The Official BGOL " All About Women" Thread....
- Thread starter ArsenalCannon357
- Start date
Women didn't create the polluntants and oil companies and refining plants. Women didn't put the green house gases into the air to erode the ozone. lol.
jk
Not really....
Women didn't create the polluntants and oil companies and refining plants. Women didn't put the green house gases into the air to erode the ozone. lol.
jk
Not really....
Do you date white men? Black men have just about nothing to do with that shit.
Bringing it to the top...
Bad Girls: Let's Be Honest Ladies, Aren't You Only Into Him Because He's Not Into You?
By Michelle Langley
The authors left out one very important piece of the puzzle in their bestselling book He's Just Not That Into You. Deep down every female knows what that little piece of the puzzle is. Our perception and our reality are worlds apart when it comes to relationships today. Although our reality has drastically changed our perception continues to remain the same.
The tired but lingering perception still holds men responsible for the majority of problems experienced in relationships; which is not to say that women are unwilling to take a little responsibility. Women often blame themselves for giving and loving too much. Interestingly enough, females tend to only give and love too much when they are involved with males that treat them badly or at the least males that show them little interest. Could it be that females continue to love males like this because it is simply in their nature to be giving and nurturing, or could it simply be that females love a challenge? If you are a male reader, you probably suspect it's the latter. Although, if you are a female reader, you know it's the latter.
Females chase after commitment in the same way that males have always chased after sex. Males often lose interest in females after they get them into bed and females often lose interest in males after they get them to commit - that's the reality, but it's certainly not the perception that most people have about women. Why? Because it doesn't fit the males are "bad"; and females are "good" stereotype to which we have become so accustomed.
The females who claim to love too much are the equivalent of males who will say or do anything to get a female into bed. These females will put up with anything and will do almost anything to accomplish their goal - getting a man into a commitment. However, once they have garnered their commitment they usually become bored and resentful. Eventually, after finding a reason to blame the men for their unhappiness ( i.e. boredom) they move on to their next conquest. This is the commitment game - it's the female version of pursue and discard.
I found it interesting, having interviewed more than two hundred people as well as having recently written a book about females, to hear that large numbers of women were ending their relationships as a result of reading He's Just Not That Into You. Interesting, because I knew from my research that these women were most likely ending their relationships for the same reason they had stayed in them; they viewed the men they were seeing as a challenge.
I was curious, so I set out to find out what was really behind the apparent phenomenon. I wanted to know why women were really ending their relationships after their encounter with that little book we've all heard so much about.
I discovered that the book's directness made it difficult, if not impossible, for women to continue to rationalize their boyfriend's behavior once they had read it; there was nothing left for the women to analyze or to talk about with their friends. They no longer needed to try and figure out what their boyfriends were thinking, or spend time wondering about where their relationship was going. The need for discussing, analyzing, hoping and longing had all been eliminated. As a result, many women ended their relationships. They had mistakenly believed that the men in their lives were complicated and mysterious, or in other words, a challenge; instead, they found out their boyfriend's behavior was categorically identifiable and even predictable.
However, what must not be overlooked is the fact that it was the apparent "cookie cutter" behavior of men, meaning the men's loss of mystery, which caused the women to end their relationships. It was obviously not due to the way men were treating them; otherwise women would have ended their relationships prior to reading the book. So, it seems women are ending their relationships after reading the book for the same reason they often ended them prior to reading it - they think the men in their lives are boring.
One of the co-authors of He's Just Not That Into You has co-written a new book, titled It's Called a Break Up Because It's Broken. Even without reading the sub-title, one could easily assume that the book is intended to help women deal with the difficulty and aftermath of a break-up. One could assume this due to the book's cover which prominently displays a container of ice cream.
It will be interesting to see if this new book will sweep the nation too; although, I must say, I don't think it will. The reason is due to a little known fact: it is women, not men who end the majority of relationships. I know what your preconditioned mind must be thinking. You must be thinking "well, women wouldn't be ending the majority of relationships if it weren't for men's bad behavior." But this isn't necessarily the case. Growing apart is actually one of the most common reasons cited by women for ending their relationships and during my research, the reason most frequently given by women for ending or wanting to end their relationship was "my husband/boyfriend is boring."
Bearing this in mind, one has to wonder why the new break-up book doesn't have a big, frosty beer on its cover. The answer to that one is probably pretty simple:
A) As a society we keep women's bad behavior a secret; trust me, if it had been Hillary instead of Bill you would have never been the wiser.
B) Women buy a lot more books than men.
These types of books are obviously intended to empower women. However, I believe the opposite is true. Women will never be empowered by the media's false bravado which is constantly being used to feed their egos and somehow make up for their past oppression. Women will only become truly empowered when they own the dark side of their nature. When they are held accountable and take responsibility for their own bad behavior as well as the harm they often inflict onto others.
In our culture men have been reduced to nothing more than their animal nature, while women on the other hand, are still somehow separated from theirs. The devil and the angel, so to speak, live inside every human being. Females are in no way excluded from this fact of human nature. At some point in history, many societies assigned and deemed certain characteristics and behaviors natural, meaning acceptable, for each of the sexes. To this day, people are inundated with these same exaggerated and fictitious images of male and female behavior. Women, as well as men, have been sliced down the middle - able to own only part of who they are.
In order for females to achieve real equality and to stop being their own oppressors they are going to have to acknowledge, as well as take responsibility for, the disrespectful way in which they often treat males. In truth, women are just as often the villains as they are the victims. Acknowledging and accepting this fact is the only way for women to truly become whole.
This process may require women to ask themselves some pretty tough questions which they undoubtedly will not like the answers to. Questions such as:
How many guys have I blown off? How many times have I not returned a guy's phone call? How many times have I lied to a guy? How many times have I cheated on a guy? How many times have I strung a guy along? How many times have I used a guy for his money? How many times have I used a guy for attention? How many times have I used a guy for sex?
Females regularly do all of these things and more. What's more, they typically do them to males who really like them and are trying to treat them well. Unfortunately, the nice guys are often viewed, as willing - willing to commit, which translated into male terms means - an easy lay.
Women didn't need to read a book from a man's perspective in order for them to understand and gain insight into male behavior, all they needed to do was ask themselves why they treat some males in the same way that they often complain about being treated.. And of course, without any hesitation an answer quite similar to the title of that little book would roll right off every woman's tongue -- I'm just not that into him.
Michelle Langley is the author of Women's Infidelity: Living In Limbo: What Women Really Mean When They Say, "I'm Not Happy"
By Michelle Langley
The authors left out one very important piece of the puzzle in their bestselling book He's Just Not That Into You. Deep down every female knows what that little piece of the puzzle is. Our perception and our reality are worlds apart when it comes to relationships today. Although our reality has drastically changed our perception continues to remain the same.
The tired but lingering perception still holds men responsible for the majority of problems experienced in relationships; which is not to say that women are unwilling to take a little responsibility. Women often blame themselves for giving and loving too much. Interestingly enough, females tend to only give and love too much when they are involved with males that treat them badly or at the least males that show them little interest. Could it be that females continue to love males like this because it is simply in their nature to be giving and nurturing, or could it simply be that females love a challenge? If you are a male reader, you probably suspect it's the latter. Although, if you are a female reader, you know it's the latter.
Females chase after commitment in the same way that males have always chased after sex. Males often lose interest in females after they get them into bed and females often lose interest in males after they get them to commit - that's the reality, but it's certainly not the perception that most people have about women. Why? Because it doesn't fit the males are "bad"; and females are "good" stereotype to which we have become so accustomed.
The females who claim to love too much are the equivalent of males who will say or do anything to get a female into bed. These females will put up with anything and will do almost anything to accomplish their goal - getting a man into a commitment. However, once they have garnered their commitment they usually become bored and resentful. Eventually, after finding a reason to blame the men for their unhappiness ( i.e. boredom) they move on to their next conquest. This is the commitment game - it's the female version of pursue and discard.
I found it interesting, having interviewed more than two hundred people as well as having recently written a book about females, to hear that large numbers of women were ending their relationships as a result of reading He's Just Not That Into You. Interesting, because I knew from my research that these women were most likely ending their relationships for the same reason they had stayed in them; they viewed the men they were seeing as a challenge.
I was curious, so I set out to find out what was really behind the apparent phenomenon. I wanted to know why women were really ending their relationships after their encounter with that little book we've all heard so much about.
I discovered that the book's directness made it difficult, if not impossible, for women to continue to rationalize their boyfriend's behavior once they had read it; there was nothing left for the women to analyze or to talk about with their friends. They no longer needed to try and figure out what their boyfriends were thinking, or spend time wondering about where their relationship was going. The need for discussing, analyzing, hoping and longing had all been eliminated. As a result, many women ended their relationships. They had mistakenly believed that the men in their lives were complicated and mysterious, or in other words, a challenge; instead, they found out their boyfriend's behavior was categorically identifiable and even predictable.
However, what must not be overlooked is the fact that it was the apparent "cookie cutter" behavior of men, meaning the men's loss of mystery, which caused the women to end their relationships. It was obviously not due to the way men were treating them; otherwise women would have ended their relationships prior to reading the book. So, it seems women are ending their relationships after reading the book for the same reason they often ended them prior to reading it - they think the men in their lives are boring.
