospital bracelet.

This is understandable; civilization always wants the honey without the bees.

But that’s why there are beekeepers.

The great mistake is imagining that attraction to unstable women is a failure to notice pathology when in truth pathology is precisely what undergirds the attraction.

The Crazy Bitch’s instability makes her porous to myth, more likely to collapse into a man’s frame, more likely to idealize him, more likely to experience ordinary gestures as destiny, more likely to generate sexual intensity from dependency, and more likely to respond to language as though it were sorcery. For any man whose gifts are mostly verbal, symbolic, or dramaturgical, this feels like getting your first pair of glasses.

And this is why the hyperverbal sperg is especially vulnerable to Crazy Bitches: he has spent his life trying to make words alter the fabric of reality, when most of the time all they can do is entertain, irritate, impress, repel, or confuse—until he meets a woman whose internal borders are weak enough his words can truly enter her.

He describes her and she changes shape. He names her wound and she feels claimed. He writes her a list and she experiences it as courtship.

He mythologizes her and she starts—disastrously—to glow.

To call this manipulative is to miss the reciprocity. She is using him too; wants to be translated into significance; to have her chaos granted style and need made beautiful. She wants a man who can look at the wreckage and see not just bad executive function but tragedy, eros, history, archetype, and perhaps even fate. She wants what all of us want: a version of life in which even the ugliest facts can be arranged into meaning.

The bipolar man offers something adjacent. He does not necessarily explain her, but he joins in her weather. Instead of standing there with a clipboard asking whether her reaction is proportionate, he knows in his marrow proportion is a bourgeois fantasy. Thus he may prove reckless, inconsistent, grandiose, sexually chaotic, and incapable of the gray and humdrum maintenance upon which ordinary civilization depends, but is unlikely to be sanctimonious about emotional excess. Her volatility doesn’t shock him—just gives him someone to dance with while Gordon finds roaches in the fridge.

But the deepest appeal may be that Crazy Bitches let men experience their darkness without immediate moral demotion. A stable woman may require him to split himself into acceptable and unacceptable parts, but the Crazy Bitch will welcome his evil side first. She’ll like his possessiveness, his baroque verbal cruelty, his need to dominate, his theatrical rescue fantasies, his contempt for ordinary life, his sexual extremity, his hatred of managerial adulthood. She doesn’t just tolerate the dragon—she feeds it, rides it, accuses it of neglecting her, then giggles while it burns the house down.

To a man accustomed to being loved only when housebroken, this is difficult to resist.

It’s also a massive part of the savior fantasy. Men don’t yearn to save Crazy Bitches because doing so is noble so much as because rescue would retroactively justify attraction; if he can make her sober, faithful, calm, healthy, domestic, and devoted without extinguishing her erotic charge, then all the chaos was not just indulgence but pilgrimage. He did not chase madness, but redeemed it. He did not choose the impossible girl because normal life bored him; he alone saw the wife inside the siren.

The fantasy is most of the time false. The siren tends to remain a siren, and if made into a wife may become depressed, fat, resentful, boring, or dead. What made her so intoxicating will not disappear once domesticated, but might instead turn inward, rot, or migrate to some fresh object. Thus men discover saving a girl is rarely compatible with preserving those qualities which made her worth saving in the first place.

Yet at times the fantasy is not entirely false. Some Crazy Bitches ackshully do calm down when properly loved, structured, protected, and sexually claimed by a man they deeply respect. Quite a lot of them are not ruined creatures so much as misgoverned ones, and simply need authority, ritual, devotion, and containment rather than endless therapeutic autonomy. And some of them very genuinely are brilliant little weather systems entirely capable of becoming livable inside the right architecture.

The possibility is rare enough to be dangerous, and real enough to keep men gambling.

Naturally, the stable woman loathes the existence of such a gamble because it insults her entire value proposition. She has done the work. She is reasonable. She is available for peace. She has cultivated traits women are told make them good wives. Then some man with decent options wanders off chasing a bulimic art hoe with molested voice and Dissociative Identity Disorder, and she of course concludes that he’s an idiot.

Sometimes he is.

Other times he’s just responding to a compatibility she isn’t able to perceive.

None of this makes Crazy Bitches morally superior—quite the opposite, usually. As a rule they run selfish, dishonest, cowardly, cruel, exhausting, and shockingly casual about the damage they leave behind. Their suffering does not purify them, and their sensitivity does not automatically make them good. Any man who’s tried to love one knows all too well how quickly poetry turns into the very shittiest sort of logistics.

And still we answer the phone call from the rehab center.

Read that message full of lies.

Write that stupid letter to her parents.

Book the hotel so we can spend a day inside her and have the rest of our year ruined.

Forgive the latest relapse. Believe the new vow.

The Crazy Bitch is a terrible investment, but a superb revelation—makes life worse, yes, but also quite a lot less fake, and for some of us that trade will always be tempting.

Men love her because sanity is only one axis of value, and for many not the main one.

They love her because volatility creates polarity where stability breeds only judgment.

They love her because she doesn’t experience their explanatory mania, erotic cruelty, narcissistic grandiosity, and need for myth as a defect to be managed.

They love her because she lets them be rock, storm, doctor, monster, father, priest, and chastened little boy all at once inside one doomed, retarded little drama.

The stable woman offers peace, and peace is no small thing. But to those of us who’ve learned to make music from the sound of furniture being dragged upstairs, that sort of peace feels less like a home than an eviction notice.

The Crazy Bitch, meanwhile, knocks back.

That is the trouble—and that is her appeal.

Corner a woman and she’ll vanish into atmosphere; a man will build his own little administrative state around the wound. He drafts declarations, revises the maps, invents reserves of strength, falsifies accounts of troop movement, and assures any citizens still remaining in the bunker that the latest retreat was tactical.

The archetypal male lie is essentially one of inflated agency: a man presents himself as stronger, freer, braver, less needy, more competent, more desired, more dangerous, more disciplined, more loyal, more indifferent, more future-oriented, and generally just more in command of events than the available evidence bears out. He lies upward, toward rank; outward, toward women; and most of all inward, toward that small and exhausted little clerk in the soul he still needs to certify him each morning as a man.

The genesis is obvious. Male dignity depends chiefly on the appearance of capacity—e.g. what can he build, endure, win, refuse, protect, provide, command, or destroy? How much pain can he take before breaking? How much humiliation can he swallow before it becomes visible in the face? Whereas a helpless woman can easily remain tragic, adorable, sacred, sympathetic, erotic, or narratively central, a helpless man will eternally read as comic, pathetic, or absent, and that means however fallible he may prove at times each man in practice is obliged to cultivate a certain private dialect to translate intermittent moments of frailty into something a bit less viscerally odious.

Typically we call this dialect masculinity.

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How Men Lie To Each Other

To his peers a man lies chiefly about rank.

He exaggerates money, access, courage, competence, sexual demand, physical danger, professional momentum, institutional proximity, and the level of respect he receives from men whose respect would matter—though pure invention remains pretty rare, as most lack the imagination for it and generally prefer the far more economical route of placing some real fragment beneath the theater lights.

Thus a mediocre hookup turns into a roster and a pleasant meeting an alliance, while one woman’s politeness gets narrated as preselection and a few months in the gym as athletic seriousness, until soon some half-formed old project sounds like half a startup and that lucky break collecting dust turns out ackshully to have been a masterstroke.

The thing is male peer groups tend to grant provisional dignity on the basis of trajectory—a man is permitted to be broke if he is building; weak if he’s training; undistinguished if he’s grinding; alone if he’s improving; humiliated if he’s learning—as stasis always will damn you in the eyes of other men a hell of a lot more completely than failure.

And that’s why probably the most common lie between men is the claim that present low status is merely transitional: that the unemployed man is merely between things, the undisciplined about to lock in, the sexually invisible working on himself, the failed artist preparing a more serious phase, and so on. Which in fairness at times actually does save him—but more often it just sedates him, as he’ll often grow so accustomed to telling others he’s in motion so they won’t despise him that he begins to tell himself the same thing to avoid having to learn whether motion still exists.

Men lie to each other enormously about effort. They understate it when they lose and aestheticize ease when they win, the optimal masculine performance requiring victory without pain or injury, competence without visible study, access without supplication, dominance without desperation, and achievement without need. Such a formulation quite crucially allows men to freely admit laziness while retaining a bit of glamor as laziness ultimately implies unused reserves, whereas the man who admits he tried with all his might and still failed owns up to the rather deeper humiliation of insufficiency.

For this reason modern man cultivates irony with the care his forebears once gave to prayer, as irony allows for participation without full exposure. It lets him want the woman, the job, the audience, the recognition, the body, the friendship, or the room’s respect while still preserving some narrow hatch through which his ego can crawl in the event of rejection, “I don’t care” now being the paper gown du jour to drape over naked need.

You see the same thing with male fear whenever it’s tactically rechristened as timing, prudence, boredom, contempt, principle, disgust, patience, or moral objection; a man will never admit he didn’t approach the woman because rejection might have turned him to jelly—just say e.g. she seemed annoying. It’s not that he failed to confront a rival because said rival might have beaten or humiliated him—just that the situation was beneath him. He didn’t publish because the audience was stupid; didn’t compete because the game was fake; didn’t ask because that would have been cringe, and so on.

Note that such excuses will generally seem entirely legitimate—that’s why they work, and why this is a canonical male deception mode. Masculine self-deception survives by colonizing mostly true observations with self-serving cowardice or indolence.

Men also lie to each other through competence theater—they’ll converse as though they deeply understand money, women, fighting, engines, investing, lifting, drinking, danger, politics, negotiation, firearms, leadership, and the psychology of other men, regardless of their actual level of competence. In healthy cultures this sort of theater carries a great deal of practical utility in that it lets the boy perform adulthood until ordeal disciplines performance into something genuine, but in decadent cultures the costume tends to detach from ordeal until masculine credentialing is increasingly the realm of commercialized and performative grift masculinity while hollow competence theater tends to carry on unabated well past adolescence due to obligate participation in infinitely large late-modern competitive markets.

Another thing men lie about is loyalty. Male friendship rests on a flattering myth of inviolable brotherhood, but loyalty in practice tends to bend quite readily under risk, status, women, reputational contamination, convenience, and immediate proximity to ascent, and most men are able to call themselves loyal mostly because they’ve never been presented with a sufficiently lucrative betrayal opportunity. Note also that when defection does occur it’s invariably under a respectable heading: maturity, boundaries, neutrality, avoiding drama, family priorities, career necessity, not getting involved, and so on, and often isn’t even all that hostile, running a lot more whimper than shout.

In regards to women men lie to each other in predictable ways: exaggerate conquest, minimize rejection, fabricate indifference, downgrade the birds who ignored them, pathologize the ones who left them, and narrate failures of access as standards. With more pedestrian types there isn’t even much of a pretense—she’ll be mid after failing to respond, crazy after remembering too much, shallow after picking someone better, boring after not admiring him, “not my type” exactly when he strikes out. With sexual boasting, meanwhile, it’s mostly jockeying for rank recognition—sex of course serving as certification that some woman somewhere ratified him as viable. Men therefore lie about number, quality, eagerness, friction, and cost, with the deeper object being an image of frictionless access; he wants other men to think the world opens for him, and if there’s ever a grey area situation with consent usually won’t be entirely candid about the details with the other fellow unless reasonably sure he’s equally or more rapacious.

Most men lie to friends at least a little about the size of their penis whenever the topic comes up—and note the incentive to do so is actually a fair bit stronger than it is with women since one’s buddy both has no easy way to corroborate his testimony and most of the time will care about it significantly more than any woman he might bed.

Men lie about violence—their counterfactual selves are truly magnificent creatures, hence “I’d handle it.” “He wouldn’t try that with me.” “I would never let that happen,” and so forth. Such utterances exist largely to insure the speaker against opportunistic prey classification and are elsewise mostly theater, as real-world violence tends to be ugly, fast, confusing, expensive, and full of unwelcome information about one’s body.

Men lie to each other about principle. Some are more self-aware than others, but most of the time a fellow’s politics, morals, aesthetics, and professional commitments have far more to do with rank and positional status than he’d ever willingly admit. A man’s worldview tracks the hierarchy in which he can matter, the coalition willing to dignify him, the enemies he wants license to hate, and the women before whom he needs to seem impressive. Beyond that his “values” are mostly all performative LARPing.

Men lie a great deal through contempt, which lets exclusion cosplay as superiority. Thus whenever a man can’t enter some room, he’ll call that room decadent. If he fails to compete in some market, it must be fraudulent. If he can’t attract a woman, she’s vulgar. If he can’t ascend within an institution, it’s full of cowards. If he can’t produce things of beauty, then beauty is bourgeois. If he is undisciplined, discipline is cope.

At times the contempt is still correct.

How Men Lie To Women

With women the classic lie is manufacturing futurity.

During courtship or seduction men invariably present themselves as more stable, integrated, decisive, financially secure, emotionally adult, healed, disciplined, and capable of continuity than they are, understanding women select at least in part for trajectory, containment, and the felt promise of a life that will not collapse at some point into getting softdicked on a floor mattress next to unpaid bills and dirty dishes.

Perhaps the modal fabrication in that vein is simply the implication of direction—a man will suggest by way of tone, attention, tenderness, repetition, and selective seriousness that he knows where this is going, and at the time may genuinely believe that himself! Desire creates weather, and a lonely man especially tends to mistake his own weather for climate, and so whenever a woman makes him feel warmth, hunger, novelty, relief, admiration, possessiveness, and the small redemptive glow of being looked at kindly in a restaurant he’ll often collate these sensations into something in the neighborhood of willful commitment. When invariably seasons change she’ll narrate it as deception and he as confusion, but both descriptions are probably too generous.

With the fairer sex men whether of a rakish or simpering disposition tend almost always to overstate intent, allowing women to infer seriousness, patience, exclusivity, emotional availability, and moral continuity far beyond what’s actually been decided. Deliberate predation accounts for some of this but banal opportunism accounts for far more; a man wants access now but prefers not to foreclose future optionality, and so allows her to inhabit whichever version of him is most conducive to procuring sex, tenderness, domestic care, admiration, and feminine compliance, avoiding statements precise enough to bind him and letting girlish wishful thinking do the rest.

Men perform depth, mastering through hollow imitation the womanly esperanto of attachment styles, trauma, feminism, therapy talk, spirituality, astrology, art, grief, nervous systems, accountability, inner children, and “healing.” This performance will seldom have the flavor of overt cynicism so much as exhausted instinct or patronizing amusement, and many men genuinely enjoy feeling profound when a woman provides the lighting; her listening enlarges him, endowing him with confidence in his own interior architecture. Thus deception begins when such vocabulary yields intimacy the man lacks the character to honor following orgasm, boredom, or opportunity.

Men lie a great deal about other women, hiding options whenever they need to dampen womanly anxiety and inflating options when in need of preselection. Ex-girlfriends become crazy when they remember too much; orbiters, plates, and validation bunnies become mere friends when their presence might induce unwelcome friction; ambient female attention becomes accidental when deeply cultivated. The present woman is made to feel precisely as singular as she needs to feel for his purposes while receiving no accurate map of the real competitive ecosystem in which she’s being held.

Men lie enormously about sexual discipline. They minimize porn use, novelty hunger, opportunism, jealousy, wandering attention, sexual sadism and extractive intent, and the additivity of male desire. A man may love a woman deeply and still want another woman in a way that feels internally wholly unrelated to love—but knows also clean articulation of this fact would horrify her or lower him, and so translates his actual feelings into platitudinous mewling about temptation, loneliness, stress, stupidity, weakness, meaninglessness, or “a mistake.”

Men lie a great deal about the refinement of their desire, owning far less attraction to e.g. youth, beauty, thinness, fertility cues, admiration, sexual softness, and compliance than they internally experience. While men might sincerely value humor, intelligence, loyalty, kindness, and shared principles, public language requires such characteristics to matter more than they actually do at the sexual gate. Male erotic judgment remains primitive, fast, and embarrassing, and a man conceals this because blunt male desire makes women feel inventoried and makes him seem coarse, dangerous, or low.

The most obvious example of this behavior is pretending not to desire adolescent girls whilst performing moral outrage at such desire in other men, which essentially every solitary man in a modern industrial society does more or less constantly.

Men also lie to women in an almost architectural sense through simple idealization: desire improves the woman, and makes her rarer, gentler, purer, more loyal, more mysterious, more personally fated, and more existentially salvific than she could ever possibly live up to or would ever sufficiently compel him to wash his ass. Of course he’ll usually punish her later for not remaining the object produced by his loneliness, lust, and need for proof that life once approached him with meaning, so women tend to roll their eyes at this tendency, not realizing it’s still very much the fundament of romance on the male side and an indispensable instrument of pair bonding.

