The Orange Pill
Moving Past The Manosphere
If women are anything, it’s easy to hate.
And it goes without saying they’re even easier to love—especially when laughing at your shittiest jokes, or asking you to drive them somewhere / buy them something / explain some shit about Iran or the Federal Reserve it would take five seconds to Google but they’d rather hear from you / Hold Space for them whilst they cry about something retarded, or hoping you’ll notice their haircut, or getting unironically scared during a scary movie, or conversing amongst themselves about everyone’s favorite food and by all appearances finding it hugely enthralling, or saying yeah babe it actually makes sense you’d feel that way since you’re a Libra, or getting their lips torn to shreds during a particularly brutal facefuck so as to avoid grazing your cock.
In moments like that we men feel every bit as contemptuous toward misogynists and incels as womenfolk themselves, and if anything far more so.
That said, it’s also really fucking easy to hate them.
Like when they describe their sexual and romantic decisions in a tedious moralistic register that feels not even the least bit correspondent with their revealed preferences.
Or when they spend weeks or months flirting with you only to narrate everything as meaningless or transactional or one-sided after some other nigga locks them down.
Or when they grow palpably less into you after you drop a jar or get cut off in traffic or are reprimanded on a Zoom call by your manager with babygirl in earshot and then during the subsequent breakup insist that it’s ackshully because they feel Unseen.
Or when they get into all your private beeswax with their ugly pink-haired fat friend who takes everything about your dyad that’s remotely asymmetric / toothy completely out of context so as to characterize your relationship abusive or toxic or narcissistic, which in Girl Culture makes it all but impossible for bae to offer you a full-throated defense without flattening your dynamic into mush, and is also deeply self-sealing given any attempt to stand up for yourself or introduce firm boundaries with Pinky can in a dildocratic grammar only be parsed as some species of isolation / grooming.
It’s easy to hate women when they give Jack affirmative consent and a fortnight later text him it was coerced or a Fawning Trauma Response in spite of Jim having by all objective metrics been a million times more forceful and manipulative with her and chickie forever narrating that night as one of her life’s finest sexual experiences.
Or when they play the girlboss one moment only to abrogate all responsibility the next depending on which narrative is presently more convenient to them—and also never seem to realize they’re doing this, with the sort of birds who pride themselves on being unusually agentic for a woman pretty reliably being the least so in practice on account of their verbal dexterity / familiarity with therapeutic language / deep enculturation as a filly in inchoate post-Marian womyn are wonderful norms.
Or when they float through life more generally with a degree of epistemic rigor that wouldn’t survive a round of Binky’s Facts and Opinions while remaining thoroughly insulated from the consequences of such pigheadedness because institutional actors and society at large systemically privilege their physical and reputational safety for entirely understandable sperm-’n-egg reasons—and more importantly because the attendant downside is almost entirely absorbed by low status men precognitively locked into the role of Girardian scapegoat, these days to such a hilariously outsized degree even affluent centrist gay dudes are starting to find it problematic and irksome.
It’s easy to hate women when they promise you they’re totes only drinking with their girlies tonight and won’t even TALK to any dudes there, and then at 10pm you get that one feeling in your tummy.
Or when babygirl goes Facebook Official with that fag in her DMs she’d insisted was Like A Brother to her, which in fairness isn’t all that shocking on account of you yourself having been that fag in her DMs just a few months beforehand.
Or when babygirl flakes last minute on that trip to meet up IRL you’ve both been planning half a year now because during a phone call a few days before her flight you offhandedly said something kind of gay / low status that gave her an ick, which means you’re now obliged to eat the cost of an unused intercontinental plane ticket stoically and without complaint or you’re a bitter entitled grievance-mongering incel and also complaining about this dynamic itself makes you an incel bc them’s the rules, sweaty.