One of the co-authors of He's Just Not That Into You has co-written a new book, titled It's Called a Break Up Because It's Broken. Even without reading the sub-title, one could easily assume that the book is intended to help women deal with the difficulty and aftermath of a break-up. One could assume this due to the book's cover which prominently displays a container of ice cream.
It will be interesting to see if this new book will sweep the nation too; although, I must say, I don't think it will. The reason is due to a little known fact: it is women, not men who end the majority of relationships. I know what your preconditioned mind must be thinking. You must be thinking "well, women wouldn't be ending the majority of relationships if it weren't for men's bad behavior." But this isn't necessarily the case. Growing apart is actually one of the most common reasons cited by women for ending their relationships and during my research, the reason most frequently given by women for ending or wanting to end their relationship was "my husband/boyfriend is boring."
Bearing this in mind, one has to wonder why the new break-up book doesn't have a big, frosty beer on its cover. The answer to that one is probably pretty simple:
A) As a society we keep women's bad behavior a secret; trust me, if it had been Hillary instead of Bill you would have never been the wiser.
B) Women buy a lot more books than men.
These types of books are obviously intended to empower women. However, I believe the opposite is true. Women will never be empowered by the media's false bravado which is constantly being used to feed their egos and somehow make up for their past oppression. Women will only become truly empowered when they own the dark side of their nature. When they are held accountable and take responsibility for their own bad behavior as well as the harm they often inflict onto others.
In our culture men have been reduced to nothing more than their animal nature, while women on the other hand, are still somehow separated from theirs. The devil and the angel, so to speak, live inside every human being. Females are in no way excluded from this fact of human nature. At some point in history, many societies assigned and deemed certain characteristics and behaviors natural, meaning acceptable, for each of the sexes. To this day, people are inundated with these same exaggerated and fictitious images of male and female behavior. Women, as well as men, have been sliced down the middle - able to own only part of who they are.
In order for females to achieve real equality and to stop being their own oppressors they are going to have to acknowledge, as well as take responsibility for, the disrespectful way in which they often treat males. In truth, women are just as often the villains as they are the victims. Acknowledging and accepting this fact is the only way for women to truly become whole.
This process may require women to ask themselves some pretty tough questions which they undoubtedly will not like the answers to. Questions such as:
How many guys have I blown off? How many times have I not returned a guy's phone call? How many times have I lied to a guy? How many times have I cheated on a guy? How many times have I strung a guy along? How many times have I used a guy for his money? How many times have I used a guy for attention? How many times have I used a guy for sex?
Females regularly do all of these things and more. What's more, they typically do them to males who really like them and are trying to treat them well. Unfortunately, the nice guys are often viewed, as willing - willing to commit, which translated into male terms means - an easy lay.
Women didn't need to read a book from a man's perspective in order for them to understand and gain insight into male behavior, all they needed to do was ask themselves why they treat some males in the same way that they often complain about being treated.. And of course, without any hesitation an answer quite similar to the title of that little book would roll right off every woman's tongue -- I'm just not that into him.
Michelle Langley is the author of Women's Infidelity: Living In Limbo: What Women Really Mean When They Say, "I'm Not Happy"
^^^^
good reading
good reading
up up up
This is a great article found by nycmicrowave. Thanks fam!
Failure to Launch: When Beauty Fades
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
http://www.elle.com/Life-Love/Sex-Re...n-Beauty-Fades
Failure to Launch: When Beauty Fades
Prozac Nation's Elizabeth Wurtzel confronts her fear of aging and losing her good looks
By Elizabeth Wurtzel | May 20, 2009 3:00 p.m.
No one says to my face that 41 is just a little too old to still be dating—in fact, people like to point out how it’s normal these days, which is also true—but I know what’s up. I just moved a couple of months ago, and I made a determined effort to put my effects in order. I went through a box of old photographs and contact sheets from shoots I had done throughout my twenties and thirties, pictures in all kinds of poses, various stages of dishabille and froufrou and frippery, too much makeup and barely a bit of blush, Kodachrome and black and white, in studios and hotel rooms and cornfields and corners of streets—piles of portraits, marking a life. And I looked at the girl in all these images, as varied as they were, and still I could see the same person somewhere in there. But most of all it wasn’t me anymore. It’s not what I look like now—I have aged since. Oh, it’s nothing to cry about, nothing to mourn for—I probably have another decade before I really start to look old, but something has changed.
I don’t know what it is—I don’t have wrinkles or age spots or any of the telltale signs that the years have gone by. Thank God for La Mer and Retin-A and Pilates—and, yes, hot sex, which is good fun and may be no more than a Maginot Line against the inevitable, but that’s not nothing. And my hair, honey-highlighted for years now, has the swank length of mermaid youth—which is how I plan to keep it no matter what proper pageboy is age-appropriate. No question, there are physical facts about my age that are undeniably delightful. I am much sexier now than I used to be—I suddenly have this voluptuous body where I used to just be skinny and lithe. Really oddly, a couple of years ago I got serious breasts, to the point where people think I’ve had them surgically enhanced, which I certainly have not. Still, I think, the honest truth is that I’m just not as pretty as I used to be. Something has abandoned me. I don’t know what that thing is—they’ve been trying to jar it and bottle it for centuries—but it’s left, another merciless lover. My hips are thicker, my skin is thinner, my eyes shine less brightly—will I ever again glow as if all the stars are out at night just to greet me? What finally falls away, after enough things don’t go as planned, is that look of expectancy—which, when worn down to pentimento, is revealed to be exhaustion.
So here’s the funny thing: There seem to be more men coming around these days, and they keep getting younger as I get older—I’m an interesting, mature woman to a man in his twenties, while to a guy my age, I’m just jaded—but I think they are falling in love with a person I used to be, with a girl in a picture, with an idea or an image, not with who or what I am now. Because with every passing second, I feel I am less physically desirable, even though I’m finally, in fact, a desirable person. It makes no sense, it’s not fair, and it sucks.
I’m hopeful that there will be a moment in the next few years when I’ll be more striking than ever because some aura will wash over me in that way that these things just do: as when feminine confidence and feisty intelligence overwhelm the depredations of age, and suddenly women smolder anew—running companies, winning Oscars, reaping millions, landing heavenly younger men. After all, there are many famous women who seem ageless, like Catherine Deneuve; or have aged sexily, like Susan Sarandon; have aged voluptuously, like Catherine Zeta-Jones; have aged beauti fully, like Michelle Pfeiffer. But eventually, at some somber and sobering calendar date, most of us lose our looks and likewise one of our charms—and I will lose mine. At which time, for me at least, there won’t be much point to life anymore at all.
I don’t want to look back at what was, tell stories of once upon a long time ago, of what I used to do, of the men I once knew way back when, of 1,001 rapturous nights that were and are no more—I don’t want my life to be the trashy and tragic remains of a really great party, lipstick traces on a burned-out cigarette at the bottom of a near-empty champagne goblet. Sex and sexuality, at least for me, are not some segment of life; they are the force majeure, the flood and storm and act of God that overtakes the rest. Without that part of me, I’d rather be dead. And I know all I can do right now is hold on tight to the little bit of life that’s left, cling to the edge of the skyscraper I’m slipping off of, feel my fingers slowly giving way, knowing I’m going to free-fall to a sorrowful demise.
Maybe I would not have to hold on with such tough white knuckles if I’d done things right when I was still young.
Oh, to be 25 again and get it right. People who say they have no regrets, that they don’t look back in anger, are either lying or boring, not sure which is worse. Because if you’ve lived a full life and don’t feel bad about some of what you did, pieces are missing. Still, there are some mistakes that one is eventually too old—either literally or spiritually—to correct. I can’t go back.
But something went wrong—terribly wrong. The calm I had during those years was like a dormant illness or an allergy that doesn’t emerge until later in life, or something you don’t see coming because it’s coming from within: You are making yourself ill. I became seasick with contentment. It was nauseating daily, and I couldn’t still myself against a funny feeling that there had to be more to life than waking up every day beside the same person. To say I was bored would be to misunderstand boredom: I did not need to take up table tennis or ballroom dancing—I needed a sense that this wasn’t the end of the story. The idea of forever with any single person, even someone great whom I loved so much like Gregg, really did seem like what death actually is: a permanent stop. Love did not open up the world like a generous door, as it should to anyone getting married; instead it was the steel clamp of the iron maiden, shutting me behind its front metal hinge to asphyxiate slowly, and then suddenly. Every day would be the same, forever: The body, the conversation, it would never change—isn’t that the rhythm of prison?
My imagination, my ability to understand the way love and people grow over time, how passion can surprise and renew, utterly failed me. I was temporarily credentialed with this delicate, yummy thing—youth, beauty, whatever—and my window of opportunity for making the most of it was so small, so brief. I wanted to smash through that glass pane and enjoy it, make it last, feel released.
And so, I cheated on him. With everyone I could. Bass players, editors, actors, waiters who wished they were actors, photographers. And everywhere I could, like that Sarah Silverman and Matt Damon video: on the floor, by the door, up against the minibar. I couldn’t sit still or stand still or lie still. And I didn’t want to lose Gregg either.