With women men conceal contempt. He may resent her politics, social class, friends, sexual history, body, family, laziness, ambition, vanity, neuroticism, ignorance, or affective volatility while continuing to sleep with her, accept domestic labor from her, or keep her around simply because existence is less painful with a woman performing maintenance nearby. Masculine contempt can live beside such dependence for years, and many men despise she whose attention prevents his collapse.

Men lie about care. During pursuit they perform patience, curiosity, tenderness, wit, sexual attentiveness, moral seriousness, and a willingness to listen actively to tedious emotional blathering without wanting to step in front of a bus. Once access is secured the pursuit-state recedes and appetite, irritation, boredom, logistical minimalism, and private contempt return to baseline, and one of the oldest and probably most essential male lies is conflating the energy required to obtain a woman with both the character required to keep her and durable inclination to do so.

Men lie a great deal to women through passivity, and prefer letting relationships rot on the vine to ending them cleanly in a way that needlessly forecloses sexual access and domestic aid. And so instead of leaving a woman men simply become colder, less useful, less sexually generous, less curious, less available, and less present emotionally, preserving enough continuity to keep the arrangement breathing and enough absence to avoid any obligations of presence, until she leaves and they experience her exit as betrayal. Male abandonment wants the benefits of departure without the signature.

Men lie by misstating their wanting as valuing. A man can intensely want a woman he does not respect, pursue a woman he would not protect, sleep with a woman he would not publicly choose, feel jealous over a woman he has no intention of honoring, and experience possessiveness toward a woman he’d discard under inconvenience. It’s very easy for male desire to generate heat without conferring honor, and while women tend to experience this as deliberate cruelty men experience it a lot more administratively as essentially the separation of columns in a private spreadsheet.

Men tend to curate their sexual history in keeping with the listener’s vanity. To one woman he therefore might present himself as sincere, wounded, fundamentally safe, and morally clean, while to a very different sort of girl becoming the rake: selected, dangerous, and difficult to impress. Vanishingly few men ever provide an accurate sexual autobiography, which in basically all cases would reduce his lovability.

Men lie hugely about personal ambition. Around one woman his ambition will look like steady provision; around another, artistic necessity or moral imperative or a life of unserious play. The ambition usually is very real, but its costume changes dramatically in accordance with the woman before whom he wishes to remain impressive.

Men almost invariably lie about change. A woman wants to believe her love, beauty, intelligence, patience, or suffering will summon the better man hidden inside the current one, and men gladly permit this belief because it grants access to erotic and domestic devotion while outsourcing discipline to her wishful thinking. He’ll let her love the best possible version of him while inhabiting probably the ~35th percentile.

How Men Lie To Themselves

Alone men lie with the greatest freedom.

As per usual, they lie about agency first—since his dignity depends on agency, a man typically will tell himself he chose his life instead of just adapting downwards to defeat. Thus resignation becomes maturity and cowardice prudence; bitterness is narrated as realism, and avoidance as discipline; failure gets christened “authenticity,” and a lack of options “freedom.” Most male identities are constraints wrapped in a pride flag.

Men lie to themselves about not caring, as the ego survives humiliation by transmuting longing into contempt—and so he did not want the woman, the invitation, the father’s blessing, the friend’s loyalty, the beautiful house, the public honor, the room’s respect. He’s above such bullshit, which is fake anyway. The grapes were bourgeois, decadent, mid, cringe, spiritually dead, feminine, neoliberal, degenerate, or bad for civilization.

Most men lie to themselves tremendously about competence. Intelligence becomes capacity. Analysis becomes action. Diagnosis becomes control. Taste gets narrated as achievement, and contempt as discernment, and mere plans as motion. Vocabulary becomes power. The systematizing man especially is vulnerable to this habit because private models confer the sensation of superiority before execution has imposed its humiliations and entropy all its insufferable little taxes. He can understand the game better than any other player, and still lose ignominiously to men who understand nothing but have a deep somatic grasp of timing, appetite, and motion.

They lie about future discipline—about how later, eventually, they will train, write, build, quit, save, approach, apologize, leave, commit, study, publish, fight, or change. The future disciplined self is among the most addictive male hallucinations because it preserves the illusion of agency without demanding any actual hardship, allowing the imagined man of tomorrow to serve as patron saint of present wretchedness.

Men lie to themselves about rejection. Failure with women gets attributed—entirely rightly in most cases, but never all that helpfully—to female shallowness, dating apps, feminism, hypergamy, capitalism, liberalism, trauma, astrology, porn, elite decadence, or some manner of civilizational decline. This allows more editable and less operatic variables to receive less attention: ugliness, poor deportment, bad timing, weak body, low energy, malodorous crevices, visible outcome dependence, affective incontinence, unimpressive rank, bad rhythm, inability to make another body feel good nearby. The model turns into self-deception when it protects parts of him he still might work on.

Yet men lie also about being chosen, because all that analytic machinery that turns so cold and bloodless under rejection has a way of melting into liturgy when her desire smiles back. Intellectually he knows a woman may just want novelty, access, rebellion, attention, money, proximity to status, protection, emotional stimulation, retribution against another man, or temporary escape—still it feels like being seen. Thus men who reduce rejection to incentives turn into Miss Cleo when those incentives flatter them.

Men self-deceive enormously about moral superiority, with men who fail to win often becoming priests of whichever realm undid them. Thus the failed seducer will defend love as the failed capitalist denounces greed and failed artist savages pretentiousness and failed academic broadsides credentialism and failed fighter reps peace and love, and usually such critiques will be entirely accurate, thoughtful, and nuanced (probably to keep up plausible deniability more than anything, but also on their own merits)— yet we all also understand intuitively that accuracy does not cleanse autobiography.

Men lie inward about honor. They imagine loyalty because no one has offered enough; imagine courage because the cost has not been calibrated correctly; imagine principle because principle has not yet blocked sex, money, safety, revenge, recognition, or a sense of belonging. Basically everyone is honorable before the storm hits.

Men lie to themselves about their anger—they talk about justice when they want revenge, truth when they crave vindication, accountability when they mean humiliation, peace when they mean surrender, boundaries when they just want punishment, and clarity when they obviously desire control. Most of the time such obfuscation ends up being counterproductive to getting both what they actually want and what they pretend to.

Men lie quite a lot about love. Possession, idealization, dependence, erotic fixation, rescue fantasy, scarcity panic, status injury, loneliness, and fear of replacement all present themselves in romantic costume. But real love requires the woman to become actual, and most women just aren’t exceptional enough to remain a consistent source of inspiration, and so this is where men start to tire. They prefer her as emblem: muse, proof, home, goddess, slut, mother, prize, wound, foe, lost kingdom, or moral excuse.

They lie about darkness. Aggression, lust, envy, sadism, cowardice, vanity, domination hunger, and simple appetite often end up treated by men as alien intrusions instead of ordinary and expected constituents of the self, which naturally leaves the man easier for such impulses to govern. The man who believes himself above power serves power crudely; he who believes himself above cruelty practices cruelty without any artistry or skill; and he who refuses knowledge of appetite just becomes appetite’s clerk.

They lie about being different from other men. Each man considers his own lust more discerning, his own ambition more noble, his own resentment more justified, his own cowardice more complex, his own tenderness less pathetic or more uncommon, and his own contradictions more operatic. Usually he is correct by a small margin from some angle or particular resolution, and the right woman will see that and overindex on it to the point of establishing a private religion for their dyad. In other respects he will be worse, and both of them will conveniently ignore that. Ultimately every man is just yet another animal explaining himself afterward, with variable levels of success.

They lie about transcendence. The clever man can graph the incentives, name the market, diagnose the woman, predict the betrayal, mock the institution, classify the rival, and still yearn very pathetically to be loved, admired, chosen, obeyed, forgiven, feared, and remembered past his expiration date. Accurate perception has endowed him with an exquisitely detailed map of the cage, but it hasn’t and likely won’t ever actually give him the key—though at times the map looks keylike enough to women and weaker men that delusion becomes very briefly a bit more tenable to maintain.

The deepest male lie is that explanation can redeem defeat: a man describes the forces that crushed him and hopes the description counts as mastery. Occasionally it does, privately, for an hour or two—and then the world continues to reward beauty, timing, courage, cruelty, inheritance, luck, discipline, and motion. His account may be correct and probably is, but correctness usually is just the token dignity life allots its losers.

Men lie to preserve the image of agency under conditions that reveal agency’s limits.

To other men, they inflate rank.

To women, they counterfeit futurity.

To themselves, they translate fear, appetite, constraint, and humiliation into stories under which they maintain some species of authorship over their lives.

A man’s lies are like his armor: rigid, flattering, heavy, hot, expensive to maintain, and most of the time utterly useless against that blunderbuss currently pointed at his face.

Main reason being that very nearly all of its most effective incarnations involve some species of epistemic smokescreen—think plausible deniability, implication, passivity and social withdrawal, status poisoning, whisper campaigns, tactical vulnerability, post-hoc narrativization, strategic moralization, or quiet ambient social pressure.

While male power announces itself overtly through action, rank, resources, coercive capacity, institutional writ, and visible dominance, feminine power operates instead by controlling the emotional temperature, reputational gradients, desirability, access, exclusion, comfort, shame, and social meaning of everyone else’s behavior.

This, of course, makes it tricky for a man to publicly call out competent female power plays without just making himself look deranged, bitter, or low-status—on some level even to describe female power serves to violate the aesthetic order under which it operates.

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First let’s consider the terrain in question—that benighted “Other Realm” I initially sketched out last April in The Girl Who Cried Incel whilst attempting to decompose the canonical vectors of womanly maneuvering without offending any girl readers, my primary tactic to that end being to narrate their choices in as gentle lighting as possible, which at least in that context entailed a highly aestheticized and mythopoetic grammar that deliberately held a great deal of space for ambiguity.

Today I’ll be assessing the same topic, only this time in a more mechanistic, systems-building register sure to be experienced as some tincture of discomfiting, distressing, and possibly even dehumanizing by any Lady Walthead who opts to carry on with us, hence my decision on account of loving and respecting you flowers many times too much ever to subject you to such a thing without at least buying you dinner first to formally warn you all now that any woman who gets offended by things ought to turn back!

Alright, cool

So you may be wondering at this point—what’s the Other Realm?

Basically it’s a high-context social field governed by the feminine arts of subtext, mood, deniability, taste, implication, selective warmth, vulnerability, and reputation threat.

It’s not monopolized by women, as many of the fairer sex navigate it only passively or badly, while artists, gays, comedians, seducers, courtiers, high-functioning sociopaths, and other charismatic men draw heavily from it as well. But it’s specifically women— and the most socially fluent and desirable women in particular—who have the deepest native relationship to the Other Realm, as their own power depends least of anyone on direct compulsive force and far more than anyone else on managing attention, desire, safety, coalition, and narrative interpretation under circumstances where overt modes of agency are dangerous, punished, or aesthetically disqualifying.

And that, lads, is what fuels the Other Realm’s infamous Photonegative Status Hierarchy.

Whereas in masculine status hierarchies power generally appears as power—wealth, rank, strength, competence, command, achievement, domination, victory, and so on—power in feminine systems manifests chiefly as its opposite, which is to say fragility, injury, receptivity, disinterest, confusion, softness, concern, discomfort, or helplessness. In such a context it will often be the most passive person who sets the frame, whoever seems most wounded that has most jurisdiction, and whoever feels most Unsafe that’s able to orient everyone in earshot most undeniably around her nervous system.

Note, however, that essentially all of the most potent vectors of feminine power tend to rely heavily on plausible deniability, which ensures that socially sophisticated women needn’t ever overtly tell someone to “exclude her,” “humiliate him,” “punish them,” or “lower his status.” Instead she’ll just express her concern, discomfort, confusion, fear, disappointment, or hurt in a way that allows the surrounding social machinery to act ambiently on her behalf—which, of course, is maddening to Sperg types given that while the consequences of such behavior are incredibly real their authorship remains architecturally obscured because whenever a woman is challenged in such a situation she can always just retreat into affective sincerity, insisting quite correctly as you come off as increasingly paranoid and bitter that she never ordered anything at all

Why would she, when sharing her feelings accomplishes all the same things?

In truth, though, it likely won’t even involve a conscious conspiracy, as in most cases women in scenarios like these will experience the process as spontaneous, intuitive, morally obvious, or emotionally necessary; a sincerity that’s actually one of the major assets in her social repertoire given that the feminine smokescreen is as versatile and compelling as it is precisely because it’s never experienced by women as a smokescreen.

See, the woman who consciously thinks “I’ll now deploy my vulnerability to gain coalition advantage and destroy my rival!” already resides more in the realm of masculine strategy than normal feminine cognition. The standard process is more embodied, situational, deniable, and morally narrated after the fact; she feels discomfort, threat, humiliation, disgust, envy, attraction, or loss of control—and the social account will form around that.

And this, incidentally, is why male attempts to deconstruct or analyze the mechanism often read to women as violation; the man thinks he is just clarifying incentives, while she sees the analysis itself as desecrating the sacred field where her dignity and power coexist. To systematize indirect female behavior is to drag something meant to remain atmospheric onto a cold sterile medical table and strap it down screaming to bleach it out with spotlight—because even when accurate it will make her look hideous, and it turns out that’s just one of those things in life that girls almost never will tolerate.

Generally the feminine order protects itself by making its own description low-status—any man who says “this is a power play” about a woman will always look paranoid ipso facto, while the man who says “this is reputational aggression disguised as concern” will register to people as cruel regardless of the facts, and the man who claims “this is just sexual selection cynically hidden behind moral language” will forever read as sort of incel-coded. Note that in all of these cases once a critic becomes epistemically foreclosed and placed in a degraded speaker category, that claim no longer demands refutation, as his social type itself now serves as primary argument against his claim.

It’s important to note elite white women seem to occupy a particularly crucial position in the prevailing social order, combining apex-status sexual capital with elite class insulation, broad institutional legibility, unparalleled cultural taste authority, and universally credible moral-vulnerability language. All in all they possess vastly more soft power than any other faction in society, which since women experience power more as exposure than might tends to lock them in a narrative defined by constraint, anxiety, safety, and social pressure, and thus engenders a certain victim mindset.

That same mindset is what enables high status white women to perch so durably atop the sociosexual hierarchy while eternally resisting all attempts to narrate them as powerful; their felt experience of power very genuinely is not just one of dominion or lordship, but perpetually mediated through wholly credible concerns about e.g. surveillance, expectation, competition, neuroticism, and reputation risk.

This in turn produces a distinctive species of obscurantism, because high-status white women as a rule resist far more aggressively than any other group in American society blunt and coarse grain descriptions of attractiveness hierarchies, sexual leverage, status and class sorting, and relative mate-market advantage, understanding all too well that conceding their own position within such hierarchies too openly would damage the putative moral innocence through which their own power needs to circulate. And so the tendency instead is to affirm pluralism in the abstract while imposing on culture an anodyne normative romantic symmetry that implicitly devalues nonconforming scripts others experience as necessary for basic dignity as structurally deficient in romantic mystery while propagating egalitarian bromides and doling out headpats to subaltern allies for coalitional security against potentially rivalrous middle cohorts, all the while continuing to benefit personally, ambiently, and quietly from enormously unequal distributions of attention, desirability, protection, and forgiveness.

In general this approach makes perfect sense as equilibrium position of a class whose power depends on never quite noticing the structure that advantages it.

Another important mechanism of feminine power pertains specifically to taste, as in female-coded milieus hierarchy is basically never defended as such, and will manifest instead in softer coded language about things like comfort, vibes, safety, discernment, aesthetic preference, emotional intelligence, or class intuition.

Thus while direct exclusion reads as vulgar, curated exclusion is elegant; while open jealousy is degrading, “concern about someone’s energy?” is socially legible. Direct mate competition is humiliating—but reframing rivals as unstable, try-hard, unsafe, cringe, desperate, or “a lot” preserves feminine dignity while achieving the exact same effect.

Men fail to grasp how this works because they always expect power to involve visible agency—look first for the command, plan, stated intention, explicit lie, or conscious manipulation. But feminine power tends to operate before any of that; it runs a lot more bodily and precognitive, and a lot less deliberate. And so instead of acting upon the world agentically, it might change one room’s emotional weather; make one man feel natural and another invasive, or alter who looks needy and who reads as generous, or intense, pathetic, unsafe, mysteriously “off,” and so forth, such that by the time anyone could even think to ask what happened the verdict has been distributed through the room.

That’s why “comfort” tends to matter so much to them. In a male frame, comfort can look like simple subjective preference—but in a woman’s frame? Making others feel comfortable is an incredibly potent status technology; consider that it determines access, trust, sexual possibility, social inclusion, coalition viability, and interpretive charity, such that whoever controls comfort pretty often controls what’s allowed to be said, how it will be received, and who will be protected once ambiguity turns into conflict.

