Twenty-three. Tall. Blonde.

A couple dumb tattoos… at her age that doesn’t mean much.

As Kaitlyn’s dykey Birkenstocks slide out of that formidable marigold Honda I chew tentatively on a frown, reminding myself that while it might not bode the greatest for tonight’s prospects that she’d deliberately clad herself in such hideous footwear for our very first date (presumably a shit test?), most fillies of her cohort seem altogether pretty flexible about dressing how you’d like once you’ve penetrated them a few times—Leah really was a gem in that Dark Academia getup I got her on Shein—whereas with a girlypop this radiant I’ll likely maintain a wholly serviceable erection through most of the night and morning with minimal chemical assistance assuming the flower proves amenable to washing the bad taste off her soles prior to coitus; deliver the goods past that point and our most reliable of friends oxytocin is all but certain to send those abominable birks the way of the dodo eventually.

Suddenly: two shapely bronze legs—calves taut as a middle schooler’s, thighs almost illicitly meaty for such a willowy recent grad—winding up and into a frayed denim mini that if I’m honest is also quite dykey but more in the way Rebecca used to call “soft masc,” which compared to the birks engenders in me an animus less borne of disgust than sort of corrective rape coded? I smile as I feel my cortisol levels peter off.

Then at last Kait’s torso emerges, as does her attractive head—though I’m not afforded much of a chance to meet her gaze before my own peepers are very nearly gouged from their sockets by a rock-hard pair of fascistically pert young Valkyrie nipples protruding haughtily beneath a flimsy white tank top.

How scandalous...

“Hey luv!” Kaitlyn smiles enigmatically in a manner that may or may not be making fun of me (it’s kind of hard to tell at this distance), and with a fetching cool-girl languor begins to saunter across the parking garage in my direction.

I take a sip of Red Bull and lean back against the wall to look cool, slowly grinning back at my quarry in a manner I’d like to think connotes a certain wry and self-aware roguishness. Good man! Now remember, Jer Bear: less is more here. Try to play it mysterious this time—unpredictable; illegible; a man of few words…

As the maid approaches—her grin somewhat broader now, and head slightly cocked—I crack my neck and finish off what still remains of my Red Bull, dropping its mangled aluminum carcass in the trash bin next to me. Not even going for the hug? Interesting.

Flexing my shoulders in a cool way I launch myself off the concrete and seize Kaitlyn firmly by the back of her neck, reflecting only very briefly on how strange it is that she isn’t seizing up even a little right now as I wrench her face towards mine and begin to suckle wolfishly on her pink and slithering blonde-tongue, which tastes markedly bitterer than I’d anticipated but for the most part fairly nice.

“Mmm…”

I’m allowed to persist in this tomfoolery for maybe fifteen seconds before Kait hisses an exasperated giggle into my mouth and gently pushes herself off my chest.

I scratch my ear and grin daffily. “You weren’t lying about not being the nervous type.”

“I was not….” Kaitlyn nods and sort of sniggers to herself—a bit conspicuously, if you ask me. “But also, like… why would I be? Nervous, I mean. Like I said last night, dude: I prefer bold men. And you seem cool—or did on the phone, at least.”

She takes a mischievous hit of her vape as those lively hazel pools scan me up and down above a big syrupy smile. “Besides… my roommate has your name and face.”

“Right—the black chick.” I bite my cheek.

“Her name is Gabi.” Kait rolls her eyes. “And she’s only half-black.”

“You kind of said that like it’s better...”

She ignores that and blows a puff of vape smoke in my face—black licorice?

I ignore that in turn and smile back politely, if a little rapily. “Just don’t forget to text her later to confirm you’re all good. A few months back some other chick forgot, and…”

Suddenly Kait’s eyes bulge out like Gabi’s probably do during magic tricks, and she whacks one of my roided-out triceps. “Woooow… real classy, Jer! Five minutes into meeting me and you’re already assuming you’ll get lucky tonight?”

I swallow.

And then I scoff.

Then clearing my throat, I lean deep into her and murmur in a black-silk baritone
“Kinda seems at this point I’d have to fuck it up real bad to get UNlucky...”

The bitch bites her lip again—and then bursts out laughing. I’ll take it!

Then, shaking her head, Kait adopts a rather more serious expression and once more narrows those hazels on me, as if to take my measure more fully, and for a few seconds the two of us just stand there in silence sizing each other up. Trying not to stare at her nipples I focus intently on her face, and gradually it dawns on me that at least from this vantage point she’s the spitting image of Cindy Lou Who.

Thus smiling contentedly at my own wretchedness, I very gallantly clasp the hand of my charge and resolutely lead the little Zoomette down through my apartment lobby and out onto the mean streets of Downtown Orlando.

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As we stroll past Lake Eola toward Thai Pearl—auntie in the corner can’t stop scowling at me these days; good subtle preselection—Kait turns to me and makes a weird expression.

“So… I think I told you last night that it was Gabi who put me on the site?”

Can we not? “Probably.” Take the hint, babe.

“Well you’ll probably find this hilarious… but she was basically trying to convince me not to come today. Because she… like… lowkey had a sort of bad feeling about you?”

“Oh?” I raise an eyebrow. “And why’s that? You tell her I’m racist?”

“I… obviously not.” She rolls her eyes. “But I DID show her your profile earlier today, and she said you definitely seem like a douchey financebro…”

I smile like an asshole. “We counting actuaries as financebros now? Guess I’ll take it.”

“So do you, like… listen to Joe Rogan?”

My nostrils fill with air. “Not really. Mostly Richard Spencer still… or like, Hanania.”

“Hanania?” Kaitlyn grins and leans her head back. “Sounds like some kind of dessert.”

“Yeah, you wouldn’t… I dunno, you familiar with Cumtown at all? Or like, Red Scare?”

“Uh… no?” She looks a little bored. Perhaps I should tell her to fuck off and masturbate?

No no—remember, Jer Bear, this year is all about low time preference!

“Alright, let me guess… Call Her Daddy?”

Kaitlyn pauses and cocks her head slightly. “Erm… sure? I mean, I’ve heard clips. Guess I’m just not much of a podcast gal…”

“I see. What genre of gal are you, then?”

“Not sure I have a genre. Though I guess I’m really into my garden lately?” She shrugs her shoulders. “And sometimes also painting… but only for fun. Not trying to be good at it or anything. Besides that, I like to read… or used to, I dunno. Probably will again at some point. Honestly, dude, I’m kind of a boring person. Sometimes my friends say I remind them of an old lady…”

I grunt in contempt. “You certainly don’t seem boring to me.”

Her eyes narrow again. “You sure about that? Or are you just, like… horny?

“Can’t it be both?” I squeeze her hand. “I mean, if we’re discounting that factor then strictly from a dude’s perspective I’d hazard all of you are super fucking boring.”

She hisses out a giggle through her teeth. “Fair.”

Thrilled to see her rewarding my transgression so early in the night, I squeeze her hand again and bark out: “Bet you anything they’re just jealous.”

And now she looks disgusted, and is scoffing at me, and is pulling her hand away in contempt completely out of nowhere. Seems I need to recalibrate.

“They’re not jealous of shit, dude. My friends aren’t like that. And even if they were, they’d have nothing to be jealous OF because all of them are amazing fucking chicks. And so for you to just fucking assume…”

“…you mean just like Gabi fucking assumed that I’m some kind of douchey financebro who listens to Joe Rogan despite knowing precisely nothing about me—like, at all?”

“Dude…”

I raise my voice. “And then actively tried to convince you not to see me tonight based on literally nothing but a vulgar prejudice no different ontologically from the sentiment that once kept her own forebears at the back of the bus?”

“Dude! People are staring…”

“Good. I like that! Because I want these people around us to hear it spoken loud and clear that you, Kaitlyn Dooley, are best friends and roommates with a bigot—the sort of person who in another universe would be the first person holding the firehose!”

A hefty and confused old Mexican woman walking in the other direction shifts her eyes between us as Kaitlyn groans and runs a hand through her exquisite sunkissed locks—and then turns back to me with a knowing smile.

“You know… you’re actually not wrong on that one. Hence me showing up tonight, exactly as I said I would… because I’m a woman of my word, and my own person, and I really loved our conversation last night…. and cause I think Gabi is wrong about you.”

She smiles.

I smile back, and say “yeah?”

Her smile curdles a bit. “I mean, you’re obviously kind of weird and annoying. But not in the way she thinks you are. I dunno… but it’s like, I just trust my gut on this shit?”

“I see.” Somewhat awkwardly I point her towards the stairwell leading out of the lake and onto Thai Pearl. “And have you always had such a sophisticated palate?”

“I mean, I wouldn’t call it that… but no, not really. Like, believe it or not I’m actually kind of gullible by nature. Sometimes I wonder if I’m, like, autistic or something?”

I sigh and look down at her slightly condescendingly. “You probably aren’t.”

“Agreed. But still, I used to have pretty terrible social skills… and with guys especially. Probably because I never had a dad growing up… I dunno.”

“Shit. Sorry you had to…”

“Don’t be! Dude, my childhood was great. I just had two moms, so….”

“Ah.”

For a moment neither of us says anything.

Then she turns to me. “That bother you? Since you’re like… a Nazi or whatever?”

I roll my eyes at her and sigh. “Not especially. But you sure as shit aren’t allowed to get the ick now when I tell you that my dad once had a gay phase.”

Immediately she collapses into me and bursts out laughing—again a bit too loudly for my taste, though I also can’t help but appreciate the catharsis it lends the situation, to say nothing of the opportunity to ogle her nipnips at my leisure.

By the time she gets ahold of herself we’re just a block away from Thai Pearl, which I notice as we approach it seems rather worryingly unlit. Vainly I try the door, which proves every bit as intractable as that dour old auntie. Perhaps she’s died?

Exhaling in autistic frustration I lean back against the glass and feel terribly uncool.

Thankfully, though, it seems Kaitlyn remains moderately distracted by my earlier gay dad joke, even though it wasn’t that funny. Wiping a tear from her eye, the maid sighs theatrically and leans back against the glass herself in a manner presumably intended to mock my own deportment, and then makes a faux-serious face at me. “So—I’m guessing Mr. Financebro managed to fuck up the easiest part of date plans?”

For a while I don’t say anything.

Then I crack my neck and mutter “He’s in the market for a secretary…”

“You pay better than Target wages?”

“I mean, last night’s offer still stands.”

She bites her lip.

Then she pulls out her phone, and before it even occurs to me to ask her what she’s doing looks up at me and says “The Stubborn Mule is open—that any good?”

The two of us lock eyes a moment—and then I shrug a second time. “Who knows? Can’t say I’ve ever been there.”

“You’ve lived downtown for two years...”

“I mean, it’s probably good. Pretty sure a few chicks have mentioned it here and there.”

“And you never took ANY of them?”

My nostrils fill with air. “Why? Is never going to The Stubborn Mule a red flag now?”

“Well, no, it’s just…” She rolls her eyes brattily. “Like, literally what’s the point of even living downtown if you’re not gonna try out all the cool restaurants here? And what’s the point of dating a fat guy if he won’t even take you out to any of them?”

I cross my arms. “I’m not even that fat.”

“Fat enough to get mad when I say it...”

“Fair.” I uncross them. “Alright, I guess Drunken Mule it is...”

She cups her mouth and smirks through her fingers. “You mean Stubborn Mule, fatso?”

For a moment I just stare at her—my first impulse, of course, being to reproach her for being so unnecessarily mean to me. Thankfully though it occurs to me that this would irredeemably fuck up the night, and so I instead retort “…said the bitch about to get blown out by said fatso because she works at fucking Target.”

For a moment her eyes are saucers.

And now she’s crossing her arms. “Said the first bitch to get this fat faggot to leave his ghetto fucking rape tower and actually take her to The Stubborn Mule. Yes. That bitch.”

I smile back at her warmly. “Again—fair.”

Then I slam her against the glass and squeeze her throat like an anaconda, pressing my lips hard against hers and taking my fill for a second time of her mouth and throat.

This lasts I’d hazard twenty seconds before she pushes me off again, not giggling this time so much as kind of panting. “You fucking shithead! People are staring…”

“Good. I like them seeing me with you.”

“Must be nice! Only, like, do you plan on actually taking me to dinner tonight, or just getting us arrested in the middle of the street like pedophiles?”

Realizing she has a point, I seize my Aryan firebrand firmly by the waist, and with a grunt and a nod begin to haul her back up the street from whence we came.

“I’ll have a Guinness!”

“Um… we actually don’t serve Guinness here, my dude. Very sorry.” The mustachioed hipster waiting on us shrugs his shoulders at me and makes a patronizing fagface.

“Ah… alright then.” I glance at the eatery’s “Signature Mules” list and impulsively ask for the apple pie one—primarily to see if Kait will take the bait and make some dumb retarded foid joke about me being gay because of it, which she doesn’t. Good girl!

For her part she orders “The Cocktail Formerly Known As Purple Rain,” which feels a little reddit but she didn’t make fun of my drink and so I reciprocate the gesture.

She looks at me a moment—more demurely than I would have expected, frankly, given all those fireworks on the street—and then makes an expression I can’t quite parse.

And so I let the moment breathe a bit.

After a while she leans forward, and says “So you’re a Guinness man, Jeremy?”

“I am.”

“That’s also what my mum gets—like, always.”

“Your ‘mum?’ What is this, Hogwarts?”

She rolls her eyes. “Why does literally everything have to be about Harry Potter with you Millennials? No, she’s just, like… literally British.”

“Ah. Is the other one too?”

“Nah—my mom’s American.”

“Huh… so you have a mom and a mum. That’s sort of cute, actually.”

“Aw… thanks, Jer! I’m glad you think so!” Her tone is far more earnest than I would have expected in this moment; one would think a Zoomette in her situation would instead try to jurisdictionally preclude me from having any opinion on the naming schema’s cuteness by way of a more acidic riposte. She must know I’m approaching her entirely in good faith here, which inclines me to lower my own guard a bit.

I scratch my chin. “So which one of them…”

Suddenly Kait scoffs.

“What?”

She rolls her eyes. “It’s fine. Just aaaaask.”

“Ask what?”

“What dudes always ask thinking it’s so fucking edgy and hilarious. You know. Like… which one of them is ‘the man’… or on top, or whatever. So fucking gross…”

“Oh. Nah I was just curious as to which one of them gave birth to you.”

She stares back at me quietly, and again I can’t quite parse her expression.

A few seconds later she sighs and

“ALRIGHT! We got a Pie Hard and a Purple Rain for y’all?”

Good service here. I nod gratefully at the hipster—less for the drink than saving the moment—and then attempt to change the subject with some modicum of elegance.

“So…” I say scratching my nose as Kaitlyn stirs her retarded LARPy reddit drink, “Everything solid at Target lately?”