He knew, or must have known. But he was such a gentle guy that he gave me a chance to fix the damage. We were sitting at brunch one Sunday; Gregg was in his denim jacket and Sonic Youth T-shirt, his hair swept across his face, and he grabbed my hand over the table and looked at me so earnestly that if it had been a movie, the audience would have laughed. “I wish I could make whatever is bothering you feel better,” he said.
“I know,” was all I could say.
Months later, when Gregg found out for sure what I was doing, when he went through files on my Mac and found letters never sent to this lover or that one, he didn’t want to make me feel better anymore. He threw a two-thirds-empty bottle of Stolichnaya at my head when I finally found him at a friend’s house. He told me, I was your only chance at happiness—now it’s over for you.
Years later, when I was dating a guy who drank much too much and did things like toss lamps around because he had a temper when he was loaded, and I was ducking to avoid some projectile and wondering how I’d found my way to this, I knew Gregg had been right: I could have been a contender; it was over.
And then, somehow, years go by.
Dating this person for three months, that one for a few weeks, sometimes longer. They come, they go, someone is always coming as someone else is going; it’s not like there’s no one, but it’s all so lonely. I have no trouble meeting them, and I meet them everywhere: the usual places like friends’ rooftop barbecues and downtown dive bars—but also in business meetings, where we end up making eyes at each other instead of working, or standing in movie lines or walking home at night. I am a hopeless, shameless flirt. I wish I were shyly, quietly intriguing, like Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy, like someone French and fashionable who knows how to twirl her ladylike locks just so and walk adroitly on kitten heels, who is all gesture and whisper—but I am unfortunately forward and forthright: When I am interested in a man, he absolutely knows it. And I like men quite a lot and convey so much excitement and heat that I can keep the game going, at least for a while. Occasionally, I meet someone truly wonderful, and my heart breaks because I don’t know how to sustain the energy. It never quite starts, and I can’t tell you how it ends—all this pretty persuasion is a big pull for men, but then they’re gone. All of them. Somehow, I can seduce and be seduced for a moment here and there, but I can’t seem to meaningfully connect. That’s why it’s not seduction at all; if it were, I’d be getting what I want.
And I can get what I want in so much of life. I can sell sand to the Saudis, tea to the Bengalis. I get fired from one great job and then hired by a better organization. I decide in my thirties to go to law school and get into the very best one despite some questionable credentials. It’s what you would call not a bad life, even a good one.
But I am baffled by men. When they want me, I don’t want them; when I want them, they don’t want me. We are just shooting dirty pool. Or maybe it’s more like I’m still sitting at the baccarat table at a smoky, dingy casino in Reno, it’s well past 3 a.m., I’m in hock to the house, I’m drinking bottom-shelf martinis and eating stale canapés from the complimentary smorgasbord, my mascara is smudged, there’s no reason to reapply Cherries in the Snow to my chapped lips, it’s long past the point where any reasonable person would have cashed in her chips and gone home—but I keep thinking I still might win or at least break even one of these hours or days.
Age is a terrible avenger. The lessons of life give you so much to work with, but by the time you’ve got all this great wisdom, you don’t get to be young anymore. And in this world, that’s just about the worst thing that can happen—especially to a woman. Whoever said youth is wasted on the young actually got it wrong; it’s more that maturity is wasted on the old. I was both emotionally unkempt and mentally unhinged—deeply depressed, drugged, sensitive, and nasty all at once—during the years I was supposed to be spousing up. My judgment was so lousy, I probably deserve plentiful wedding gifts—Tiffany silverware to serve several dozen—for all the people I didn’t marry, because the men I dated were awfully bad choices, and I was not such a good bet myself.
These days, I am a stable adult professional—a practicing attorney, capable of common sense—but I still know how to live life on the edge. I was a terrifically brooding and mature teenager, then a whiny and puerile adult, and now I may finally approximate the grace of a person who has come of age. But it took a very long time—probably far too long. Now that I am a woman whom some man might actually like to be with, might actually not want to punch in the face—or, at least, now that I don’t like guys who want to do that to me—I am sadly 41. I am past my perfect years.
No one says to my face that 41 is just a little too old to still be dating—in fact, people like to point out how it’s normal these days, which is also true—but I know what’s up. I just moved a couple of months ago, and I made a determined effort to put my effects in order. I went through a box of old photographs and contact sheets from shoots I had done throughout my twenties and thirties, pictures in all kinds of poses, various stages of dishabille and froufrou and frippery, too much makeup and barely a bit of blush, Kodachrome and black and white, in studios and hotel rooms and cornfields and corners of streets—piles of portraits, marking a life. And I looked at the girl in all these images, as varied as they were, and still I could see the same person somewhere in there. But most of all it wasn’t me anymore. It’s not what I look like now—I have aged since. Oh, it’s nothing to cry about, nothing to mourn for—I probably have another decade before I really start to look old, but something has changed.
I don’t know what it is—I don’t have wrinkles or age spots or any of the telltale signs that the years have gone by. Thank God for La Mer and Retin-A and Pilates—and, yes, hot sex, which is good fun and may be no more than a Maginot Line against the inevitable, but that’s not nothing. And my hair, honey-highlighted for years now, has the swank length of mermaid youth—which is how I plan to keep it no matter what proper pageboy is age-appropriate. No question, there are physical facts about my age that are undeniably delightful. I am much sexier now than I used to be—I suddenly have this voluptuous body where I used to just be skinny and lithe. Really oddly, a couple of years ago I got serious breasts, to the point where people think I’ve had them surgically enhanced, which I certainly have not. Still, I think, the honest truth is that I’m just not as pretty as I used to be. Something has abandoned me. I don’t know what that thing is—they’ve been trying to jar it and bottle it for centuries—but it’s left, another merciless lover. My hips are thicker, my skin is thinner, my eyes shine less brightly—will I ever again glow as if all the stars are out at night just to greet me? What finally falls away, after enough things don’t go as planned, is that look of expectancy—which, when worn down to pentimento, is revealed to be exhaustion.
So here’s the funny thing: There seem to be more men coming around these days, and they keep getting younger as I get older—I’m an interesting, mature woman to a man in his twenties, while to a guy my age, I’m just jaded—but I think they are falling in love with a person I used to be, with a girl in a picture, with an idea or an image, not with who or what I am now. Because with every passing second, I feel I am less physically desirable, even though I’m finally, in fact, a desirable person. It makes no sense, it’s not fair, and it sucks.
I’m hopeful that there will be a moment in the next few years when I’ll be more striking than ever because some aura will wash over me in that way that these things just do: as when feminine confidence and feisty intelligence overwhelm the depredations of age, and suddenly women smolder anew—running companies, winning Oscars, reaping millions, landing heavenly younger men. After all, there are many famous women who seem ageless, like Catherine Deneuve; or have aged sexily, like Susan Sarandon; have aged voluptuously, like Catherine Zeta-Jones; have aged beauti fully, like Michelle Pfeiffer. But eventually, at some somber and sobering calendar date, most of us lose our looks and likewise one of our charms—and I will lose mine. At which time, for me at least, there won’t be much point to life anymore at all.
I don’t want to look back at what was, tell stories of once upon a long time ago, of what I used to do, of the men I once knew way back when, of 1,001 rapturous nights that were and are no more—I don’t want my life to be the trashy and tragic remains of a really great party, lipstick traces on a burned-out cigarette at the bottom of a near-empty champagne goblet. Sex and sexuality, at least for me, are not some segment of life; they are the force majeure, the flood and storm and act of God that overtakes the rest. Without that part of me, I’d rather be dead. And I know all I can do right now is hold on tight to the little bit of life that’s left, cling to the edge of the skyscraper I’m slipping off of, feel my fingers slowly giving way, knowing I’m going to free-fall to a sorrowful demise.
Maybe I would not have to hold on with such tough white knuckles if I’d done things right when I was still young.
Oh, to be 25 again and get it right. People who say they have no regrets, that they don’t look back in anger, are either lying or boring, not sure which is worse. Because if you’ve lived a full life and don’t feel bad about some of what you did, pieces are missing. Still, there are some mistakes that one is eventually too old—either literally or spiritually—to correct. I can’t go back.
A great post by someone who read the article on the author's website...
All men should take a long hard look at this article because this chick is the poster child for the modern American woman. Overindulged, ignorant, and firmly convinced that her beauty is an inexhaustible well. The core of the problem gets down to the fact that modern women are given absolutely free reign to do whatever they want, whenever they want, with no consequences (until the age of about 32 anyway). When you combine: 1. An over entitled 'princess complex' fueled by unrealistic pop culture nonsense... With 2. A feminist echo chamber that has convinced women that they're perpetual victims... You have to expect that the end result is going to be dysfunction in the extreme. To be perfectly honest, this woman's plight is to be pitied to a certain degree because she has had no frame of reference to tell her just how rough reality can be. What she is experiencing at the age of 41 is what a guy at the age of 21 goes through when he finally wises up to the fact that he is 100% on his own. For guys, this is actually somewhat of a blessing, because we learn it at such a young age, and it provides the impetus for success and achievement. We take a good look around and realize that it's either do or die. We don't have a choice in the matter; we have to go for it. Women at the age of 21, on the other hand, are so distracted by all of the attention, game-playing, and self-absorption that they ignore the freight train of 'age' that's heading straight for them. Christ, the options are so wide open for them at this age, that they actually ENJOY being in drama-laden relationships with loser dickheads. Meanwhile the true alpha-males are setting themselves up quietly for a life of pleasure and excess that starts for them in their early 30s and lasts a good 20 years (once the income level really starts kicking in). There are some good girls out there to be found, but our twisted society has made them so rare that it's not really worth the time to try to filter them out from all of the head-cases that have been raised by "Sex and the City" and "Real Housewives". If you do happen to find one, treat her like the gem she truly is. But scratch the surface of a 41 year old spinster complaining about lack of attention, and you'll find someone who likely displayed nauseating levels of arrogance at the age of 21. Pitiable to be sure, but it could have been avoided with honest self-reflection (a trait that should have been imparted by proper parenting). She'll soon realize that 51 is even worse.