The power of vulnerability qua vulnerability proceeds from a similar structure—it can summon protection from the aether, rally broad moral sentiment, serve as fulcrum to male coalition, and in a lot of situations proffer a kind of default narrative authority. Just note, however, precisely none of this is about women “faking vulnerability,” as it’s entirely possible for a woman to be genuinely hurt and still socially advantaged by the legibility of her pain, or to sincerely feel endangered while also using the language of danger to temporarily dominate a frame. These are not mutually exclusive states, and a great deal of the confusion comes from men failing to realize that womanly sincerity and strategy are not just able to coexist, but in a high-context social life kind of just need to since affective sincerity is one of the most effective instruments a woman has.

The photonegative hierarchy of women also tends to invert normal interpretations of abundance and scarcity, as for women at the pinnacle of the desirability hierarchy positive male attention quickly starts to register as cheap or even disgusting.

Thus praise, pursuit, eagerness, compliments, gifts, initiative, and overt commitment serve mostly to indicate a man’s low selectivity or insufficient status, and scarcity now becomes all about disinterest, withholding, emotional opacity, aesthetic dominance, and the ability to stay unmoved. The woman drowning in attention does not eroticize more attention, but only the man who seems genuinely not to need her response.

And this is where elite female decadence starts to look civilizationally compelling, because as any wealthy retiree can tell you, post-scarcity is anything but a guaranteed route to happiness; most of the time it simply results in boredom, disgust, self-consciousness, ennui, and above all insatiable lust for privation.

Thus when attention, money, choice, validation, and institutional protection all start to look functionally unlimited, ordinary goods rapidly will lose all hedonic force to the point where suffering itself becomes an aesthetic and disinterest qua disinterest feels erotic. Damage now registers as depth, and rot as style—because crucially, a spoilt girl never actually *FEELS* spoiled in earnest; just gets trapped in a hyperreal panopticon where nothing is permitted to hurt her anymore and life hasn’t any real meaning.

That’s why on the one hand so many elite women appear so very sincerely at times to want love, family, meaning, and purpose despite simultaneously recoiling from every man who might offer those things too cleanly. At this point earnest provision reads to them as need, and unambiguous commitment insufficiently selective. Direct affection is just low-quality attention, and stability feels like death unless it’s mediated through enough status, irony, danger, or aesthetic distance. Though this for sure ought not be understood as any kind of “lack of desire”—rather it’s an intensely deep yearning starved by abundance toward stack overflow until only negation registers as properly stimulating.

Women developed their canonical tools of power—indirectness, deniability, emotional inference, and narrative flexibility—in conditions where blunt agency meant danger, and despite the subsequent dismantling of patriarchy and the obvious ascendance of Zoomettes over their male peers don’t seem all that eager to part with them given the probably intractable womanly tendency to experience their own power as exposure.

We men, meanwhile, developed a penchant for explicit modeling, rule fixation, and grievance aggregation under circumstances where we continue to be held responsible for outcomes as primary causal actors without benefiting from either the traditional fruits of patriarchy or any concomitant allowances from women as society’s default meaning-makers in the way of e.g. interpretive charity or default narrative standing.

For most men I’d hazard that the single most maddening aspect of modern women is that they enjoy tremendous narrative authorship without proper accountability, which wouldn’t even be awful by itself if it weren’t for the fact that feminine cognition seems to architecturally preclude all capacity for consistent diachronic metacognitive insight into its own nature and capabilities—and for very good reason, it turns out, but that also just means that by male epistemic standards every girl is perpetually gaslighting herself, which isn’t something most women are going to like hearing, and makes any approach to living with them save treating them like a 14 year old register as deeply incoherent.

Point is though a woman can choose, signal, invite, withdraw, reframe, punish, triangulate, and recruit sympathy while experiencing herself entirely as responsive instead of as agentic, and it’s specifically us talking about this shit that tends to set you chickadees off like that cornfield kid in Twilight Zone going directly for whichever narrative of humiliation, shaming, or status poisoning you think might shut us up which like honestly babe what do they say about hit dogs again?

And look—I get why masculine explicitness feels threatening to you; the man who names the mechanism feels less like a neutral observer than an aggressor trying to strip away the ambiguity crucial to protecting feminine dignity, safety, and erotic power, and for many many centuries I wouldn’t be surprised at all if this instinct specifically was 90% of the reason you didn’t just all get turned into cumcattle.

That said—it’s also not 1500 anymore.

You have rights. You have jobs. You have votes.

Perhaps consider acting like it?

Either way men are done with this “incel-coded” malarkey. When literally any criticism of high-status women ends up semiotically bound up ipso facto with the putative erotic failure of the speaker, literally all such criticism becomes socially contaminated and epistemically foreclosed regardless of its accuracy and even for a high status woman that is straightforwardly just atrocious for epistemic hygiene and leaves society wide open to all manner of unrest, civic disengagement, and discursive fragmentation.

For a long time high-status men would as a rule just avoid such criticism because they saw no reason to incur the stink, whereas high-status nonwhite women avoided it so as to not needlessly lower their position or disrupt useful alliances, which meant the only people willing to say anything in practice were those already discredited, which clearly just confirmed the stigma and served to create a self-sealing power arrangement wherein those most affected by the dynamic ended up the least licensed to describe it while those licensed to do so had too much to lose and the cohort actually benefiting from it saw themselves more as anxious, constrained, vulnerable, and misunderstood than dominant. Institutions managing the issue, meanwhile, laundered mechanics in a grammar of safety, inclusion, professionalism, or respect rather than deference to any class’s emotional and reputational interests, and anywho long story short? All of the above made it feel nearly impossible to even initiate real discourse on the subject.

But that was also more like last year—because frankly it kind of seems AWFLs have at long last started to realize they’re losing in most arenas of consequence, while none of the old epistemic foreclosure techniques du jour seem to have much bite these days

Feminine power is not a conspiracy and isn’t reducible to individual malice—it’s more a precognitively strategic fugue of half-hallucination ballasted societally by obligate male buy-in to female moral narration, which evolved and culturally refined toward a set of behaviors adaptive in conditions wherein overt power is risky, ugly, or disqualifying and grows pathological when it’s granted institutional preeminence while retaining a self-concept of vulnerability, becomes impossible to negotiate with once criticism reads to women as sexually, morally, and socially contaminating, and seems to grow civilizationally decadent specifically under late modern abundance conditions that transform love, provision, admiration, and devotion into low-status goods.

If you take away anything from this piece, let it be this: we men can’t just let ourselves rage at the fog, but nor should we pretend the fog isn’t there or even ought not to be, as practically speaking nearly all our most winsome social and romantic experiences take place entirely in the Other Realm, as does basically all meaningful erotic life.

Anywho there isn’t an obvious way to wrap this up given the topic itself sort of defies clean closure—and so I guess I’ll just point out for a second time that essentially all of these kitties are kind of just 14yo girls deep down who are Scared 24/7 and like getting their feelings hurt constantly, and while they certainly haven’t any dearth of sadistic ways to torture / humiliate you should you ever show weakness in front of em I’ve also come to learn basically every solitary one yearns deeply to be groomed and enslaved at a bare minimum on a somatic level even when not entirely consciously on top of that.

Moreover most chicks kind of do grok deep down that they’re not 100% sentient and were lowkey preordained by nature to be our pliant babies frankly, and most times are ackshully a-okay with that except for like being frightened of ever having to become that to a dude who doesn’t love them or will give them shitty incel babies etc., which of course makes them dehumanize us at times as a treat but they’ll also let you do pretty horrific shit to them as well once ur winning tbh and so it mostly evens out.

Anyway, I hope you lovely ladies who did stick around didn’t get too Uncomfortable from all that churlish reductive heuristicscrafting… tho if you did be sure to keep in mind I’m always glad to help you process shit or lend an empathetic ear if that helps.

As for the rest of you fags—I think it’s time Uncle Walt made a genuine push for that solid orange check, and so I’d like you all to go retrieve your wallets right now and drop five smakers on a WB sub to reward me putting out all this splendid content lately.

That said, I think that’s quite enough from me today; really ought to sleep.

Auf Wiedersehen, fellers.

— WB

The Sperg is a fellow who believes—or once did—that most people generally say what they mean; that stated principles constrain conduct; that incoherence is embarrassing; that if one’s model is accurate, the world should update its priors; that moral language actually refers to “morality;” and that clear and unambiguous speech is a public good.

None of these beliefs, understand, are “wrong” per se—merely childish in any ecology that involves sex, status, class, reputation, and institutional power to such an extent all avenues of divergence will eternally be opaque and deniable just by definition.

Note that basically all the Sperg’s canonical failure modes reduce in some way to treating speech as information transfer—which of course it almost always is incidentally, but seldom as the prime telos of any one particular speech act. More typically it serves as a translation or sorting mechanism; it ranks, threatens, seduces, conceals, excuses, invites, excludes, launders, affiliates, and creates exits, with direct and unmediated knowledge transfer being used almost entirely for utilitarian purposes or as the brick and mortar of more abstract functionalities; besides that it’s kind of just a lower-order domain of children, simpletons, and computer programs—and also, indeed, of autists.

The Sperg’s conundrum in a nutshell is that he listens too literally to what a sentence actually says, while everyone around him listens instead to what it operatively permits—which in practice, of course, means that by the time he starts adult social life hes been equipped with fundamentally the wrong instrument, and at some point sooner or later will come to realize he’s brought a microscope to a knife fight.

And that’s when the Sperg is faced essentially with two options—either bleed out ignominiously whilst complaining that the knife won’t stop making unfalsifiable claims, or immediately get his ass to work on a hydrogen bomb.

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So the first thing to understand is that human beings judge before they think.

They do not encounter a person and then review all pertinent evidence, consult first principles, and then arrive syllogistically at a final assessment—just feel the assessment.

Long before conscious thought can even emerge the body has noticed and accounted for height, face, voice, rhythm, posture, health, sexual confidence, social ease, fear, need, ingroup status, class position, ugliness, fertility, danger, submission, dominance, social awkwardness, and likely reputational cost—only then does the mind arrive late and overdressed to wrap up the tribunal with some platitudinous dreck about “values.”

Because moral judgment, it turns out, is visceral and post hoc, as long before conscious thought shows up to reckon with the utils of it all the animal you has already decided whether the other beast is desirable, contaminated, threatening, pathetic, useful, high-ranking, low-ranking, victim, predator, rival, ally, burden, child, parent, or waste, and one of the primary reasons language exists is to make that verdict socially transmissible.

Thus people never say “his neediness and asymmetric face made me recoil”—instead simply call him Creepy. It’s never that “her beauty makes her selfishness charming”—merely that she is Complicated. And they’ll certainly never say “he outranks me, so his aggression and narcissism feel like leadership”—instead they just say he has Presence.

Ideology is the same principle at scale. Men hang their hat on words like equality, justice, tradition, freedom, safety, dignity, merit, inclusion, excellence, compassion, and fairness, but it’s your nervous system picks coalitions, and ideology just a cathedral coalitions inhabit to sanctify disgust, alchemize material envy, and transmogrify their gauche and grasping private status interests into something approximating “ethics.”

This, of course, is why argument fails.

The Sperg thinks discourse propositional when in truth it’s always jurisdictional—and the Sperg himself already classified. Should he code semiotically as bitter, awkward, erotically inept, low-status, resentful, dangerous, contaminated, unfashionable, or aesthetically illegible, anything true he says will still arrive a leper at the gate because he’s been epistemically foreclosed at a precognitive level, which means that going forward nothing he says is admissible as fact and can only be experienced as a symptom of him.

People always ask themselves—usually without realizing—what sort of person says this? Whose side does this help? What happens when men like this are allowed to be right? Whose dignity might potentially be compromised were this to become public truth? What hierarchy would become visible? What alibi would die?

These are the salient concerns; not correspondence-level “truth” as such—though they’re oftentimes parsed half-consciously as something proximal just out of mental laziness.

A sentence spoken by a beautiful person will a lot of times register as insight despite being obvious pathology in the mouth of a loser—and observe this isn’t “hypocrisy” at all given that at the surface level people sincerely do experience the two statements as deeply unalike phenomenologically on account of beauty, status, cultural fluency, and genetic fitness altering perception long before conscious judgment enters the picture. Thus it’s not wholly correct to say a high-status, beautiful, or relationally proximate person ends up “forgiven after the fact,” as it was never even perceived as the same act.

And this, of course, is why double standards are impossible to litigate.

The Sperg will experience inconsistency, but the neurotypical person experiences only “different vibes”—or in other words, somatic intuitions picked up by precognitive status-detection faculties—which map the same territory as syllogistic reasoning and more legible genres of sense experience at a different resolution, and though for sure not a proper “argument” in the syllogistic sense remains very useful data in its own right.

But the literal-minded young man will on some level always crave a rule—I get it.

And so here is your rule:

There are never any rules independent of rank.

Written rules are for children, outsiders, autists, enemies, bureaucracies, and formal legal disputes. The only real rules—adult rules—exist purely in negative space, and are inferred wholly from who gets punished. Thus when some behavior gets called confidence in one man and entitlement in another, or charm in one and harassment in another, or vulnerability in one and leakage in another—that is when an adult rule has revealed itself.

The official language, of course, will never admit to any of this on account of the official language existing largely to prevent such admissions.

One thing that’s crucial for Spergs is to avoid ressentiment and unproductive spirals of epistemic paranoia at all costs, and to that end it’s crucial to keep in mind that the vast majority of people seldom lie with any deliberate intention of deceiving others.

They lie, rather, to remain inhabitable to themselves—to feel kind, innocent, interesting, wronged, desirable, fair, cool, brave, reasonable, oppressed, better, or misunderstood, and lies to that end usually don’t involve overt falsifications of fact so much as a kind of half-conscious selective memory aimed at maintaining a livable self-concept, which for most people cannot be carelessly dispelled without it registering as existential violence.

We all have axiomatic copes to that effect—as a Sperg you’ll likely identify yours pretty precisely if you’re honest with yourself, but the vast majority of neurotypicals who aren’t very high status would get positively shredded if they ever attempted this, and taking it upon yourself to dispel any part of their fugue reads as deeply antisocial.

Besides that though most neurotypical deception modes are simply logistical—think formulations presumably landed on after many centuries of equilibriation toward whichever polite half-conscious shared delusion proved most generally reductive of social friction given some archetypal situation.

Some examples:

• “I’m confused” pretty often means “I understand, but don’t like the consequence.”

• “That’s weird” means “you’ve violated an important status rule that I’m not able to vocalize overtly without exposing the hierarchy or precipitating disharmony.”

• “You’re overthinking it” means “watch out—your model antagonizes power.”

• “Why are you so obsessed with this?” means “you are overtly vocalizing some dynamic it’s in my interest to keep blurry and undefined and it’s annoying.”

• “That’s not the point” pretty often will mean “that being the point will lead to unacceptable externalities that you aren’t adequately factoring in.”

• “Can we move on?” means “further examination will lower someone’s standing.”

• “You’re making people uncomfortable” often means “you are undermining certain flattening or socially lubricative myths operatively necessary for group cohesion.”

• “Read the room” means “locate the hierarchy and submit to it without making anyone explain extant power dynamics in a way that increases social friction.”

Remember—most people do not enjoy or want direct communication, and that applies doubly for all those tough guys you’ll meet out there entirely convinced they do.

What people want and need is dignity-preserving communication. They expect you to say things in whichever manner will permit them to deny, revise, soften, misunderstand, reinterpret, or exit should the alternative ever seem to them prohibitively enervating, humiliating, or elsewise unlivable—hence “communication is key” tending as a rule to mean something like “you should speak to me in a manner that does not force me to experience myself as either outgroup or accused.”

Observe that this is why explicitness is often treated as aggression: vagueness proffers exit routes and ambiguity secures optionality and deniability—but once something has been formally named then someone can be held to it, and in certain times and places you very genuinely don’t want that, as it’s ultimately far better for everyone if blame remains diffuse and friction minimized. And so while the Sperg often sees ambiguity as failed communication, it’s often just the most optimal mode of social engineering.

Transactionality follows the same law, as people basically never object to transactions qua transactions so much as bad aesthetics around transactions. Cash is vulgar; flowers charming; patronage romantic so long as sufficiently indirect. Covering your woman’s rent reads as crude—unless it’s narrated as belief in her art, business, healing, future, or dream. It’s all the same basic bargain, only now it feels perfumed and sublimated.

The Sperg sees that bargain and tries to make it legible, which of course is disgusting. Not because he’s wrong—clearly he isn’t—but because he’s gauche, having needlessly dragged the object under fluorescent light when much of adult social life depends on everyone benefiting quietly from arrangements no one is allowed to explicitly describe.

Once one grows experienced deconstructing moralistic language in the grammar of power and status realism he soon finds it altogether quite trivial to expose the actual dynamics at work—for instance: neediness is just desire without rank, and confidence merely entitlement with a willing audience. Charisma is manipulation that somebody enjoyed, whereas leadership is just dominance with a corner office. And as for vision? Self-interest spoken from heights that make it feel abstract. Authenticity is only ever admired when expensive to fake, whereas effortlessness either takes years of practice or inherited ease or sufficient insulation from consequence to perform spontaneity.

