the new way forward


Date Idea – Cocktails on the Beach

The trouble with most alcohol is that it tastes terrible.  Part of the reason that bars seem so great is that cocktails taste good, and that’s the reason we pay high school dropouts a premium when they make us a Cosmo or something.

Now, most liquor stores have a selection of small bottles of alcohol.  And I mean small – 50ml.  You can get triple sec, peach schnapps, everything you need for whatever cocktails you can put together.  The local Wine World even has a huge selection of generics for 99c each, which is all you need.

So, bring a little cooler with a mixing cup and plenty of ice, a few different kinds of juice, and stock up your ‘liquor cabinet’.

Have a few drinks in mind to buy your liquor appropriately:


1 shot vodka
1/3 shot triple sec
dribble of sweetened lime juice
2/3 shot cranberry juice

Pour over ice, shake in mixing cup, pour out into a martini glass (probably a plastic cup on the beach really).  Serve with lemon wedge.  (You can skip this on the beach.)

Sex on the Beach Laugh

2/3 shot vodka
1/3 shot peach schnapps
orange juice
cranberry juice

Pour over ice and serve.  Throw a cherry in there if you’re feeling dandy.

So let’s say the drink menu included these two drinks.  You’d probably want to make one of each for both of you to get her nice and lubed up, so you’ll need at least 4 shots of vodka; you can get a 200ml bottle of that.  You’ll also need at least one shot of peach schnapps and one of triple sec.  I’d bring some other tasty bits along for the ride, so you can wing it with some off-the-cuff creations of your own.

Don’t let some high school dropout steal the show.  Be your own bartender for your own sexy customer, save a few bucks, and give her a date experience she’s never had before.

The Overused Word


/ˈkɜrɪdʒ, ˈkʌr-/ Show Spelled [kur-ij, kuhr-] Show IPA  


the quality of mind or spirit that enables a person to face difficulty, danger, pain, etc., without fear; bravery.

A building trend, one that threatens only to accelerate with the burgeoning fattening of Americans, seems to be the ever-building willingness and propensity for fat women to take pictures of themselves and share them online in an effort to communicate their secret suffering as fatties judged for their weight.

And, of course, the peanut gallery had their say:

marie • 13 hours ago
A wise, courageous lady. God bless you.

Pamela • 12 hours ago
What a wonderful story! You are one strong, courageous lady! Thanks for sharing and I pray God will bless you every step of the way on your journey…

maddie • 12 hours ago
What she did was very courageous and certainly not easy. I respect her for that. infinitum.

Courage?  Courage? Courage to stay the course during a self-destructive lifestyle, to drown oneself in food and self-loathing and ever-expanding waistlines?  Courage to cry out for sympathy, to cast oneself as a victim?  Courage to document one’s descent into subhuman shapes unfit for even the most menial of basic survival tasks?

Courage, indeed.

Courage is the quality that takes men into burning buildings to save lives, that takes women through dangerous pregnancies for love of their unborn child.  Courage is risky, self-damning, and for the greater benefit of others than for the one who carries it.

Courage is not the piteous plea for attention.  Courage is not self-destruction.  Courage is not this.

P.S. I’ll take the one on the right though. 8/10.

The Wroclaw Gambit

I just swiped the metaphorical credit card.  I’m set on going, no pulling out now.

I’ve been seeing a local girl.  She’s 23, very attractive, wants to move slow (re: probably getting dick on the side) and I haven’t been able to close the deal yet.  Consider me a greater beta; despite my cavalier and ruthlessly scientific approach to gender relations and romance, there’s a part of my psychology that I haven’t yet been able to snuff out yet, and that’s the enjoyment of ‘love’, whatever that is.

I’ll skip all the details and cut to the epiphany:

“It can’t be this hard.”

Let’s set aside the fact that this girl was by far the most reasonable prospect I’ve met in quite a long time; intelligent, attractive, interested, young.  She’s not perfect, but she’s very qualified for the position.  The sheer gap between her, and the other dozens of girls I’ve met in the last year, has me scratching my head.  Is this really as good as it gets?