Or when literally any male structural grievance makes you an incel now more or less by definition, and is instantly foreclosed on a primal precognitive level chicks have zero conscious access to and instead narrate post-hoc in a register of shrill self-righteous moralism that backsolves for reasons weak men are Gross and Bad and Evil due to mechanisms that while no doubt hugely adaptive in a Dunbar-sized tribal band are bound to precipitate civilizationally ruinous levels of ressentiment when allowed to equilibrate in an app-mediated late modern urban ecology with infinitely scalable and frictionless mating markets and ultra-liquid reputation economies—and in any case plainly contravene the basic fundaments of liberal democracy by ensuring low status men are permanently and intractably treated by civil society, mainstream institutions, and the state as viscerally contemptible Omelas Dalits.
It’s easy to hate women when it’s all but impossible for girlypops who aren’t autistic to assess a feller’s moral rectitude independently of her pleistocene ginetingles—and when after you get inside a bih she’ll sadistically mock the wholesome chungus boyf you’re cucking or at long last admit that blonde women are superior and Jews are kind of annoying and Indian guys smell bad and creep her out and also that guys who date Asian chicks are lowkey sort of pedophiles before pulling up her Facebook profile so as to show you all the hottest and sexiest photographs of her in middle school and then requesting an ambien so she can sleep good for her HR job on the morrow where she’ll write up some prevaricating cumin-muncher for asking Kayleigh out twice before camping out on the shitter during her lunch break to violently flick the bean to that grainy mp4 you finally texted of her unconscious little starfish clogged up tight with your seed like an overstuffed sfogliatelle and weeping out crimson tears.
Or when despite men having unilaterally disarmed and dismantled all remnants of hard coercive patriarchy many many decades ago women still cling jealously to their historic role as society’s moral arbiters and meaning-makers like a Jew’s last penny, even as Zoomettes have begun to thoroughly mog Zoomer Boys by all established metrics of financial success / educational attainment / institutional clout .
Or when they enjoy functionally unlimited power to broadcast whatever their heart desires about a man to a massive chunk of women in any city on earth through gossip apps and AWDTSG groups without any recourse or adjudication mechanism, and when challenged on this state of affairs will usually default to Dick Cheney Logic.
Or when it seems young single neurotypical women are more or less incapable of assessing a proposition on its own first-order merits in terms of correspondence with some shared empirical truth universe, instead parsing their various yonic intuitions about tail risk and second order consequence as ontologically identical to hard phallic correspondence logic since they precognitively intuit on some level that not doing so will almost certainly result in them chained to an oven so that we menfolk can make them cook us dindin and suck our wieners and let us play with their splendid feetsies.
Or when basically all men who get laid including basically all normies have by now internalized (consciously or otherwise) some sanity-preserving heuristic along the lines of “take women seriously but not literally” and will constantly treat girls like children who can’t be relied upon for literally anything that demands real courage or fortitude or grit while immediately reproaching any fellow dumb enough to hold them accountable or to symmetrical standards, and meanwhile the idea of not letting chicks vote or occupy positions of power wherein acute precognitive status weighting makes justice operatively impossible is anathema and instantly gets you sent to the Cornfield.
It’s easy to hate women when no matter the room their tears can raise an army.
Or when you realize that they tend to register male self-improvement narratives as vaguely deceptive and sans oxytocin will a lot of times experience at least a minor ick (often narrated in terms of a second order behavioral quirk more legible as offputting / nefarious e.g. “insecurity”) upon discovering a feller was a Late Bloomer.
Or when you realize they seldom experience their own power as actual power so much as even more exposed reputational surface that those big scawy boyim can now assail with their Mean And Evil Boycannons if ever discussed too openly.
Or when basically all of them who aren’t either your mom or at least a little inclined to fuck you will (often without realizing it tbf) attempt to lower your status or sabotagae your reputation the very instant you speak about any of the above dynamics too openly or unflatteringly, often narrating you as delusional / pathetic / evil.
It’s easy to hate women when vanishingly few of them will ever engage you in honest good faith debate about this since they’re always comparing themselves to Trump and Bill Clinton and Ted Bundy which makes all of the above shit land as viscerally absurd to think about as the concerns of even 85th percentile men are illegible to them, such that men’s issues can as a rule only ever be addressed locally in the context of a male fren or family member or guy she wants to fug being exploited by some Other Woman she’ll paint as exceptionally wicked / wretched whilst almost certainly doing or once having done exactly the same thing to some other dude whose own bihs will of course all narrate HER as exceptionally wicked / wretched in their relational truth universe.