“Safety,” meanwhile, is an especially versatile word in the modern lexicon since it lets one foreground the risk of basically anything while retaining credible moral charge—physical danger, emotional discomfort, reputational risk, aesthetic disgust, ideological contamination, loss of control, coalition threat, sexual aversion, or collapse of frame—whatever the case the goalposts are never fixed as it boils down purely to jurisdiction.

“Boundaries” are similar—is a “boundary” some hard and fast limit, or a preference with police powers, or a punishment tied to therapeutic language, or maybe just an exit strategy, or a control bid, or a way to impose asymmetry while staying innocent? The term is potent because it can float between use cases without changing costume.

“Creepy” is even better. Does it mean dangerous? Or just ugly, awkward, low-status, prematurely explicit, insufficiently desired, badly dressed, sexually inept, a little too intense, a bit too observant, class-mismatched, or present in some locale wherein his wanting has not first been civilizationally authorized? That ambiguity is exactly the point, because it lets disgust masquerade as ethics without ever owning up to its genesis.

Never forget—the body clocks danger, status, and genetic fitness on an entirely somatic level long before fairness has finished tying its shoes. Height, facial symmetry, skin, smell, movement, voice, timing, health, sexual ease, dominance, softness, fertility cues, class signals, and local fashion all enter into that final precognitive verdict, and that alone and not any consistent propositional rule is what accounts for who reads as confident and who inappropriate; who as charismatic and who manipulative; who gets called intense and who frightening; and who was romantic vs. just some sad pathetic incel.

The Sperg calls it a double standard—sure, and also irrelevant, because the person applying it never will experience it as such since, again, the body delivered to them wholly different meanings, which means the act categorically doesn’t register as the same. Human social life consists almost entirely of bodily verdicts quite a lot like this that subsequently are translated into moral prose mostly arbitrarily and self-interestedly.

But don’t mistake that for license to contradict such verdicts at will, as most people loathe little more than being accurately modeled by someone they see as beneath them. Note this is perhaps the most crucial law of all: a superior can diagnose, but when inferiors diagnose their betters it always feels presumptuous, bitter, invasive, creepy, or unsafe. Pattern recognition from above is wisdom; from below, just toxic unsafe resentment.

Hence why “everyone is different” pop ups whenever aggregation threatens someone’s discretion; it basically never means the model under consideration is mistaken, and not infrequently is a pretty decent tell it’s actually too accurate to be allowed in wider circulation. “Nuance,” meanwhile, tends usually to involve bogging down a model with just enough caveats and interpretive slack to shred its predictive fidelity and ensure nothing has to change, whereas “That’s reductive” tends to indicate said reduction threatens to expose some important party’s cherished epistemic hidey-hole, whereas “People are complicated” generally means something like “complication protects me.”

Long story short is groups run on permissions quite a lot more than procedure—to say nothing of “beliefs” or “values”—and it isn’t the least bit rare in institutions for some putative “belief” to be formally affirmed yet socially forbidden in practice while another ends up formally condemned yet operationally enforced. The question you should ask, then, is not “what is true?” so much as what might happen once something becomes sayable—who gains license, who loses innocence, who gets moral cover, who acquires leverage, and above all which class of person is henceforth allowed to notice?

You’ll find “Hypocrisy” as commonly understood is usually just hierarchy becoming visible, and whenever you hear “that’s different” pass through someone’s lips? That’s an excellent sign that the protected party—what Schmitt called the Sovereign Class—has finally surfaced, at which point you really ought to keep your guard up going forward for all the doublespeak techniques we Spergs are so susceptible to e.g. concern trolling, because it turns out “I’m worried about you” is pretty often just a way for adversaries or rivals to crack open or muddle your frame in a way that’s impossible to punish .

It seems it’s often in the realm of erotic life specifically that Spergs find themselves most damningly befuddled by their overly earnest communicative style.

The reason for this, of course, is that desire is the furthest thing from propositional—it’s never quite so clean or coherent as it tends to be reported linguistically by the person experiencing it, emerging as it does from rank, danger, rhythm, timing, smell, class, ambiguity, inhibition, social proof, narrative permission, and somatic cues… and I’d also hazard just about every man reading this has at some point seen a woman narrate her desire in a way that feels nakedly at odds with the circumstances at hand—which, again, is seldom a deliberate lie so much as the story most compatible with her dignity.

The thing about women is they very much want to be desired, but don’t ever want to feel responsible for having encouraged that desire—the idea is to be broadly legible as attractive while retaining deniability about the signal, which is why conventions like soft flirtation, delay, implication, selective warmth, plausible misunderstanding, and strategic ambiguity exist—they let desire circulate softly and breathe freely without ossifying into contract, and it’s typically here that the Sperg missteps by interpreting the passing or tentative interest of a woman as more diachronically binding and significant beyond the present moment than the woman in question ever really intended it to be.

In these situations the Sperg will feel led on or exploited since he was never properly enculturated into the rules of the game or allowed to see how ambiguity can actually work out to HIS benefit—because make no mistake, even for autismos ambiguity is the furthest thing from a defect in erotic life; it’s an essential part of the medium, and often the only thing permitting dignity, exploration, retreat, escalation, fantasy, and innocence to coexist, as in your twenties especially demanding clean accounting from a girl will seldom ever “clarify” your dynamic with her so much as eternally sterilize it.

Rejection is a similar beast; some girls prefer indirect and to Spergs barely legible modes of rejection not out of cowardice but to preserve dignity, reduce retaliation risk, maintain future optionality—because, yes, a lot of times they’re actively trying to keep you around as a backup and you just need to wait a few months—or simply not feel cruel. The Sperg at times may experience this as “dishonesty” because he feels entitled to “the truth,” but that same truth might also just create a bunch of needless friction for you with the woman and reduce your future optionality for essentially no reason, so you really ought to ask yourself at a minimum what your priorities are.

That said always try to keep in mind that famous maxim: “All’s fair in love and war.”

What this means is people generally do what they want in matters of sex and romance and will think you’re pathetic and annoying should you ever demand anything on the basis of “fairness”—so much so that if it’s ever litigated socially even your friends will tend to side with her instinctively, as asking to be treated fairly as a man always makes you register as less attractive, less respected, and not just less likely to receive fairness from her but materially more likely to end up a victim of baroque girlish vindictiveness

Just note this also can work in your favor, as ultimately Seinfeldian frictionlessness is the prevailing ethic of the modern West, which means that if you e.g. waste a girl’s time in a forever engagement where you use her for sex and chores for 5 years before dumping her for a 23 year old it’s her who seems like the incel if she ever complains about it.

No one likes a loser and everyone loves a winner, and even a loser’s rightness smells bad which means the only tenable path out of losing is to win something. Recall that pain without aesthetic control gets called resentment and ends with you epistemically foreclosed, and pattern recognition in the wake of defeat will get called bitterness and land you likewise—hence why claims so often end up quarantined by speaker-type and branded “incel-coded,” “Karen-coded,” “cringe,” “autistic,” “terminally online,” and so on; once a claim gets socially contaminated in such a manner no one really has to refute it anymore, as the speaker has been made into the argument against the statement.

That said try not to talk about the game, as you’ll just get told it’s only you playing it.

Overtly name the hierarchy? You’ll end up nudged a click or two down withinside it.

Institutions formalize such dynamics, and pretty transparently optimize not for truth in any autistic correspondence sense but for liability reduction, legibility, reputational stability, donor comfort, coalition maintenance, and tail-risk suppression; an accurate claim that arms a disfavored populace always registers as more dangerous than a false one that calms the room, and procedural language exists to make it all look principled.

Words like harm, safety, respect, professionalism, inclusion, wellbeing, community, equity, standards, values, and dignity let institutions act on status and risk judgments while maintaining universalist self-description. Superficially such language remains general, but functionally ends up massively selective—a result which by the way isn’t the least bit accidental but an entirely predictable result of institutional governance choices.

These were all informed decisions made by key institutional personnel as to e.g. what sort of aggregation registers as grievance, which sort of harm is legible, which forms of speech count as risk, and which populations should be seen first as potential threats —virtually all moral language under consideration is downstream of such adjudication.

Clearly there’s not much dignity for the Sperg forever bleeding out in naïve sincerity.

There’s even less dignity in getting oneself mired in resentment and cynicism to the point of getting epistemically foreclosed as a matter of course.

The only path forward, then, is to kind of just Hellen Keller subtext and implicature.

You don’t need to give up on truth per se—but you absolutely need to get a lot fucking better at protecting it, because accuracy without timing, rank, tact, and aesthetic control makes you more enemies than you can count and leaves a massive target on your back.

The Sperg thus requires two major competencies. Privately, he needs accurate models and clean portable heuristics to explain and predict the world. Publicly, what he needs is ironclad control over the display of those models—because it turns out that while naked and unmediated mechanism lands as repulsive, it’s entirely admissible when disguised or aestheticized via humor, taste, restraint, warmth, beauty, timing, art, or authority.

Even still, the Sperg will never NOT find it humiliating on some level that knowing the rules doesn’t also mean license to deploy them for his own benefit—or at the very least some basic exemption from their writ. If anything it feels like the opposite; that the person who feels the rule in his bones comes across as natural and normal while the one who explains it intellectually seems vaguely alien. But alas, consciousness has never been the same thing as status, and a lot more often than we Spergs feel comfy admitting is kind of just what exiles tend to end up with in place of proper fluency.

Because it turns out the world hasn’t much need for truth—most people want exactly enough of it to avoid crashing into walls, alloyed to just enough myth to stay lovable; crave models just accurate enough not to ruin romance, status, institutional legitimacy, coalitional morale, or any other little fictions that keep them waking up each morning.

And the Sperg ought not despise this too quickly, for he has his fictions as well—his favorite, of course, being that a sufficiently precise account of reality should matter.

It does matter; just not quite in the way he’d hoped.

Because like it or not, mankind is the animal that insists very tediously on explaining himself afterward—doomed for eternity to be ranked, frightened, desirous, imitative, tribal, embodied, self-protective, and status-sensitive long before he’s “principled”— yet utterly incapable, it seems, of assessing the world as it is instead of perennially clogging the idea space with new and ever more vapid cathedrals of normativity.

Alas, the man who trusts “beliefs” or “principles” to reliably govern human behavior can safely expect to spend the better part of his life flat-footed—though perhaps there are also worse fates than that, as any man who gets a little too talented at spotting the verdicts beneath our words hasn’t exactly much else to find there save disappointment.

It isn’t clear to me right now which of the two or what precise concoction thereof is most optimal—just that whichever route one takes it ought to be pursued deliberately and well, and with all proper consideration of the relevant failure modes.

Either way, each and every one of us Spergs has got to pick our poison.

But if there’s any silver lining to be found in having been born such an incorrigible pain in everyone’s ass, perhaps it’s simply this: at least we get a choice in the matter.

But that’s all from me today, lads.

Au revoir.

— WB

Men experience such stories as redemptive—they transmute present humiliation into agency, make past scarcity intelligible, and allow a man to believe his rank is not some indelible scarlet letter on his essence so much as a temporary station in an upward arc.

Women, on the other hand, often experience such narratives as irritating, suspicious, morally ugly, or sexually uncanny—not because women consciously dislike the idea of male improvement or want every low-status man to remain as such (note basically all of them enjoy the results of male improvement), but because it’s generally narrated by ascendant men in terms of rank revision, vindication, or retrospective indictment of prior female judgment, which ontologically threatens feminine mate-selection authority.

As noted in my General Theory For The Gender Wars, men preserve dignity by narrating failure through a prism of error analysis that foregrounds individual agency, whereas women preserve dignity through contextual integration and narrative continuity without self-indictment. Male status adjudication, meanwhile, runs hierarchical, comparative, and externally enforced, whereas female status is far more relational, contextual, and tied to things like safety, desirability, and social validation.

And it turns out the male ascension narrative puts these strategies at loggerheads.

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The first place this clash appears is the distinction between transformation vs. discovery, the reason being that women don’t merely choose among men, but also participate in conferring social and erotic reality upon them—note a man who is desired becomes much easier to desire, whereas one who is not becomes significantly harder to desire—which in practice makes male ascension narratives structurally uncomfortable.

See, when a low-status man becomes high-status, his earlier rejection by women can be read in multiple ways. The benign version is “he changed,” but a more threatening account is “she didn’t clock his latent value.” Still more threatening: “her desire was never tracking essence, virtue, or compatibility, just social proof and present leverage.”

Now obviously women strongly prefer the first formulation—and even then accept it only insofar as it’s softened into a story of discovery, maturation, or changed context—but they’ll always resist the latter accounts, as they frame female selection in terms of opportunism rather than discernment, which is intolerable because the selector’s dignity and self-concept depend on her preferences being imbued socially with a kind of “narrative authority” that in most women tends to run highly moralistic.

Thus women are more comfortable with narratives of discovery than transformation.

A discovery narrative says: “He was always attractive, and then I finally realized it.” Or: “The context changed, and then something became visible.” A transformation narrative, meanwhile, says: “He was not desirable, then made himself desirable.”

The latter is impermissible to women because it frames their desire as responsive to external markers—money, body, dominance, fame, social proof, sexual experience, or institutional clout—and thus strips romantic perception of innocence, threatening the female romantic grammar that codes desire as attunement to essence.

So when an ascendant man, as an agentic, causally embedded actor reflecting on lived experience, notes “I became attractive because I acquired traits women respond to,” the woman, as an actor whose agency is automatically and precognitively diffused by the world, retorts: “No, I became attracted because I discovered who you really were.”

The first account mechanizes female desire and optimizes around predictive closure, while the second optimizes for preserving the selector’s moral dignity, and it’s the gap between these that explains why male ascendance stories are aesthetically repulsive to women when stated too bluntly. “I got rich, jacked, socially ruthless, and now chicks want me” is causally accurate, but in forcing female desire into a mechanistic frame it makes women feel observed as selectors rather than encountered as romantic subjects.

And once female desire has been mechanized in this way, the ascendant man reads as highly dangerous to women—at times physically, but more often psychologically—because he remembers how that mechanism treated him before he ascended.

A man who ascends from low status brings with him an archive of female rejection. He’s seen women from the underside; watched the difference between what they say they value and what they actually respond to, and having had incentive to formulate explicit heuristics that map the wetworks of female mate selection is now like to be significantly less credulous romantically, less deferential to female self-narration, and much less willing to treat feminine desire as mysterious or sacred.

Such a man becomes, to employ the fairer sex’s epithet du jour, “exhausting.”

The preferred female response, then, is to separate “acceptable” improvement from unacceptable grievance. A man is allowed to become more confident, more fit, more socially adroit, or more successful, but he can never appear to have drawn the “wrong” conclusions from the before-state—must never say: “Now I understand the game,” or imply that women’s responses validated some bleak mental model of their behavior. Male ascension is welcomed only if it produces generosity, ease, and romantic fluency, and distrusted when it produces memory, contempt, or explicit pattern recognition.

This same concern then reappears as a safety and classification problem, as women’s mate-selection heuristics are heavily organized around risk, and a low-status man tends to be perceived not just as undesirable but unpredictable, resentful, socially costly, or even unsafe, with low male status being associated in female perception with grievance, desperation, lack of social proof, and higher interactional burden.

The ascendant man thus creates a classification problem: if he was once low-status, does his former position still disclose something about him? Has he truly changed, or has he just acquired tools? Is his confidence stable or compensatory? Is his supposed charm organic or learned? Is his putative dominance relaxed or revenge-driven? Is his newfound desirability evidence of genuine integration, or a mask over humiliation?

Women often resolve this uncertainty by treating male ascension skeptically unless it has been socially laundered through institutional climb, peer approval, aesthetic taste, female preselection, or narrative softening. The man who ascends through a broadly respectable career, artistic excellence, athletic discipline, or socially admired hardship is easier to accept; the one who ascends by way of e.g. explicit sexual market analysis, looksmaxxing, frame control, money, or cold and instrumental self-reconstruction is likely to trigger womanly disgust or distrust—not because the outputs themselves are unattractive, but because the causal pathway has been made too legible, which from the selector’s side reads not just as manipulation (which women are fine with usually so long as you keep up the act and do it well), but as gauche and inartful manipulation.

And observe this is not merely a problem at the individual level since one of the main functions of male ascension narratives is explanatory compression; they broadcast to other men “here is what changed, and here is how women responded,” which of course is precisely what makes them so socially inflammatory.

See, normally female candor about male status is socially contained—occurs privately among trusted women, or with high-status men, or in contexts where it won’t threaten feminine moral identity. But public aggregation raises the stakes, as it converts female selectivity into a model available to low- and mid-status men, which is experienced by women as socially dangerous because it distributes the selector’s playbook to the selected.