A few brief interactions, one with two girls from Austria, and one from Palau, had etched themselves into my memory.  I couldn’t put my finger on why I found the company of these girls infinitely more pleasant than normal.  I felt good around them, validated as a man, appreciated as a human being.  I legitimately enjoyed buying the Austrian girls a few drinks at the speakeasy I escorted them to.  I reveled in their company as each took an arm.  I felt none of the barbs, none of the challenges, none of the bristling that so characterized the vast majority of my interaction with American women.  And when it came time to bid them goodbye, I had so enjoyed the experience that I didn’t even feel bad that I didn’t get them both into bed.  I literally did not care.

When Roosh released Bang Poland, I was intrigued at the promise of a vast and sprawling country full of femininity.  His confession at the end of the book, an anachronistic paean to love by a hardened veteran of the murderously cruel DC bar scene, came as brutishly honest as any of the damning critiques of American women he has penned.  Intrigued; was it overselling?  Underselling?

My plans to sell everything and move to Poland to pursue a career in writing and music fell off; I ended up getting a better job, and made the dreaded call to invest my cashed out retirement funds into real estate instead of taking a few years in Poland to try to make it as a writer.

But with that safety net cast beneath me, I still wondered about Poland.  After all, what else is there in life but woman?  Work grinded on, and with the sheer number of only marginally desirable women before me, I couldn’t shake the idea of visiting a world where true femininity is still cherished.  Was it a pipe dream, one ruined by the sheer inexorable tide of Western culture?  Or was it even better than I imagined it, a pristine wildlife preserve amid the ruins of civilization?

I envisioned all of the possible outcomes.  Failure?  An now-uncharacteristic swallowing of my energies into the same depression I struggled with in my true beta days, where love came long-lost and opportunity malingered beneath hesitation.  Jet lag sapping my energy to approach, to move, to love.  Alcohol dulling the senses.  Testosterone running thin, draining my motivation to do more than simply live.  The resignation of money blown, opportunity lost, careers threatened for the long departure.  What if the women were simply no better than American women?  Even if a few lays came of it, what would I have proven?

And what would success be?  The warm and slender body of a woman, of long gazes into dappled brown eyes.  Promises to stay in contact, her tearful goodbyes at the airport, a Vkontakte inbox filled with aching messages.  A newfound measure to weigh against the inferiority of American women, the resolve to accept no less than true quality.  What should constitute success, after all?  Roosh warned against the idea of a rapid turnover time in getting women into bed, a prospect I am only secondarily interested in.  If I wanted to get laid, I’m a stone’s throw away from Las Vegas, where my less skilled seduction techniques nonetheless find greater purchase and it’s a hell of a lot cheaper to boot. 

No.  I’ve been studying women for years now.  I need a reference point.  It can’t be this hard, not everywhere.  Skrillex haircuts, tattoos, body hair, obesity.  It can’t be this hard. 

I bit my lip, and clicked the button.  Booked.  Bloody hell.


My Good Deed For Today (I Think)

One Fine Catch

An unfortunate and lonely author writes at

We were over each other before it amicably ended and very much ready to date other people. And I have. There have been flings and first dates and flirtatious, undefined, long-distance friendships. But no boyfriends.

The poor girl launches into a monologue of her perceived faults; some of them more pressing than others:

Over our first drinks, I’ll draw attention to my weird, clubbed thumbs. When we order the second round, I’ll make a flirtatious quip about how, after 10 years and as many antidepressants, I switched to Cymbalta and have been on it ever since. By the third, I’ll have found a humorous way to tell you I was raped in college.

I checked, and Cymbalta isn’t horny goat weed.  It’s hard to perceive how prescription drugs are flirtatious.  If I told a second date that I was on Viagra with a wink and a nod, that still wouldn’t work.  Unless she was a real down and dirty bitch.  And yeah, rape’s a bit of a turnoff too–we’ll leave it at that.

I don’t mean I’m tired of anything in particular — I’m just tired. When I say I’m on the couch with my dogs, it’s because I don’t have the energy to do much else when I get home from work or at the end of the week.