She looks up slowly and at first gives me kind of an incredulous and annoyed glare—and then rolls her eyes, and sighs at me like I’m some Down Syndrome cousin she just caught fucking the dog, and smiles goofily. “Yeah, dude… shit’s greeeeat!” She takes a long slurp of her drink, and then looks up at me again and shrugs. “I mean, it actually is better than Publix by a lot, I’ll give it that much. Not as fun as the nursery, though.”

“Nursery?” I smile like an asshole. “Like in Peter Pan?”

“No. Like with plants.”

“I’m fucking with you, babe. My uncle actually works at one of those.”

“Woah—humble origins!” Kait rolls her eyes. “Anyway, that shit rocked. Super chill, outdoors, barely had to do any real work half the time… like, my first summer there I literally just sat around reading trashy romance novels all day because the manager had this huge crush on me.” She giggles mischievously and stirs her drink.” And yeah, it didn’t pay great or anything—like, I’m actually making more per hour now—but for a job like that I don’t mind being poor. When I was in school they always said they’d give me full time hours after, but by the time I graduated I guess covid had changed that, and my mom was all done paying for my shit at that point, so... well, you know how it goes.” She looks up at me then, a bit miffed. “Or I dunno, actually—do you?”

“I mean, sort of?” I take a swig of my Pie Hard and shrug. “Not really. Like, we were sort of poor for a year or two after my mom went kind of crazy at the same time my dad was still getting his PhD, and that sure sucked. But I guess that’s why I studied actuarial.” Immediately my penis starts to stiffen. “Remind me what your major was?”

She purses her lips. “Environmental biology.”

“Right, that was it. Anyway, I don’t know, babe—I mean, you’re clearly hot enough to get a job at Sea World if you wanted… like explaining facts about penguins and shit?”

“I mean… I guess. Not exactly my scene…” She stirs her drink again. “Don’t get me wrong, animals are chill and all. But I’m kind of just more of a plant bitch.”

I nod and take another sip of Pie Hard—then smile at her sweetly. “Perk up, babe. Covid won’t be forever. The nurseries will fill back up again soon. And until then…”

She leans forward and bites her lip. “You’ll be here to take advantage of me?”

“With tremendous enthusiasm.”

“Omigod, you are SO… FUCKING… GAY…” Kait rolls her eyes and chugs down the rest of her purple drank—and then leans into her balled fist and smiles up at me, sighing. “So I guess it’s lucky for you I like that.”

“You like bold men… who are also kind of gay?”

“Yeah. And I’m honestly not sure I’ve ever met anyone who’s this much of both before. Unironically it’s kind of concerning to me how Not Terrible all this has been.”

“You were hoping for terrible?”

“Well, not *terrible* per se… but I was kind of assuming I’d just meet up with some, like, old Asian dude or something, like Gabi’s guy. And that the date would be kind of boring and shitty, but I’d pretend to be having a good time during… exactly like I do all day at Target, except the hours would be better. Only you’re, like, young. And funny. And seem to like it when I’m mean to you. And I’m kind of thinking to myself, shit—maybe if you lost a few pounds and stopped dressing like a Boomer and were maybe like 30% less racist I could actually, like… date you normally? Isn’t that weird?”

Kaitlyn burps.

“Oh shit—sorry dude! I must be getting more drunk than I thought over here.”

“Why is that weird?”

“Wha…?”

“Us dating normally.” I grip my Pie Hard resolutely as my eyes dart around the restaurant behind Kait’s head, eventually making contact with a large framed photograph of Richard Nixon. “Explain to me: why would that be weird?”

“Erm… I mean, you have quite a few years on me, Jer!”

“Six years. That’s not too crazy. Also: you literally just called me young.”

She rolls her eyes. “Obviously I meant compared to all the old old dudes on the site. But if you and I started dating for real… omigod, Gabi would shit her pants!”

I release my Pie Hard and sigh, my eyes now migrating to a photograph of Ross Perot. “Probably, yeah. But not twenty minutes ago you were proclaiming yourself your own woman, so maybe you can help me understand: is that true only up to a point?”

Kait looks at me thoughtfully for a few seconds—and then exhales and smiles softly and plaintively shows me her palms. “Duuuude… why are you making everything super serious all of a sudden? Like, we literally just met, right? And I’m having a great time with you right now. So can you just, like… take it easy a bit?” She leans in. “Please?”

I suck on my teeth as my eyes settle briefly on a photograph of Lyndon LaRouche.

I grunt at her and nod—then lean back with my Pie Hard.

Kait sighs to herself as her own eyes briefly migrate away.

Then she smirks, and kicks off her disgusting gross Birkenstocks, and nonchalantly places her feet in my lap more or less directly over my cock.

“Hey Jeeeeer… my feet kind of hurt from all that walking around your ghetto-ass apartment. Please will you massage them?”

A chill runs through my spine.

Trying my level best to regain composure, I close my eyes and look away.

When I open them they’ve settled on a photograph of Elvis.

Sighing in exasperation, I turn back to Kaitlyn and glare at her. “This is manipulative as shit, and you fucking know it.” Then immediately I comply with her request, causing her to chortle in girlish delight.

“Call it whatever you want, dude, but I’m literally just trying to help you stop acting so gay... and it looks like it worked! Also, like… literally what are you even moping about? As I said, I’m having a great time with you. And actually I think you misunderstood me earlier… or maybe I misspoke, I dunno. But all I meant to say is I’m feeling a little cautious about letting myself start to like you too much, because Gabi said that’s the dumbest thing you can do in sugaring, and she’s been in this shit a really long time…”

Can someone please just fucking lynch that nigger cunt? As my cortisol levels spike I attempt to achieve some modicum of catharsis by playing with Kait’s index toe.

“You enjoying yourself there?” She giggles and teasingly pulls back her foot.

“It’s okay, I guess.” I grab her by the ankle and forcefully wrench it back over my cock.

“Omigod, you’re so fucking rapey!” She bites her lip and leans in again with narrowed eyes. “And you know what else, dude? Gabi kept saying today I should talk to more guys first, before coming to see you—like, to make sure I’m getting a decent offer?”

“Oh did she, now?” I lock eyes with my date and bite down on a demonic little grin. “You tell her the numbers we discussed?”

“I mean… obviously. But Gabi said it sounded like a scam. She thinks you’re trying to trick me because I’m new to the site and don’t know any better—says all the young guys on there are disrespectful cheapos and full of shit.”

I lean back a bit and pensively scratch my neck. “I mean, that’s actually kind of fair… in a relative sense, at least. Although unless you actively prefer Boomer cock it’s also all kind of just elementary tradeoff logic, no?”

“Tradeoff lo… wait.” Kait’s eyes flash with merriment. “As in, like, economics class?”

“As in economics real life, babe.” I shove her feet off my lap with a patronizing smirk.

“You CAN’T be real right now!”

“And why’s that? Didn’t you say you minored in business?”

“Um, yeah… like, during Covid, dude.” For a moment Kait’s eyes soften—and then she shrugs lackadaisically and snorts. “Honestly, I kind of just cheated my way through everything except my Environmental Science classes.” She shrugs at me a second time, then bats a few disagreeable hairs off her face. “Sorry, not sorry...”

“Right.”

I consider her a moment.

Then ask: “Any chance you recall having to cheat on something called Game Theory?”

She scoffs—and then looks back up at me, a bit plaintively. “I mean, clearly I’ve heard of game theory, dude. It’s like that whole prisoner’s dilemma scenario, right?”

I nod and smile softly “They ever show you that one scene from A Beautiful Mind?”

“Erm… I don’t think so?” Her brow furrows. “I mean… thinking back on it I actually do remember them showing us SOME movie... but I don’t remember any details at all. Except that it was kind of old, I think? Like, maybe back from when you were a kid?” We briefly lock eyes, and the sides of Kait’s mouth twitch prettily.

“Yeah.” I nod. “From when I was a kid—and likely you as well, Kait. Came out in…”

My own brow now furrowing, I retrieve my cell phone from my asscheek pocket to confirm, and am privately delighted to see Kait refrain completely from needling me for having an android. A few seconds thereafter I turn back to her nodding again. “December 2001—which means I would have been eight. And you… two?”

Kait stares at me a second, then rolls her eyes. “Three, fatso—and speaking of, our gap is actually way closer to five years than six—I thought you said you were an actuary?”

“It’s not really about counting.”

“I can see that.” She smirks and reaches across the table to steal my Pie Hard, which I suppose in truth is hers now, by right of conquest.

As she finishes off the libation I slide my mammoth charcoal incel phone over to her, and in seconds her eyes light up like Christmas bulbs. “Ooooh—shit dude! Yeah, that scene with all of them at the bar—they totally did show us that! I mean, obviously never together in class class… but there was definitely a YouTube link on Canvas, and they made us write a whole discussion board about it, so…”

Fuck, she’s cute.

At last feeling the buzz of my Pie Hard, I smile blearily at her and shift around antsily in my seat trying my hardest to stay plausibly focused on what she’s saying instead of letting my thoughts drift to all the ways I’ll be rearranging her innards shortly.

“Actually, wait—so was all of that shit real, then?”

“Huh?”

She flicks back her hair. “Like… back in the day, in Econ world and such… was that a real actual moment that really happened, and actually helped that main dude solve the prisoner’s dilemma and whatnot?”

Again I shift around in my seat, not a little aroused by how stupid that question was, and shrug my shoulders slightly. “I mean… maybe? If I had to guess, though, probably not. I think it was more there to demonstrate to the audience how basic game theory works—or at least how it’s supposed to—with like a super concrete example.”

Kait nods at me slowly, and then frowns. “Wait a minute… wasn’t this that scene where they, like, make some random blonde girl the bad guy out of nowhere?”

“Bad guy?” This bitch drunk already? “She definitely wasn’t a bad guy, babe.”

“Wha… you sure?” Her brow furrows up in skeptical consternation. “I dunno, Jer… cause I actually do remember this part really well now come to think of it, because I got SO FUCKING MAD at the time when they made us watch it. Though I was also kind of a crazy feminist back then—just, like, super fucking man-hatey or whatever…”

“Kind of seems every girl was back then.”

“I mean, with me it was specifically cause of some bad shit that happened at college. But I’ve been to therapy for it, and… anyway, I member thinking that the scene was super fucking dehumanizing and made the blonde chick out to be shitty when she didn’t even do anything wrong! So are you sure you aren’t the one misremembering?”

“Entirely sure, babe. There aren’t any antagonists in that scene—like, literally at all. That blonde chick was just the one all the guys at the bar wanted to bang the most… which I guess in fairness does make it a little dehumanizing, since her only real point as a character was that she was the most desirable and thus highest status girl there, so…”

“Highest status to dudes, maybe—but definitely not to other chicks!”

Now I’m the one with a crumpled brow. “Huh?”

Kaitlyn’s eyes go dead for a moment.

And then she rolls them and says “Seriously? You think the chick at girl’s night who gets the most attention from randos is anything close to the most popular one there? Just think about it a second: whenever it gets too real it doesn’t even matter anymore how nice you are to some of these bitches, because they’ll ALWAYS resent your ass for the absolute dumbest shit unless you constantly make yourself small or unseen or self-deprecating. Any confidence from you, any assertiveness—all that just feels like bitchiness to them unless you permanently give up on the idea of ever being able to kick back and enjoy your life the same as everyone else. But of course the big girl is allowed to fuck whatever dude she wants, no problem—that and also ruin the night for everyone else whenever she gets jealous. Like, what kind of sense does that make?!”

I scratch my nose. “I mean, you still get the better dude when you want him—no?”

She scoffs. “I mean… sure? I guess, yeah. But it’s kind of like who even wants the best guy when you know that fucker will never in his life feel lucky to have you, and you can never be sure that he won’t cheat as soon as he thinks he’ll get away with it, or even, like, not leave you for some nondescript college bitch half your age at some point later on down the line... it’s literally never a sure thing with men. Also, even when you try to date some ugly fat guy EVEN HE will eventually just fuckin cheat on you half the time cause you’ll get that fucker thinking he’s just entitled forever now to a certain level of girl… and meanwhile the woman shit I mentioned never goes away. If anything it gets worse!” Kait sighs to herself and finishes what until recently was my Pie Hard. “Anyway, dude—want to mansplain to me now how the bar scene ackshully goes?”

“Well…” I massage the back of my head. “The guys all game out the collective action problem and ultimately solve it by choosing not to defect on each other… which is to say by agreeing amongst themselves not to poke at all the feminine status hierarchies you mentioned and make any of the brunettes jealous enough to cockblock… which in turn is to say by agreeing communally to none of them hit on the blonde girl...”

“Good. Leave me alone for one night...”

“…and so all the guys there do end up getting laid by approaching only the brunettes, which means it’s paradoxically just the blonde who doesn’t get laid that night, despite prior to equilibriation having easily the highest sexual capital of anyone in that room.”

“So after—what’d you call it? Equilibriation? After that, then she becomes the incel!”

My glance wanders absentmindedly to a Brazilian toddler whacking his scarcely ambulatory father on his bulbous pockmarked snout. Then shaking my head, I turn back to Kait. “I mean, no… that’s plainly retarded. All’s fair in love and war at the end of the day, which means in real life we can’t ever equilibriate in a sexual marketplace since there’s no reliable mechanism for punishing defection in repeat games. Thus in practice the fatties will always stew and cockblock, and apex blondes dispense their headpats and play dumb while internalizing fake and gay leveling bromides, and the brunettes play politic whilst quietly pursuing diagonal arbitrage strategies… and also no one will ever admit to what they’re doing, because sincerity is grossly inefficient compared to cynical machiavellianism and especially self-deception.”

Yawning, I crack my knuckles and quietly admire Kaitlyn’s nipples.

For a moment she’s silent.

Then her brow furrows up once more, and at last she asks me the obvious:

“Jeremy… how’d we even get on this topic? Like, weren’t we supposed to be talking about my allowance here? That and how my best friend in the whole wide world Gabi has been really fucking worried all day that you’re trying to rip me off?”

I rap my fingers on the table.

“Can you remind me why Gabi thinks I’m ripping you off?”

“Cause…” Kaitlyn hesitates a few seconds, and then rolls her eyes. “Because Gabi’s never had anyone on the site offer her the kind of money you and I spoke about last night—okay? Or at least never has from, like… young guys? I don’t fucking know.”

For a moment neither one of us seems especially capable of maintaining eye contact.

Then finally I speak: “So let’s go back to that bar scene…”

“OHMIGOOOOOD!”

“Shut up. Look, I just have one incredibly simple question for you: do you think all those girls in that bar scene would have gotten exactly the same allowance on SA?”

There’s a beat.

Then her lips purse up, tight as a noose.