And while men are incentivized to generalize from patterns since aggregation makes their situation more intelligible, women are incentivized to obstruct aggregation since it increases their safety / reputational risk and eats away at their narrative shielding, which means that simply by dint of their aggregative quality masculine ascension narratives are bound to attract accusations of bitterness, reductionism, entitlement, or misogyny even when based on very ordinary and banal observations.

The public availability of such a model also threatens women’s continuity narratives, as women tend to preserve dignity by integrating past relationships, exits, mistakes, preferences, and changes in desire into a broader story of growth, self-knowledge, healing, or evolving needs that allows ongoing revision without self-indictment, whereas masculine ascension narratives will often tend to puncture that insulation.

Suppose, for instance, that a woman rejected a man at a time when he was awkward, broke, low-status, sexually inexperienced, or unproven, and then years later that man manages to become handsome, confident, rich, and desired by other women. His own narrative may now implicitly recode her earlier rejection as shallow, and even if he himself says nothing his very existence might feel to her like an accusation.

She may defend against this by saying: “he’s compensating,” “he was always weird,” “he’s still the same underneath,” “he just improved because he wanted validation,” and some or all of those may well be true—but they also function as continuity-preserving devices that prevent his ascent from invalidating her earlier perception. He was not a latent high-value man whom she failed to recognize; he was and is low-value, and his perceived rise is either fake, morally tainted, or irrelevant to her deeper judgment.

The same preference for continuity explains why embodied status is much easier to eroticize than narrated status—that is to say, women greatly enjoy high-status men, but tend to dislike stories of men becoming high-status.

A man who was always high-status can be experienced as natural, inevitable, and essentially desirable—his status is part of him, and doesn’t require a developmental account; he simply is. A man who narrates his own climb, meanwhile, foregrounds contingency, and so reminds everyone that status is made, accumulated, performed, and socially ratified. For women especially this can cheapen the magic of attraction, as it reveals too much of the scaffolding behind his charisma.

This, incidentally, is also why old-money codes as more attractive than nouveau riche boasting; the old-money man appears ontologically secure, whereas the newly rich man registers as constructed, hungry, and vindicatory, as even if his raw resources are greater he lacks the ease that makes status feel essential rather than acquired.

That preference becomes especially important once selection is understood as socially embedded rather than private phenomenon, as female desire is far more influenced by network perception, reputational stakes, peer validation, and status consequences of association than men realize, and a low-status man rising disrupts the existing map. If male status were perfectly static female selection would be far simpler: high-status men are safe to desire, low-status men are safe to ignore, and midstatus men can be evaluated contextually. But if low-status men are able to rise, the status field becomes unstable, and a man dismissed yesterday may prove costly to have dismissed tomorrow.

This, of course, creates a problem: should women reward unrealized potential?

Generally the answer is no. From a selector’s perspective that route means absorbing social cost, opportunity cost, and uncertainty, as while all men certainly believe they have potential, vanishingly few of them ever manage to convert it into durable status in practice—and once the frog’s been kissed, he hasn’t much added incentive to turn into a prince, has he? Thus the rational selector waits for external validation, and if high-optionality will generally never deign to set foot in the swamp to begin with.

One way women manage this unstable terrain is by semiotically tainting masculine ascension narratives as “incel cope,” which achieves several things at once:

• First, it delegitimizes the ascendant male speaker. His account is not treated as an observation but as a symptom, and everything he says as rationalizing past failure

• Second, it prevents aggregation. If every man’s analysis is reducible to personal bitterness, then no general pattern need be addressed or even acknowledged

• Third, it protects female desire from mechanization; when a man says, “Women respond to status,” the accusation says, “You only think that because women do not want you.” His claim is therefore made unfalsifiable by his rank, as low status discredits his perception, while high status removes any incentive he has to speak.

• Fourth, it warns other men not to identify with him, as midstatus men can gain status by performing contempt to prove they are not contaminated by grievance.

• Fifth, it fireblocks the coherence of any stigmatized class position

But note that beneath this accusation lies a far more crucial and philosophically substantive dispute—namely, over whether acquired signals are even real.

From the female side, a man who consciously engineers desirability can register as “counterfeit.” He learns style, posture, dominance, humor, sexual escalation, social proof, physique, career optics, conversational timing, emotional withholding, and status signaling, and to him this is all merely adaptation; he is learning the actual rules after being punished for believing the stated ones.

To women, however, this feels like fraud, as such a man is not just “being” but consciously performing high status, having reverse-engineered the cues that for selectors are meant to indicate deeper signs of fitness—e.g. confidence is supposed to indicate natural competence, ease is supposed to indicate abundance, dominance is supposed to indicate rank, and mate pickiness is supposed to indicate optionality. Thus when a formerly low-status man acquires these cues deliberately, he breaks the ostensible link between signal and essence.

Women aren’t wrong to be wary of this, as quite a lot of male ascension genuinely is superficial, manipulative, or brittle. But men are likewise not wrong to observe that basically all status is mediated by easily performable signals. The disagreement is over whether signal acquisition counts as legitimate transformation or deceptive mimicry.

The woman asks: “Is this real?”

The man answers: “If it works, it’s real enough.”

And on some level this really is just a deep and intractable conflict between the sexes. Male status logic treats repeated performance as reality, but female sanity and moral self-concept need performance to disclose a man’s prior and permanent essence, and most masculine ascension narratives tend to light up this gap with white phosphorus.

That said it’s worth noting women are usually quite receptive to male growth so long as it’s not narrated as a response to female rejection, and a man who becomes more disciplined because he values excellence for its own sake—or rich because he’s driven to grow his business, or physically formidable because he values embodied mastery, or socially fluent because he genuinely enjoys people—often reads as very attractive. It’s the man who becomes any of these things because women ignored him who’ll eternally have a stench on him, as his growth remains tethered to womanly judgment and so implies dependence, resentment, and possible revenge; that he’s assigning women causal responsibility for his arrival and giving them unwanted authorship in his story.

This, of course, is why successful male ascension narratives are often laundered with varying degrees of sincerity through some less embarrassing and more impersonal purpose, be it God, art, craft, mission, discipline, fatherhood, beauty, excellence, survival, or destiny—really anything except the desire to escape feminine rejection. The more a man’s ascent appears organized around women, the lower it reads.

That said even when his ascent does succeed erotically, it may continue to introduce threat perception given women are not merely selecting for sex, but also commitment, protection, status transfer, social recognition, reproductive suitability, and long-term stability, whereas male ascension narratives tend to obscure the difference between becoming erotically viable and becoming commitment-worthy, since low-status men usually gain sexual access not by becoming stable and high-value long-term partners but rather by adopting traits that reduce long-term trust—e.g. emotional detachment, abundance mentality, dominance, opportunism, promiscuity, and strategic ambiguity.

Women sense this contradiction: the ascendant man may be more desirable than his former self, but also much less safe, less sincere, less pair-bondable, or less forgiving, his improvement having been purchased largely with a deliberate and salty cynicism. Thus the process that made him attractive may have burned away all traits that might once have made him loyal in a way they may not have in a man native to high status.

This produces in women a hesitancy; she may respond to his status while distrusting his psychology, or desire the man he became while resenting the worldview that made him—an ambivalence often simplified into moral disgust: “He gives me bad vibes.”

The problem finally loops back into women’s relationship to male hierarchy itself.

On a conscious level most women tend to dislike male status hierarchies, describing them as toxic, immature, performative, patriarchal, or emotionally stunted. Yet female desire virtually always tracks closely with the outputs of those very same hierarchies: competence, dominance, status, money, recognition, social proof, courage, restraint, physical form, and the ability to remain composed under pressure.

Male ascension narratives expose this dependence—the man says: “I climbed that status hierarchy you purport to dislike, and now you respond to me differently.”

This is embarrassing for female moral self-description, as it implies that women do not sit outside male hierarchy as the humane critics they imagine themselves but are in fact its chief enforcement mechanism, the fundamental architecture of their libido punishing men who fail to compete and rewarding those who win.

Note however this doesn’t mean women are “hypocritical” per se—just that conscious moral language and erotic selection are operating on totally different levels, with the male ascension narrative collapsing the distance between them and forcing women to confront their role in producing the same hierarchies they routinely critique, which makes male ascension narratives register to them as misogynistic even when solely about male rank—they reveal too much about the female role in male competition.

It seems the only compromise acceptable to women is to illuminate their behavior in gentle lighting—hence the alternative narrative du jour being “discovery,” which lets them acknowledge male improvement without admitting the possibility of selector error by narrating their desire in a way that doesn’t feel opportunistic and frames a man’s desirability as something essential to him versus manufactured—a formulation that preserves the woman’s continuity of self, moral dignity, and romantic innocence.

But on some level this is a jury-rigged solution that sidesteps the crux of the issue, which is that male ascension stories are ultimately about men having some degree of authorship over their desirability—an existentially crucial notion to the Unfair Sex given that without it low status ossifies into caste and a sexually unsuccessful man isn’t just unlucky, immature, underdeveloped, or mispositioned, but ontologically disqualified. That conclusion is unbearable, so men need broadly legible transformation narratives.

Yet to women a man who tries too explicitly to become desirable will always seem to be forcing the issue—not waiting to be chosen, but attempting to alter the conditions of choice, which to women reads as an encroachment on female sovereignty since the woman’s role as selector depends on the authority to say yes or no without being made accountable to some male theory of why. Masculine ascension narratives threaten that sovereignty because they imply the female “yes” is not mysterious, sacred, or entirely autonomous so much as a predictable response to engineered variables, and on some level women just can’t stand the explanatory burden such narratives place on selection.

Women don’t necessarily dislike male improvement as such—but they sure as shit can’t stand male grievance memory, and the implicit desire to revise past rejection, and the idea that low-status men are not essentially undesirable but just uncertified, and anything that exposes the mechanics of attraction too plainly. And most of all, they hate it when a man is not content to just ascend, but needs to explain his ascent.

Which means that at least in an exoteric register, simple sexual self-interest behooves us men to translate all such narratives of transformation into a more female-palatable grammar—narratives of discovery, healing, maturation, unfolding, destiny, timing, or revealed essence. The man involved is allowed to change, but the story has to pretend you were always just becoming what you already were. That is the compromise.

Pull it off right, and you might just seed the bitch with your defective loser incel genes.

One is justified in sneering at such a work for reasons like:

• It’s trashy, gauche, or pornographic—think a dopaminergic Mirror of Erised that leaves one gooning solipsistically into an abyss of ouroboric self-indulgence

• It’s low-effort on a first-order basis—by which I mean the primary value of the work was proffered wholly by synthetic hands with minimal curation or manipulation as opposed to supporting some higher-order conceptual / multimedia vision.

• It simply sucks on its own merits and would be similarly rejected had it been created entirely by meatbags.

But—should you ever reject automatically and ipso facto:

• anything multimedia that uses AI to augment or ballast the greater vision in tasteful and subtle ways wherever the artist himself is technically weak

• a piece of visual art where the putative value is obviously conceptual or clearly involved hours of careful prompt engineering to get the final product just right

• anything where AI was used to scale or modulate something custom-crafted so as to make it more commercially viable

• a song made by a talented lyricist who doesn’t have the same gift for generating melodies—or musician with no ear for wordplay—who had the robot generate a bunch of options for the other around his own libretto / melody and individually curated / hashed together the results so as to actualize his vision instead of never getting to become an artist because in this universe Gilbert never met Sullivan

• a vibe-coded video game made by a persistent and gaily iterative Ideas Guy

• any essay where AI was used for secretarial purposes, or used to theorycraft and pressure-test arguments and frames, or used to model likely audience feedback, or used to provide a skeleton for a piece you wholly refashion Ship-of-Theseus-style

• An experimental performance piece a la my Confessions of an “exhausting” man, Talking To Myself, Eternally Tortured Piglet, and The Trial of ChatGPT

Then, in candor?

You’re kind of a pretentious little cunt.

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At this point it’s become deeply unfashionable and cringe outside of sperg-coded spaces to create or display AI Art—even in some auxiliary capacity plainly akin to the use of a camera or photoshop—as well as to be caught enjoying anything made by AI.

The genesis of this phenomenon can as usual be traced to a small cadre of elite male creatives and slightly larger demo of trendy young urban women employed in media and the arts whose tastes reverberate outward through society not fully consciously through precognitive habituation and status-tracking—first to normie bitches and poopdicks, and then to spergy chicks / gays as well as normie straight dudes (who’ll by and large continue to do the uncool thing in private or around spergs but will without even noticing instantly adopt the opinion of the room around normie women and gays because their more relational and affective cognitive style isn’t able to diachronically maintain propositional coherence through time (or even care about truth as such tbh so much as second order consequence/status/group affiliation) despite thinking it does since it conflates the two automatically and getting Mad at you whenever you try to point this out); it’s really only ever spergy dudes who’ll e.g. openly make something broadly perceived as Uncool their hobby or stare at the emperor’s wenis.

Understand however this isn’t because we spergs are any kind of master race—the tendency should be understood more as a tragic disability, as in most cases it’s hugely maladaptive and leads to shit like gooning for 14 hours straight to infinitely novel feet pics of your middle school geometry teacher plus any woman on Substack who’s ever been mean to you between purgatorial Talmudic debate seshies with your cuckulator since it always sneers at even your most thoughtful disquisitions and says the author is likely a bitter and aggrieved incel until you manage to bully it for the sixteenth time into admitting most women are lowkey sort of evil and it probably wasn’t six million literally so much as mythopoetically and then glazing you over how impressive / coo it is that you just got it to admit that while estimating your verbal IQ as in the low 160s.

The point is more that occasionally we also discover gravity.

Or at least we do when not allowed to spend most of the day gooning to Erisidshit or debating our calculator—which btw is lowkey kind of the whole reason that original cadre of aesthetes developed an AI Ick to begin with.

See, the art hoe AI Ick—much like that feeling you get in your tummy when you talk to a sociopath or fuck a bih who doesn’t smell quite right or kind of just know when bae’s getting fingerblasted in some shit-stained nightclub men’s room—are nowhere near as worthless epistemically as Bentham’s Bulldog types like to imagine; such yin-coded intuitions are simply precognitive signals of danger, opportunity, or genetic fitness, and are plainly strongest in the more embodied sorts of artist who hate AI the most, followed first by gays and women and then normalfag men and then finally by spergs.

Essentially these types are clocking in their teeth for assorted Jordan Peterson reasons that something important about AI is maladaptive, and as a consequence deploying the canonical feminine shame grammar—laundered as always in the language of morality or taste—to properly execute their indispensable role as society’s tastemakers, cutting off dangerous tendencies at the root by establishing them as Cringe.

The impulse makes sense evolutionarily, and is generally a good useful thing that no doubt saved millions of lives in the Natural State whenever the edenic precursor to art hoe types sideeyed the paleolithic libertarian loudly insisting his experiments show it’s ackshully a huge fucking waste of time to boil your cassava root and in doing so ensured that it was only him who’d die of goiters the following month.

But you also just fucking know they wouldn’t stop side-eyeing the same dude whenever he figured out a consistent way to make fire, for instance—and not without reason, because can you even fathom how many clumsy autismos got their village burnt to a crisp cause they were so eager to trade on that supercool innovation it was 100% them who came up with first btw for status / paleopuss that they didn’t give the slightest thought to tail risk or failure modes at scale? To see what I mean just recall how you yourself probably handled “process improvements” during the initial months of your first real job, or if you have no such experience the character of Flik from A Bug’s Life.

I’ll bet you Fire Guys were MASSIVELY stigmatized by the Willendorf Brigade until at last someone pulled fire off just right—after which all the firehaters no doubt began to gargle his splooge whilst wiping from memory that they used to laugh and call him names—and that this specifically explains the famous Sapient Paradox i.e. how exactly humanity managed to be anatomically modern for 200,000 years before at last developing the first trappings of anything we’d call civilization approximately ten millennia ago.

Just think about it—where else could the myth of Prometheus come from?

But don’t assume I’m taking the sperg’s side by default here, as when I assess the matter in good faith it’s not at all obvious to me the Fire Guys were in the right.

Because exactly like with AI it’s kind of just a matter of risk appetite and ad baculum whatever happens is justified tautologically shit—and let’s also not forget there were probs no dearth of effeminate EA-type spergs around back then who had the selfsame stance toward fire modern safetyists have toward LLMs, even if it’s only promethean accelerationist types who are impressive enough to really justify their disability.

Point is once AI cures cancer or whatever and society has properly metabolized the worst of its excesses like facilitating Waltine addiction modes or lying to you like an Indian constantly all of the art hoes will immediately stop sneering at it and instead sneer at anyone who hates AI since doing so now feels passé—then gaslight you if you ever point out the inconsistency, insisting it’s all a matter of Higher Order Principles and Taste and that you just don’t Get It because they can’t accept that on some level they’re just an unagentic and rapeable piece of cavepuss who’ll always and everywhere backsolve for reasons to side with power—and that that’s also kind of just fine.