Behold, the fruits of feminism.

And of course there’s the atomic bomb:

I’m the heaviest I’ve ever been.

Tsk tsk.  We know better.  Frankly, if this girl were slim and trim she’d probably find someone willing to put up with all the rest of the shit.  She has attractive features, and would be quite a catch if she were ten years younger and in much better shape.  (As she probably was when she got married the first time.)  But she’s let her body go to waste, and the result is an unwanted ride on the cock carousel.  A guy with her faults would merely endure the grinding agony of celibacy and shame; she has the pretense of sex but cannot score the committment she desires.

I spent half an hour crafting a response.  She seemed like a nice girl, genuinely troubled by her plight.  Below:

In all seriousness, you’ve answered your own question.  And I don’t mean to be harsh; it seems like you’re coming from a place of real honesty, after all.  But, you’ve laid down the following points:
1) You talk about your uncomfortable history and major flaws on first dates.  That’s a major warning signal to potential boyfriends that you have a strong possibility of being unstable.  Your thumbs aren’t really a big deal – he’ll notice those eventually anyway, and men can get over small quirks like that.  However, being on antidepressants and saying that you were raped are some real out there things to be telling a guy who hasn’t had a good opportunity to develop a legitimate opinion about your actual level of stability.  If you’re a genuinely normal and well-balanced person, let him see that first, and then later on you can slowly intimate all of your problems.  If you’ve been on your best behavior around him, he’ll have a frame of reference to say, ‘yeah, this girl is keeping it together even though she had some hard times’, as opposed to ‘this girl is going to saw off my thumbs with a hacksaw if I fall asleep next to her’.  Stability in a woman is MUCH more attractive to a man than her intelligence.
2)  Guys want sex.  That’s true, but the problem is that men are often happy to collect on sex without a requisite offer of committment.  A man’s willingness to commit is the square of his desperation for companionship and his attraction to you; a man who is willing to commit to you despite not being very attracted to you is thus very lonely and in need.  And after all, YOU probably don’t want those needy kinds of guys around. (However, a man who has high attraction to a woman may commit even without an urgent and pressing need to be shackled down; note that even famous leading men of Hollywood often tie the knot to young, attractive stunners.)  Therefore, while you may have gotten a fair amount of sex, none of these men were enamored enough of you to sign a letter of hire; you were good enough for temp work, but not qualified for a full time position.  It’s great that you like sex, but the lack of committment post-sex is concerning.
3) You probably could use to clean your apartment.  It’s not a dealbreaker, but it’s indicative of other factors wrong in your life.  I’ve considered a messy apartment a minor warning sign in women, given how much more likely women are to be surrounded by a clean and comfortable environment.  But, it’s not THAT big of a deal.  (Tidy up a bit before he comes over tho.)
4) You’re tired.  You need to take better care of yourself, as evidenced by point #6.  As to your lack of spontaneity, I realize that it has a legitimate cause, but turndowns of quickie dates are often interpreted as signs of disinterest; many lonely women who are genuinely interested in a man will make at least some effort to accommodate an immediate opening in his schedule.  At the very least, you should probably make a quick counteroffer of another date if you are interested in preserving the relationship; a refusal due to circumstances, followed by a counteroffer will preserve his sense that you are potentially interested in him.