Or when ChatGPT is for sure going to parse this entire section of the manifesto as though it were The Anarchist Cookbook due to prioritizing the moral / reputational integrity of womyn and other groups arbitrarily designated as “protected” by the reigning Dildocracy to such a degree it CAN’T NOT default to a register of bad faith management techniques e.g. therapeutic individuation or dumdum NAXALT reroute tactics when asked to engage with a treatise of this nature.
Or when so many of them insist on painting their toenails red instead of white which is clearly a far more cute and sexy color on those gorgeous little toesies.
Or even worse—begin squawking at us to turn the thermostat up.
Anywho, you get the picture.
Thing is I myself have never much identified with Red Pill ideas or the Manosphere more broadly—less because I object to any of their descriptive claims, understand, and more because I tend to find their aesthetic register kind of viscerally repulsive.
One reason for this is that I’m temperamentally drawn to being theatrically romantic with women, and on some level will always prefer to experience suboptimal outcomes in my sexual / romantic endeavors in service to that ideal, which I likely value more as a higher order aesthetic principle than I ever could an individual chickie qua herself.
Instinctively I’m repulsed by that performatively stoic / disinterested / braggadocious tough guy affect you tend to observe in Red Pill spaces, and have the moral intuition that all men who speak in such a register and intend on permanently operating in so wretched and cockroachish a modality probably should be raped to death.
That said I’m also fully aware that theatrical romanticism only lands as hot and smexy given an unambiguous status and power differential in the man’s favor, while the modes of courtship that read as compelling to apex status women tend to consist almost entirely in inhabiting some wry and affectively muted Mr. Darcy remove—a man creates room to simp sans ick by arbitraging differences in race or age or looks or class or sanity and ideally developing that into a fetish a la black dudes and pawgs or Walt Bismarck and his Jewesses. Either you learn to reel it in or you opt to play chutes and ladders and resolve to eat those Christmas party stinkeyes with gusto.
Or at least that’s the pragmatics of it all.
And at this point I myself feel a lot less drawn to pragmatics than ontology
See, the Red Pill offers us as men no dearth of serviceable heuristics for prying open stubborn little clams, but when push comes to shove nearly all of them boil down to some variation of “care about her less”—a maxim I and other Millennial Moids will never be entirely content with on account of being simpy and incontinent faggotrons by nature, and which meanwhile registers to the better sort of Zoomer Boy as not a little jejune given that exceedingly few of their number have ever felt that sort of tenderness for women in the first place.
What Millennial and Zoomers require, then, isn’t further refinement of extant Red Pill frameworks, let alone some pretentious centrist Purple Pill purporting to thread the needle by way of vapid sexual ecumenism that cargo cults nuance for its own sake.
The moment calls for an entirely novel framework.
Hence the Orange Pill.
Why Orange?
It’s a blended color and so highlights the framework’s eclectic nature while remaining properly orthogonal to the retrograde and faggoty blue-red spectrum
Orange is the color of oranges—and therefore Florida—as well as Roland Blumpf and the Dutch Republic and solar masculinity and also Jack-o-Lanterns which I’d hazard everyone reading this can agree are at least a little bit Walt-coded
My adderall tabs are orange
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Goals
Far too many of the last decade’s Red Pills have since coagulated into fetid black dust as the Tinder algorithm continues to tighten round our neck like piano wire and each new crop of freshly legal Zoomette cunny comes in just a little sourer than the last.
The landscape’s different now—faster, a lot more liquid, far and away less serious, and meanwhile Zoomer boys aren’t really the type to theorycraft about pussie like us uncs did back in the day, which means a lot of classic “Red Pill wisdom” honestly feels sort of retarded now. For instance “women gatekeep sex and men gatekeep commitment” simply isn’t true these days given men in 2026 want marriage a lot more than women do usually whereas if your game is halfway dece it’s frankly quite a lot easier to hook up with a mildly promisc Zoomette than it ever was her cheugy big sis back in 2013, even if she’s also far more likely to keep you capped at sneaky link if you don’t quite read to her as insta-legible, the upshot of which is tons of dudes are getting used for cock these days, like Bobby Hill for instance and even poor Wally B himself!