*two cents*
Failure to Launch: When Beauty Fades
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http://www.elle.com/Life-Love/Sex-Re...n-Beauty-Fades
Failure to Launch: When Beauty Fades
Prozac Nation's Elizabeth Wurtzel confronts her fear of aging and losing her good looks
By Elizabeth Wurtzel | May 20, 2009 3:00 p.m.
No one says to my face that 41 is just a little too old to still be dating—in fact, people like to point out how it’s normal these days, which is also true—but I know what’s up. I just moved a couple of months ago, and I made a determined effort to put my effects in order. I went through a box of old photographs and contact sheets from shoots I had done throughout my twenties and thirties, pictures in all kinds of poses, various stages of dishabille and froufrou and frippery, too much makeup and barely a bit of blush, Kodachrome and black and white, in studios and hotel rooms and cornfields and corners of streets—piles of portraits, marking a life. And I looked at the girl in all these images, as varied as they were, and still I could see the same person somewhere in there. But most of all it wasn’t me anymore. It’s not what I look like now—I have aged since. Oh, it’s nothing to cry about, nothing to mourn for—I probably have another decade before I really start to look old, but something has changed.
I don’t know what it is—I don’t have wrinkles or age spots or any of the telltale signs that the years have gone by. Thank God for La Mer and Retin-A and Pilates—and, yes, hot sex, which is good fun and may be no more than a Maginot Line against the inevitable, but that’s not nothing. And my hair, honey-highlighted for years now, has the swank length of mermaid youth—which is how I plan to keep it no matter what proper pageboy is age-appropriate. No question, there are physical facts about my age that are undeniably delightful. I am much sexier now than I used to be—I suddenly have this voluptuous body where I used to just be skinny and lithe. Really oddly, a couple of years ago I got serious breasts, to the point where people think I’ve had them surgically enhanced, which I certainly have not. Still, I think, the honest truth is that I’m just not as pretty as I used to be. Something has abandoned me. I don’t know what that thing is—they’ve been trying to jar it and bottle it for centuries—but it’s left, another merciless lover. My hips are thicker, my skin is thinner, my eyes shine less brightly—will I ever again glow as if all the stars are out at night just to greet me? What finally falls away, after enough things don’t go as planned, is that look of expectancy—which, when worn down to pentimento, is revealed to be exhaustion.
So here’s the funny thing: There seem to be more men coming around these days, and they keep getting younger as I get older—I’m an interesting, mature woman to a man in his twenties, while to a guy my age, I’m just jaded—but I think they are falling in love with a person I used to be, with a girl in a picture, with an idea or an image, not with who or what I am now. Because with every passing second, I feel I am less physically desirable, even though I’m finally, in fact, a desirable person. It makes no sense, it’s not fair, and it sucks.
I’m hopeful that there will be a moment in the next few years when I’ll be more striking than ever because some aura will wash over me in that way that these things just do: as when feminine confidence and feisty intelligence overwhelm the depredations of age, and suddenly women smolder anew—running companies, winning Oscars, reaping millions, landing heavenly younger men. After all, there are many famous women who seem ageless, like Catherine Deneuve; or have aged sexily, like Susan Sarandon; have aged voluptuously, like Catherine Zeta-Jones; have aged beauti fully, like Michelle Pfeiffer. But eventually, at some somber and sobering calendar date, most of us lose our looks and likewise one of our charms—and I will lose mine. At which time, for me at least, there won’t be much point to life anymore at all.
I don’t want to look back at what was, tell stories of once upon a long time ago, of what I used to do, of the men I once knew way back when, of 1,001 rapturous nights that were and are no more—I don’t want my life to be the trashy and tragic remains of a really great party, lipstick traces on a burned-out cigarette at the bottom of a near-empty champagne goblet. Sex and sexuality, at least for me, are not some segment of life; they are the force majeure, the flood and storm and act of God that overtakes the rest. Without that part of me, I’d rather be dead. And I know all I can do right now is hold on tight to the little bit of life that’s left, cling to the edge of the skyscraper I’m slipping off of, feel my fingers slowly giving way, knowing I’m going to free-fall to a sorrowful demise.
Maybe I would not have to hold on with such tough white knuckles if I’d done things right when I was still young.
Oh, to be 25 again and get it right. People who say they have no regrets, that they don’t look back in anger, are either lying or boring, not sure which is worse. Because if you’ve lived a full life and don’t feel bad about some of what you did, pieces are missing. Still, there are some mistakes that one is eventually too old—either literally or spiritually—to correct. I can’t go back.
But something went wrong—terribly wrong. The calm I had during those years was like a dormant illness or an allergy that doesn’t emerge until later in life, or something you don’t see coming because it’s coming from within: You are making yourself ill. I became seasick with contentment. It was nauseating daily, and I couldn’t still myself against a funny feeling that there had to be more to life than waking up every day beside the same person. To say I was bored would be to misunderstand boredom: I did not need to take up table tennis or ballroom dancing—I needed a sense that this wasn’t the end of the story. The idea of forever with any single person, even someone great whom I loved so much like Gregg, really did seem like what death actually is: a permanent stop. Love did not open up the world like a generous door, as it should to anyone getting married; instead it was the steel clamp of the iron maiden, shutting me behind its front metal hinge to asphyxiate slowly, and then suddenly. Every day would be the same, forever: The body, the conversation, it would never change—isn’t that the rhythm of prison?
My imagination, my ability to understand the way love and people grow over time, how passion can surprise and renew, utterly failed me. I was temporarily credentialed with this delicate, yummy thing—youth, beauty, whatever—and my window of opportunity for making the most of it was so small, so brief. I wanted to smash through that glass pane and enjoy it, make it last, feel released.
And so, I cheated on him. With everyone I could. Bass players, editors, actors, waiters who wished they were actors, photographers. And everywhere I could, like that Sarah Silverman and Matt Damon video: on the floor, by the door, up against the minibar. I couldn’t sit still or stand still or lie still. And I didn’t want to lose Gregg either.
He knew, or must have known. But he was such a gentle guy that he gave me a chance to fix the damage. We were sitting at brunch one Sunday; Gregg was in his denim jacket and Sonic Youth T-shirt, his hair swept across his face, and he grabbed my hand over the table and looked at me so earnestly that if it had been a movie, the audience would have laughed. “I wish I could make whatever is bothering you feel better,” he said.
“I know,” was all I could say.
Months later, when Gregg found out for sure what I was doing, when he went through files on my Mac and found letters never sent to this lover or that one, he didn’t want to make me feel better anymore. He threw a two-thirds-empty bottle of Stolichnaya at my head when I finally found him at a friend’s house. He told me, I was your only chance at happiness—now it’s over for you.
Years later, when I was dating a guy who drank much too much and did things like toss lamps around because he had a temper when he was loaded, and I was ducking to avoid some projectile and wondering how I’d found my way to this, I knew Gregg had been right: I could have been a contender; it was over.
And then, somehow, years go by.
Dating this person for three months, that one for a few weeks, sometimes longer. They come, they go, someone is always coming as someone else is going; it’s not like there’s no one, but it’s all so lonely. I have no trouble meeting them, and I meet them everywhere: the usual places like friends’ rooftop barbecues and downtown dive bars—but also in business meetings, where we end up making eyes at each other instead of working, or standing in movie lines or walking home at night. I am a hopeless, shameless flirt. I wish I were shyly, quietly intriguing, like Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy, like someone French and fashionable who knows how to twirl her ladylike locks just so and walk adroitly on kitten heels, who is all gesture and whisper—but I am unfortunately forward and forthright: When I am interested in a man, he absolutely knows it. And I like men quite a lot and convey so much excitement and heat that I can keep the game going, at least for a while. Occasionally, I meet someone truly wonderful, and my heart breaks because I don’t know how to sustain the energy. It never quite starts, and I can’t tell you how it ends—all this pretty persuasion is a big pull for men, but then they’re gone. All of them. Somehow, I can seduce and be seduced for a moment here and there, but I can’t seem to meaningfully connect. That’s why it’s not seduction at all; if it were, I’d be getting what I want.
And I can get what I want in so much of life. I can sell sand to the Saudis, tea to the Bengalis. I get fired from one great job and then hired by a better organization. I decide in my thirties to go to law school and get into the very best one despite some questionable credentials. It’s what you would call not a bad life, even a good one.