“You fucker… none of that shit was even about game theory!”

“I mean… it kind of was? But yeah, I dunno babe… like, on the main I kind of just needed to break you out of all that mulatto poopbutt slave morality bullshit.”

“Excuse me?” Kaitlyn bats multiple strands of goldenrod off her face and chews friskily upon her lower lip. “I want you to know that Gabi is literally the best human bei…”

“No doubt. But is that what this is about now?” I sigh and rub my eyes. “Look, Kait: precisely no one said that Gabi isn’t splendiferous company at whatever it is you two do together. But also, like… just imagine the two of you had the same job…”

“We literally did. Gabi and I worked at the nursery together—like, that was literally where the two of us met… which I’m pretty sure I told you last night?”

“Sure. You guys get paid the same there?”

“I mean… obviously not.” Again Kait flicks a few errant locks of hair off her face, and then shrugs her shoulders nonchalantly. “But who even is at a place like that? Like, that would have been the weird thing. Gabi had been there way longer, knew how…”

“Right—so your friend’s skills were more valuable to the nursery than yours, which meant that she got paid more than you. That makes sense! Gabi in that particular context was just straightforwardly the more valuable employee.”

“Well, I don’t know about that. Like, I was always the one who…” Kait scoffs and looks away in disgust. “Look—what are you even trying to say here, dude? Because I don’t know why YOU joined SA, but I’m sure as shit not here to be some kind of gross nasty hooker selling my body like a kit-kat to anyone who’s buying—and I’m most definitely not here to, like, compare my value as a woman to my friend’s. Ugh… that’s so fucking vile!”

I lean across the table and stare her down.

“Literally no one’s asking you to do that, Kait. What I AM asking you to do is not wipe your ass with a fantastic offer because crabs in the bucket can’t bear to imagine a world in which a few of their comrades don’t have to end up on someone’s plate.”

“Fuck. Off. Gabi wants nothing but the best for me!”

“I don’t doubt she earnestly believes that. But I also think the two of you were born into a world that told you both from birth that it was flat, and only now are inhabiting together one of the precious few domains of life that can’t quite maintain that illusion. And so there’s no way now essentially for Gabi to both maintain basic self-respect and let you enter into something like this in good faith without trying to convince you—and herself as well, I’d wager—that I’m not genuine. And I don’t even blame her for that; hell, I’d do the same in her shoes! But it also seems to me this isn’t a realm where chicks should feel especially obliged to take anything but the very best offer just to spare somebody else’s feelings. You feel me, babe?”

Kait is slumped over in her chair.

At first she says nothing.

Then, slowly, her eyes drift up toward mine.

“Look, Jer—it’s not that I even think you’re wrong about any of this necessarily… just on like a factual level or whatever. But if this is gonna turn into anything real between us past tonight, I’m gonna need you to understand some shit. Because I REALLY don’t want to live in a world where any guy makes me think about my best friend like this. Like… I don’t even know how many times Gabi and I have promised to each other that we’d never let a man come between us…”

“Not sure that’s healthy, Kait.”

“I don’t expect you to understand it. But you will need to respect it.”

I lean forward further.

“Then she’ll need to respect me.”

Kait stares back placidly a moment—then nods. “Yeah, she will. I think I actually might be able to convince her to with time, though.” She plays with a pepper shaker and smiles weakly. “Honestly, the two of you are super fucking similar in lots of ways.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Like, just for one thing she’s really into politics too—on the other side, of course. But…” She bites her lip, and soon that smile is more of a smirk. “Honestly, she’s almost as racist as you are—maybe more so, even. Like, it’s actually kind of wild how often she’ll just, like, randomly start ranting about white people when I’m literally sitting right there. I mean, she always says I don’t count cause I was right there with her at the marches, and also that it’s different cause her dad’s white, but…”

She rolls her eyes. “Honestly, it’s starting to get really annoying. But I don’t know—like, I guess it’s possible the two of you could, like… cancel each other out?”

“Maybe.”

For a moment we just sit there, and for the first time that evening I permit myself to fully take in her beauty like a big retarded animal without any particular mediation.

She cocks her head at me and smiles. “Penny for your thoughts, good sir?”

“You want to get out of here?”

“We haven’t eaten!”

“You did say that I could stand to lose a few pounds…”

“Suppose I did…” She bites her lip. “Will I be the first bitch to make you do that too?”

“Hey, Kaitlyn.” I grab her by the wrist.

“Omigod… no one ever calls me that!”

“I’m gonna fuck you till you cry tonight.”

I did not, in point of fact, fuck Kaitlyn until she cried.

We did more or less everything else, and after briefly agreeing to stay the night she ended up leaving my place a little after 1AM in those same wretched Birkenstocks.

Later the next day she texted me that she didn’t want to continue our arrangement.

Gabi’s name never appeared in the message.

That said, my German bestie who killed herself the following year—and who almost immediately after the Kait Date agreed to let me fly her out for smexytimes to assess if we’d be compatible in a marriage context—had this to say about the situation:

Or at least I presume the debate was spirited; initially I had planned to watch and live commentate it real time over video, but upon attempting to do so found myself rather undone by cognitive load on account of my subclinically NPD interiority being pretty terribly calibrated for paying attention to discourse between peepo I don’t agree with without constantly losing focus to instead ascertain What Walt Thinks—particularly when in the first part of the call David kept dropping my own name as an example of someone else he’s sparred with in BAP / Suszko’s “Nietzschean Vitalist” camp.

Because while I for sure don’t repudiate the label wholesale—it was this publication’s original moniker, after all—anyone who’s read Mein Kampf 2 knows my worldview has grown hugely more sophisticated over the past two years, and that in terms of method especially has almost nothing in common these days with that of Alamariu and his ilk, who proceed from if we’re honest kind of larpy pretensions of “aristocracy” rooted in spookish prescriptive aesthetic sensibilities instead of my nominalist intersubjective honor framework derived primarily from game theory, ’s biofoundationalism, and my own homebrew spin on status / power realism (anyone interested in how this Waltine Vitalism breaks down against Suszko’s should def watch our recent debate on the matter and read at a min The Thirty-Eight Theses of Walter and Twenty Hard Truths).

At this point the Waltine project is entirely distinct from BAPism, and any good faith read is obliged to address the framework wholly on its own terms—observing, meanwhile, that the equilibrium-state curation venture I lay out here and here is straightforwardly more aligned with canonically Trad objectives than Vitalist ones, hence my podcast with Dr. Greene himself a few months back featuring quite a lot more substantive agreement than my subsequent exchange with that dashing young Ruthenian.

Alas, one unhelpful tendency I often observe in Dave Greene is a certain weary obstinance around neologism / novel descriptive frames, which he tends to approach with all the hermeneutic pluralism of an auto da fé. And to be fair that could just be a function of neurotype; dispositionally David’s instinct is pretty clearly to prune and simplify and congeal, optimizing his own heuristics for portability / parsimony while I myself optimize for explanatory breadth and the metadiscursive preemption of bad faith engagement. But the deeper issue here is tactical—namely that Dr. Greene is relentlessly concerned with scalability among normal peepo, whereas I’m a lot more focused on giving a specific genre of man—young, high openness, low agreeableness, and high verbal IQ—sound and reliable heuristics for expanding his own optionality by building durable parallel status hierarchies and toothy local enforcement regimes, as for the most part I don’t really care about peepo who are different from me.

Just note that’s only partially my own narcissism talking here; the main reason is that changing the ecology for highly agentic and culturally influential wordcel types is both far higher impact and a lot more tenable as a volitional action to be pursued and coordinated in some deliberate and targeted way—because it turns out you ackshully CAN get cells of men to organize and Do Things in concert, whereas the asses of the masses as a rule kind of need to be treated like incentive structure roombas or maybe Zoombinis, and even then don’t especially matter in the grand story of history.

No; my ackshual concern is for the Agentic Wordcel and his own particularist interests, hence Derek and I overlapping quite a lot in the sort of advice we offer impressionable young ZoomZooms about the fairer sex—that, of course, also being the reason I penned such hits back in the day as Stop Being Mean To Slutty Women, The Barstool Right You Should Date a Libtard Feminist, Trad Is Femdom, and The Fuckboy Right.

It’s likewise why I find myself compelled now to part ways with Mr. Suszko in hopes of saving the BPD Art Hoe from herself, sallying forth in milady’s defense under a new and better banner the Greenequisition won’t find it so trivial to incinerate.

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The BPD art heaux discourse that’s recently consumed Substack is at its core hugely daffy because it collapses two subtle but crucial distinctions.

The first, of course, being between A) “BPD art hoe” in the colloquial sense, referring as it does to any attractive young woman in a high optionality and frictionless urban mate-market with some involvement in creative or subcultural scenes where affective volatility / theatricality in sex and romance are normative for young women especially; and B) women who literally have BPD in the scary Gloria Trillo bunny boiler sense.

Now it goes without saying that line is virtually always blurred IRL—but Dave Greene also seems to be ignoring the fact that basically all men who enjoy dating (A) and want to defend their honor from dour Trad incels do not especially want to shack up with (B) , and very definitely aren’t advising young men to deliberately seek them out.

…the solitary exception to that, it seems, being Derek himself—though I’d hazard even he is mostly conflating the two in a mythopoetic or hyperbolic register intended mostly to shock / discombobulate sheltered chuddy Zoomer boys into breaking out of stale mental grooves while antagonizing cultural adversaries and projecting strength in an agree and amplify way, which is a stratagem I myself employed pretty famously back in the day with Slutty Women and so can definitely grok just as a rhetorical tactic.

That said I also think it’s pretty LARPy and gay to talk about affectively volatile chix as being more “aristocratic” or w/e, and rather wish Derek would stop that as it’s just making all of us guys who enjoy (A)-type women look like silly billies by association.

The salient point here, rather, is that you definitely don’t want a low neuroticism woman—especially when conjoined to high conscientiousness and low openness, as such a bih will think you’re lowkey gay for not knowing how to fix the dishwasher, will resent you for sucking on her smexy toes instead of just playing with her tidders all the time, get Offended if you call her a bitch or cunt amidst sloppy toppy, care waaaay too much about what her mom and fat friend Jessa think of you, and just in general be Unsexy and Unfun and not even the least bit “submissive,” irrespective of her fake and gay “Beliefs.” Hell, even super high agreeableness won’t really save you if her openness and neuroticism are too low, as she’ll probs be equally agreeable to like Dave Ramsey or Pastor Josh or whoever as she is to you and it’ll just be a mammoth pain in the ass trying to make sure she doesn’t start acting gay again the instant you leave the room.

Thus if you want a chick who’ll earnestly experience you as masculine and authoritative despite you being a hyperverbal weirdo sperg, you’ll likely need a girl with:

• Very high openness—ideally 90+. This is far and away the most important since it’s what makes babygirl experience things you’re good at as smexy… if his boo isn’t high openness the Agentic Wordcel is kind of cucking himself existentially tbh.

• Neuroticism probs in the 60-80 range. This gives her a deeper and more substantive craving for an ontologically phallic mentor figure vs. a super duper stable chickie, while the expanded dramaturgical bandwith will proffer loads of opportunities for you to be smexy in cool creative ways that build a higher order individuated dyad with her, though it’s also not quite high enough that she might randomly kill your cat or something. Obviously wife should be a bit lower than a FWB / hookup. Though frankly most of my girlfriends with an ~80 or so neuroticism were really lovely ladies all considered and just e.g. enjoyed LDR and fightsex, so if you have halfway decent game it’s probably not a dealbreaker.

• Conscientiousness I’d suggest around 40-60 for a wifey you intend to procreate with assuming you can afford to get her help, and a bit higher than that if you’re po—though also try not to be po as in that case she’ll obv be waaaay more annoying and e.g. get the ick if you don’t tie your shoes or have a small hole in your tank top. If ur rich tho most of the low conscientiousness wife problems disappear and it becomes sort of nice having a chick who’s a bit of a gorgeous mess. Meanwhile for casual ladies this one can be a lot lower—honestly this one is the trait where you’ll modulate it most in practice based on your intentions for chickie.

• Agreeableness you don’t want super high, ackshully—at least not in a wife, since unless you’re in a Fritzl situation there WILL be occasions where she’s chilling with her cunty sister or fat friend or something else who hates your guts in which case a super agreeable girlypop is way more likely to sell your ass down the river. Also low agreeableness in a girl romantically is a lot of times less about being a virago or not submissive / Trad per se than just being e.g. really picky, so don’t overindex on this one necessarily. Go high agreeableness in a sneaky link or FWB for sure, but I’d say medium agreeableness is optimal in a wife. That said the weirder you are the less agreeable she has to be I’d say—and more impressive you yourself will need to be concomitantly to merit procreation. Rudolph the reindeer dynamic

• Extraversion doesn’t matter

The range of women I described in these points is generally what you’re getting when you date (A) in the disjunct above. (B) is a subset of that and what happens when her Neuroticism is >97 or so—particularly when paired to very low agreeableness, tho in women rock bottom agreeableness is altogether pretty rare and ur way more likely to just get operatively fluctuating agreeableness in super duper pooper neurotic chicks.

Now keep in mind most womyn who are (B) will seem like a safer saner variant of (A) at first assuming she’s pretty and has a reasonably high verbal IQ, and clearly that’s a pretty significant danger. That said her true colors will almost always surface prior to a serious relationship congealing, and once you’re experienced with girls you can spot the signs on the first or second hookup and eventually well before even meeting.

It’s never perfect, though.

People don’t fit precisely into categories, and directionally an (A) girl is obviously still a lot more likely to do B-ish things than some rectangle who sings in her church choir and works at Applebee’s. The pixie dust that makes a girl Special can make her an enormous pain in the ass at times, and terrifying at others, and you can’t ever fully separate the rose from the thorns—nor will you even want to, usually.

Because observe also that to some normalfag Dave Ramsey enjoyer from Nebraska it will always feel like a distinction without a difference—hell, it might even seem that way to you, the reader, or at least in your mind’s eye. That said if you’ve gotten this far into the piece you’re almost certainly high openness enough that you’ll always be more attracted to (A) girls even if on the margins they’re always going to be a bit more likely to slash your tires / suck Bill Clinton’s cock in a hotel room / tell purdies about you after the breakup, just as those same girls will be a lot more attracted to you and tolerant of your own vices, and meanwhile if you’re a late bloomer such women will pretty probably be your most promising ticket out of inceldom.

But again, it’s all a gradient.

And even within (A) it can’t be denied that girls closer to (B) will as a rule have the wildest sex with you, and make you feel the most intense emotions, and give you the most memorable stories, and accept you at your very worst moments, and teach you the harshest lessons about femininity in its most chaotic and capricious and volatile modalities, all of which in your early twenties or when confined to a casual container can be pretty damn splendid. And then as you grow increasingly ready for a wife and keeds you can keep dating (A) women while gradually ratcheting down the (B)-ness, which tbh will happen anyway as you enter your 30s and ur own urge to settle down kicks in (or at least your urge not to have to text like twelve femoids at once no more).