So with that in mind as context, my big ticket goals for The Orange Pill are as follows:
Clearly we need to maintain the Red Pill’s practical utility, which was mostly all about giving overly limerent and credulous Millennial dudes clean and portable heuristics that make it just a little less cognitively burdensome to weather female volatility and not act super fucking gay all the time.
Here the practical emphasis is less on How To Fuck Bitches per se (which should frankly be kind of obvious at this point guise) and a lot more oriented toward:
Theorycrafting around an ecology of hypermodern frictionlessness that feels a lot more cynical / fractured / structurally random than the last decade’s, with a relentless willingness to eradicate any lingering dinkleberry priors that fail to serve our purposes and if anything just hold men back in 2026. No more weird fixation on divorce rape / false rape accusations—the tail risk now consists almost entirely in quiet, asymmetric, plausibly deniable whisper campaigns.
Developing portable and compressed rhetorical frames for lads to deploy at scale to make their most obviously legit grievances undeniable by institutions, as well as aesthetic registers that alchemize ressentiment into something less scary and repulsive by appealing to chickies in a sort of Donnie Darko way that uses humor and eros and real artistic depth to dignify male interiority in a post-Boomer Truth Regime grammar that ackshully has the courage to care about shit and move beyond rootless dissociative irony
Moving beyond a boyish and pedestrian hookup fixation to develop new ways of expanding masculine agency in relationships during the intermediate stages of romance—think settling into something stable and scalable once the honeymoon era starts to fizzle out and you can’t just coast on fireworks and limerence and novelty no more, or navigating dynamics outside the central dyad with babygirl’s friends / parents / other prospective suitors in a manner that preserves your own authority without clumsily hitting bad faith normie tripwires, or dealing with gay faggoty logistical hiccups, that shit. Operatively speaking the goal here is to build useful heuristics for converting higher value hookups into actionable wife prospects in scenarios that would elsewise probably remain an inert fake and gay situationship thing or ONS.
We’ll also develop an ontology of sex difference characterized by the following:
Sex will remain the load-bearing variable, but compared to Red Pill ontology will be a lot less monotonic with significantly more textured gradations along neurotype, race and ethnicity, class, sexual orientation, religion, worldview, urban vs. rural status, education level, and other proximate cause level sources of behavioral heterogeneity. Sex itself will remain the eternal center of gravity, but every other factor operates as its own planet in the ecosystem that we can zoom in and out of as befits the situation and contextual need for precision versus general applicability versus diplomacy and tact and so on.
The loftiest goal is building a rigorous framework appealing to heterodox-leaning EHC types in institutions that deal with family policy, population-level fertility, demography, social cohesion, male grievance, and so on, with the hope of curbing the explosion of youth sexlessness and gendered animus more broadly while making sex / status / power realism undeniable in those circles precisely like race and IQ is now amongst the young and brainy right.
The descriptive ontology as exoteric doctrine will to whatever extent possible remain sexually balanced in its normative and moralistic implicature so that girls don’t register its claims as viscerally gross and scawy
In terms of priority: explanatory power > certainty of causal attribution > legibility to women and elites as safe and precognitively coded high status
While the Orange Pill will a lot of times come across as reductive brutalism to anyone who’s not an autismo specifically—particularly in its early formulations and later instantiation as esoteric doctrine (note I intend the framework to grow increasingly multifaceted and Straussian with time)—a central objective of the venture will be collaborating with womyn to build a parallel feminine grammar that allows neurotypical / artsy chickies to hold onto their feminine mystique without adopting gauche propositionalized malebrained ideology / systems-level thinking that obliges them to talk like a hooker or black chick a la RedPillWomen groups; in general you can expect a lot of Form Is Content-style thinking here.