But I am baffled by men. When they want me, I don’t want them; when I want them, they don’t want me. We are just shooting dirty pool. Or maybe it’s more like I’m still sitting at the baccarat table at a smoky, dingy casino in Reno, it’s well past 3 a.m., I’m in hock to the house, I’m drinking bottom-shelf martinis and eating stale canapés from the complimentary smorgasbord, my mascara is smudged, there’s no reason to reapply Cherries in the Snow to my chapped lips, it’s long past the point where any reasonable person would have cashed in her chips and gone home—but I keep thinking I still might win or at least break even one of these hours or days.
Age is a terrible avenger. The lessons of life give you so much to work with, but by the time you’ve got all this great wisdom, you don’t get to be young anymore. And in this world, that’s just about the worst thing that can happen—especially to a woman. Whoever said youth is wasted on the young actually got it wrong; it’s more that maturity is wasted on the old. I was both emotionally unkempt and mentally unhinged—deeply depressed, drugged, sensitive, and nasty all at once—during the years I was supposed to be spousing up. My judgment was so lousy, I probably deserve plentiful wedding gifts—Tiffany silverware to serve several dozen—for all the people I didn’t marry, because the men I dated were awfully bad choices, and I was not such a good bet myself.
These days, I am a stable adult professional—a practicing attorney, capable of common sense—but I still know how to live life on the edge. I was a terrifically brooding and mature teenager, then a whiny and puerile adult, and now I may finally approximate the grace of a person who has come of age. But it took a very long time—probably far too long. Now that I am a woman whom some man might actually like to be with, might actually not want to punch in the face—or, at least, now that I don’t like guys who want to do that to me—I am sadly 41. I am past my perfect years.
No one says to my face that 41 is just a little too old to still be dating—in fact, people like to point out how it’s normal these days, which is also true—but I know what’s up. I just moved a couple of months ago, and I made a determined effort to put my effects in order. I went through a box of old photographs and contact sheets from shoots I had done throughout my twenties and thirties, pictures in all kinds of poses, various stages of dishabille and froufrou and frippery, too much makeup and barely a bit of blush, Kodachrome and black and white, in studios and hotel rooms and cornfields and corners of streets—piles of portraits, marking a life. And I looked at the girl in all these images, as varied as they were, and still I could see the same person somewhere in there. But most of all it wasn’t me anymore. It’s not what I look like now—I have aged since. Oh, it’s nothing to cry about, nothing to mourn for—I probably have another decade before I really start to look old, but something has changed.
I don’t know what it is—I don’t have wrinkles or age spots or any of the telltale signs that the years have gone by. Thank God for La Mer and Retin-A and Pilates—and, yes, hot sex, which is good fun and may be no more than a Maginot Line against the inevitable, but that’s not nothing. And my hair, honey-highlighted for years now, has the swank length of mermaid youth—which is how I plan to keep it no matter what proper pageboy is age-appropriate. No question, there are physical facts about my age that are undeniably delightful. I am much sexier now than I used to be—I suddenly have this voluptuous body where I used to just be skinny and lithe. Really oddly, a couple of years ago I got serious breasts, to the point where people think I’ve had them surgically enhanced, which I certainly have not. Still, I think, the honest truth is that I’m just not as pretty as I used to be. Something has abandoned me. I don’t know what that thing is—they’ve been trying to jar it and bottle it for centuries—but it’s left, another merciless lover. My hips are thicker, my skin is thinner, my eyes shine less brightly—will I ever again glow as if all the stars are out at night just to greet me? What finally falls away, after enough things don’t go as planned, is that look of expectancy—which, when worn down to pentimento, is revealed to be exhaustion.
So here’s the funny thing: There seem to be more men coming around these days, and they keep getting younger as I get older—I’m an interesting, mature woman to a man in his twenties, while to a guy my age, I’m just jaded—but I think they are falling in love with a person I used to be, with a girl in a picture, with an idea or an image, not with who or what I am now. Because with every passing second, I feel I am less physically desirable, even though I’m finally, in fact, a desirable person. It makes no sense, it’s not fair, and it sucks.
I’m hopeful that there will be a moment in the next few years when I’ll be more striking than ever because some aura will wash over me in that way that these things just do: as when feminine confidence and feisty intelligence overwhelm the depredations of age, and suddenly women smolder anew—running companies, winning Oscars, reaping millions, landing heavenly younger men. After all, there are many famous women who seem ageless, like Catherine Deneuve; or have aged sexily, like Susan Sarandon; have aged voluptuously, like Catherine Zeta-Jones; have aged beauti fully, like Michelle Pfeiffer. But eventually, at some somber and sobering calendar date, most of us lose our looks and likewise one of our charms—and I will lose mine. At which time, for me at least, there won’t be much point to life anymore at all.
I don’t want to look back at what was, tell stories of once upon a long time ago, of what I used to do, of the men I once knew way back when, of 1,001 rapturous nights that were and are no more—I don’t want my life to be the trashy and tragic remains of a really great party, lipstick traces on a burned-out cigarette at the bottom of a near-empty champagne goblet. Sex and sexuality, at least for me, are not some segment of life; they are the force majeure, the flood and storm and act of God that overtakes the rest. Without that part of me, I’d rather be dead. And I know all I can do right now is hold on tight to the little bit of life that’s left, cling to the edge of the skyscraper I’m slipping off of, feel my fingers slowly giving way, knowing I’m going to free-fall to a sorrowful demise.
Maybe I would not have to hold on with such tough white knuckles if I’d done things right when I was still young.
Oh, to be 25 again and get it right. People who say they have no regrets, that they don’t look back in anger, are either lying or boring, not sure which is worse. Because if you’ve lived a full life and don’t feel bad about some of what you did, pieces are missing. Still, there are some mistakes that one is eventually too old—either literally or spiritually—to correct. I can’t go back.
A great post by someone who read the article on the author's website...
All men should take a long hard look at this article because this chick is the poster child for the modern American woman. Overindulged, ignorant, and firmly convinced that her beauty is an inexhaustible well. The core of the problem gets down to the fact that modern women are given absolutely free reign to do whatever they want, whenever they want, with no consequences (until the age of about 32 anyway). When you combine: 1. An over entitled 'princess complex' fueled by unrealistic pop culture nonsense... With 2. A feminist echo chamber that has convinced women that they're perpetual victims... You have to expect that the end result is going to be dysfunction in the extreme. To be perfectly honest, this woman's plight is to be pitied to a certain degree because she has had no frame of reference to tell her just how rough reality can be. What she is experiencing at the age of 41 is what a guy at the age of 21 goes through when he finally wises up to the fact that he is 100% on his own. For guys, this is actually somewhat of a blessing, because we learn it at such a young age, and it provides the impetus for success and achievement. We take a good look around and realize that it's either do or die. We don't have a choice in the matter; we have to go for it. Women at the age of 21, on the other hand, are so distracted by all of the attention, game-playing, and self-absorption that they ignore the freight train of 'age' that's heading straight for them. Christ, the options are so wide open for them at this age, that they actually ENJOY being in drama-laden relationships with loser dickheads. Meanwhile the true alpha-males are setting themselves up quietly for a life of pleasure and excess that starts for them in their early 30s and lasts a good 20 years (once the income level really starts kicking in). There are some good girls out there to be found, but our twisted society has made them so rare that it's not really worth the time to try to filter them out from all of the head-cases that have been raised by "Sex and the City" and "Real Housewives". If you do happen to find one, treat her like the gem she truly is. But scratch the surface of a 41 year old spinster complaining about lack of attention, and you'll find someone who likely displayed nauseating levels of arrogance at the age of 21. Pitiable to be sure, but it could have been avoided with honest self-reflection (a trait that should have been imparted by proper parenting). She'll soon realize that 51 is even worse.
*two cents*
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bump^^^
^^^^^^^^^
I listened to those videos Pogo. Interesting perspective.
13 Quotes About Life & Women
By Roosh (www.rooshv.com)
1. “Your wife has got to understand that no matter how much you love her, you’re a hunter, and your hunting is no threat to her. But no wife will ever understand that. No, no woman will ever understand her man.”
—The Book Of Laughter & Forgetting by Milan Kundera
2. “Don’t you see that a man’s whole personality is bound up with his income? His personality is his income. How can you be attractive to a girl when you’ve got not money? You can’t wear decent clothes, you can’t take her out to dinner or to the theatre or away for weekends, you can’t carry a cheery, interesting atmosphere with you. And it’s rot to say that kind of thing doesn’t matter. It does.”—Keep The Aspidistra Flying by George Orwell
3. “I am afriad that women appreciate cruelty, downright cruelty, more than anything else. They have wonderfully primitive instincts. We have emancipated them, but they remain slaves looking for their masters, all the same. They love being dominated.”