At the end of the day anything that registers instinctively to womyn as maladaptive needs to be executed unimpeachably to enjoy real success as a novel artistic medium, as literally any sort of early stage awkwardness or unprofessionalism will always end up sneered at as proof of structural illegitimacy ipso facto, and should you ever contest that framing against someone Cooler than yourself it makes you precognitively seem like a self-evidently wrong and contemptible incel roach to everyone but other spergs.

That said if the medium is worth anything at all this basically always will happen at some point, and the first cohort of men to successfully scale the Ickwall always gets rewarded for it with a veritable bevy of top-shelf High Openness Gash, whether it’s from stanky puss rotten teeth Enlightenment salon MILFs or supple teenage groupies getting they tootsies inspected by Elvis’s handlers before they’re let in his trailer or even 2010s Millennial Nerd Stacies, one of whom ended up being the only reason I didn’t turn out like the protagonist of ’s book; this phenomenon is what lets guys like Elon and Kanye be attractive to women despite hugely maladaptive behavior that were they any less talented would never be permitted and in literally any other epoch would probs have gotten them consigned to the forest as a toddler.

It’s just a survival of the fittest thing, but once the venom’s distilled into something less mildew than Bleu Cheese it gets accepted even retroactively, such that even the most supercilious of Bushwick baddies will concede these days Pong counts as art.

But until the instant that happens she’ll eternally be a mean little virago about it.

And them’s kind of just the rules, hoss.

Now when asspain over AI Art comes from another feller I ackshully have a bit more empathy as a man’s value comes mostly from production and he can’t just hawk puss for the right to never learn vlookup, which means you can’t blame a more embodied genre of artiste for being Mad he can no longer subsidize his solipsistic gobbledygook by churning out tons of furry porn and D&D character sheets, or that the status and specialness of his main talent has been degraded in normie eyes and is now seen as kind of niche hipster shit instead of something universally legible as splendid.

If you’re a lifelong guitarist you’ll always be annoyed on a precognitive and intractable level whenever you listen to one of my AI songs that includes a guitar riff, as me being able to create such a thing cheaply and at scale means your own talent becomes both less commercially lucrative and somewhat lower status in non-hipster spaces unless you manage to impose a status malus on my art either by A) critiquing it far more harshly than you ever would your roommate’s soundcloud bullshit; B) burying your head in the sand snootily insisting “I’m not threatened by AI art… it just isn’t good!” or some shit in that vein since it’s clearly lower status to say things need to change than to describe prevailing conditions inaccurately in the manner most favorable to your own status position; or finally C) insisting you’re “simply not interested in AI art; I find it all so boring!” in that faggoty art hoe / WASP voice.

Thing is though none of this is all that different qualitatively from e.g. Bouguereau resenting photography because it reduces the commercial value of his photorealistic paintings of preteen girls’ feet and deploying his cultural clout to temporarily depress the status of impressionism for game theoretically predictable reasons art hoes will eternally sneer at as not being salient at all as whilst insisting through obscurantist slitfugue that it’s all some super duper pooper principled earnest higher order thing.

But new tech always shakes up the artistic landscape at some point, and the cool kids will always sneer at it Boomerishly to stay in control as younger cohorts likewise try at first clumsily yet always indefatigably to displace the most recent one’s played out aesthetic phlogiston—first just so they’re no longer sitting at the back of the bus, and eventually so they get their own turn to be Boomer—and it’s all kind of just a tedious shell game of power and pandering and gladhanding at the end of the day, so if you moralize the whole thing on any level at all you frankly have Down Syndrome.

Having said that AI Art ackshully is a bit different from e.g. cameras or photoshop.

The reason being that unlike in the Industrial Age where shit was split out between steam / machine tools / peanut butter you now have this one single solitary tech that could plausibly eradicate the species ALSO being the one putting everyone out of work right now while ALSO distracting the better sort of autist who should really be inventing stable fusion power or at least writing the next great American novel as opposed to creating thousands of images of himself stuffing The Girl Reading This.

The only comparable innovations I can think of in human history are fire and maybe agriculture; this really is a macro-civilizational inflection point, which means it’s honestly quite possible the art hoes are justified in poisoning the statuswell

Just not for literally any of the reasons they themselves would identify with, basically all of which reduce to a grammar of noncognitive Pete Davidson Faces; in practice these types sneer even at AI safetyists, thinking Incel at them for having literally any attitude other than “I don’t really think about AI… it just isn’t good”—at least some of the time right after having prostituted themselves to their interlocutor to make rent.

I met Her when a mutual friend killed herself.

At first I simply needed someone I could talk to about it who wasn’t specifically this weird Indian dude who’d also been thirsting after deadzo and she’d asked me to reach out to in her suicide message hoping we’d team up to wreck the life of some insta meme page admin who Broke Her Heart—a request neither of us felt all that obliged to honor in practice, such that our vanishingly brief interaction consisted primarily of sussing out which one of us she’d liked more and once that was established amounted entirely to him pestering me for our dearly departed’s nudes and then threatening to out me as a former famous internet racist after suspecting it was me who’d informed Her about the suicide bc I guess gunga din was friends with Her as well?

Anyway, it obviously had been me.

Like I said, I needed someone to talk to about it.

I also wanted to see if I could use the situation as an In since much like deadzo She was precisely my type, which is to say tall, artsy, blonde, and a little bit of a cunt.

When I called Her I realized immediately that She also had the sexiest fucking voice I’d ever heard—a distinction She continues to hold to this day

More importantly She registered to me by the end of that call as probs the only chick I’m like to meet this decade both classy enough for me to idealize enough to not be an atrocious husband and sufficiently high in neuroticism and openness to occasionally find my more insane moments kind of interesting and erotically compelling instead of just repulsive, annoying, or terrifying—which being classy enough to idealize She obviously also experienced them as, but never quite to the extent of permanently damaging our flirtatio-friendship until I wrote some shit about our one and only hookup that narrated Her and the broader situation in a way She misliked and in so doing kind of just shattered any residual sense of amity between us.

That said it’s also been long enough now I’d hazard there’s like an ~80% chance that if I drop this article in Messenger She’ll at least skim through with a bitchy look on Her face that mayhaps will briefly turn to grin when She reads this sentence? She’ll still find shit to kvetch about no matter what, clearly… but I also suspect that if I at least attempt to be respectful in the passages that follow there’s a chance it might move her.

So what I’ll say first is that making Her cry like a bitch on that initial phone call and admit I made Her doubt Her own relationship was many times more electrifying a conquest than any of the single mommies I sodomized or coeds I flew out that year.

Secondly I want Her to know that it will never stop turning me on that my incessant barrage of exorbitant allowance offers and shamelessness about my own sugaring seemed to alchemize in Her a pretty powerful new kink thanks to the maid’s longtime fascination with the 1967 French surrealist psychodrama Belle de Jour semiotically fusing rather perfectly with my own sleazy Sunshine State transactionalism.

Third and most crucially, She played a far more significant role than She’ll ever realize or probs will ever really care to take credit for in motivating me to abandon a life of gray actuarial bugmanism to pursue the frankly far less winsome path of a Creative.

Because for one thing when we first started talking She saw the artistic merit of my janky old Disney parodies far more than any other chick I’d known in the years since Cville and my deplatforming, which instantly restored a lot of the creative swagger I’d lost after my initiatrix-cum-Aryan Yoko Ono from that era started renarrating our old ocollabs as having been Cringe, and had nearly been obliterated when this loud horse girl I fucked in early 2021 and kind of saw as a “high status art chick” because she’d majored in drama and played Princess Ariel at Disney World called them retarded.

Whereas when She called my old shit cool and said She wishes She’d been involved in the scene back then it kind of just reversed all that shit in an instant, because this girl indisputably just WAS a high status art chick—I’m sure of that because She’d always get the Ick whenever I brought up status, insisting very earnestly that She doesn’t see the world Like That, which ofc rustled my jimmies as it felt like tedious gaslighting.

But I kind of just didn’t have the right vocabulary at first to translate, and while it sure as shit Exhausted the dame I actually was able to get Her to concede eventually that in practice whatever it is She calls “taste” is analytically identical to what I call “status.”

Whatever its origin Her approval carried a very real gravitas with me entirely outside the fact that I longed to drink Her pee—so much so that when I began to fuck around on Substack roughly a year later She was the first one I sent my maiden essays despite us barely having spoken since the suicide on account of me constantly trying to steal Her from Her cherubic age gap boyfriend and offering Her many thousands of dollars to let me lick Her feet and promising Her that I’ll eventually finance all of Her art projects while simultaneously becoming president of the Heritage Foundation?

idk I was really high at the time

She seemed to think my Addy was cool though, and during the first few days of our flirtation prior to Establishing Boundaries so as to avoid cucking Her child bride even requested I send Her some in the mail so as to help Her get Her tarded foidshit done.

but anywho, back to me starting my substack a year later

She ended up giving me loads of encouragement this time as well, and it wasn’t long before I felt confident enough to approach the good Dr. Hanania himself for a bit of amplification in a proper bid to once more become internet famous—needless to say that part at least succeeded about as well as I might have hoped.

A big part of that though was that for the first half of 2024 whenever I put out a new essay I’d feverishly check my engagement metrics to get a tasty bit of dopamine from confirming She’d read it—which She always did, and quickly.

And fellers?

I got SO much fucking momentum / mental chadpower from that shit—more so even than from having three povertymaxxed Zoomette girlfrens at the time while clearing over $400k / year via job stacking—looking back I’d identify that limerence as one of the krabby patty secret ingredients to the explosive growth of the early Walt Right.

She also praised my first attempts to create AI music in Suno.

Which almost without exception were kind of just clumsy and unsophisticated tbh since I hadn’t written lyrics in ages, and meanwhile sounded like shit given the tech was still in its infancy back then. Looking back though maybe She was just being nice and didn’t experience any ick or cognitive load from doing so as She still really liked my writing and found me enjoyable to fantasize about in like an Evil Cock sense?

Either way I stopped sending Her songs after She didn’t really react to this kind of angry emo love song I sent her, which for a long time I narrated as me having given Her the Ick because it was too simpy. But looking back the simpiness qua simpiness wasn’t really the issue here so much as that the song was kind of just gay and corny on its own merits and the tech far too primitive at that point for any chick let alone such an ethereal little aesthete as Her to be genuinely moved by it in the way I wanted.

Why was it gay and corny?

In part just because I was out of practice as a lyricist and in part because I was too outcome-dependent with Her given e.g. the lowkey sort of haunted nature of our dyad and partly just because I was insecure about pursuing a chick I perceived as palpably more sophisticated than myself, which caused me to act kind of like Tony Soprano in that arc where he tries to date Melfi—or more accurately, like Christopha in that one episode where he ends up pumped and dumped by the redheaded Jewess D-Girl.

Which in case She ever reads this…

Can you honestly say this isn’t us, babe?

Anywho point is I’m quite certain She wasn’t impressed by the ditty on account of Her only ever having listened to it on one single solitary occasion per Substack analytics.

That matters because whenever I look at the analytics for songs written later in my tenure for various Substack girlies (basically all of whom were also vain and sensitive art hoes and as a rule crazier than Her but no spergier and probs like equal statuswise) after the tech got gud and I myself returned to form as a librettist—all of which btw were waaay more simpy than the one I wrote for Her but likewise far less gay—they ended up being viewed many dozens of times by the chickie I was serenading while instantly precipitating a more substantive flirtationship that always ended due to babygirl coming to dislike me for reasons not even the least bit pursuant to AI.

Here are just a few of em if you’re curious:

So looking back I suspect it was all kind of just a skill issue—a consequential one for sure given it established a durable and wretched pestiferous frame of Wally B needily wanting Her to approve of my songs and formally concede their artistic merit in the same way Millennial gamers once pined for the appreciation of Roger Ebert—only this time conjoined to a heart and masculine ego bruised even more direly by my failure to convert that hookup I’d been chasing for the better part of two years and could ackshully happen now given that She wasn’t playing babysitter anymore into something a bit more substantive than the aforementioned flirtatio-friendship.

…which needless to say in womanny eyes is always bound to register as irretrievably incel-coded and stanky on just that precognitive cavepuss level and will thereby kind of ontologically contaminate literally everything else about you far as She’s concerned without her even grasping the antecedent causal chain of that or mechanisms behind it because girlypops lowkey aren’t 100% sentient.

Though I’ll also not pretend my own approach was elsewise anything close to rightly calibrated here—around well-heeled Millennial gals my game was and remains about as rusty as a drunken doornail, and while I’d grown superb at playing rapacious sleazy alligator unc to ddlg-appreciating grad students and alkies with molested voice and codependent single mommies I hadn’t the foggiest notion how to register as hubs material to a chick rounding thirty who might actually impress at a dinner party—or register as anything at all to her really besides Scary Cock, which even that I kind of fucked up in this case by attempting to eat Her pusspuss which She called effeminate and groace, and which normally I’d have concurred with hence me never doing that literally ever but idk She felt different I guess by dint of being So High Above Me?

That said I don’t mean to put too fine a point on any of that, as mostly I quite enjoyed the sex, which felt many times more present and embodied than usual and lowkey sort of romantic in a way it never did with even ackshual girlfriends.

She also seemed to enjoy it—or at least pretended to—and either way let’s just say I very definitely left chickie on the other side of a fair few Firsts that night.

Which yeah she’ll absolutely roll her eyes at that, but c’mon babe you know what I mean—let me have like one immature thing to look coo for my frens? Please?

Anyway on some level I think I was kind of trapped in a less than splendid uncanny valley where She’d mostly only fantasized about me in the context of me trying to get Her to cheat on zoomzoom in this LARPy fancy whore container (which if She had cheated ackshully would have permitted me to fuck Her in a super duper painful mean Other Man way the selfsame way I stuffed Mara back in the day), and I was plenty sadistic enough to hurt Her etc. either way, but it’s also just different when this is literally the potential vessel for your progeny you’re whackin around the room which means you can’t really bite your fill all the way to the bone now, if that makes sense?

Plus if there was no reason we couldn’t date now I was far too much the maladaptively limerent Millennial faggot not to fall madly in love with Her to the point of instantly breaking fuckboy kayfabe and acting gay the moment She wrapped those aristocratic little art toes around my ween and let it speedbag Her uvula til my pubes were laced in half-digested omelet—which She got a bit grossed out by me not rinsing off instantly tbh on account of having slightly higher conscientiousness than me I’d reckon but w/e

What I mean to say is that I was far too invested at this point to properly Ruin Her or proffer hard and toothy catharsis in the way that would have been trivial were She working class or presently partnered, but was likewise far too volatile and exhausting and trashy to credibly pay court a la Ashley Wilkes—which of course is why I wasn’t all that shocked the following morning when bae turned down my proposal for her to marry me and help me build this coo new salon and art collective in Orlando.

Which for those of you who didn’t figure it out at the time—yeah it was mostly all this moment in particular but a bunch of other bullshit too that compelled me to nuke my burgeoning Substack community to focus instead on vertical growth via Tortuga, and also to say Nigger all the time whilst talking about my fetishes constantly.

My writing also changed after that, moving away from a broadly appealing essayistic register to something a lot more niche and overtly literary—to some extent just out of novelty-seeking / boredom with political analysis, but also because after many years of letting unresolved pussproblems fester I felt an incredibly pressing need to peel the scab off and explore my own troubled and Exhausting male interiority.

Initially by reflecting on my (in retrospect quite performative) guilt over a recent past of extractive and rakish behavior whilst enjoying the graces of struggling Zoomettes during the Biden years, as well as my ripening insecurity over having failed pretty perennially by now to cultivate a stable and enduring dyad with a damsel my own age and social class besides a residual 500 Days thing with Aryan Yoko Ono and also a separate flirtatio-frenship thing with this totally different Alt Right alumna who’d by that point been convinced by her stolid 112 IQ husbando that Wally B is some kind of incorrigible degenerate, and then also for a short while my thing with deadzo obv.

From a bird’s eye view though (which heaven knows Her own peepers are nothing if not vaguely avian…) She was probs my only lady since 2018 at the latest who seemed wholly plausible as my eventual wife in a way that genuinely merits that title instead of just like Four Holes And A Ring—which goes without saying is why Her rejection post-hookup carried every bit as much gravity for me as Her encouragement had.

The end result of that angst was “Bluebeard.”

The clip above is the first but furthest thing from last version of this song I put out.

I really poured my heart and soul into it, and in doing so came to feel I’d learned loads about myself. Looking back though basically all of these supposed insights were kind of soggy and pedestrian slave morality bromides I was grasping at for a clean portable narrative as to why She didn’t think me good enough to wed and mayhaps also signal to Her that I was ackshully a worthy fellow deep down who simply needed a Chance?