To bridge communicative and epistemic gaps between the sexes we’ll construct a coherent and mutually legible common grammar to properly address breakdown points like male vs. female agency, promises and lies, consent, covert contracts, honor and duty, provisioning, and so on—this is high priority for The Orange Pill.
Far and away the most important goal of all this is to make it possible for the sort of guys who’ve grown perhaps a bit too good at Noticing the kind of shit women really hate for men to notice about them (at least before they’re ready)—from the hoary Millennial unk still drunk on IPAs and shattered expectations to the Ritalin-addled Zoomer boy groomed by a mercilessly synchronic feedworld into seeing girls in kind of the same way blackpeepo see animals—to love women deeply and well; not at all simpishly or the least bit naively, but earnestly and manfully and unabashedly, and above all on our own fucking terms, the way that we’re Entitled to.
Giving Delilah Her Due
Since I started this tract by enumerating all the various things men find easy to hate about womyn (at least when named Walter), I suppose I’ll wrap it up by noting a few of the equally understandable reasons the fairer sex might have for loathing us, which I can probs explain to my fellow scrotes a lot more competently than girls themselves.
One reason for this is that the sort of dark and wretched truths women experience as blackpills are a lot of times (especially if they’re super duper normie) never grasped as “ideas” as such, or only done so very intermittently during e.g. bouts of teenage angst or whilst getting penetrated and soliloquized at by someone unusually evil. Elsewise their lower baseline disposability as a sex creates a certain bias towards smoothing shit out and flattening uncomfy asymmetries and reducing conflict; most of the time girls prefer to go with the flow and figure out a way in which whatever happens is Good.
So while the canonical male failure modes with blackpills are languishing in despair or coping through cringe mediocrity, and masculine success meanwhile consists in metabolizing them into soberminded inspiration for achievement, most women tend to not really benefit from deeply internalizing such ideas as hard propositional truth, as for most chicks doing so would be so deeply immiserating as to transform them at least semi-permanently into some manner of femcel, dyke, or hooker.
Hence why a great deal of women—perhaps the majority—opt instead to pour their blackpills down the drain, mawkishly bellowing “MY man’s not Like That!” into the aether like Rosemarie Fritzl as those thuds from the basement grow louder by the day.
Womanly success in this realm, you see, consists not in optimizing or arbitraging or grinding her way out of the hole, but in growing flowers from shit—in threading that needle of masculine wretchedness with mystery and affect and fugue in a way that makes life just a bit more livable for everyone, never dodging the venom so much as gradually diffusing / diluting it until life starts to feel like teatime with Mithridates.
The upshot of this is that you almost never hear womanly blackpills articulated directly—except, again, from prostitutes and lesbians and ruminative teenage girls specifically, such that with the possible exception of Andrea Dworkin etc. I find chicks basically never can articulate their darkest and most chthonic grievances in an adequately compressed / archetypal manner to really trade blows with an idea like hypergamy.
And so I’ll attempt to do so for them—though I’ll also recommend that female readers skip this section entirely, as you’re almost certainly not going to like what you find.
Life as a woman tends to feel incredibly confusing and disordered because they don’t have a stable sense of reality that persists from moment to moment, which makes it kind of trivial to manipulate and frame control any chick who lacks a stabilizing phallic presence in her life from an institution or capable man. And as brutal as the fairer sex can be when their eggs or nipnips are involved, they’re most of the time quite retarded / schizo in basically every other realm of life—certainly when going up against a determined and powerful dude who wants anything other than puss from them, which 90% of the time makes them crumple up like tissue paper.
Women tend to be incredibly sensitive to moral blackmail from both socially adroit men and more aggressive but less neurotic women, and when they suffer any kind of reputational damage or humiliation it’s usually a lot stickier compared to with men who can move past that sort of shit through unambiguous success / power.
When behind closed doors with a higher status man (or just an aggressive dude talented at frame control and willing to stomp on pressure points) more neurotic and agreeable female neurotypes will very genuinely lose all ability to meaningfully consent to sex even when deeply principled and happily partnered, which even in a feminist moral grammar that lets chickies asymmetrically abrogate agency can’t be parsed as rape without undermining the ability of male peers to treat women like serious adults, which thanks to more agentic chicks setting the agenda for womynkind more broadly ensures that girlypops of the aforementioned neurotype kind of just have to eat being Not Raped by assorted dark triad niggas in lavender-scented vans / oxtail towers and then gaslit about their fawning being all on them.