Which speaking of—that’s ackshully a second distinction that’s been getting collapsed.

Because note there’s a pretty significant difference between C) appreciating (A) women closer to the (B) side of things than you’d necessarily ever marry as a way to e,g, cut your teeth on chickies who won’t think you’re a huge enormous faggotron for not knowing how to fix the toilet + learn how women work, while likewise wanting to defend the honor of such womyn against shitheel chuds who flatten and dehumanize them; and D) actively encouraging young guys to wife up Livia Soprano.

In practice (C) pretty frequently gets agreed and amplified in (D)-ish grammar as a sort of tribal anti-chuddishness, but I don’t think that’s what anyone is doing substantively —except, again, Derek himself, who adds all this higgledy piggledy aristocratic dross to the equation which isn’t remotely necessary and tbh seems like self-flattering copium for fellers who haven’t the agency to thrive in bourgeois society and so moralistically denounce it all as Bad… which in fairness ackshully does make sense in an organizing Zoomers context given their vehement disdain for the idea of institutional climb, and indubitably has a huge and durable constituency. But it also just makes you look like a LARPing faggotron to basically any serious person, and even putting that aside is an unhelpful distraction from the ackshual issue at hand i.e. psychometric neurotype and its relation to sexual power dynamics and dyadic pair bonding in late modern mate market ecologies, and more specifically our observation that moderate-high neuroticism women with sky-high openness are the only viable tradwives for Hugely Agentic Wordcels.

And no—that obviously doesn’t mean you need to marry the town bicycle. But don’t dehumanize her or be mean to her for no reason either, as a lot of times she doesn’t even want marriage or kids herself yet will gladly initiate you sexually, and in so doing make it materially easier for you to wife up a girl with a vastly lower body count later on. Such women have always existed in society going back to far antiquity, and play a crucial role both in absorbing the excess libidinal energy of male elites and seasoning younger men such that their eventual wifeys experience them as swaggering roguish hubs material as opposed to overly credulous and deferential wholesome chungus spaghetti-spilling cherubic wife guys.

Anywho the point I’m trying to make here is (A)-chickies are hugely diverse internally, which means in turn that the Waltine doctrine of BPD Centrism accommodates tremendous variation in individual preference and life circumstance.

Because ultimately it’s just brute fact that (C) doesn’t remotely lock you into (D)—and also that many if not most Hugely Agentic Wordcels will find (C) a far more reliable causeway into traditional marriage than unartfully trying to Court various and sundry girlypops at one’s nearest church barbecue.

This nuance isn’t hard to grasp when articulated properly, but is robbed of much of its persuasive force in the context of Derek’s particular formulation thanks to his LARPy aestheticized language and unhelpful pseudo-aristocratic ontology, both of which make it all too easy for the Greenequisition to line up its crosshairs. But there are times in life—a lot of them—where shit genuinely isn’t as simple as the monsignor insists, and scalability isn’t what matters most, and when a novel approach ackshully might be helpful and has not, in fact, been attempted before in California.

Dave likes to frame “traditionalism” as nothing more than what everyone was doing prior to 1972 and the only lindy / long-term workable system and what have you. Sure. But it’s also deeply and profoundly ridonkulous to try and detach behavioral norms from socio-technological incentive structures / enforcement regimes, because men are not volitionally autonomous at scale and moral language itself does not carry coercive writ.

Normies and hobbits just aren’t interesting to me and never will be. What I want is for A) smart agentic guys in urban centers to coordinate towards the creation of toothy local power centers; and for B) the federal government to ban swipe apps, porn, and short-form video content. Beyond that any discussions of “norms” that presumes a capacity for volitional autonomy outside of elite actors is a colossal waste of time.

What matters for our purposes is that in the ecology we inhabit the BPD Art Hoe in the narrower (A) sense is one of the precious few treasures of late modern femininity.

She should be protected. She should be stewarded. She should be cultivated.

And if the circumstances permit, one should make an honest woman out of her.

Earlier today I invited her on the pod to discuss a controversial take she dropped last night on Notes about Zendaya that elicited a furious backlash from men:

What followed was an immensely bracing conversation that both longtime Waltheads and normie women / old peepo are sure to enjoy.

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Topics include:

• Is Georgi Trad?

• Georgi’s controversial note about Zendaya and Walter’s response:

• What straight men vs. women and gay men find attractive in women

• Performative mid-shaming in men

• Why skinny and physiognomically angular chicks enjoy an especially pronounced advantage in an app-mediated digital ecology

• Why men like girls who look a little retarded

• Zendaya and Sydney Sweeney as rival icons of High Zoomette femininity

• Taylor Swift vs. Lana Del Rey—the queen vs. mistress archetype, their political valence switch, and pure female interiority vs. aestheticization of the male gaze

• Taylor vs. Lana’s taste in men

• How Georgi feels about Taylor, Lana, and Lena Dunham

• The role of Lena Dunham in the shift from sterile propositionally consistent Millennielle feminism to affective “Team Girl” Zoomette feminism

• Why Ross Douthat loves HBO Girls

• Photonegative status games and the role of headpats from high status white women—is public admiration of female beauty is ever socially innocent?

• Why cognitively feminine women earnestly experience friends / admired figures as pretty and rivals or social threats as genuinely ugly

• High status men often perform attraction to female celebrities designated as valid targets by high status women and popular culture

• Why Millennielles feel an intense need to moralize their sexuality

• Cooperative vs. competitive intrasexual social strategies in women and how they manifest differently in Millennielles vs. Zoomettes

• While Latchkey Broads / Millennielles / Zoomettes are mutually illegible and this obstructs intergenerational mentoring and discourse

• The sort of nudes women like to send vs. the nudes men enjoy receiving

• The role of Tinder / swipe apps / short-form video content in destroying local status hierarchies / diagonal arbitrage strategies and obviating the early 2010s Subcultural Chad and need to systematically remove them from society

• Why a shrinking minority of erotically viable men monopolize female attention in same-age Zoomer dating markets—midstatus men hardly exist anymore

• These days young men want commitment more than young women

• COVID gave high-status Millennial men access to isolated Zoomettes while massively derailing Zoomer boy social / sexual development

• Why immediately legible / fungible male status metrics like muscles and money are becoming more sexually salient than reputational capital

• The collective action problem inherent in vocalizing male grievance

• The institutional foreclosure of Zoomer boys makes fuckboy masculinity and Looksmaxxing equilibrium male strategies

  • read Zoomer Boys and Stealth Archer Masculinity

• Marriage as sacred romance vs. transactional bargain vs. portable mythology capable of surviving changing affective states

• Moral suasion vs. incentive design: can people be persuaded volitionally into healthier relationships, or must the ecology be changed first?

• Phone-free schools, dating-app restrictions, pornography prohibition, and the case for authoritarian intervention in addictive technologies

• Why all cognition is cope

• Millennial moms need to make Zoomer boy alienation socially legible

• Be sure to read her pieces So You Don’t Believe in Marriage and 5 Reasons Your Bedroom Might be Dying
  

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Everyone talking about this movie has Down Syndrome.

• tl;dr - Nikki didn’t keep wanting to kill herself because Bear was too rapey, but because he Wasn’t Rapey Enough

• Nikki obviously did like Bear romantically (remember: “when I have a crush on someone you can’t tell…”) but was sexually repulsed by his gay and faggoty passive behavior, and meanwhile was turned on sexually by that chode Ian but also didn’t feel Seen by him and so let him use her for puss when she was feeling self-harmy. And if you think I’m reaching here you unironically just don’t know what you’re talking about because this kind of compartmentalization is not even the least bit uncommon in BPD molested chicks, and they absolutely would go fuck the evil dude and then go cuddle with the soft gay boyfriend guy immediately thereafter.

• It’s likely Nikki told that goffik wasian chick Sarah with the septum ring she kills later that she was friendzoning Bear because

  • A) that was the most immediately legible script for the sitch at that particular moment… which per Sarah only happened once it seems and was being exaggerated by Ian The Faggot, and even without the stick didn’t mean much btw given that the Friendzone doesn’t ackshully exist and you can most of the time break out of it quite easily by randomly being aggro with chickie or after a sudden glowup / increase in status she’ll always narrate as “discovering something new about you” because girlypops are silly billies

  • B) she knew Sarah liked Bear and so wanted to dampen drama between the two of them since she thought Bear would never have the balls to make a move on her anyway, and so wanted to just clear the runway so her goffik wasian friend could land a beta male slightly better looking than her.

  • C) she wanted to feel superior to the girl who had a crush on him because literally all human beings are callow grasping statusniggers

• Ian was a two-faced cockroach who deserves to be tortured to death and enjoyed playing the sexual mentor big brother role to Bear when he was secretly smashing Bear’s crush bc it let him feel superior and he assumed it wouldn’t go anywhere. But when it DID go somewhere and Nikki’s lust was very palpably paired to a sort of limerence he himself had never activated in her Ian naturally flipped tf out like an insecure faggotron and started looking for reasons to moralize the situation e.g. saying it would have been Wrong to fug her while she was on MDMA and mourning her cancerdad or w/e despite obviously being a sleazy roofie mcgee type as evidenced by he himself fucking Nikki literally the next day and hiding it like a sniveling fag worm. But ofc the way he sees it when Nikki fucks HIM it’s because he’s a Chad and so deserves her puss but if she ever fucks Bear it’s obv because Bear is doing something Creepy, and long story short Ian deserved that bullet in the kisser and it’s a shame his death wasn’t more painful and undignified. The only scene where I liked him was when he asked for a billion dollars.

• Wasian Sarah was almost as bad as Ian—because notice how she moralizes in the opposite direction and tries to undermine his dyad with the higher SMV woman by making Nikki’s attachment to Bear out to be inauthentic / contingent / “taking advantage of him” (?) in some way. Like Ian she believes this sincerely because man is a faggot cuck explainer species that can’t just say me want validation and smexytimes but needs to find some Reason for it that’s literally always a fake and gay rationalization. And every human being on earth does this btw including you. But anyway I sort of sympathized with Sarah for at least being agentic enough to make a play for Bear until she said Nikki belonged in therapy, at which point I rather enjoyed seeing her eat a brick.

• All these fat ugly feminazis whining about Bear wanting to own Nikki or w/e are retarded cumcunts and I hope they never get Raped. It’s patently obv that Nikki wants to be Owned terribly badly, but her problem is that the guy she finds hot is a retarded narcissistic chode who doesn’t care about her and can’t make her feel Seen while the guy who does care is a huge faggot. And most women have this problem on some level nowadays (hence the movie striking a chord archetypally) but with Nikki it’s especially pronounced because she suffers from substance issues and probs something like BPD and seems also to have been touched by her dad per that one doorway scene. All that means she’s more drawn to intensity and asymmetry erotically and also has a more powerful need for codependent dyadic bonding, which Bear very fucking frustratingly throughout the entire film refuses to provide her with after pretending to be obsessed with her in the beginning.

• When Bear calls her Freaky Nikki he very briefly scratches both itches at once in a way that could have turned into precisely what Nikki wanted and produced their happily ever after had Bear not been such a huge enormous faggot and ruined it immediately thereafter. Instead he breaks the stick and produces every woman’s worst nightmare—feeling sexually Claimed by a man who doesn’t deserve it at all.

• Notice how terrified Bear is that she’ll feel he Took Advantage Of Her—all that was very intentional. Women and especially chicks like Nikki are fine with you Taking them but if you prevaricate like a faggotron they ironically will end up feeling a lot more violated existentially because of eugenic disgust and so will long primordially for you to be raped to death. The state Nikki is in for most of the film is the maximalist version of that: the weakest and gayest possible guy has a deep oxytocin hook in her which would make any womyn want to kill herself.

• The cat Sandy who dies at the beginning is obviously symbolic, because notice we get literally zero time to bond with it and develop an emotional connection as per usual in horror movies. That’s because it’s supposed to represent Bear’s anima and specifically his ability to devour and tame the feminine. He is disgusted with his own shadow and predatory male interiority, and so lets it die by eating Oxy (the most feminine and gay kind of suicide) and rot ignominiously, which is why women naturally experience him as a lot more rapey than they would if he were like Ian and just grabbed em by the pussie. When Nikki does the cat memorial and later feeds Sandy to him she is basically trying to get him to re-engage with that part of himself—same deal with giving him that Lynx Eye rock that is supposed to increase his confidence and willpower.

• Even the dude’s name, “Bear”… that’s INDUBITABLY a reference to retardedgirl man vs. bear memes. The dude ackshully DOES have a predatory nature deep down, but he’s not in touch with his inner teeth at all, and that’s what makes womyn experience him as a lot more dangerous than the overtly aggro dude. Instead of being the Baron he was supposed to be his masculine predation comes out in an uncontrolled animal way he has no relationship with and thus control over. And so in his one overtly evil scene in the movie it’s just him pouting like an incel about her wanting to die instead of be with him, when if he had just Taken her and Claimed her from the beginning that version of her would have loved it.

• The worst thing Baron does (and that men do to women like Nikki in general) is not Taking her—which btw is how it literally always works with women since female sexuality is not diachronically bounded in the male fashion but rather relational and atmospheric which means that women are perpetually falling into masculine frames a lot more deliberate and predatory than chix understand them to be, which incidentally is why Women Don’t Have Agency—but rather refusing to follow through on the claim he staked. You can’t assert your will to power on a chick to get pussie / validation and then call her Crazy or Too Much once it’s time to pay the piper. Guys who do that frankly should kill themselves (btw notice Bear doesn’t even have the balls to eat a bullet like a man but instead eats pills like a fucking girl… has there ever been a more contemptible character in all of fiction?)

• a girl lying about her dad having cancer is not even that weird, esp if it’s a hot and sexy BPD molested addict type. I’ve had gfs say they were under consideration for the olympic swim team and supported themselves financially as a drag racer throughout middle school. If lying to get attention at the start of a relationship is a “red flag” to you I don’t know what to say other than that most good pussy is kind of crazy and retarded on some level and if you don’t want that I guess go date some boring rectangular bitch who works at Applebee’s

• I literally don’t even understand how Bear could experience Nikki’s behavior as Scary. She’s a tiny attractive girl who will gladly let you fuck her if you just grab her and go to town. Literally what is the scary part? Just walk over to the corner and shove your cock up her ass. Or like slap her across the face and then pull her in for a smooch. That’s literally what chicks like this want when they act out… it’s not fucking Scary at all and if you think it is you deserve to be tortured to death.