—The Picture Of Dorian Grey by Oscar Wilde
4. “The curious little talent that I happen to possess—the ability to hypnotize a woman with words—very seldom lets me down. It is not, of course, done only with words. The words themselves, the innocuous, superficial words, are spoken only by the mouth, whereas the real message, the improper and exciting promise, comes from all the limbs and organs of the body, and is transmitted through the eyes. More than that I cannot honestly tell you about how it is done. The point is that it works. It works like cantharides. I believe that I could sit down opposite the Pope’s wife, if he had one, and within fifteen minutes, were I to try hard enough, she would be leaning toward me over the table with her lips apart and her eyes glazed with desire. It is a minor talent, not a great one, but I am nonetheless thankful to have had it bestowed upon me, and I have done my best at all times to see that it has not been wasted.”—The Visitor by Roald Dahl
5. “At the time, I often thought that if I had had to live in the trunk of a dead tree, with nothing to do but look up at the sky flowering overhead, little by little I would have gotten used to it. I would have waited for birds to fly by or clouds to mingle, just as here I waited to see my lawyer’s ties and just as, in another world, I used to wait patiently until Saturday to hold Marie’s body in my arms. Now, as I think back on it, I wasn’t in a hollow tree trunk. There were others worse off than me. Anyway, it is one of Maman’s ideas, and she often repeated it, that after a while you could get used to anything.”—The Stranger by Albert Camus
6. “Words do not express thoughts very well. They always become a little different immediately after they are expressed, a little distorted, a little foolish. And yet it also pleases me and seems right that what is of value and wisdom to one man seems nonsense to another.”—Siddhartha by Herman Hesse
7. “It happens quite easily that he only sees the thing that he is seeking; that he is unable to find anything, unable to absorb anything, because he is only thinking of the thing he is seeking, because he has a goal, because he is obsessed with his goal. Seeking means: to have a goal; but finding means: to be free, to be receptive, to have no goal.”—Siddhartha by Herman Hesse
8. “I am, as you may have gathered, a fairly resilient fellow. I explode when provoked, but I never brood about it afterwards. I scrub it out. There’s always another day. What’s more, nothing stimulates my mind so much as a whopping disaster. In the aftermath, in that period of deadly calm and absolute silence that follows the tempest, my brain becomes exceedingly active. As I sat drinking my whiskey during that terrible evening amidst the ruins, I was already beginning to ponder and plan my future all over again.”—My Uncle Oswald by Roald Dahl
9. “Men make their own history, but they do not make it as they please; they do not make it under self-selected circumstances, but under circumstances existing already, given and transmitted from the past. The tradition of all dead generations weighs like an Alp on the brains of the living.”
—Karl Marx
10. “The only way a woman can ever reform a man is by boring him so completely that he loses all possible interest in life.”—The Picture Of Dorian Grey by Oscar Wilde
11. “And beneath his pessimism, his bleak conviction that all the machinery was rigged against him, at the bottom of his soul was a faith that he was going to outwit it, that by carefully watching the signs he was going to know when to dodge and be spared. It was fatalism with a loophole, and all you had to do to make it work was never miss a sign. Survival by coordination, as it were. The race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, but to those who can see it coming and jump aside. Like a frog evading a shillelagh in a midnight marsh.”—The Rum Diaries by Hunter S. Thompson
12. “Our job in this lifetime is not to shape ourselves into some ideal we imagine we ought to be, but to find out who we already are and become it.”
—The War of Art by Steven Pressfield
13. “Everyone must leave something behind when he dies, my grandfather said. A child or a book or a painting or a house or a wall built or a pair of shoes made. Or a garden planted. Something your hand touched some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and when people look at that tree or that flower you planted, you’re there. It doesn’t matter what you do, he said, so long as you change something from the way it was before you touched it into something that’s like you after you take your hands away. The difference between the man who just cuts lawns and a real gardener is in the touching, he said. The lawn cutter might just as well not have been there at all; the gardener will be there a lifetime.”—Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury
Bonus...
14. In the body of every mack/player/womanizer/ ladies man/rake lies the scorned heart of a romantic who learned the true nature of women the hard way...
*two cents*
By Roosh (www.rooshv.com)
1. “Your wife has got to understand that no matter how much you love her, you’re a hunter, and your hunting is no threat to her. But no wife will ever understand that. No, no woman will ever understand her man.”
—The Book Of Laughter & Forgetting by Milan Kundera
2. “Don’t you see that a man’s whole personality is bound up with his income? His personality is his income. How can you be attractive to a girl when you’ve got not money? You can’t wear decent clothes, you can’t take her out to dinner or to the theatre or away for weekends, you can’t carry a cheery, interesting atmosphere with you. And it’s rot to say that kind of thing doesn’t matter. It does.”—Keep The Aspidistra Flying by George Orwell
3. “I am afriad that women appreciate cruelty, downright cruelty, more than anything else. They have wonderfully primitive instincts. We have emancipated them, but they remain slaves looking for their masters, all the same. They love being dominated.”
—The Picture Of Dorian Grey by Oscar Wilde
4. “The curious little talent that I happen to possess—the ability to hypnotize a woman with words—very seldom lets me down. It is not, of course, done only with words. The words themselves, the innocuous, superficial words, are spoken only by the mouth, whereas the real message, the improper and exciting promise, comes from all the limbs and organs of the body, and is transmitted through the eyes. More than that I cannot honestly tell you about how it is done. The point is that it works. It works like cantharides. I believe that I could sit down opposite the Pope’s wife, if he had one, and within fifteen minutes, were I to try hard enough, she would be leaning toward me over the table with her lips apart and her eyes glazed with desire. It is a minor talent, not a great one, but I am nonetheless thankful to have had it bestowed upon me, and I have done my best at all times to see that it has not been wasted.”—The Visitor by Roald Dahl
5. “At the time, I often thought that if I had had to live in the trunk of a dead tree, with nothing to do but look up at the sky flowering overhead, little by little I would have gotten used to it. I would have waited for birds to fly by or clouds to mingle, just as here I waited to see my lawyer’s ties and just as, in another world, I used to wait patiently until Saturday to hold Marie’s body in my arms. Now, as I think back on it, I wasn’t in a hollow tree trunk. There were others worse off than me. Anyway, it is one of Maman’s ideas, and she often repeated it, that after a while you could get used to anything.”—The Stranger by Albert Camus
6. “Words do not express thoughts very well. They always become a little different immediately after they are expressed, a little distorted, a little foolish. And yet it also pleases me and seems right that what is of value and wisdom to one man seems nonsense to another.”—Siddhartha by Herman Hesse
7. “It happens quite easily that he only sees the thing that he is seeking; that he is unable to find anything, unable to absorb anything, because he is only thinking of the thing he is seeking, because he has a goal, because he is obsessed with his goal. Seeking means: to have a goal; but finding means: to be free, to be receptive, to have no goal.”—Siddhartha by Herman Hesse
8. “I am, as you may have gathered, a fairly resilient fellow. I explode when provoked, but I never brood about it afterwards. I scrub it out. There’s always another day. What’s more, nothing stimulates my mind so much as a whopping disaster. In the aftermath, in that period of deadly calm and absolute silence that follows the tempest, my brain becomes exceedingly active. As I sat drinking my whiskey during that terrible evening amidst the ruins, I was already beginning to ponder and plan my future all over again.”—My Uncle Oswald by Roald Dahl
9. “Men make their own history, but they do not make it as they please; they do not make it under self-selected circumstances, but under circumstances existing already, given and transmitted from the past. The tradition of all dead generations weighs like an Alp on the brains of the living.”
—Karl Marx
10. “The only way a woman can ever reform a man is by boring him so completely that he loses all possible interest in life.”—The Picture Of Dorian Grey by Oscar Wilde
11. “And beneath his pessimism, his bleak conviction that all the machinery was rigged against him, at the bottom of his soul was a faith that he was going to outwit it, that by carefully watching the signs he was going to know when to dodge and be spared. It was fatalism with a loophole, and all you had to do to make it work was never miss a sign. Survival by coordination, as it were. The race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, but to those who can see it coming and jump aside. Like a frog evading a shillelagh in a midnight marsh.”—The Rum Diaries by Hunter S. Thompson
12. “Our job in this lifetime is not to shape ourselves into some ideal we imagine we ought to be, but to find out who we already are and become it.”
—The War of Art by Steven Pressfield
13. “Everyone must leave something behind when he dies, my grandfather said. A child or a book or a painting or a house or a wall built or a pair of shoes made. Or a garden planted. Something your hand touched some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and when people look at that tree or that flower you planted, you’re there. It doesn’t matter what you do, he said, so long as you change something from the way it was before you touched it into something that’s like you after you take your hands away. The difference between the man who just cuts lawns and a real gardener is in the touching, he said. The lawn cutter might just as well not have been there at all; the gardener will be there a lifetime.”—Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury
Bonus...
14. In the body of every mack/player/womanizer/ ladies man/rake lies the scorned heart of a romantic who learned the true nature of women the hard way...
*two cents*
Article from therawness.com
Everything Is A Test
A reader once asked me, “I know women like to test men, but how do I know when a woman is being sincere and when she’s just testing me.”
The answer: Is she moving her lips? If so, chances are she’s testing you. Whether she’s being sincere or insincere, nice or mean, conscious about the process or doing so unconsciously, if she’s talking she’s testing you. And sometimes even if she’s not speaking, she’s testing you.
The main things she’ll test you for are the strength to protect her both from others and herself, the means and desire to provide for her, the confidence and dominance to stand up to her and to others and social intelligence enough to both manipulate and take advantage of social networks and to avoid being manipulated and taken advantage of yourself. The general rule of thumb is that if you can be played out or punked in any of these categories by her, then she can’t rely on you to protect her or yourself from being exploited by outside forces stronger than her.