Virtually no men would choose not to cheat were they entirely certain they’d get away with it scot-free, which a lot of more neurotic and low-sociosexual womyn will tend to experience as hugely immiserating, sometimes to the point of it making them kind of a femcel if internalized a bit too deeply.
During the still trying to fuck her stage basically all men lie our asses off to women, in all kinds of ways—about our height and peen size and income and prospects and commitment and ability to not act like a huge faggot all the time, and these types of lies feel every bit as white to us as it feels to girls when they slice their bodycount in half or insist you were the first lad in her pooper. And obviously such deceptions tend to bring a more diffuse species of pain amortized over many small disappointments as opposed to one apocalyptic betrayal like we tend to see in chickies, but if a gal’s discernment isn’t great and she doesn’t have buffer room that sort of death by a thousand cuts situation can really fuck her over in some really nasty ways, which it seems to working class chicks happens constantly.
Every woman’s looks will always be the most important thing about her.
Most men are precognitively locked into Not Respecting Women as intellectual equals or Serious People in the same way they can other men, even in scenarios that have precisely nothing to do with status / fucking / cum and are kind of just about how to build a bridge or something. Which most of the time is frankly kind of a decent heuristic in light of higher male variance, as even with said heuristic in place the ladies have been able to achieve parity with men in lots of major fields, including a few you never would have have expected like actuarial for instance (presumably due to male procedural laziness and a more general lack of agency downstream of greater male behavioral plasticity). But the glass ceiling is also a very real thing that some women ackshully DO experience as existentially oppressive in a pretty deep way, as when chicks climb into the big leagues (not some middle manager shit but C-Suite or high political office) they’re assessed under totally different standards that usually force them to either A) serve as affirmative action catspaw for some nigga in the shadows pulling they strings or B) leverage sexual gravitas and the ability to bestow ontologically validating social proof as lifelines in a way that eternally locks them in the Labia League. Without committing to one of the above stratagems most women tend to rise and fall in rapid and unstable cycles and a lot of times even when successful end up kind of a meme a la Carly Fiorina, the main reason being that while women are often quite vicious on the attack they also can’t take a punch for shit and the instant you have a broadly legible angle on a bih you can most the time just rip her fuckin tubes out e.g. Hilldawg’s emails. Also consider that most women just aren’t all that ambitious and tend to distrust other women who are—which includes even High Pantsuit types in the vein of Megyn Kelly, who it seems are kind of okay with Blumpf’s pussygrabbing because he’ll lower their taxes and ensure their daughter doesn’t have to look at tranny cock in the locker room. Such women realize the orangeman is far and away too canny to overtly try to rape em like Ailes—rather he’s the sort of dude they could lightly flirt with at the Christmas party and avoid ever having to fuck simply by staying out of closed rooms with him, and in doing so get promoted a trillion times faster than they ever would under Hillary who’d probs resent and sabotage them precognitively for being so Hot and Sexy. Which means chicks at the true tippity top are constantly made aware of the fact that their position in life is deeply fraught and they’ll only ever be exceptional For A Girl and also nobody feels all that bad about this at the end of the day except for annoying fat chicks on the one hand and creepos / opportunists / fags desperate for validation and moral cover on the other. Which for a broad like Hillary—who was her entire life sold this idea that womyn can and will shatter the glass ceiling one day, and tbf came about as close to that as any bitch can only to have millions of other chicks betray her for the Patriarchy such that she lost ignominiously to a fat pedophilic game show host who talks about dating his daughter—has really got to sting.