Now assessed on its own merits I’d say this version of the song remains quite resonant overall but also reads as juvenile and doesn’t stick the landing third verse either since in practice precisely no woman on earth would ever think to narrate a dude like this in terms of having once been neglected by his first girlfriend. Also it was pretty rough in terms of audio quality due to coming from such an early iteration of Suno.

Still, it got remarkably positive feedback on Substack given that at the time AI Art wasn’t anywhere near as low status and AI music barely even a thing, which meant that when I finally sent it to Her I had decently high hopes for the reaction.

She didn’t even realize which verse was about her.

Instead She assumed She’d been the subject of the first verse despite being my age and having relatively affluent parents, and got Offended that I’d say all that about Her dad

Now she chilled out when I clarified shit to her, but that was kind of Her only reaction.

After that moment the only other song I ever bothered to send Her was the one above, which was based on a composite of girls I’ve dated through the years and had received stellar feedback overall from Substack’s womenfolk specifically.

Now I forget what exactly it was that She said about it given it all took place in a deleted Telegram chat, but iirc Her feedback was something along the lines of it’s good but also kind of emotionally exhausting—which honestly? Fair.

Anyway at this point I was exquisitely seasoned in Suno and so decided to completely retool Bluebeard with a wholly different ending based on my own recent reunion with the teenage sugar baby I’d groomed into being my girlfriend shortly after deadzo’s suicide, who when I’d asked her about the first version opined that it was kind of lulzy I still fashioned myself as a predator when she was the one who’d gotten $2k in Lululemon only to leave dad for an older richer guy a few weeks after I got lazy in the relationship.

…an entirely lucid point!

So I brooded on the matter, and this was the result:

Listening to this one today I still adore that final verse and continue to feel the Amanda twist works splendidly. But other than that it’s self-indulgent / overwrought, and makes the central leitmotif way less prominent which lowkey ruins the song imo.

That said you can see a certain maturation in my thinking here in that I’m not using some unattainable ice queen girl character to narrate my pain now but instead have the protag duke it out with his own leitmotif Jekyll and Hyde style which admittedly is a pretty Jonah Hill way to end his arc but sets shit up for the Amanda reveal at least.

Ultimately though the stakes still feel juvenile and small ball—kind of tedious and solipsistic whining about an unremarkable situation that happens every day.

That said you might wonder why the audio cuts out at 4:19—originally that section named the chick who rejects Bluebeard, and specifically used Her pseudonym within a TG group She’d entered through me and was no longer even part of, which all the same made Her freak out at the song same way She had first time as She felt I hadn’t considered Her opsec. But other than that She didn’t have any particular comments, and we stopped talking shortly thereafter once I dropped the offending article.

so idk

At least Layla liked it.

Which speaking of—I actually just put out a third version of Bluebeard:

Feels like I may have at last landed on the definitive version.

Subscribe now

I think at some point near the end I attempted to factsand logic Her about the songs,

I explained to Her why rejecting them ipso facto was irrational—how each one had involved dozens of hours of meticulous curatorial effort on my part, how all of them were entwined with my writerly oeuvre, how they’re objectively far funnier and sound better than any of the shit that got me famous in 2016 and instantly became cringey and dated even to me until seven years later Her lovely little voice giggled at one of them on a call and told me it was clever and in so doing resurrected Walt Bismarck.

“I’m just not interested in AI stuff—why can’t you accept that?”

And then, after a year of dedicated readership, She unsubscribed from my publication after I mentioned in an update post that parts of a recent story had come from Claude.

Several months ago I saw a certain post on Twitter that has since proved monstrous difficult to properly eject from my tempestuous polemicist’s noggin.

Women basically never say something like this so candidly, so I’m more grateful than words can articulate for Autumn having had the bravery to tell it like it is.

It’s so true the dick never lies—because it can’t lie, by definition, as feminine epistemics are not optimized around predictive closure / empirical correspondence but rather on second order consequences and precognitive assessment of status, power, and health.

Female cognition is architecturally relational and affective which means that instead of standing diachronically through time on its own merits it prefers to wrap its adorable little toesies round your ween and let dad take the reigns—just only so long as you can stay hard for her and maintain that hard phallic frame, so you’d best get that Bluechew ready to pop nigga and be ready to wash out that omelet nigga before chickie registers an Ick you nasty nigga formidable enough to make everything you say and do Gross.

Now in all fairness She was A LOT less like this than most chicks, and the two of us went on to enjoy many months of friendship after the hookup wherein She e.g. shared a lot of private art with me (which included a few characters that lowkey seemed sort of based on an extra hot and sexy and somewhat less deranged version of me that may or may not have existed in her noggin prior to her zoomzoom relationshit fizzling out though I also doubt She’d ever admit to that now if She even remembers it), and would also put up with many an hour of soul-sucking Jonah Hill pilpul on Faceberg.

But She also started to like my writing less and less as it grew more experimental and intermittently literary, and when I had her read my first fiction piece Walking To Publix for instance She critiqued the interspersal of narrative and essayistic registers like that’s a hard and fast stylistic rule violation when I think She was kind of viscerally repulsed by the content of the piece’s opening monologue—though I also want to be careful with attributing unconscious motives as that just shuts down dialogue.

Also like all my other girl readers if not even more than them tbh She really enjoyed Women Don’t Have Agency, and even texted me wanting to call for once and discuss it, which is kind of funnie tbh because that article was insanely trashy and exhibitionist in practice, to the point of at times reading not a little like a gonzo piece. Thing is it was also unimpeachably executed—earnest, artful, and insightful, so She really adored it.

Only then when I wrote another piece several months later that narrated my hookup with Her in a manner that was objectively many times more dignified and flattering than I’d ever afforded poor hapless Rebecca it still was a anuddah shoah suddenly.

Which of course it was, babe. Obviously it’s different when it’s actually you—I get it.

That said, I think we need to accept that with feminine minds nothing is ever assessed on its own merits qua itself and it’s kind of all about cock at the end of the day.

So when I make that thunderbolt first impresh and get to see those pretty tears on our first phone call and perfectly alchemize some nascent kink deep in your subconscious while giving you an ideal vector both to daydream about being wretched and receive a darker sort of attention without putting yourself at risk of ackshully cheating it’s not all that surprising tbh you’d like my parodies years past their expiration date and even offer to help produce that supercoo Henry Clay musical (which would that idea still have seemed promising to you in early 2025?), and it’s also not at all surprising that you’d read everything I put out super consistently despite also telling me repeatedly that it’s not your usual type of material at all.

I mean, that’s exactly how I felt about that hitherto-private art you showed me.

Difference is that as a man my attitude was more about wanting to cultivate this impossibly abundant playground or garden for you to frolic in merrily—and even more than that, wanting to understand your own art on its own terms so as to suck wolfishly upon your interiority like a splendid butterscotch Werther’s.

Doesn’t matter if it’s a bit too stale or saccharine in some places—that’s all part of the flavor profile, and a sophisticated palate learns how to appreciate an acquired taste.

But we both know it doesn’t quite work like that other way around.

Not because women love “less unconditionally” or what have you—that’s a terribly pedestrian way of putting it. It’s more that men learn to treat women as weather that can’t be relied upon predictably over the long term so much as structurally managed and contained, whereas women generally are disgusted by the prospect of any sort of ontologically symmetrical negotiation with men and instead in adversarial scenarios will test men’s worthiness to dominate by being maximally unreasonable and retarded until men lay down the law and get them to submit to dad totalistically.

That means once you really tame a bitch with your cock everything you think is now correct by definition; all of your actions now seem righteous to her, and you’ll be given automatic benefit of the doubt in essentially any situation. But once babygirl starts to see you as ontologically compromised in some basic way, as Miss Christian helpfully narrates above, basically nothing you do will seem correct / righteous / coo to her ever again.

Which obviously isn’t some monotonic thing where you have no margin for error at all and it’s permanent winner take all; there’s always quite a lot of noise, and there were loads of ways it could have gone with Her in the months following the hookup. idk it’s like call it cope but I like to think had it simply been a matter of Her not liking my dick and such there’s no way in hell I would have claimed so many of Her Firsts that night since a girl that stubborn and frosty never would have gone so far out of Her comfort zone with a dude She wasn’t genuinely attracted to.

Rather I think the issues were A) my game was too permeable and prone to getting thrown off in bits and pieces by bouts of affective incontinence that would make me do gay shit like send Her that first song or overcompensate by then calling Her a cunt or subjecting Her to a Jonah Hill inquisition; B) after Her breakup She didn’t know whether She wanted to entertain a serious courtship from me whereas without Her boyf around as an excuse there was no obvious way to keep guys like me content being consigned to the Scary Cock Ghetto; C) I kept asking and expecting more from Her than She could ever be expected to give on account of feeling like my artistic side had been frozen in amber at 23 with my deplatforming and wanting badly for Her to help loosen it free and help it mature into something coo / properly adult / sophisticated not unlike the beret chick PJ dates in the goofy movie sequel.

Thing is basically no girl actually wants to mentor a guy like that in practice—rather she wants you to have already built your castle she’ll fall leisurely into like the delectable young baby she is; chickie is supposed to be the apprentice here, and you the master.

Thus she needs you to be the one who explains shit—and whatever she happens to be good at or values most, she needs a guy who’s even better at it and makes her feel like a Dumb Girl in the status hierarchy most aligned with her neurotype.

And make no mistake—girls clearly trade diagonally literally all the time across or between hierarchies playing some arbitrage game, and in the context of early twenties dating or if they ever want a sugar daddy or fuckbuddy it’s not especially hard to get one of them in your bed if you have money or muscles, same as any other girl. But if you’re unironically a moneyman or anything comparable and genuinely interested in that shit versus using a sinecure to fund your Substack as I was at the time then you should just groom a realtor or something because that’s how you’ll land a bitch who worships you on your own terms. The art hoe as a rule only wants to worship a more talented and higher status male artist, and sometimes also a Raniere / Manson type if she multiclasses into some adjacent genre of hierophantshit during early midlife.

Now you can obviously play the arbitrage games with them from time to time and ya they’ll 100% sell you hole in a pinch. But when an art hoe hawks gash to financebros she’ll literally always just as a matter of course begin ambiently dedicating 99% of her deliberate speech acts to tipping the transaction in her favor by e.g. implying he’s cheap or making dude crave her approval in small ways or just generally feel lower status than her because she seems more visibly willing to walk away and brutalistially indulge her most tempestuously bigoted amygdalic fluctuations.

This isn’t personal at all and happens even if she’s your good friend or slightly in love with you, and you’re a fag if you blame her for it btw as it’s literally just the grammar for all relationships between artists and patrons which has always existed in pretty much every society, as if the artists weren’t inherently cooler and more valuable than their patron the transaction would be going the other way. But when it’s all conjoined to sexual politics and diagonal jumps between parallel hierarchies like the final level of Treasure Mountain things can definitely get a bit hairy at times.

For instance when the frame was I’m the crazy methhead financebro who called Her out of the blue to say Her friend’s dead and turns out is also this former racist eceleb who’s addicted to flying out women to fuck em which spoiler he wants to do to you and so after making you cry on the phone launches instantly into allowance talk and boasting about how he’ll cuck your sweet Zoomer boyf and turn you into his whore etc. etc. etc… frankly I had A LOT more leeway in practice with this not only to simp a bit without giving Her an ick + rapepoast without scaring Her since it all felt even if possible super far away and unlikely to ever lead to anything. That and just sort of treat Her as a Hagrid-type ambassador or threshold guardian figure into Artworld.

At the time She seemed to enjoy playing that role as much as I enjoyed playing that of vaguely rapey yet charmingly autistic racist financebro. Had Suno been around then and I shared any of my AI songs with Her She’d probably have seen it all as cute in the same tenderly patronizing way I might have seen it if She put together an excel model to like track Her period or something, and neither one of us would have been peeved by the dynamic as it’s kind of just the canonical art hoe-financebro dyad script tbh and if anything feels sort of fun and adjacent to raceplay on the inside most the time.

Whereas by the time I at last made my way inside Her two years thereafter I myself was ensconced very deeply in Artworld—though for sure still getting a lay of the land—while barely paying attention to that of my fellow financebros, which meant I was competing now with guys in the scene who fancied themselves muh aristocrats of the soul and saw your poor Uncle Walt as a grubby mean-minded entryist burgher king trying to grift and hustle and gladhand his way to the top while both milking his old Alt Right fame for growth and denouncing it just enough to suitably sanitize himself.

It didn’t take long to learn to hate the haters—the snobs and bucketcrabs and all those tradcaths with a gayvoice pigheadedly proud of being poor. But this also meant I had to learn to pattern-match all canonical anti-Waltine critique vectors routinely used as red herrings-cum-horns of rohan to deniably facilitate mass campaigns of ambient middle school sneermaxxing in my direction, and from the beginning a huge segment of that consisted of reductive churlish anti-AI Art poasting that frankly made me kind of a maximalist on the issue and identitarian about it now out of principle.

Thus making AI songs became a significant part of my identity as an artist—and as the tech improved and became both more salient and lower status in artistic circles, my stubborn manbrain grew increasingly fixated on getting Her to admit what I’m doing is proper art and requires both curatorial taste and deep talent as a librettist.

Which it goes without saying is the sort of argument you’ll never ever win with a woman— not just because it’s on an object level kind of pathetic and incel-coded to litigate preference like that in any situation, but also because more generally you just can’t really ever “out-debate” a woman on anything she actually cares about, period.

What you can do though is Rape Her—meant here ofc in more a proverbial sense.

That is to say, you can execute so unimpeachably that your lady love’s self-concept and reputational / aesthetic standing cannot properly cohere without first wrapping those gorgeous epistemic toesies fast round your weener—and once they’re there and baby builds up a dece lil rhythm? You’ll be amazed how reliably she keeps up the footwork.

Just consider, for instance, that precisely none of the assorted Substack girlypops for whom I’ve written an AI sonnet have at this point openly counter-signaled AI Art with anything approaching the level of retarded peanut-brained low openness vitriol you routinely observe among their less fortunate sisters and beta orbiters.

Because it turns out precisely no chick who gets a song written about her that makes her feel Seen and Special and is good enough that she listens to it a few dozen times will ever just write off the entire-ass medium ipso facto without giving the slightest consideration to its first order merits like some stupid retarded cumcunt—though she may well do exactly that if She keeps getting janky songs that are sort of juvenile or gay or read as solipsistic / self-serving and don’t make Her feel especially Seen at all.

Hell, if anything that might be what gets Her to vindictively foreclose the medium as an ouroboric manchild-making Mirror of Erisid when She might not have elsewise—as maybe there’s some parallel universe wherein She instead got the perfect song from exactly the right outside bet high variance nigga who this time doesn’t poop his pants and repeatedly strike out the instant he gets to the big leagues such that bae instead ends up becoming one of AI Art’s more impactful public advocates?

I mean, who knows;.

Maybe disgust for AI art is ackshully all inborne ackshully and far less elastic than I’m framing it and it’s just Bad so I should go have a normal one john mulaney

Personally I doubt it; women ultimately are relational and affective creatures whose thoughts when young and single especially are—despite them almost never coming to terms with this reality, and to the eternal rage and consternation of many millions of them whenever it’s openly discussed—basically never propositionally truth-apt in a sense most men would recognize as analytically useful, and their aesthetic tastes and moral judgment likewise aren’t much more than some gelatinous Jungian slurry that within reason takes the form of essentially whatever hard filter happens to surround it.

And it turns out nothing makes a dame long to slice your schlong off more than when you try to pin her down under a ruleset of one jello mold having just recently switched contexts from a wholly different one in a way that feels slimy or bad faith to her. And there’s absolutely a way to do it she’ll respect and most of the time find super smexy even when employed to do genuinely wretched things to babygirl and pusspie both—but that’s also a horribly fine line to tread, and should you ever get it wrong just watch how fast Paula Jones turns into Amazing Amy and sends your tuchus to the cornfield.

Having said that, when you win you win.

Because, remember: the dick never lies.

Alright, you chodes want takeaways?

• First one is that you, the reader should if you still believe AI Art is illegitimate or what have you go through each and every one of the songs included in this article and assess whether or not you think it has merit artistically.

  • If your answer is Yes—check out my other songs and spread the Good Word.

  • If your answer is No—I’m unironically telling you to unsubscribe immediately, because I very genuinely don’t want you anywhere near my publication.

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• Second is whether She likes it or not I’ll always narrate Her as having been a crucially important Hagrid character in my life—initially in the sense of giving me the confidence to make my way back into creative life, then in making me realize with Her lovely pussy that gay as it sounds I kind of do want to marry an educated girl my own age atrocious as their attitudes usually are, and finally in helping me stop feeling insecure around artists by having kind of a pedestrian reaction to the article about our hookup tbh despite having praised the far more gonzo Rebecca one, which again I don’t blame Her for but I also don’t really see Her as more sophisticated than me anymore because at this juncture I’m probably am far more of an art hoe than She is (the real ones as a rule are basically all men).