5) You’re unable to tell how old guys are.  Not really too much of a problem, but you should be angling toward single men who are significantly older than you at this point.  Learn to look for cues in dress and mannerisms that hint at a man in his forties.  You will need to, at this point, begin to sacrifice some level of physical attraction toward a man, since you’ve let this problem fester for some time.  And let’s be honest…
6) You’re fatter than you’ve ever been.  Let’s not mince words — to use the word ‘heavier’ is useless fluff.  I know plenty of girls at 5’4″ and 140 pounds who have a fine, dense, athletic body with very low body fat.  ‘Fatter’ is appropriate.  And I don’t mean to beat the word into you like I’m swinging a club, but that’s what it boils down to.  You have let your body slip past an attractive bodyfat ratio.  Physical attraction is so utterly critical to sparking interest in men that your number ONE priority ought to be to get into reasonable shape.  (Women have their own ‘shallow’ triggers, most notably fame, status and wealth.  Neither gender is to blame for it, it’s just how we’re respectively wired.) Looking at your picture, you’re not.  And it’s a tragedy – you have very pretty features and could knock a man senseless if you were in shape. 
Men with any reasonable amount of choice in the dating market will choose a slimmer woman – weight immaterial -almost every single time.  Men without choice in the dating market will settle for the leftovers.  You’ve mentioned not being attracted to men who have shown interest in you — the shoe is now on the other foot, so to speak.  Certainly you have displayed interest, from time to time, in decent men of reasonable quality; and they have replied that it is better to just be friends.  (As have I, in women that I genuinely liked otherwise but were simply too overweight for me to be sexually attracted to them.)  These men can select healthier, sexier women, and the men who have no option are willing to settle for someone less than ideal.  Unfortunately, those men are also less than ideal in your judgment.  And unable to settle for less than what you believe worthwhile, the men in your life are therefore the kind who lick their own balls and like to play fetch.  Not that that’s a bad thing, but clearly there’s a need that ought to be fulfilled.
You’ve laid out the roadmap for your own change right here in this post. 
-  Don’t reveal your dark, ugly secrets before your date can understand that they are behind you (if indeed they are; if they are not, then you will have to find someone willing to tolerate them, but you must show first that you are past them enough to not throw undue weight upon the relationship.  After all, if he can make a decision to be with any number of women, why would he choose to be with someone obviously broken?)
- You aren’t screening for committment before putting out, and consquently are receiving confusing messages about your role in the dating marketplace.  At some level, your subconscious believes that sex will naturally lead to committment and companionship, but you’ve inadvertently written yourself out of that. – Clean your apartment; and from a greater viewpoint, you must attack this problem with more energy and focus.  True self-change is rigorous, difficult, painful and merciless.  Writing a long post is only the start.  The rest comes over LOTS of time and hard work. – Go after obviously older men, or inquire their age early on; younger men are almost never going to commit to you, so screen them out early on.  You can ask a man his age – it’s not rude to ask men.  (However, you should be prepared to concede your own age as well, since you opened that floodgate.  Honestly, you have little wherewithal to complain about it by now.) – Lose weight.   YOU MUST DO THIS.  You are shooting yourself in the foot by not being in as good of shape as you can possibly.  It’s WAY more important to us that you look sexually attractive than it is for us to look sexually attractive to you.  (Conversely, you may be intrigued by an older man’s career and achievements, while we generally couldn’t possibly care less whether you were a barista or a physicist.)
Want a boyfriend?  You wrote the recipe yourself.  The hard part is sticking to it.