Women are of so much higher social and emotional intelligence than men that they can test in dozens of subtle ways that men don’t even realize. Men only notice the more obvious and egregious tests, like arguments and jealousy plays. I’m skipping those, because there are plenty more that are far less obvious and occur far more often.
Here’s just one example: catering to the male ego. Many times a woman will regale you with compliments to gas your head up. The average male and his ego are so thirsty for validation that they will swallow it all up like a sponge and get gassed. She’ll tell him something like “You’re the sexiest man I’ve ever met.” Whether it’s true or not is irrelevant. If you visibly let it go to your head and asked “Really?” and start grinning like an idiot, she’ll know you don’t get complimented often, meaning not many other women tend to want you, meaning you’re usually in low demand. That’s one way to fail. Your reaction also shows you’re just as typical, predictable and easy to manipulate as 80% of the male population, meaning you’re no challenge and lack the social intelligence to provide and protect her to boot. If you go the other route and act totally unreactive or worse, use her compliment as a launching pad to brag further about yourself and add your own compliments, you come off egotistical, arrogant and full of yourself and that becomes a bad sign too. Yet most men will have no idea any of this was even a test, because it was in no way obvious, confrontational, tense or argumentative, which are the only types of tests the average man is socially intelligent enough to spot.
Another test is how much you think with your dick. Basically, how easy it is to steer you off-path by offering you sex, or worse yet, just the mere possibility of sex. Like if you’re in the middle of an argument where she did something wrong or you’re laying down the law about something, she suddenly cuts you off by giving puppy dog eyes, leaning in and kissing you, stroking your leg sexually or grabbing your privates, and you totally lose your train of thought and go for the sex without ever resolving your issue. If you don’t follow through on disciplining her because you lose focus and start thinking with your dick, you’ve lost. You’re now the easily manipulable type who thinks with your dick and succumbs to instant gratification and will fall for anything hook, line and sinker. Plus in the future when she’s no longer novel and new to you, you may be easily led astray into disloyalty by another new piece of ass down the line, so now you come off as potentially untrustworthy to boot.
Another test is seeing how she can make you voluntarily emasculate yourself. Many times women lull get you into a comfort zone where you’ll feel safe and in a judgment-free zone, then encourage you to do unmasculine things you normally wouldn’t, from crocheting to watching and crying at chick flicks to trying on some of her clothing and makeup just for kicks to getting done with a strap-on. I’ve heard all types of things from women that they’ve gotten men to do. And at first they’ll reward you for it and give you positive reinforcement. Then when you go too far and hit a certain tipping point of emasculation, they’ll start judging you and losing respect for you for doing the very things they encouraged you to do in the first place. And many times, you’ll never know you reached this tipping point until the damage is in an advanced or even irreparable state.
Yet another example is underplaying or not acknowledging one of your more obvious strong suits, a positive trait you may have taken for granted or are cocky about because you’re so used to being complimented for it. The test here is to see whether she can get you to fish for compliments or turn you into a validation junkie that starts seeking approval for the very thing you once took for granted. If you go for this, you reveal yourself as a false front, someone whose confident exterior is built on a foundation of sand. Tests like this are even more subtle and insidious because they simply involve doing nothing and being unreactive therefore appearing totally innocent.
Most of these tests are done unconsciously or semiconsciously and are instinctual, evolved in women through thousands of years of natural selection. Women who didn’t test men properly throughout human history chose bad men who didn’t protect and provide for them or weren’t loyal enough to stick around, so such women didn’t reproduce and pass along their poor testing instincts. Only the women with the instincts to test won the “survival of the fittest” contest.
The good news is, testing is a sign of interest. No one would bother testing you if they didn’t see potential in you. If they weren’t interested in you, they’d rather just not bother spending the time and energy testing you at all. And while testing never, ever ends until you’re dead, and probably not even then, most of it is front-loaded so if you treat it like an endurance test and pass it in the beginning, it gets a lot better. And the more intense the testing, the more she probably likes you and is seriously considering you as prospect and wants to be sure about you as soon as possible before she gets carried away and does something she regrets. So you might as well welcome it, especially since it’s an unavoidable part of relationships.
*two cents*
Everything Is A Test
A reader once asked me, “I know women like to test men, but how do I know when a woman is being sincere and when she’s just testing me.”
The answer: Is she moving her lips? If so, chances are she’s testing you. Whether she’s being sincere or insincere, nice or mean, conscious about the process or doing so unconsciously, if she’s talking she’s testing you. And sometimes even if she’s not speaking, she’s testing you.
The main things she’ll test you for are the strength to protect her both from others and herself, the means and desire to provide for her, the confidence and dominance to stand up to her and to others and social intelligence enough to both manipulate and take advantage of social networks and to avoid being manipulated and taken advantage of yourself. The general rule of thumb is that if you can be played out or punked in any of these categories by her, then she can’t rely on you to protect her or yourself from being exploited by outside forces stronger than her.
Women are of so much higher social and emotional intelligence than men that they can test in dozens of subtle ways that men don’t even realize. Men only notice the more obvious and egregious tests, like arguments and jealousy plays. I’m skipping those, because there are plenty more that are far less obvious and occur far more often.
Here’s just one example: catering to the male ego. Many times a woman will regale you with compliments to gas your head up. The average male and his ego are so thirsty for validation that they will swallow it all up like a sponge and get gassed. She’ll tell him something like “You’re the sexiest man I’ve ever met.” Whether it’s true or not is irrelevant. If you visibly let it go to your head and asked “Really?” and start grinning like an idiot, she’ll know you don’t get complimented often, meaning not many other women tend to want you, meaning you’re usually in low demand. That’s one way to fail. Your reaction also shows you’re just as typical, predictable and easy to manipulate as 80% of the male population, meaning you’re no challenge and lack the social intelligence to provide and protect her to boot. If you go the other route and act totally unreactive or worse, use her compliment as a launching pad to brag further about yourself and add your own compliments, you come off egotistical, arrogant and full of yourself and that becomes a bad sign too. Yet most men will have no idea any of this was even a test, because it was in no way obvious, confrontational, tense or argumentative, which are the only types of tests the average man is socially intelligent enough to spot.
Another test is how much you think with your dick. Basically, how easy it is to steer you off-path by offering you sex, or worse yet, just the mere possibility of sex. Like if you’re in the middle of an argument where she did something wrong or you’re laying down the law about something, she suddenly cuts you off by giving puppy dog eyes, leaning in and kissing you, stroking your leg sexually or grabbing your privates, and you totally lose your train of thought and go for the sex without ever resolving your issue. If you don’t follow through on disciplining her because you lose focus and start thinking with your dick, you’ve lost. You’re now the easily manipulable type who thinks with your dick and succumbs to instant gratification and will fall for anything hook, line and sinker. Plus in the future when she’s no longer novel and new to you, you may be easily led astray into disloyalty by another new piece of ass down the line, so now you come off as potentially untrustworthy to boot.
Another test is seeing how she can make you voluntarily emasculate yourself. Many times women lull get you into a comfort zone where you’ll feel safe and in a judgment-free zone, then encourage you to do unmasculine things you normally wouldn’t, from crocheting to watching and crying at chick flicks to trying on some of her clothing and makeup just for kicks to getting done with a strap-on. I’ve heard all types of things from women that they’ve gotten men to do. And at first they’ll reward you for it and give you positive reinforcement. Then when you go too far and hit a certain tipping point of emasculation, they’ll start judging you and losing respect for you for doing the very things they encouraged you to do in the first place. And many times, you’ll never know you reached this tipping point until the damage is in an advanced or even irreparable state.
Yet another example is underplaying or not acknowledging one of your more obvious strong suits, a positive trait you may have taken for granted or are cocky about because you’re so used to being complimented for it. The test here is to see whether she can get you to fish for compliments or turn you into a validation junkie that starts seeking approval for the very thing you once took for granted. If you go for this, you reveal yourself as a false front, someone whose confident exterior is built on a foundation of sand. Tests like this are even more subtle and insidious because they simply involve doing nothing and being unreactive therefore appearing totally innocent.
Most of these tests are done unconsciously or semiconsciously and are instinctual, evolved in women through thousands of years of natural selection. Women who didn’t test men properly throughout human history chose bad men who didn’t protect and provide for them or weren’t loyal enough to stick around, so such women didn’t reproduce and pass along their poor testing instincts. Only the women with the instincts to test won the “survival of the fittest” contest.
The good news is, testing is a sign of interest. No one would bother testing you if they didn’t see potential in you. If they weren’t interested in you, they’d rather just not bother spending the time and energy testing you at all. And while testing never, ever ends until you’re dead, and probably not even then, most of it is front-loaded so if you treat it like an endurance test and pass it in the beginning, it gets a lot better. And the more intense the testing, the more she probably likes you and is seriously considering you as prospect and wants to be sure about you as soon as possible before she gets carried away and does something she regrets. So you might as well welcome it, especially since it’s an unavoidable part of relationships.
*two cents*
Ive noticed something about some women in this world, and even on this board.