Nikki did nothing wrong, and the film was right:

Just because you chose it for her doesn’t mean it’s Not Real.

…but it DOES mean you have an obligation as a man to be there for her instead of acting like a pussy full of oxycodone and Noping Out the instant it gets hard.

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Norm is the creator of the Nationalist Media Conference, an annual event that aims to feature eclectic and higher openness voices in the nationalist scene with a focus on networking, artistic development, and practical education.

He is also the founder of the American Heritage Preservation Foundation—a 501(c)(3) established to provide tax-deductible grants to nationalist creatives.

Be sure to check out his writings here on Substack over at The Norme.

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Topics include:

• Norm’s Nationalist Media Conference and how it compares to AmRen / NPI

• The Dissident Right vs. Post Alt Right

• Are video games as bad as crack cocaine?

• Walt and Norm discuss Charlie Kirk’s legacy

  • Read Walt’s Charlie and Me and Norm’s Charlie Kirk is Dead

• Charlie Kirk as one of the last offramps from full-bore nationalism

• Comparing Charlie Kirk to Nick Fuentes

• The Groyper War of 2019 as a consolidation of Alt Right metapolitical success

• Norm’s remake of the campy Moonman game Black Lives Splatter

• Walt and Norm give a history of Moonman memes on YTMND

• The legacy of Charlottesville and Heather Heyer

• How Hillary’s “Basket of Deplorables” moment served as a reverse motte and bailey that destroyed her campaign

• The 2020 BLM riots were dozens of times more “deadly” than Cville

• The Left never takes responsibility for its transgressions e.g. wokeism, DEI, “trans kids,” 1970s-era pro-pedophilia activism

• Libtards have teenage girl epistemics

• How the Alt Right dulled the libtard “racism” blade

• The instinctive Rightist opposition to masking and how it hurt the Alt Right in the wake of Charlottesville

• How Charlottesville created a generational displacement in American WN and the Bad Times of 2018-2023 discursively empowered Zoomers

• Mount and Blade as a right-wing video game capturing the visceral masculine urge to take part in a cavalry charge

• How BLM turned old peepo racist temporarily

• The importance of a coherent organizational framework for any demanding long-term task to preserve momentum through obstacles

• Attention as the scarcest resource in a world full of algorithmically optimized skinner boxes designed to titillate you with hyperreal stimuli

• Aesthetic decay as epigenetic contagion

• Walt defends musical theater as Jewish art

• When it comes to art do right wingers just want kitsch?

• Dissident Right Zoomers as puritanical entryists

• Walter and Norman reminisce about Walter’s controversial appearance on Millenniyule 2024

• Were the 2017 retard rallies a bad idea?

• You can’t escape status games

• Global algorithmic status hierarchies create Sigma LARPing

• Beta Males are the backbone of civilization

• Zoomer Betas become fake Sigmas so Zoomer Alphas just get their assholes licked by Omega Males preventing effective institutionalism

• Sexual integration destroys natural masculine stratification

• The purpose of monogamy isn’t to give incels wives so much as to facilitate cooperation between high status men

• The importance of cultivating an effective officer corps

• Copernican’s presentation on Social and Cultural Organization

• Golf as an aristocratic social technology for assessing character

• The Ben Franklin Effect and social debt

• How leaders can develop a trustworthy officer corps

• The curse of prosperity and how to keep it at bay

• Sacrifice as a social technology

• Christianity as a socio-technologically optimal religion

• The syncretic history of Christianity

• Protestantism as a purge of pagan elements from Christianity

• Why American Protestantism specifically is so Jew-worshipping

• How Walt’s 9th grade classmate accidentally reinvented Arianism

• Christian vs. Pagan debates as a distraction in WN

• Walt and Norm discuss the failure modes of AI

• Emily Youcis and the Will Stancil Show

• Walt and Norm reminisce about the Daily Shoah

• Did brown people and libtards ruin antisemitism?

• Norm explains the AHPF

• Read Norm’s piece Refuting DeepLeftAnalysis On Replacement Immigration

Then like good Millennials we then discuss the sexual archetypes embedded in various Disney movies: Little Mermaid, Beauty and the Beast, Lion King, Aladdin, and Peter Pan, outlining how each mythically compresses a deep primal sex-story and what it says about courtship, masculine competition, and female mate choice.

We then circle back toward period sex and lesbians.

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Topics include:

• Is Katherine presently entertaining Aunt Flo?

• Why did kt get her period on 9/11?

• Does stress expedite female puberty or push it back?

• Millennial gender flattening repressed knowledge of women’s cycles

• In the aughts / early 2010s they were giving the pill out for anything

• How birth control impacts female mate choice and thus civilization

• kt explains the four menstrual moonphases

• Do polyamorous women get one dude for each phase?

• Women on the pill go for similarity vs. complementary

• Are women retaining girlish tastes in men longer and longer?

• The decrease in pubescent age over the 20th century and its role in causing female sexual trauma and therefore transgenderism

• Women make much harsher eugenic assessments during the luteal phase

• Is getting offended at period jokes Gen X coded?

• How much should men tell themselves “that’s the period talking?”

• Walt explains diachronic vs. synchronic agency and how it ties to sex

• Men can police defection among themselves in a way they can’t police women

• Walter explains why it feels like women don’t have agency

• Modern women aren’t in touch with their own cycle and can’t map it or game around it with promises/diachronically coherent life strategies

• How a traumatic experience around a middle school love triangle made kt unusually sensitive to not leading guys on

• Millennial scripts around sex were cloyingly moralistic

• How Aladdin and BatB are different spins on the sk8er boi narratives

• Why women love Little Mermaid and what Prince Eric represents

• Prince Ali and Whole New World as the wrong and rightway to display status

• The relationship between femininity and normativity

• Why kt doesn’t like framing female intrasexual behavior via “status”

• Do women get durable power from vulnerability?

• How Lion King shows the inspirational force of female vulnerability

• How arrested development masculinity can be erotically compelling in the moment but insufficient long term

• Why Peter Pan always goes back to Tinkerbell

• Is Tinkerbell the real villain of Peter Pan?

• Is Lesbianism inherently chthonic?

• Walt explains Andrea Dworkin to kt

• Lesbianism as a response in low sociosexual women to pornographized or fetishistic male sexuality

• Can women be fair bosses to men during their luteal phase?

• Does Katherine get horny on her period?

• Why period sex is girlfriend coded

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Derek is active in politically organizing young men IRL, but here on Substack is best known for his viral note advocating that downwardly mobile young rightist aesthetes pair up with BPD art hoes (strongly endorse), as well as his defense of Gen Z slang as reflecting a more accurate reflection of embodied power dynamics.

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Topics include:

• Derek’s Polish-Ukrainian heritage

• Aristocracy as an aesthetic psycho-cognitive mode

• The competing bourgeois mode as siloed, egalitarian, and rationalistic

• Is contractualism or a game theoretic / transactional honor culture compatible with Derek’s idea of aristocracy?

• Is dueling aristocratic or just an antecedent bourgeois leveling norm?

• Affected disinterest as the only viable masculine posture in late modernity

• Norms as ecological equilibria of social technologies

• Is the female mind contextually hypergamous or based on assessments against a more absolute / context-independent masculine baseline?

• Does the citizen-soldier model scale?

• Are decadence / entropy inevitable cyclical forces in civilization?

• Derek argues that the bourgeois lifestyle is erotically repulsive to women ipso facto—Walter disagrees

• Are the rulers of modernity nerds? Is Andy Byron a weird sperg?

• Zoomer boys don’t see a viable path to institutional power

• Are Company Men free men?

• Do we all have to serve someone?

• Women’s lib as a cause of the collapse of masculine hierarchy

• Men lack exclusively masculine arenas of competence that allow hierarchies based on technical skill and correspondence epistemics

• Derek argues that the Sensitive Young Man archetype is above all defined by an inability to recognize male hierarchy lest one get mogged

• How Derek organizes his men’s group

• Derek argues that technological development is at this point beneficial to the reestablishment of aristocratic culture

• Male narcissism is an adaptive defense in globally algorithmic hierarchies that obsolete bourgeois and siloed sources of masculine status

• How can we translate on-the-ground power to hard structural power

• Walt’s proposal to restore siloed status hierarchies by shutting down and breaking up Tinder Instagram Tiktok etc.

• Are Zoomers too blackpilled or just realistic?

• How much should we push young men toward individual success versus radicalized political organization?

• Disaffected elites as leaders of revolution

• Grillpill deradicalization and the proliferation of contempt toward struggling young guys among higher status Millennial men

• Is Derek’s advice scalable to normalfags?

• How does Derek plan to deal with antisocial outcast entryists in his group?

• There’s always eventually a need to purge the SA

• Was the Alt Right metapolitically successful?

• Why did communism and fascism succeed in the early twentieth century?

• The American and French revolutions as bourgeois revolts

• Derek argues that the Industrial Revolution enabled the bourgeoisie’s rise but the Tech Revolution is renewing aristocracy by killing slave morality

• Walt argues the bourgeoisie was more vital / eugenic than the aristocracy in the early modern and Victorian eras

• Why advanced western armies struggle against third world guerrillas

• The Danegeld as a weapon of war

• Could America win a war against the Mexican cartels?

• What will twenty-first century warfare look like?

• Is the propagandist the most important warrior of modern times?

• Trump’s expansionist aspirations toward Greenland/Canada/Cuba

• Could we motivate Zoomers to invade Cuba with land grants?

• Should we establish an autonomous cossack zone in northern Mexico?

• Could Trump get Alberta and Saskatchewan to defect to the US?

• Read Derek’s piece Some Principles for Organizing Young Men

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Look at Venonat: a round purple thing, all fur and huge red eyes, small pale mouth.

Now look at Butterfree—the creature it does not become:

Same red compound eyes, same gormless little mouth, same stubby blue limbs.

But instead Venonat evolves into Venomoth, who shares almost nothing with it:

Meanwhile, a few entries back in the Pokédex, adorable little Caterpie hardens into Metapod: a rather less adorable green crescent who evolves into Butterfree despite its ridged silhouette showing up almost line for line in the ashen wings of Venomoth:

The pieces fit perfectly; they’re just in the wrong boxes.

And so the theory holds that somewhere in development—presumably late at night and under deadline—two sprites were transposed and no one caught it (or if anyone did didn’t say anything), such that the butterfly and moth exchanged childhoods in an error that would ship with the final product and so stay that way forever.

Nintendo has never confirmed or denied it either way.

And that, I’m increasingly convinced, is rather the whole point.

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See, what I find interesting about this theory is that it’s also true outside the game—because it turns out Lepidopterists will tell you, if you let them, that one can’t look at a caterpillar and know with any certainty which one it will become.

Butterfly and moth larvae crawl the same stems, eat the same leaves, wear the same greens and browns; there’s no mark on them that reveals its category.

The distinction so important to us—butterfly, said with light in the voice, and moth, said a rather different way—is not even a real one in nature.

Butterflies are simply moths that fly in daylight.

The taxonomy as we understand it was drawn up by the observers, not the observed, even though the process of transformation is precisely the same for both.

But it doesn’t do to think about that part.

Because inside the chrysalis the caterpillar is not remodeled so much as dissolved; it digests itself into a slurry and rebuilds from almost nothing, in the dark, alone, over weeks, with nothing about this labor visible from the outside and no one to attend it.

Then what emerges gets judged in an instant.

The one with the right colors is planted a garden. People buy specific flowers to invite it closer; they photograph it on their children’s fingers; its arrival is called a blessing.

The other one—same order, same dissolution, same weeks in the dark—comes out dusted and grey and drawn helplessly toward lit windows, and it beats itself against the glass of houses it will never be let into, and in the morning it is swept from the porch with the leaves. Nobody asks what it went through in the cocoon.

And to be fair, nobody asks that of the butterfly either—it just never has to knock.

Though take another look at their faces:

Butterfree wears an expression of unbothered vacancy—red eyes fixed on nothing, small mouth slack. It’s the face of something that has never once been asked a difficult question and has floated through every open door assuming doors are just open.

Venomoth’s eyes are alert—if anything far too much so. They have the over-bright quality of a creature that sleeps badly and startles at porch lights; that watches the swatter’s hand; that came out of the dark with the dark still on it. One face that’s never needed to pay attention, and a second that’s never been permitted to stop.

We call the first one lovely.

The game, at least, is honest about one thing the world is not in that it shows who is permitted a middle.

Caterpie is given Metapod: a sanctioned stage of Becoming, named and numbered, in which the creature doesn’t do anything particularly interesting and isn’t expected to; just hardens and absorbs damage and gets carried away. That and waits.

But the waiting itself is dignified—even granted its own entry in the encyclopedia.

Though it’s worth pausing on the face the artists gave that waiting:

It isn’t serene or sleeping. Metapod looks angry.

Eyes narrowed, mouth set, a fixed and grinding fury—a rather strange expression to paint on the adolescence of a creature that emerges with no expression at all.

That anger goes somewhere—just not into Butterfree.

Venonat, meanwhile, receives no such stage. It is a larva—or perhaps merely a gnat?—that at some point no one records becomes a moth, arriving spontaneously from the aether to devour your finery and smear ignominiously across your windshield, as though those dark weeks never occurred and it had not also dissolved and transformed into something quite a lot greater than it was.

Because whatever it went through, it went through unnamed—and a becoming that has no name is remarkably easy to believe never happened.

Which of course makes it easy to believe the moth just is what it is, and always was.

We like to think the difference is essential—that some larvae simply are butterflies in the making, and carry that in them like a birthright, while the rest were always going to be moths, and that something in them must have always known that, or perhaps have chosen poorly, or merely have been made poorly; that belief certainly lends comfort to anyone standing in the garden and deciding what lands on them.

But the caterpillars, for their part, are identical; each and every one of them takes itself apart in the dark on faith—same dissolved body, same blind effort—while the verdict is invariably rendered afterward by parties who never saw the inside of the shell and in either case very definitely would not have found it beautiful.

Which brings us back to the swap, and also its quietest detail: that if the theory is right, the moth’s cocoon does exist in the game, and always has.

It is Metapod: that furious green crescent ridged exactly like Venomoth’s wings and filed post-hoc as the prettier and less toxic bug’s adolescence.

The formative stage the moth was never granted is sitting right there in the record—just attributed to someone else, the anger on its face an heir to the fact that it was never the butterfly’s anger to begin with.

Nothing that placid has ever gritted its way through anything. The fury belongs to the one who came out watching the door; he’s the one who did the dissolving, even if the ledger will eternally recount that the beautiful one did.

And perhaps that really was a mistake: tired artist, misfiled sprite, 1996.