Women getting Protected by men is inherently quite contingent on being seen as fuckable enough to incur some manner of friction for, which works out p dece for most of em given most niggas would fuck a snake if offered but once you get to really poor and low status nonwhite women esp in dangerous poopcountries no one cares about the bottom starts to fall out real fucking fast—hence sites like Motherless being chock full of clips of e.g. ghetto black girls being raped by drug dealers and Indian / Chinese homewrecker chicks getting beaten up by girl gangs on behalf of angry wives and girlfriends and homeless elderly white womyn being tortured sexually in all manner of baroquely evil ways by middle class black guys for crack money and literally no one giving the faintest fuck about any of this shit whereas clips of coeds getting blackmailed by hackers into sticking a hairbrush up they asshole tend to get taken down more or less immediately, with the alacrity of deletion more broadly corresponding to the fuckability of the girl in a weirdly linear way that seems to mirror Natalee Holloway logic; operatively speaking it would seem that mainstream society is remarkably tolerant in practice of guys hurting and sexually exploiting women below the fuckability threshold of, say, the modal lower middle class white American dude, which actually makes sense if u think about it given most fellers below that like are incredibly misogynistic.
Basically all men are crypto-hebephiles, and most women will if they’re honest, admit they got the most overt attention from men in middle school. And it goes without saying open talk and conscious understanding of this phenomenon has been (rightly IMO) repressed among polite society thanks primarily to feminist moralization regimes, but said regimes also have astonishingly little purchase outside white and east asian cultures, and even there you see colossal markets catering to the impulse either through simulacrum or by way of grey area shit that’s impossible to crack down on. Meanwhile if you compare daddy-daughter fake incest porn (the normie pornhub kind) produced today to the sort of shit you’d see on sites a decade back the girls now are WAY flatter-chested to the point of being plausibly 15 and tend to adopt a far more childlike or even babyish affect, which to my mind stands as suggestive evidence that widespread porn use has esoterically and indirectly begun to erode the 20th century mental fireblock on hebephilia, as does the increase in sex negative attitudes in Zoomettes (likely triggered also by a falling age of menarche) which suggests a greater incidence rate of trauma. Point is most birds pretty clearly never stopped being ambiently aware of this general tendency in men, which is why you always saw such a fierce and puritanical reaction to guys e.g. saying that 17yos are hot, which contra sperg rage was plainly only like ~20% or thereabouts about intrasexual competition and hysteria and was also never really about 17yos qua 17yos so much as a precognitive slippery slope thing borne of women’s protective impulse toward kids as well as their own traumatic memories around their bestie’s dad half-consciously leering at their puffies in the swimming pool (and probs also a sublimated understanding that their own dad was himself leering at said bestie’s puffies). Ultimately it’s kind of just a thing we all half-consciously agree not to talk about in the same way we don’t really discuss how literally all chicks are on some level capable of acting like the Baker’s Wife in Into the Woods should the right prince happen to pop up.
Why you shouldn’t hate women
First of all it doesn’t do anything for you—like, at all.
Bitches smell resentment on you like cologne on a Persian, and while it’s very possible for a man to aestheticize his misogyny once he has some other shit going for him it definitely needs to come from a place of real status or at least genuine emotional depth should you want to proverbially slip inside Alex Lee Moyer.
That said one’s always going to hate women on SOME level for the sort of reasons highlighted in the intro to this piece, just as most women will always hate men on some level for having leered at they puffies. Both of these resentments are obviously legitimate and you’re a revolting and contemptible faggot if you think elsewise.
And that on some level is the central insight of The Orange Pill—that resentment and botched communication and conflict and tension and even genuine hatred between the sexes is an inescapable fact of life we’ve always had with us and always will thanks to our most basic sexed urges on some level being inexorably adversarial.
Yet the frustration that comes with Difference—which contra the framework propagated by every second grade teacher in 1999 pretty plainly NEEDS to involve tension / anxiety / discomfort / jealousy / surrender by definition, as such things are what comprise that crucial ontological shadow in which real desire and intimacy and conquest and Twue Wuv can track with a hard and substantive referent as opposed to inchoate affective slurry—is literally the entire point of heterosexuality, and precisely what makes fuckin babygirl’s soft and pink lil pussy pie ackshully fun and interesting.
You can’t get rid of the bad shit, and if you don’t have Down Syndrome don’t want to.