They avoid answering straight questions if they cannot twist and spin the words around on the person asking the question. They do this conciouslyu and unconciously, which means they dont see themselves as apart of the problem and cannot take critiques/criticism from others, be it object or subjective. When they lash out with ad hominems,etc they are usually the guilty ones but their egos wont accept that fact....
The women who are quick to say they are being "bashed" and "hated on" are usually the biggest perpetrators, and often are guilty of doing all the "bashing" and "hating" of black men ( or men in general). The reason they play the victim whenever a man states his concerns or criticisms is because they believe the world revolves around them, so everyone else must think and act like they do. Therefore the men are simply "bashing and hating" like she does...
They will either avoid direct questions, blow smoke (changing the subject,etc) or remove themselves from places where they cant pull bullshit. The funny thing is that they demand everything they say they want in a a relationship, but on their own terms, even if those terms are detrimental to the man involved. These broads think they can go around forcing men to accept their bullshit and when the men dont, something is wrong with the men...lol at that shit..
now women who will lie with no shame,etc are a whole nother story here...
They avoid answering straight questions if they cannot twist and spin the words around on the person asking the question. They do this conciouslyu and unconciously, which means they dont see themselves as apart of the problem and cannot take critiques/criticism from others, be it object or subjective. When they lash out with ad hominems,etc they are usually the guilty ones but their egos wont accept that fact....
The women who are quick to say they are being "bashed" and "hated on" are usually the biggest perpetrators, and often are guilty of doing all the "bashing" and "hating" of black men ( or men in general). The reason they play the victim whenever a man states his concerns or criticisms is because they believe the world revolves around them, so everyone else must think and act like they do. Therefore the men are simply "bashing and hating" like she does...
They will either avoid direct questions, blow smoke (changing the subject,etc) or remove themselves from places where they cant pull bullshit. The funny thing is that they demand everything they say they want in a a relationship, but on their own terms, even if those terms are detrimental to the man involved. These broads think they can go around forcing men to accept their bullshit and when the men dont, something is wrong with the men...lol at that shit..
now women who will lie with no shame,etc are a whole nother story here...
Why do guys ask questions and just want the answers they want to hear?If it doesn't jibe with what they want to hear? They declare you're not answering their question. Yes you are, you're just not giving the answer they made up in their head, they wanted to hear. To fit their little scenario. I'd like this 1 explained. It's confusing to me. Good post info. Made me think about things guys usually do. Reactive thinking!
Im talkin about women here, not guys, now guys who do engage in this are wrong as well, and full of shit, but they are not known for this...only women are.
this is exactly what I am talking about, see men dont want u to tell them what they want to hear....we really dont....especially not black men....we are damn near used to gettin shitted on by society and black women on radio and tv so we can take it...trust me....thats why we talk so much shit to each other in competitions or just in general.....thats why on bgol dudes argue and debate for a long as time before they say "fuck it" because they try to understand each other
with many women though.....shhhhhhiiiiiiiit
some dudes may engage in that behavior, but most dont, this is why most men argue over what is "truth" rather than who is "truth"
women engage in more reactive thinking and think that men are doing the same thing when many just want an honest explanation...in other words many women project what is true for them unto others...
its narcissistic...
Me personally? I don't like baited questions that you and everyone else already know the answer too. That's not really trying to get to an answer it's trying to inflate your ego. So you can try to preen about and say how RIGHT you were. There's a difference. If you're asking a question because you want to know the answer? Fine. That's total sense. Women know this. If you're asking a question so you can do something for your ego and then say, "oh you don't answer questions." Hell even guys know that trick. It's like did you fuck her? Yes. We know you did. You know you did. Now it's just a power struggle to get you to SAY you did. So we can feel "right" and justified.
That's MOST of what i see around here. When it comes to the guys and ladies discussion. You fellas will ask as question that's not even what we're discussing. It's a fallback tactic so you can feel "RIGHT".
Imho you stand in the wrong for assuming motivations of people here or anywhere else, yes motivations are the driving force behind actions, but unless you or anyone else know the person in question in real life, its only projection...
so most of what you see around here is only what you choose to see...
my post was about the choices made by women when it comes to questions, not so much their motivations..their motivations can vary and since they may not be known it is best for the man to avoid this type of woman in any serious matter/discussion b/c she will see what she wants to see...not whats right in front of her...
but baited questions is a change of goalposts...the topic is a lack of an answer to a straight one.....
hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmFellas you dont need to sleep with a gang of women to "understand" women at all....all people can be judged by their choices within circumstances and attitudes....
its funny because I now have women throwing themselves at me, I could not even give a fuck unless I want to....
fellas I read a story in an old african history book that described the relationship between the first men and women who existed...the book said that the women would hunt down,mate with, and eat the men until one man decided that he wanted peace...my point is that women in alot of cultures were not described as all weak and shit..they were often powerful, especially over men who were afraid of them (madonna/whore complex) and men who couldnt control themselves....
which brings me to my next point, now I dont have the highest numbers or even high numbers (like most men, but many women cant say the same) but the value of self control is vital...there are some beasts out here that will eat you alive and they rely on your desire for validation ("I gets pussy nigga"etc) to control you...its a hustle...
its funny because I now have women throwing themselves at me, I could not even give a fuck unless I want to....
fellas I read a story in an old african history book that described the relationship between the first men and women who existed...the book said that the women would hunt down,mate with, and eat the men until one man decided that he wanted peace...my point is that women in alot of cultures were not described as all weak and shit..they were often powerful, especially over men who were afraid of them (madonna/whore complex) and men who couldnt control themselves....
which brings me to my next point, now I dont have the highest numbers or even high numbers (like most men, but many women cant say the same) but the value of self control is vital...there are some beasts out here that will eat you alive and they rely on your desire for validation ("I gets pussy nigga"etc) to control you...its a hustle...
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I learned the hard way that, as men, if we were focused more on our own self development,values,principles,etc than we would have 75% less problems with women because women would be seen in context (ours and their own, via their choices)...I noticed how even if a woman is married she still wants another (desireable) mans desire...it boosts her ego...without that desire she has no choice and control/options...yeah women choose , but thats only if they are desired in the first place , which explains why alot of women try to force and bully men/attack their egos to accept their bullshit ("Im thick, not fat. Im strong and independent, your weak if you dont want me. You must like white girls,etc") and use "pussy rationing" mixed with his high desire to control him....
random shit
if a man has standards and many women dont meet them,or simply dont like them (or it turns them on, they want to "tame" him with their magic pussy) I noticed some women like to bully a man to lower his standards or try to get him to make himself invalid as a man
if some women have standards, she may go on abc news and talk shit about others, because she knows she cannot hide her bullshit behind her front from the men who know she is looking for captain sav a hoe....
some women dont like to hear what men think, unless they know they can take advantage of him, some women on this board, on youtube and other spots would not play the victim/avoid answering questions in real life if they were attracted to the men they met here...they would try to play the role and use his values against him...
women dont hate other women, they just smell their bullshit from a mile away because they are women. Ever brought a girl over to the fam and the women were like "sssshhhhhhiiiiiiiitttttt"? Its funny though because alot of times they are right, the woman in question aint shit...
most women who talk about what a "real man" is, will never be "real women"....
the feminist movement only revealed how some women think/act out here...the old saying "mommas baby,daddys maybe" bears witness to this
if a man has standards and many women dont meet them,or simply dont like them (or it turns them on, they want to "tame" him with their magic pussy) I noticed some women like to bully a man to lower his standards or try to get him to make himself invalid as a man
if some women have standards, she may go on abc news and talk shit about others, because she knows she cannot hide her bullshit behind her front from the men who know she is looking for captain sav a hoe....
some women dont like to hear what men think, unless they know they can take advantage of him, some women on this board, on youtube and other spots would not play the victim/avoid answering questions in real life if they were attracted to the men they met here...they would try to play the role and use his values against him...
women dont hate other women, they just smell their bullshit from a mile away because they are women. Ever brought a girl over to the fam and the women were like "sssshhhhhhiiiiiiiitttttt"? Its funny though because alot of times they are right, the woman in question aint shit...
most women who talk about what a "real man" is, will never be "real women"....
the feminist movement only revealed how some women think/act out here...the old saying "mommas baby,daddys maybe" bears witness to this
predators in the forest dont want to be seen, until it is too late....
some women who talk about "not judging her" for sleeping around are those predators...its funny b/c they blame men while its women who create and maintain that sexual stigma in order to have influence over the general male population...they know that most men would be happy with a nice supply of sex from a horny woman they are seeing....pimps know how to flip this...
some women who talk about "not judging her" for sleeping around are those predators...its funny b/c they blame men while its women who create and maintain that sexual stigma in order to have influence over the general male population...they know that most men would be happy with a nice supply of sex from a horny woman they are seeing....pimps know how to flip this...
fellas,
we will never have a tv special about our concerns outside of sports and entertainment, its important for us to keep our voices and minds because in america we are persona non grata...and the fact that alot of black women dont care while alot of us are simping says more about us, the women, and how we relate..
we will never have a tv special about our concerns outside of sports and entertainment, its important for us to keep our voices and minds because in america we are persona non grata...and the fact that alot of black women dont care while alot of us are simping says more about us, the women, and how we relate..
Then we're not talking about the same topic. I see baited questions. For the most part. Depending on who's the 1 asking. But good post nontheless.
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