Or perhaps someone in that office looked at two caterpillars, understood exactly how the world would sort what came out of them, and quietly crossed the wires so anyone who looked closely decades later would have to sit with the fact that the glorious one and the wretched one had hatched from the other’s beginning, and that nothing in the beginning had ever told us which was which.

Nintendo never told us either way, and it’s right that they didn’t.

Because, again: you can’t tell from the caterpillar.

Nonetheless, we continue to share oxygen with folx who claim to perceive binding and mind-independent facts about how everyone must behave, and treat disagreement with such claims as a defect in anyone who disagrees.

This essay argues that such people—Moral Realists—should be subject to summary execution by guillotine, and that the space they currently occupy in the public square should be filled instead by an intersubjective honor framework based on reciprocity, reputation, and concentric circles of duty-bonds negotiated entirely in the open by parties who admit very overtly what they want.

The empirical picture from moral psychology couldn’t be clearer: peepo’s moral intuitions vary systematically with temperament, and sensitivity to things like purity, “fairness,” and loyalty all are downstream of deeply heritable traits that can be tracked and measured and predicted long before some reedy Jew from San Fran shows up to make an Argument.

And that’s the operative point here—the felt certainty of something being “wrong” basically always arrives precognitively, as a somatic event, whether it’s a flash of disgust, a fight-or-flight response, or an amygdalic jolt of contempt for the outgroup or defeated rival. Logos is but a means to an end; a vehicle for backsolving towards a Reason that endows said jolt with a dignified pedigree.

Now obviously all this is highly adaptive; what we call “consciousness” exists from an evolutionary standpoint mostly to A) coordinate hunting parties / warbands and their institutional descendants; B) maintain a diachronically bounded self-story through time that facilitates long-term planning and higher-order goal formation; and C) allow peepo to more easily dehumanize strategic obstacles by refracting feelings of hatred and disgust and fear through moralized language that transmogrifies tedious stories of Grug vs. Blug into stories of Blug being Bad that make it easier to convince your cousins to help you go smash Blug’s head against the cavewall so you can take his berries and enjoy his wife and daughters together.

Internalized normativity is part of the coordinative toolkit, because as a rule one’s amygdalic chimpouts cannot by themselves convince a psychologically normal guy to jab a pike through someone’s nose or throw the first torch or yeet that baby in a well.

But a principle can.

And so the mind erects whole cathedrals of metaphysics around its vulgar Pleistocene nigger-impulses and then, crucially, forgets it built them.

Now, womyn generally experience this forgetfulness via consequentialist epistemics that prioritize speaker status and the stability of extant power dynamics as operative truth condition over clean mechanistic correspondence, because women are relational and affective creatures not causally embedded in peepos’ life narratives in any way that lets them be held accountable for their actions, which is just one reason among many we menfolk find their pink little pussies so scrumptious; babygirl doesn’t really need to be Right about how the universe works per se, just feel Right in a way that makes her cooter taste good, which generally means maintaining a Pure self-concept whilst viciously dehumanizing any dead branches that need to be incinerated lest they restrict her optionality in mate choice and therefore her ability to keep the tribe from degenerating into a bunch of retarded hunchbacks who act like John Arcto.

The normalfag male, meanwhile, will experience normativity more selectively, and in basically all cases it will come down to Reasons why he should get more stuff / pussy and be seen as more coo, because men are pursuers instead of selectors which means for the normie male “morality” is less about eugenics than about laundering material appetite and status grievance in a way that gives him psychological momentum to not take Foids at face value when they gargle the strongest horse’s jissum and instead persist until HE’S the strong horse and said Foids are munching his cum instead.

That or just Die—in most cases it’s always been Die because men are the dice roll sex; bitches side eye you until your Weird rudolph the red nose reindeer mutation is useful enough that Donner becomes the incel and your tale goes down in song and story.

Thus for the hotdog male anything that reduces his own material / status position or makes bitches think he’s not coo will be experienced viscerally as Evil and Bad in the same way womyn treat Muh Vagina as a truth condition over clean correspondence, and if you ever try to subjectivize it he’ll experience a disgust reaction at you staring at the Imperial Micropenis and probably say you’re “obsessed with status” while doing the Pete Davidson side-eye around girls hoping they’ll epistemically foreclose you, or if he’s less cunning just call you Jewish or a pedophile or w/e.

But long story short: morality is a coordinative social technology for Dunbar-sized tribal bands that functions mainly by refracting feelings of disgust borne of physical / social / genetic contamination risk, threat perception, and outgroup hostility, and has an intractably adversarial sexed component that functionally operates in both sexes mostly through strong horse worship and saying you never backed Marius after Sulla’s army marches into the city, though men are generally a bit more conscious of their wormy asslicking than women, and only spergs see everything in a purely mechanistic light that doesn’t reflect embodied normativity—a trait inarguably to our detriment.

Everyone but the sperg is existing in a state of Adaptive Forgetting.

The Moral Realist has systematized this forgetting into a formal philosophical stance that takes the output of his own neurotype—his own particular calibration of disgust, threat, and tribal attachment—and promotes that calibration to the status of universal law, such that every temperament unlike his own becomes not just a different constitution but an error of fact experienced as permitting extraordinary enforcement measures against offending neurotypes / cultures whose downstream behavior the Moral Realist will Germanically de-essentialize as a matter of “free will.”

But if you’re not a huge faggot it should be very obvious to you that this isn’t any different in principle from doing the same thing to e.g. black people or gays.

The Moral Realist is saying that the way his own nervous system moralizes shit is the way all nervous systems ought to, and that any variance is “objectively” depraved.

And this sort of person, it turns out, very quickly becomes untrustworthy.

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A complex society is a negotiation among parties with different moral foundations and genuinely conflicting material interests: doctors and insurers, urban and rural, high-openness and high-conscientiousness—each faction will see its own sectoral interest, very tediously, through a moral lens, because that is what said lens is for.

The workable response to this condition, of course, is transactional: identify what each party wants, establish terms, build reputations for keeping them, and implement some mutually agreeable enforcement regime to punish defection.

This is not “morality” as such, but rather a game-theoretic honor framework. It asks nothing of anyone except reliability, and also scales because it doesn’t require parties involved to share metaphysical commitments that will NEVER NOT break down by religion and ideology and subculture in any late modern democratic capitalist society.

But the Moral Realist wrecks this machinery in four interconnected ways.

• First, he removes his own demands from the table; a negotiator states a price, but the Moral Realist instead just gesticulates incoherently at “truth.” And truths, of course, can’t be haggled over, which means each and every realist demand arrives pre-hardened and non-negotiable in principle, such that what would otherwise be a solvable conflict of interest is now a battle between righteousness and error.

• Second, he launders appetite. Because realism forbids saying “I want this,” every material interest and status ambition must now be smuggled through tedious obscurantist obligation-talk. Thus the physician defending his grotesquely high salary miraculously discovers he deserves it, while the clique seeking power discovers justice requires its ascendancy. Realism is the perfect solvent for candor, because it converts every cynical grab into a Duty while making the grabber sincerely unable to see his own hand moving. And an honest counterparty cannot negotiate with someone who has hidden his interests even from himself.

• Third, he converts status jockeying into moral standing. In a Realist ecology, the currency of prestige is visible righteousness, which means the cheapest route to esteem is condemnation; one acquires standing by policing, by detecting heresy in others, and by performing woundedness. This selects for exactly the behavior an honor system punishes: the toothless accuser without any skin in the game who risks nothing, produces nothing, and harvests esteem by ankle-biting anyone who does. And observe also that heterodox movements and productive coalitions alike are routinely destroyed from within by this dynamic—envy and resentment given a moralistic pretext and thereby made unanswerable through any means but Aristocratic Contempt, which of course through equilibriation then functionally becomes so ubiquitous as to serve as the chief set of elite and elite-aspirational norms in frictionless late modern social ecologies. And note that for the weak and powerless, aristocratic contempt alloyed to plausible deniability / photonegative status games is a far direr species of oppression than premodern honor culture.

• Fourth, he escalates ingroup-outgroup policing to its logical Schmittian terminus. The honor framework permits you to regard someone as an adversary while still dealing with them honestly; you are on opposite sides, and both of you know it, yet terms are possible and very likely. But Moral Realism forecloses this, because if my moral perceptions are perceptions of fact, then anyone who rejects them is not just an adversary but defective, and the appropriate posture toward defectives is not negotiation but treatment, containment, or destruction. Thus dehumanization stops being a regrettable wartime measure and becomes an epistemic obligation.

  ---

The Retard’s Objections

LOL U SAID “SHOULD” — GOTCHA!

Usually in these discussions the realist’s first riposte is to suggest that any argument against realism must itself smuggle in realist assumptions, such that by e.g. uttering that Moral Realists should have their heads cut off, the anti-realist commits himself to the same normativity he denies.

But this is asinine, and its asininity is instructive, because the objection only lands provided every “should” is a truth-apt proposition about mind-independent normative reality, which of course is precisely the claim under dispute.

Within an intersubjective framework, an ought-utterance is understood by both speaker and audience as a coordinative and persuasive act—rallying cry, risky text, bid for feet pics, statement of association, or threat about consequences.

Thus when I say “Moral Realists should have their heads cut off,” I am not reporting any fact I’ve purportedly detected in the normative firmament; I’m openly and overtly recruiting or proposing terms or applying pressure. The utterance wears its function on its sleeve, but the Moral Realist hears a proposition because propositions are all his framework allows him to hear and then fart-sniffingly praises himself for “catching me in a contradiction” that exists only inside his fake and gay little spook-universe.

But the truth, of course, is that everything eventually bottoms out in some species of implied ad baculum; the intersubjectivist merely declines to lie about it.

You’re just recreating morality!

This second objection observes that an honor framework entails duties, sanctions, and evaluations, and concludes from this it’s just morality in a Guy Fawkes mask.

But the putative resemblance is superficial while the difference is total, as said difference lies in what the system claims about its own foundations.

To wit, the honor framework proceeds very overtly from facts that Moral Realism must suppress: that participants have divergent neurotypes, that they are moved by material appetite and status hunger, and that their evaluations are expressions of these things.

Its duties radiate outward through concentric circles of relational proximity—children, spouse, kin, friends, tribe, nation—because that is how human loyalty felt on a visceral somatic level is ackshully experienced in practice, and it treats dealings beyond those circles as a repeated game of reciprocity and reputation, because that is what such dealings ackshully amount to operatively speaking.

Nothing in it purports to bind a stranger who never agreed to it.

And a legal contract is not a recreation of divine command merely because both involve obligation; the entirety of the difference is that one party admits the obligation was constructed by interested parties, and the other insists it fell from the sky.

Death is not an arbitrary punishment bolted onto this argument; it is any functioning honor framework’s native enforcement mechanism, and the Moral Realist has merited its application by the framework’s own lights.

The cardinal defection in any reputation economy is negotiating in bad faith—misrepresenting your interests, disguising compulsion as description, treating counterparties as objects to be corrected rather than parties to be dealt with. And it turns out the Moral Realist commits this defection structurally and by necessity every time he speaks, because it’s all his framework consists of. He is less a bad actor within the game than a repudiation of the game itself—a player who knocks over the board and rips the instructions in two insisting we play under the rules used at his house

An honorable man can deal with an open enemy; he can deal with a rival, a hard bargainer, and even a member of a hostile tribe, because all of these things can be modeled, and terms with them persist diachronically through time purely on the basis of self-interest. What he cannot deal with is the man who’s fused his own appetite and status interests to the fabric of the cosmos and thus experiences every negotiation as blasphemy. Such men are uniquely dangerous to society precisely because they’re sincere: their manipulation runs through their own self-model first, which mean it arrives at the gates with the full force of conviction and none of the tells of normal deceit.

Now the moralizer will either call all of the above Jewish, or say something in the neighborhood of Muh Vagina (which is an acceptable response and should be addressed by blowing her out very vigorously until she stops being a Faggot), or Petedavidsonly side-eye the anti-realist in the direction of someone they perceive as likely to say Muh Vagina hoping it will contaminate the anti-realist’s status position enough to epistemically foreclose him in any relevant theaters of debate.

But they’re never—and I do mean Never here, so don’t believe their gay Taqiyya—going to engage you in good faith about any of this or operate under any frame not tainted by normalfag amygdala-chimpouts / pussthought.

They aren’t offering you anything resembling a fair fight, so do not engage them as such.

Instead ask the Moral Realist what he wants and what he is offering, and if he insists that he wants nothing and merely serves The Trvth, treat him as you would treat any other counterparty who refuses to disclose his interests.

That is to say, as a Schmittian Outgroup with whom no deal can safely be made.

Always appreciating an opportunity to artfully humblebrag, I’ve done much the same in the article before you.

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1. I was reading chapter books before I could walk in a way that didn’t look sort of retarded, and for many years thereafter my aunt called me her “little savant,” later reporting that initially she was worried something might be wrong with me and that I’d turn out like Forrest Gump—which to be fair I apparently do still walk in a pretty weird way, as on my podcast for instance my exgf Rose likened my gait to that of a penguin, while WBE later observed that it resembled King K. Rool’s. As for the reading: it got my parents to skip me ahead through kindergarten which I ofc loved at the time but looking back was kind of just the opposite of redshirting and lowkey caused most of the social problems that ultimately made me need to drop out of high school after freshman year and cheat my way through the rest in a few weeks at one of those retarded online cheater schools for teen moms so I could start college at 14 and enjoy that even more only for it to deepen all the same problems until I was functionally kind of a different species.

2. I was also making a six figure sal and moderately internet famous before I got my driver’s license, ultimately doing so in Nebraska just before my 25th birfday—and even then only because the homeschooled virgin I was Courting at the time had an exceedingly grugchud notion of masculinity and would regularly post on her twatter about wanting to be driven around and such, which my first girlfren before her being kind of a snooty art hoe by disposition generally did me the courtesy of pretending not to care about… although one time when we were both drunk said art hoe said she wanted to be the passenger princess and made me drive her back to Walt Disney World Residential Housing from some overpriced resort eatery I’d taken her to hoping I could wife her up before her Disney College Program ended, which sadly I failed at… although it turns out I was actually a pretty good drunk driver all things considered despite not having been behind the wheel since my parents kind of gave up trying to make me learn in my later teen years. Thus when I finally got my license in Nebrasky I started acting a bit like a 16-year-old boy about it e.g. revving the engine of my dashing crimson Subaru at traffic lights like a character in The Outsiders and trying to fuck every girl I dated in its back seat despite it being freezing outside and me having a perfectly serviceable apartment close by. Thing is I was living with my mischling buddy from the Alt Right at the time and fuckin a girl with a roommate in the same dwelling felt ontologically corrupted to me whereas Omaha is full of all these empty industrial parking lots ideal for getting your weasel greased behind windows shrouded in the obfuscatory fogfrost of the 100th Meridian; looking back those are some of my only good memories of the midwest.