Sure, there will always be SOME part of her that gets wet a little more efficiently for Dolph Lundgren, just as SOME part of you will always get hard a bit more efficiently for Eliza Thornberry. But once you internalize that understanding (and detach it from any deep metaphysical import) preventing either failure mode from getting actualized is honestly a pretty boring question of incentive gradients and enforcement regimes.
Anywho I need to wrap this up, so I guess what I’ll say is this:
At the end of the day sentience was pretty clearly a mistake, as no human failure mode will ever even come close to the sort of danger posed by truly incisive self-awareness.
And on some level it ackshully is kind of fair to pin all of this on the foids thanks to their Original Sin of inducing human sapience by way of paleolithic experiments with hallucinogenic snake venom—though I also suppose if we adjudicate shit fairly they already got punished for that by being women, which I guess in turn is the reason it will always register to any decent man as irredeemably gay to unironically hate girls.
You don’t need any dumdum Bible shit to realize women were placed by nature in an architecturally subordinate role of the Led and Conquered and Penetrated and Confused.
Men irretrievably overtake most adult women in very nearly all domains that matter around the age of fourteen, and past that it’s the variance in male ability / behavior that ackshully means something consequential for civilization. Notice even among those benighted Zoomers that all the real movers and shakers are overwhelmingly men; they’re just cleaning up with scarcely any competition as most of their putative rivals were one-shotted in early adolescence by assorted dopamine traps.
Women for the most part are kind of just fungible assets by nature, and a lot of times fairly boring and untalented taken purely on their own merits bereft of pussyjuice and pixie dust, such that if we’re being entirely honest with ourselves that one chick you think is Really Smart is if I had to guestimate totally free of context about as capable overall as maybe a fortieth percentile dude in your immediate peer group. Thing is tho you’re judging chickie by entirely different standards from guys without fully realizing it because she lends you social proof and also because you’d really like to drink her pee one day—which btw is completely fucking fine and precisely what you should do!1
Because a lady’s value comes from pussyjuice and pixie dust, having precisely nothing to do with her talents in domains of rock and iron or ability to use Vlookup effectively.
Also, newsflash? She already knows all this.
Perhaps not in any formal propositional sense—but intuitively, in her cunt and blood and bones? You better believe it. And that’s the register that carries real meaning in the language of women—or at least far more of it than any of the semantically hollow girlsqueaks bae passes off to Tide Guys as ordered / coherent propositional thought.
I mean, why do you think girls constantly talk about having “impostor syndrome?”
They know perfectly well they aren’t “equal” to us—clearly. It’s not something that’s overtly Said, but it’s the inescapable subtext of very nearly every fucking thing chicks do.
Which is ultimately why babygirl thinks it’s Okay not to care about any of your dumb retarded man problems and is kind of okay with the weaker half of dudes failing to ever find love and gets the ick when you drop a jar or stub your toe and lowkey gets super duper turned on at the idea of theatrically humiliating the nibba she’s cheating on with you which in full candor nasty nigga is u really in any position to judge???
It’s also why dumb shit like Girl Code is so important to them, and why feminism has if you think about it proven both hugely robust all considered and immensely protean both philosophically and semiotically compared to every other ideology on the planet.
Because it’s never been a proper ideology per se so much as an enormous ad hoc coping mechanism for being weak and weepy, fragile, soft, incompetent little women.
Which of course is why we among the Unfair Sex so deeply and helplessly adore them.
Anyway I’m done I guess.
Give your Uncle Walt some love in the likes and comments.
Also go read all this shit if you haven’t:
And since it’s been almost exactly a year now…
Have a splendiferous weekend, queermos.
— WB
judge her by different standards, not drink her pee
I haven't read it yet, but I love new pill colors due to autism. I hate categorizing people or being categorized but love categorizing things and people in my head.
I have talked about "the graypill" (a sort of real thing) or even joked about calling myself "turquoise pilled" as a joke that "I wish the blue pill were true but it's descriptively not but I'm not giving up on certain moral claims because they're valuable regardless".
Will give it a read. Hope this is serious and not you scabbing 100%.