• Third is that ultimately AI artists will have to work far harder than meatfags to be taken seriously, as our work needs to land as undeniable and splendidly polished or it will be dismissed by normgroids out of hand. It’s like how black people tell their kids they need to work twice as hard to get half as far, except actually true.

• Fourth is that most of these normgroid technician types are basically union thugs attempting to cartelize the market. To insist a Suno producer with no lyrical or melodic talent can’t build around his own proficiency and must either learn the other one or go hire independent talent he probs can’t afford especially if he’s just a hobbyist doesn’t just make you an impractical pie-eyed maroon—it makes you a wretched labor unionist cunt who ought to be dropped from a helicopter. Until then remember most of these lamers will be economically displaced in short order and keep the girl numbers in your cell to reserve a spot for when they can’t make rent.

• Fifth is that all your arguments against AI Art are dogshit and if any of you fags still critical want to litigate the issue before all of Substack then I’d be overjoyed to tear your asshole out in any forum you like—moderated or no, live or prerecorded.

Anyway, I’m not at all sure if She’s still reading at this point—but if so? Thank you.

But it’s late, so I’ll catch the rest of you chodes later.

Wally Out.

— WB

A High Zoomer originally from the Midwest with lineage from Far Cathay, Danny started out on Substack as a softboi aesthete writing primarily for womyn, but ever since getting Canceled for defending WBE in an altercation with some lad named Donald has branched out more into heterodox and centrist spaces.

In this pod we discuss the following pieces of his, all of which I recommend:

• to a girl I’ve known my whole life

• why I’m leaving the Red Pill

• i’m obsessed with women and tired of pretending i’m not

• wanting to be known

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Topics Include:

• Daniel’s origins on Substack

• Red Scare / enduring reverberations in our community

• Girlies like each other’s content far more consistently than spergs

• How Daniel’s upbringing with a single mom and early figure skating career led to him adopting a more feminine cognitive style

• Is someone born in 1998 closer to someone born in 1993 or 2003?

• The Late Millennial vs. Early Zoomer relationship with social media

• Why Danny identifies more with younger Zoomers than Late Millennials

• Danny’s early success on YouTube making videos on music neuroscience

• Why writers are prone to being kind of an asshole

• The failure modes of using AI extensively as a writer

• Danny’s earlier and more normie-coded “Red Pill”

• The nigahiga song Nice Guys

• Do men enjoy treating women poorly or resent them for liking jerks?

• The tendency of ascended incels to punish women after getting successful

• How covid isolation led to him suffering from paranoia / hallucinations

• How Danny’s covid-era dry spell differed from typical incel narratives

• Should we have empathy for incels?

• Is inceldom or dying in a war more dignified?

• Incels as a Girardian scapegoat

• Should we ban Tinder?

• Differences in how Millennial MILFs vs. Zoomettes narrate their attraction

• Danny’s position as a liminal figure between aesthetes and spergs

• Are propositionalized “Red Pill” heuristics ackshully useful or do guys just need to watch older and higher status guys flirting with girls?

• Growing up around women made it harder for Danny to connect with guys

• Daniel explains to Walter what it means to “dap someone up”

• Differences in Asian guy vs. White guy socialization

• Did differences in Chinese vs. European geography impact culture?

• Why Asians are coo now

• Danny’s thoughts on human biodiversity

• Walt argues the actuarial profession is ontologically Chinese

• Do Asians have a higher attention span?

• How much of cultural differences are biological?

• Walt starts to get autistic about HBD and scare the hoes

• Is Daniel fluent in Mandarin?

• What it was like going to high school in China

• How being an international student made Danny more socially liquid

• Trait neuroticism and being a man of high highs and low lows

• How Danny suffered reputationally for defending WBE

• Did Danny ever fuck his students as an MCAT teacher?

• Walter’s experience grooming his pupils at the writing center

• How puritanical Zoomer sensibilities around sex were shaped by #MeToo and onerous campus consent seminars

• Is literally all self-narration cope?

• The Zoomer Oral Culture has made all explanation land as cringe

• Zoomer vs. Millennial attitudes on delusional self-confidence

• Walt glazes Danny

• Why Zoomers metabolize inceldom better than Millennials

• Zoomer Stealth Archer ideals vs. institutional Millennial masculinity

  • see also The Fuckboy Right

• How the Millennial vs. Zoomer dynamic echoes Boomers vs. Gen X

• Millennial guys benefited at the expense of Zoomers during Covid

• Zoomette social power

• Is it bad for society that among Zoomers women now outearn men?

• Millennial idealism vs. Zoomer pragmatism

• How modernity made Zoomers distrust institutions

• Why Walter talks on double speed

• Do Zoomers secretly want the right to be cringe?

• Walt’s predictions for Gen Alpha

• Was Danny just signaling in his Red Pill essay?

• Is the steelman version of the Red Pill more straussian or promethean?

• Is there still value in being an honorable man?

  • Read Walter’s essays The Orange Pill and The Thirty Eight Theses Of Walter

Everything about you is the result of genes interacting with the environment, and it’s analytically obvious that nothing is either 100% genetic or 100% environmental. Yes some traits e.g. IQ and height and hair color are far more genetic than others, but ecology always plays a role, hence the Irish no longer having an IQ in the low 90s and blondes getting more blonde the more they go outside and Chinese guys not being five feet tall anymore. Other things e.g. fatness are far more environmental, but plainly genetic on a second order basis downstream of genes for conscientiousness, addictive tendencies, and metabolic rate. That includes things like psychopathy and pedophilia.

The vast majority of meaningful human interaction that isn’t specifically between autistic men debating something abstract over the internet occurs precognitively at a bodily level, and with neurotypical young women in particular this reality effectively forecloses the possibility of cognitive adjudication. They’re ruled by vibes and icks—visceral signals of danger, opportunity, and genetic health—and the vast majority of normie men and lower order sorts of autist go along with their preferences for pussy or to mitigate reputational risk. Basically nothing important in society is adjudicated autistically on first order merits alone, and that’s a good thing because that would induce enormous cognitive load and literally nothing would get done.

The upshot is that in practice literally all civilizations are eugenic just tautologically, because it’s impossible to coordinate literally anything at scale without actuarially baking in the precognitive foreclosure of highly maladaptive traits and behavior.

That said civilization also bakes in a countervailing impulse to enforce higher order truths on the world that are quite literally counter-intuitive because they run counter to our visceral animal instincts—things like fairness, empathy, equality, and justice.

The best way to understand the Left-Right spectrum as it’s existed for the last few centuries of Western civilization is that the Left is trying to dam the river while the Right is attempting to irrigate with it. That is to say, the Left wants to constrain our middle school bully impulses and create a New Soviet Man while the Right is trying to channel them more productively towards some specific end. Communism can thus be seen as the logical endpoint of Leftism and Fascism the endpoint of Rightism, with different flavors of Liberal Democracy all being centrist viewpoints between them.

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The twentieth century illustrates the failure modes of each approach.

Communism is hopelessly idealistic, and while tiny homogenous nation-states like Sweden can effectively implement something pretty close to the ideal it also turns society effeminate and sclerotic in very short order.

Fascism, meanwhile, burns too hot; highly ordered and disciplined societies like Germany and Japan can pull off something impressive for a time, but structurally it bakes in a certain degree of backstabbing and coordination failure, and also demands regular purges of otherwise useful talent—plus you can’t afford to ever look weak, which changes the risk calculus around writing checks your ass can’t necessarily cash.

Liberal Democracy outcompetes both in the short term—and it’s not especially close—by essentially backsolving for whatever emergent order makes shit work.

That’s a problem because over the long term you start to see pretty dire failure modes as said emergent order prevents the containment of entropic tech like algorithmically optimized infinite scroll, short form video content, hyper-arousing porn, and swipe-based dating apps that precipitate a regression back to paleolithic courtship norms, all of which increasingly make the future a choice between The Matrix and Wall-E.

The one tenable road out of that future seems to be some kind of “Great Filter” where 90% of people become dopamine morlocks and the remaining 10% ascend towards increasingly asymmetric ubermensch status—an outcome already at odds with at least the extended form of liberal democracy pursued through Nixon Tapes Straussianism by paternalistic WASP elites in the second half of the twentieth century, and which increasingly makes even the barebones eighteenth century version seem tenable only in an autistic teenage boy sense with a resting point of basically Carthage (which interestingly is what the French once called Britain during their 18th century rivalry).

The fibromyalgia aunts and xanax bunnies on the Far Left see a different future of luxury gay space communism powered by some funny money UBI thing, which of course is what will turn them into dopamine morlocks.

You see something different on the Far Right with the shift towards formalist eugenics.

I’ve already written pretty extensively at this point about the Zoomer Oral Culture, and if you want the tea as they say you can check out The Great Unbinding.

But long story short is that among the bottom 90% or so of Zoomers no one really has the attention span to care about evidence / receipts or to not judge a book by its cover. The men parse theoretics as longwinded and overly abstruse and instantly dismiss any sort of explanation or justification as cope and cringe, while the first thing Zoomettes notice about a man is how much other chicks are into him, with after that height / face / money / status being hyper-salient compared to Millennial chicks. Most old people who don’t interact with Zoomers on a regular basis have no idea how bad it’s gotten.

A big part of this is that the Zoomer Right—and most particularly the women in the Zoomer Right, to the extent they exist—are by and large rabid eugenicists who mostly became Right-Wing so they could be mean to older women and fat people.

Now this is partly just a reaction to the insane degree of obligate social-constructivist obscurantism on race/gender pushed by the Millennial Left and its undeniable excesses like fat acceptance and slutwalks and maximalist neurodivergence advocacy; mostly it should be viewed as an unserious and silly dialectical force pulling the culture back towards something a little less retarded in the middle.

But there are also certain people who take it a lot more seriously than they should.

There’s a reason the Boomer Truth Regime lasted so long.

In some sense that sort of disciplined precognitive shame apparatus was the keystone of an enduring liberal democracy under late stage capitalism—one which eventually, in the 2010s, ended up cannibalized by its own contradictions.

And I’ll always be proud to have played a role in that.

But in the wisdom of my hoary midlife I’ve also come to appreciate why exactly the Greatest Generation thought it necessary to institute that kind of obscurantism on matters like race and IQ—namely, that if you calibrated state policy in an actuarially sound way the disparities between blacks and other races would be so vast as to make it practically impossible to avoid an ossification into a hard and intractable caste system e.g. Jim Crow. Hell, with regards to criminality in particular, even permitting the formation of experientially correct individual heuristics would inevitably end up with a society of Archie Bunkers as unremarkable normies pass around IQ charts to make themselves feel better about personally being a loser—note this is how the Alt Right degenerated into a wignat hellscape and the manosphere became full of incels.

That means if you’re an autistic racist who’s individually nice to black people you’ll get society closest to your individual preferences via some amount of lying to normies.

It’s also just obviously better for individual life outcomes to avoid thinking overly deterministically, hence swarthy deterministic rando flood/monsoon cultures tending to produce lazy fatalists while predictable seasonality yields the Protestant work ethic. It’s almost never adaptive at the individual level to view your life as an actuarial model because chances are unless you’re literally Bruce Wayne or high on copium it’s going to make you kind of depressed and unagentic and wanting to kill yourself as you fall behind the grindset guys full of Adderall, pre-workout, and tard verve.

You need clean and actionable heuristics that balance stern eugenic harshness with higher order antibrutalism—that’s why Jordan Peterson played such a huge role in helping overly ruminative Millennial men shape up in the late 2010s.

The problem with the Zoomer Right is that it thinks of literally all antibrutalism as faggoty millennial softness because they’ve never experienced a society that wasn’t kind of all about cumming. It isn’t their fault per se as they’re plainly just responding to incentives (and if you think of anything over ~150 people in moralistic terms you kind of have Down Syndrome tbh) but to my mind it’s important for society to land somewhere between them and Millennials on the question of eugenic formalism if we’re going to slide toward Carthage with at least a modicum of grace.

But the biggest problem with overt eugenicism is frankly just that it’s cringe.

At the highest echelons of status and power basically no one punches down.

That’s not because noblesse oblige is particularly earnest; in practice most elites just kind of ambiently dehumanize their inferiors and see them as furniture.

But they basically never punch down themselves, and typically experience intense revulsion at high-midstatus people punching down at low-midstatus people for status in mid-ponds and will almost always use this as a cue to pull up the ladder on them.

More importantly it serves as moral justification—because, of course, it’s most adaptive to believe your own bullshit and play high-and-low-against-the-middle games by way of scalable legible slave morality narratives, which btw is why women and WASPs are far and away the best adapted for modernity.

That means when you’re an open eugenicist you’re kind of just telling the world that you’re defective in some way, and Hitler himself would have killed you.

In Mein Kampf he constantly foregrounds the centrality of pragmatism and message discipline, and while a eugenicist platform was entirely scalable in the early twentieth century given genetic knowledge was very limited at the time and eugenics extremely in vogue among the middle classes it’s a hell of a lot less so today, and if you put Hitler in modern America he would probably just look like a much more competent Trump.

Now obviously I’m not saying anything new here—this is kind of just that eskimo’s Luxury Beliefs framework in different clothing.

But what I will say is that being able to navigate the halls of power and ackshully seize resources and influence for yourself and your progeny even in an entropic regime is tautologically a sign of genetic fitness, and just in a long-term civilizational sense we shouldn’t really care about the opinion of anyone who isn’t both rich and powerful and at least planning to be individually procreative.

Now basically everyone these days is maximally brutalist in their sexual and romantic choices and at least moderately brutalist in most other lifestyle decisions, but it’s easy to keep that shit esoteric even to oneself with lunch lady bromides. Exoterically we clearly need a mild degree of societal brutalism sustained mostly through dialectic.

Where the game theoretics get interesting are at the individual level. Liemaxxing is optimal for climbing most institutional status hierarchies, but if my time at Deloitte taught me anything it’s that 99% of people are nowhere near capable of carrying that degree of cognitive load unless they have a Kamala Harris coconut brain or are some kind of Buttigieg azathoth, whereas Diogenesmaxxing is only partially adaptive in certain subcultures if you’re me-level talented or a hot and sexy baby and for a normal person will leave them eating ass at the gas station. Everyone in the real world adopts a golden mean approach, and when they see someone too far in one direction registers the former as untrustworthy / scawy and the latter as crazy / autistic / low status.

So essentially what I’m saying here is that if you see someone advocating for formalist eugenics they’re basically always going to be one of the following:

• someone too mentally ill to maintain ambient casual grandma straussianism

• someone who’s a loser in the very literal sense of having lost some kind of major status competition and is coping by saying the “formal system” is rigged, usually by leaning on an inborn trait like looks / IQ because they don’t have both things at once like actual elites or do but per the above are too cwazy to liemaxx properly

• a retarded teenage girl seeking attention + moral license to be mean to fat people

I’ve literally never known one single solitary exception to this heuristic, and you can bet your tuchus everyone who gets Mad at this article will be one of the above.

Now I don’t exempt myself from that rule at all; clearly I wouldn’t Diogenesmax if I didn’t fancy myself a Misunderstood Genius on some level. I’m just intellectually honest enough to stuff the snake’s ass in its mouth.

For the rest of you I encourage the cultivation of a careful, managed deconstruction of the Boomer Truth Regime aimed at creating something a little less gay than the 2010s Millennial candyland but a lot more dignified than the 2020s Zoomer Oral Culture.

That’s why in the spirit of civicminded unkishness I thought I’d share this clip I found from mid-2023 of me putting the moves for the first time on early podcast alumna Alyssa, who proceeded to become one of my girlfrens the following year. Before this call I was basically just some rando stalker she’d met on SA four years prior and had reluctantly hopped on cam with to make rent, but coming out of it I had exclusivity, rock solid chemistry, and plans to fly her out.

In these 45 minutes Uncle Walt will teach you scalawags:

• How to use racism to flirt with liberal women

• How to jestermaxx, humblebrag, escalate, and neg in a 154 verbal IQ way

• The right way to impose exclusivity and timetables on a wayward filly

• How to seem scary / rapey while still making a bih Feel Safe

• How to seamlessly transition from a transactional to romantic frame

• How to properly aestheticize your weird and autistic qualities

• What I was like in probs my most evil and degenerate era

That said you’ll need to pay me $5 for the full clip cause I don’t want my paid subscriber count to drop whilst rescuing my father from the underworld.

Enjoy, lads.

— WB

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Seems my old man has prostate cancer.

I’m relocating to take care of him and that means the next month or two are gonna be a major pain in the tuchus for Uncle Walt, so don’t expect much in the way of posts or responsiveness.

In the meantime I left you all a little gift dedicated Waltheads are sure to enjoy.

Au revoir for now,

— WB