3. I’m kind of identitarian about not tying my shoes because when I was a kid the aunt I mentioned earlier made fun of me for taking a long time to learn and also employing the Bunny Ear Method well into grade school, such that it became a running gag in my extended family that Walt Can’t Tie His Shoes even though I pretty clearly could and by sixteen often did so with military precision—just one reason among many that when I moved away at 23 I for the most part stopped talking to them and also stopped tying my shoes outside a work context. It’s also why when ppl like tell me my shoe is untied I make it a very deliberate point NOT to tie my shoe, as I view telling someone their shoe is untied as a plausibly deniable power move masquerading bisexually as polite normalcy in a way women call you schizo for diagnosing as such, and am altogether overjoyed to eat the social repercussions of standing athwart this tactic out of principle. Now obviously this irks the chickies in my life—for instance one time at Ikea with the aforementioned Rose the little maid made me eat my Swedish meatballs with lingenberry sauce on the move because when some chode in the cafeteria told me my shoes were untied I simply nodded and stared him down—but I’ve thankfully learned to aestheticize this and turn it mostly into fodder for flirtation. And I also don’t trip nearly as often as you’d expect given how clumsy I am otherwise.

4. I was born in Mesa, Arizona and for most of my childhood lived in a cozy house in the burbs. My mom often arranged playdates with this little blonde mischling girl my age named Brianna, but they ended after one Halloween when I told Brianna’s elephantine grocery clerk mom that I was dressed up as Don Quixote and she responded with WHO THE FUCK IS THAT?! Then later I befriended this bih named Jenny whose mom was named “Maureen” and apparently at some point fucked our next door neighbor “Jim,” who I loathed intensely because one time at a party he offered me shrimp which even today I have a powerful sensory aversion to that as a child was so potent I’d always sneak out of the lunch room on shrimp day to walk around the halls aimlessly (also bc there was this fat Down Syndrome chick named Devon who’d always have catsup smeared all over her face 🤮). But eventually I got caught doing this by my fourth grade teacher Mrs. Guannell, who of course as a tall Gen X blonde thought I should be Normal and on another occasion refused to believe me when I told her that October originally was the eighth month in the Roman calendar hence it being OCTober you retarded cumcunt, which made some faggot Grant in the class be like “yeah I know it wasn’t the eighth month because I was born in October!🤓” Except guess what Grant, you worthless piece of shit: I WAS TOO. And despite you ostensibly being my gifted classmate you work in a bookstore these days, so I think the universe has since borne out which one of us is to be afforded epistemic standing purely on ethos grounds. But anyway my dad started taking time off work to take me out to lunch whenever shrimp was served.

5. Other than Jenny (who was fat and used to kiss my neck in the lunch line which looking back made me pretty uncomfortable, tho I never said anything because it seemed a pretty silly thing to get her in trouble for) there was this other neighbor kid named Erick who lived with his grandparents for some probably sad reason and I used to call Ewick because that’s how he said it. Ewick was one of those guys who wants to spend time with you and acts like an incel entitled to sex about it but instead it’s e.g. pretending to be Pokémon on the lawn when you would much rather play Xbox by yourself (he always wanted to be Sonic but I’d never heard of that and so told him No we’re doing Pokémon). Later some fat kid with an earring who used to say Koo Koo Kachoo ad nauseum on the school bus insisted that I ought not be friends with Ewick because he’s “gay,” which he probably meant in the figurative sense at the time but might honestly have been onto something given the moody exuberance of Ewick’s affect. Anyway my rents tended to force me to hang out with Ewick at first, but stopped after he asked me to give him one of my toys and after I said no tried to overrule me by going to my parents, presumably not understanding this was really weird on account of his own set having long since departed this mortal plane.

6. My parents were both just over 30 when they had me, which is probably why I’m so autistic. Both of them had been white trash who’d gotten into Georgetown mostly thanks to SAT scores and then moved back west a few years before I was born to help my aunt raise my girl cousins after they dad walked out. My mom did an MBA whilst preggers with me and my dad went back for an MA in Spanish around the same time, and for most of this era we were lower middle class, with my mom doing various consulting gigs part time and my dad working as a grant writer for Arizona State’s bilingual education push that nowadays is mostly seen as a terrible failure. The two of them separated amicably when I was 10, and for the next few years I was basically upper middle class as she became a marketing executive in the hospitality industry and he rose the ranks of academic admin. Then around the time I started ASU she had a nervous breakdown and he went back to get his PhD, so for the next few years we were kind of poor again, which at the time I narrated to my Dutch pen pal from 4chan I was in love with in LARPy Dickensian terms since not getting guac at chipotle unironically registered as wretched poverty to me and not a little unjust.

7. There’s a bunch of other stuff about my parents I won’t share here because it would make them look bad, but would also help explain to anyone who cares why I instinctively don’t trust womanly post-hoc renarration of romantic and sexual situations, as well as my intense and visceral contempt for male credulity in the face of such renarration. That said I also think Marilyn Monroe was spot-on about taking people at their worst, and so give my mom a lot of credit for endowing me with a deep intellectual appreciation for nuance / subtext that most spergs lack hence them constantly getting shredded by normies and women. I also benefited quite a lot just from being the child of a linguistics professor and marketing executive, which is precisely the combination you’d look for trying to build a top-shelf semiotic terrorist.

8. Most of my classmates in Mesa were Mormons and so occupied the rare position of being both unusually polite and unusually high openness / tolerant of weirdos. Thus I was on the whole pretty popular in Mesa and seen more as a Kramer / Fonz type figure than as That Guy, which is how most of the normalfags in Glendale experienced me. The only time I remember being chastised by the Mormons was in fifth grade when we were playing this Revolutionary War game as a class and could choose to be Loyalist or Patriot and I stayed loyal to the king the entire time and just ate the increasing Taxes they imposed on our “classroom dollars” which due to my good behavior and disinterest in stickers and stale Smarties I’d banked so much of anyway that I was able to keep paying King George’s taxes until the end of the class. But I was doing this less to be an edgelord understand than to test if anything cool would happen if I broke the game since the rules had it so we’d only move on to the next stage when all kids were Patriots which wasn’t even fucking accurate but anyway the teacher just ignored it and everyone was like “Oh that Jeremy!” which is probably when I started to really despise normies. That said while my loyalty to the king was never appreciated at the time I also might fuck a Canadian chick soon, so I guess the world works in mysterious ways?

9. One of my finest memories in Mesa was chartering the Falcon Hill Spy Club, which originated in me ordering a bunch of spy gear in a scholastic book order and finding it highly wanting. This was a few years after the movie Spy Kids came out which I was still obsessed with on account of wanting to fuck Alexa Vega (don’t call me a pedophile she’s five years older than me), and so after getting disappointed by the spy gear I opted to show some Agency and began organizing the other smart weird kids into doing Spy things. Like once there was a guy taking pictures of kids from atop the eponymous hill (which upon returning to as an adult proved far less impressive than I remembered), and we reported him to a recess aide. Then another time some kid named Ryan joined the class and near the end of the day crumpled something up and threw it in the trash in a pretty sus way, so I made eye contact with him and walked over to the trash to inspect it, but it turned out to just be the beginning of a short story that was actually kind of neat and after that Ryan became the guy I talked about Morrowind with during recess and believed all the lies I said about cool secret things you can do. Anyway the Spy Club got in trouble at some point because this fag Casey with a voice even then I felt was waaaay too squeaky for a fourth grader started calling it a “killing club” because I’d made the initiation ritual killing a bee or something which made this girl named Melissa I sort of had a crush on get us all in trouble.

10. I was a very sexual child. Never got molested or anything… but my dad read me a book about gladiators when I was like 7-8 and I remember there was a passage he refused to read to me so after he went to bed I snuck it out of his room and read the whole thing in the bathroom, and it turned out the omitted passage was about how the Romans would have girl prisoners raped by donkeys in the colosseum or w/e, which sounds bad but honestly I don’t think the book ruined me so much as that I was obsessed with rape long before that and could sniff out instinctively even then when something noncon was about to happen. Also in first grade there was this big blonde Mormon boy Marty who would like pin girls to the wall during recess and look intensely into their eyes which looking back is probably less evidence of him being a Natural Chad than him having gotten molested but either way I noticed the girls responding positively to that and it definitely planted something.

11. For most of my childhood I was super fucking paranoid about shit getting in my eyes, which according to my mom started as a baby because I’m genetically cursed with disproportionately long and fast-growing eyelashes that apparently would break off en masse all the time and scrape the shit out of my peepers. But that stopped happening by the time I was sentient, and so my first conscious trauma instead occurred when I was like 4-5 and my mom made me Cream of Wheat covered in cinnamon, which on account of the porridge being exceptionally hot I blew on a bit too vigorously resulting somehow in a massive heap of cinnamon getting under my eyelids and shredding my cornea. After that I would constantly tell barbers etc. to gtf away from my eyes and not Scratch My Cornea… only to then inflict the same on myself during a childhood trip to Lake Powell, which my mom got to visit for free as a perk of working for Aramark. While visiting a locale the Mormons call Ice Cream Canyon, I attempted a “super-run” (my boyhood term for running downhill) down a mammoth slope of soft and tractable white sand, and for my effort ended up eating about thirty feet worth of said sand and once more shredding my eyes. But that was the last time.

12. I also have a lazy eye—which I was under the impression was mostly unnoticeable until the inimitable Mr. Li wrote about it this past January in a way that kind of offended me at first but by the end of the piece I appreciated because it made me seem vaguely Alastor Moody-coded. But anyway whenever the eye starts slacking off I see double, and on the main this is something I can control in a manner phenomenologically proximal to wagging one’s penis by squeezing one’s asshole, but occasionally it also happens involuntarily when I’m e.g. tired or high or excited or not wearing my glasses (at the time they kept slipping down my face because I’ve worn the same pair for ~5 years and should probably get a new set, esp given they’re now fairly crooked due to me having rolled over on them a few days ago which you can see in my latest Katie podcast).

13. I lost my virginity when I was 24 in Jan of 2018. I then slept with two other goils that year, and then according to my “Partners” Google Sheet acquired four more notches on my bedpoast in 2019, followed by twelve in 2020, twenty-one in 2021 (what are the odds?), twenty-six in 2022, forty-one in 2023, and then seven in 2024. Since then tho I’ve mostly only fucked ex-gfs and also a couple fangirls I haven’t added to my sheet and tbh feel weird about even adding to my formal number—tho less bc of any gay ethical shit understand than because I retain a deep and embodied aesthetic contempt for the actuarial world and now find spreadsheets far and away too actuarial-coded for me to track women there versus in a more narrative and exclusively wordcel literary sense. But having said that the average metrics of my Fuckboy Era conquests are enumerated below for anyone curious:

    

    Of those women, I’d hazard I loved (or had a sufficiently literary attachment to I don’t feel silly narrating our dyad as love’s ontological neighbor) exactly seven of them, and feel the same about four others I never ended up inside of but frankly might as well have. I pay tribute to all but one of these eleven in the song Lake-ish, which is a remake of my song Rake-ish, which is itself a remake of my song Rakish.

14. When I was an actuary I never cared about my work in any substantive non cargo culty sense or paid attention except during the first half of 2022, when I became obsessed with Walt (hey!) Mason’s poem about The Man Who Delivers The Goods and tried to LARP as a Dave Ramsey enjoyer. Needless to say it didn’t take; if you want the deets read Leaving The City Beautiful, but long story short: money for me has always been more a way to e.g. get Uber Eats every day + tell my family to fuck off when they’re annoying + date women better-looking than me than something emerging from me genuinely being capable of giving a shit about anything that produces hard economic value. The thing is I also spent too much of my life in that modality resenting cool artist types for having exactly that perspective while deluding themselves into thinking they’re “natural aristocrats” or w/e that I can’t inhabit either mindset cleanly and kind of think both bugmen and artists are insecure cringey faggots who need to narrate peepo different from themselves as defective because mankind is a faggot cuck Explainer species that comes up with all these fake and gay “moral” or “aesthetic” reasons its gauche and hungry status jockeying is ackshully about something higher order and then acts like anyone who’s honest about shit and genuinely pluralist is a sleazy degenerate.

15. For about a year from mid-2020 to mid-2021 I was sufficiently committed to powerlifting that by the end of that period I could have put up a decent showing in local meets. Other than that my main period of serious exercise was in late 2016 when I still lived in Scottsdale and during a quasi-monastic Jordan Peterson epoch precipitated both by losing my first girlfriend + the chief actuary at my first fulltime job being the most wretched Dolores Umbridge cunt in creation I would walk tens of thousands of steps each day in part to show my ex my step count could exceed that of her own ex I’d stolen her from earlier that year but had just recently stolen her back from me. This culminated in me randomly climbing Camelback Mountain one day, which she found impressive enough that I was able to once more steal her back from him, hence me moving to Tampa in mid-2017. In Chinese astrological tradition this was the Year Of The Cock, which she and I having both been sired in 1993 treated as a private meme that year since the restaurant placemat description fit both of us so eerily well.

    

    Sadly I never paid attention to it saying Roosters aren’t compatible with other Roosters, which would have been remarkably useful knowledge not just with Natalie but also Selene (another 1993) and Layla (2005). But: you live you learn.

16. Anyway speaking of China: my most favorite historical figure is Chairman Mao—obviously not because of his “politics” or “beliefs” or w/e, but rather because he was able to drag his testicles over the world’s largest civilization and eradicate millennia of tradition presumably because he never got over thinking Confucius was kind of a faggot when he was fourteen and subsequently getting punished for speaking his mind. Because what Mao understood, see, is that the entire world is inexorably and intractably one giant ongoing Cultural Revolution—and that if you’re never going to escape the struggle sesh you might as well make sure it’s the guy genetically predisposed by dint of neurotype to finding you annoying that ends up in the labor camp.

Anyway don’t forget to like comment and subscribe.

This is a tight and juicy one that gets straight to all the most important epistemic and phenomenological gaps between the sexes, so def give it a listen.

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Topics include:

• How Walt originally got Katie to come on his pod

• Why MRA epistemics break down and AVFM’s catalogue of shaming tactics doesn’t work as well as Walter’s General Theory for the Gender Wars

• Shape rotators are discriminated against by the universe because they can’t verbally outfox womyn a la wordcels like Walt Bismarck

• Men overindex on signal and women overindex on noise

• Can gals like Katie, , give men useful dating advice?

• Girls who want you to fuck them / you’ve fucked give you good advice but girls who don’t see you as sexually viable will basically always sabotage you

• The proximate vs. ultimate causes of female desire—women tend to narrate the former in terms of the latter

• Katie’s insight that “women want dick pics when women want dick pics”

• Contractualism in relationships kills eros

• Women seldom approach dating in the prospective strategic manner men do; rather they let men act upon them and narrativize post hoc in mostly relational terms her dyad with whichever man who produces the right somatic reaction

• Men experience life in terms of tradeoffs whereas women want to narrate their dyads as fated and their man as objectively “the best” in some way

  • read Why Women Call It Fate

  • read Why Women Hate Male Ascension Narratives

  • read Why Chicks Did Astrology

• Why men need to affect a certain contempt for men atop other status hierarchies to develop optimal swagger around women

  • see In Defense Of Cope

• Why Walt bullied Katherine a year ago

• The plausible deniability of feminine Pinterestfugue

  • read How Feminine Power Works

• Why opening with super sexual lines on dating apps works

• “Take her seriously but not literally”

• Does talking about one’s desire in a propositional container even make sense?

• Most men don’t know if they really like the girl until they fuck her

• The Red Pill pushes men toward coarse-grain heuristics to make incels less outcome-dependent but is bad at giving experienced men more individuated heuristics for establishing a stable dyad

  • See Walter’s Orange Pill and Thirty-Eight Theses

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Adams: You leave insulting comments on porn videos about the dude’s penis. Women you match with always have a disappointed look on their face when you meet up IRL and then respond three hours after your follow-up text saying they respect your mind but just aren’t feeling it.

Jefferson: You opted out of OneDrive and there’s a CCleaner icon in your taskbar. You regularly consider whether it would break the NAP to take a woman who breaks into your house and attempts to rob you as your basement concubine.

Madison: Your phone brightness is always too low. When you were 14 you created a document in Microsoft Word to collate all of your philosophical stances in one central repository. You made six figures by 24 but at some point in your early 30s got tricked into donating your life savings to an Effective Charity and following a nervous breakdown had to move back in with your parents.

Quincy: Every group chat you’re in develops a side chat in under three weeks. You corrected your girlfriend’s dad about something during Thanksgiving dinner and spent the car ride home trying to convince her that he respected you more for it.

Jackson: There is a hole in your apartment wall you explain in a way that makes it worse. You use AXE Snake Peel body wash. You call men you just met “brother” and fight with your black girlfriend over whether you can Say It while rapping along.

Polk: As a 12-year-old you spent an inordinate amount of time on Cracked.com. Each morning you update a Google Sheet called “Q2 Personal Objectives.” You eat standing over the sink and enjoy listening to Jordan Peterson lectures while taking two-minute breaks between squat sets and ignoring everyone else who wants to use the rack. You always find an excuse to show women your crypto wallet on the first date. All of your exes have bangs.

Lincoln: You get a strong dopaminergic return calling black cashiers “boss,” and maintain that Bill Burr is America’s greatest living humorist. You gladly would have let your fifth grade teacher molest you had they asked.

Grant: You’re subscribed to Atun-Shei Films on YouTube and the Sherman Posting subreddit, though the actual General Sherman definitely would have called you a disgusting servile niggerlover. Your girlfriend’s leg is bigger than yours.

Cleveland: You smell like Cheez-Its and have moderate cystic acne. Your favorite video game is Victoria 2, for which you once programmed a mod that lets you abolish all social programs on Day 1. You used to tutor at your university, and at one point attempted to groom a homeschooled freshman into being your girlfriend.

Teddy: You make $80k / a year in an uncredentialed IT job you take way too seriously. You like to go to brewpubs and order a $30 burger with peanut butter on it and then rag on any dude who orders a less disgusting beer than you *just* loud enough that the girl at the next table over can hear. At least three women have texted you the next day about their Fawning Trauma Response.

Wilson: In preschool you were deeply identitarian about always following the rules, until one day the teacher snapped at you arbitrarily and for the rest of that day you became identitarian about being the Bad Kid—a pattern that would repeat itself in several containers over the course of your life. At some point in your childhood you explained to your mother through ironclad syllogism why it made sense to ruin your six year-old cousin’s birthday.

Coolidge: You find a way to work Linux into every conversation. You filed your taxes on January 3rd, and recently gave your best friend a blender for his birthday. You make every girl you hook up with wash her feet first in your shower. You think Dave Ramsey’s kind of gay but still listen to him religiously.

FDR: Your favorite entertainer is Bo Burnham. Your ethnic conservative girlfriend wants to stay at home and regularly humblebrags about you forcing her to work. On your last business trip you cheated on her with a married middle-aged woman who noticed your Ezra Klein book in the terminal after your shared flight got delayed. In fourth grade you did something you’ve never told anyone about and never will.

Eisenhower: You don’t let people eat in your car, which contains several portable phone chargers and has never had mascara applied within it. You tell your buddies you want to marry a nurse because your mom was one without registering even the slightest Freudian implication. You’re exactly 5’10 and work for an insurance company or credit union.

Kennedy: You’re Catholic in a way that makes girls think you’re haunted until they realize you’re just a closeted homosexual who aestheticizes his pill popping.

Nixon: You have an android phone and overreact when women make fun of it. You keep screenshots of girls expressing attraction to you so they can’t rewrite the story later. At some point you’ve internally weighed the game theoretics of assassinating a senator so more people read your substack. Another part of you often fantasizes about absconding to Vegas to become a professional poker player.

Reagan: You call waitresses “young lady” and own at least one leather jacket that makes you look like a substitute teacher at a casino. Your dad is taller than you. At some point in your life you’ve told a prostitute she’s being unreasonable.

Obama: You’re still complaining about the Great Recession having wiped you out financially despite having been in sophomore year of an English degree at the time. You met your wife on Bumble and your first date was at an escape room she paid for after they declined your credit card. Though you caused your parents to separate as a child, they also reconnected in late midlife trying to figure out what to do with you.

Trump: You own one very expensive object surrounded by trash. You refer to at least one ex-girlfriend as “crazy,” but privately still feel sort of guilty about that one night. You are close friends with several minorities who have personality disorders that prevent them from being accepted by their own people and operatively force them to arbitrage an ability to ratify white racism. You have at least one dark secret that would destroy you if it ever got out and so ambiently support any societal drift towards an ecology that would make its discovery less personally obliterative.

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We then digress into a bunch of incredibly dark shit I had to put behind the paywall so all the normie moms in my audience don’t immediately unsubscribe.

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Topics include:

• ChatGPT wants Walt to let Katie talk more

• Walt and Katie explain the logic behind the podcast name

• Prometheus and Pandora as “dark knowledge” seekers

• Prometheus as Apollonian and Pandora as Dionysian

• Knowing too much about the other sex drives you mad

  • read Maybe Men and Women Shouldn’t See This Much of Each Other by

• AI psychosis

• Arguing with ChatGPT lets you create a verbal “bubble reality”

• Does Prometheus stem from ancestral memory of mastering fire?

• Prometheus as a trickster figure

• Is Walter’s sampling of other generations representative?

• Zoomettes are more aware of their sexual power than Millennielles

• Each generation the polarity between men and women decreases which increases the need for fetishized relationships e.g. age gaps and BDSM

• Why Miss O’Connor enjoys 48 year-old men

• Differences in the Millennielle vs. Millennial Man experience

• The boyishness of Millennial Men

• Different challenges faced by Millennielles from rightist vs. leftist families

• How Katie’s childhood bestie married her sugar daddy

• In 2010 it was weird for women to want a provider

• How men and women experience forbidden knowledge differently

• How Pandora’s Box ties to female sexual darkness

• How women exercise their evil through men

• The role of women in sex trafficking

• There are multiple guys worse than Epstein in every city

• Epstein as a scapegoat to siphon off anxiety over more banal abuse

• The Stepdad Question

• Womyn have no idea how widespread fake snuff porn is

• The Motherless rape academy

• The desensitization of Zoomers to extreme gore videos

• Creepy dad behavior

• Is sexuality to some extent just inherently evil?

• What triggers feminine vindictiveness?

• Often women need to believe a man is contemptible to successfully cut off the branch when she enters into a new dyad

• Can women feel empathy toward men?

• The thin line between working class women preparing their daughters for hypergamy and low-level sex trafficking

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Make sure to read these articles from her:

• Men kill women for a good reason

• Women can’t speak English

• Day is a Sensitive Young Man; WBE is a lone wolf

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Topics include:

• Why Instagram banned YueYue for child abuse

• Her memories of life in Cathay

• Walt argues that white peepo value human life too much

• Do Russians count as white?

• Comparing Japanese vs. Koreans vs. Chinese

• Japan and Europe as sclerotic museum societies

• The Zillennial limbo between Millennial and Zoomer culture

• Asian presence in Vancouver

• Jungle Asians vs. Fancy Asians

• West Coast Asians vs. East Coast Asians in Canada and the US

• What does YueYue find most annoying about Millennials vs. Zoomers?

• Does anyone take women seriously?

• Walt complains about Millennial boomerism

• Is YueYue a Pick Me?

• Does she have a deliberate growth strategy?

• How mean should one be to their readers?

• Why you need to flirt with / bully women instead of arguing with them

• Intrasexual competition on Substack

• Is YueYue autistic?

• Do Asian girls clap their hands when they laugh?

• YueYue’s piece Men kill women for a good reason

• Walt argues the most important part of sex is epistemic

• Is YueYue bisexual?

• Context-independent propositional truth doesn’t really exist for young neurotypical women

• Why does everyone think Walt is a 45 year-old man?

• Zoomers compete with each other in a feminine way

• The Millennial tendency to essentialize other men’s status in a feminine way

• Why does Walt put his astrological signs in his bio?

• Walt argues it’s gay to treat housing as an investment

• YueYue’s piece Women can’t speak English

• Walt argues that men constantly lie to womyn

  • Read The Ways Men Lie

• Walt argues thinking about your “ideal woman” is gay

• Why YueYue is definitely an INTJ

• Does isolation make you more or less yourself?

• Walt rails against Millennial statusniggers

• The need to outsource judgment to institutions and peers

• All cognition is Cope

• How does YueYue define Trvth?

• Why the Zoomer Oral Culture destroyed the importance of receipts

• Conventional implicature and covert contracts

• Good girls are the evilest when you fuck them

• Women don’t understand their own natures

• YueYue’s post comparing and contrasting Day and WBE

• Why Walt believes in the sanctity of virginity

• Why men constantly downplay to women how much they care

• Has Walt ever soft raped a girl?

• Why All Sex is Rape

• The proliferation of Zoomette gossip networks

• YueYue explains the telos behind Day’s posting style

• Why everything is about status

• How Feminine Power Works

• Why women get more power by abrogating agency

  • read Women Don’t Have Agency

• Why Walt wants to help Zoomer Boys organize

  • read The Fuckboy Right

• why Walt relates to Chairman Mao

• YueYue asks Walt about his childhood

• Why does Walter talk so fast?

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Over the past few weeks Katie and I have spoken extensively, and it’s become clear to us that further conversations in that vein have a lot of promise as a recurring show. Today we say down to record the pilot episode.

**IMPORTANT** —
Comment below with topics you’d like us to discuss in future installments.

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Also: if you have any creative recommendations for a pod name lmk.

Topics include:

• Lots of opposite-sex communication breakdowns are a skill issue

• Male causal mechanization vs. womanly tendency to narrate life as fated

  • Read A General Theory For The Gender Wars

• How men and women narrate their lives differently

• Phenomenological differences in male vs. female agency

• How women derive power from abrogating agency

• The role men play in incentivizing female unaccountability

• The need for women to launder their self-image going into a new dyad with a man by renarrating past relationships as abusive / neglectful / etc.

• How the Zoomer Oral Culture decreased the importance of receipts and made Zoomer social dynamics less truth-apt and diachronically binding

• Walt and Katie debate what counts as Transhumanism

• How language and writing alter cognition (read on this)

• Why women are more tribal / embodied and men more civilizational / abstract

• Too much male intellectual talent is getting routed into abstractions like LLMs and increasingly hyperreal porn / dick pill ads

  • Read on this

  • Read The Great Rebinding

• Male obsolescence in late modernity

• Why masculine dignity depends on ascension narratives women tend to distrust or disdain due to their role as genetic selectors

  • Read Why Women Hate Male Ascension Narratives

• How male ascension narratives differ from woman-friendly narratives of “discovering” an underpriced man a la Sk8er Boi / Aladdin / Beauty in the Beast

• Why money / muscles / etc. need to be laundered through higher order containers to be erotically legible status markers to pre-Zoomer women

• Arrested development in Zoomette sexuality

• How the liquidity of the Zoomer Oral Culture has given Zoomettes a deeply compartmentalized relationship with identity and felt truth

• The quasi-pagan nature of Zoomette femininity

• Zoomette disembodiment and struggle having vaginal orgasms

• Katie reacts to Walt’s recent conversation with about Clavicular and Looksmaxxing

• Tinder’s ontological homosexuality and metadiscursive status barriers to getting women to realize how swipe apps run counter to their interests

• All modern sexual incentive structures drive men towards Fuckboyism

  • Read Walt’s manifesto from last year The Fuckboy Right

• Women precognitively parse low-status male desire as predatory

  • Read A Few Things Spergs Should Know

• Why don’t Zoomettes intellectually engage with Millennielles in the same way Zoomer Boys do with Millennial Men?

• Late Millennielle / Zoomette feminism is less about workplace equity than wanting access to men who aren’t porn-addicted scrubs

• Zoomettes can simultaneously be a tradgirl / prostitute / lesbian / radfem and don’t experience this internally as a contradiction

• Millennials who got married early in the 2010s tend to act like Obama-era redditors and are out of touch with how bad gender issues have gotten

• Covid strongly benefited weird and liminal Millennials, arrested the development of Zoomettes, and overall just shredded Zoomer boys

• Why Walter yearns for another plandemic

• Zoomer Boys have mostly experienced Millennielles as fat blue haired SJW teachers and corporate DEI functionaries

• The recent drift of Millennielles into appreciating sexed asymmetry

• Were Millennielles exploited by Gen X men in their youth?

• How mediation and individuation make transactionality feel less hookery

• The relational / affectively porous nature of female sexuality

• Why Millennielles are uncomfortable with sugaring compared to Zoomettes but often covertly fetishize the idea of prostituting themselves

• Millennielle sexual formalism vs. Zoomette blended registers

• Men can transmogrify / alchemize feminine disgust and hatred into lust, but you can’t really do anything with feminine indifference

• Millennielles lack scripts for aestheticizing cruelty and tend to have poorly integrated shadows / Dark Feminine energies

• Why affectively plastic and sexually volatile men adore crazy bitches

• Why Zoomer Boys are dropping out of society

• The logic behind Looksmaxxing—everyone judges a book by its cover now

• Millennials need to act as stewards of the pre-digital textual culture in which stable diachronic truth ackshully mattered

• Why Walter wants to ban short-form video content for kids

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