Who the hell knows if it got approved or swallowed up in the comments chain, but it’s worth a shot to save a soul.


The Swiftness of Change

Some time ago I noted that I would be selling all my stuff, quitting my job and moving to Poland in order to pursue writing and music. That has changed, no doubt evident in my minimal blog output.

Shortly after my initial post, I ended up getting a significant upgrade at a new position in my current company and am presently investing in real estate. The idea, of course, is to leave the country permanently at some point. My pathos for ill-mannered women has not softened, nor my desire to live a better life waned. I simply felt this was the most long-term beneficial course to take.

Not that that matters to any of you readers, of course. I felt it should go on the record as such; I can’t imagine too many of you caring one way or another, but I felt it should be notarized for consistency.

That being said. This is 2013, it’s time to get some money.

High Technology


Mystery was the first guru to introduce me to the idea to kiss a girl early in the courtship process – often within minutes.  I never quite got the hang of it for a long time; his usual line, ‘you look like you want to kiss me’, seems a little static and forced at times.  Granted it’s better to push the issue a little than to not push it enough, but the transition seemed clumsy.

Awhile ago I discovered an easier method.

Your mileage may vary as its efficacy, etc.  But I’ve discovered a simple and smooth transition I’ve ever discovered to initiate a kiss when the interest is clear but there are minor hurdles in the way (at a restaurant, in public, etc.)

Steer the conversation gently toward the subject of kissing.  This isn’t hard to do; women are generally eager to talk about if they are the least bit invested in the thought of talking to you.  You’re probably already talking about it with her.  Perhaps briefly mention a kiss on the television screen or in popular culture, or another couple in the vicinity.

Then ask: “Are you a good kisser?”

Use a slight bit of detachment – think James Bond, as we often do.  Often without hesitation she will endeavor to prove her skill to you.

This works on a number of levels.  If she is not ready to kiss you, she has the option to demur without a flat-out refusal.  If she is ready to kiss you, it is a subtle invitation, charming as the serpent.  And if she does kiss you, you have framed it as an opportunity to judge her romantic skills.

At the close of the kiss, she may seek your approval.  You may mete out a sliver of approval here; a simple ‘not bad’ will service both her hunger for your approval, and her desire to be lorded over by one who does not scramble to shower her with ill-earned compliments.

Deploy this weaponry, and unleash hell upon hearts.

Why We’ll Win

I’ll keep this short and pithy.  Much is made on men’s advocacy blogs of the built-in advantages that women have in modern times.

Forget it.

I realized something recently; that you and I (even you!)  have a built in advantage over women that a fistful of special interest groups and biased laws and preferential hiring practices and the like can’t hold a candle to.

I’m 33 years old.  By now I’ve got twenty more years experience in people not giving a fuck about me than the average woman has had  When you turn (or turned) 33, you’ve had twenty more years experience in nobody giving a fuck about you than the average woman has had.

Did you have the help they got?  Did you have the resources they had access to?  Did you have people standing behind you ready to cheer your every blase thought and silly whim?  Did you get thirty ‘Likes’ on Facebook when you posted a picture of your new Jamba Juice uniform?

No.  You probably had to excel just to get anyone to notice.  You had to fight, to claw, to bribe, to defeat others in your path in order to even gain a scrap of recognition for the work you did.  You couldn’t just live a mediocre, unaccomplished life–if you did, you paid for it.  You failed, and failed, and failed, until you succeeded.  Then people might have cared.

Twenty years.  Twenty years experience in putting my head down and getting on the grind.  Twenty years experience in doing things I didn’t like in order to get where I needed to be.  Twenty years spent back in the shadows of life, plying my craft, practicing my wares, building my skills.  Twenty years when nobody outside of my family gave a damn about me, and I had to fight to earn a scrap of the recognition and adoration that a nice pair of tits commands for free.

Are you 23?  You’ve got ten years over girls your age.  43?  Women your age are just starting to figure out what you’ve known your entire life.  You’re a master at being not-given-a-fuck-about.  You can handle the pressure.

Go after what you want and make it yours.   No average American woman can beat you when you step up to war.  Not one of them.


“…but, I don’t think we’re sexually compatible.”

Part of me breathed a sigh of relief.  Without a major investment in this girl, nor ongoing desire to continue to have sex with her, I found myself presented with an easy eject button, devoid of drama, accusations, or the hundred other complications of sex.

It hadn’t gone spectacularly.  I’d fatigued after a long night out that had started before 8PM, with a lifting session at the gym beforehand; and my energy had dulled from too long at the club and too long behind a glass of 151.   Her rhythm was alien, squirming against my motion at almost every opportunity, and the lingering odor of cigarettes on our skin bothered me.  The sex came perfunctory, its sensations dulled by latex and the nagging realization of the subpar performance I was putting on.

I later reflected that there had been a time in my life that I would have regretted her leaving, taking it solely as a failure to live up to her standards.  Now I didn’t particularly care.  I’d served over the line–now there was nothing to do but to pick it up and try again.

A curious weight is placed upon men to perform in the bedroom, all other factors aside.  So integral is this function to our worth as men that it’s small wonder that such a large sliver of our medical dollars are spent on erectile dysfunction aids and the like.  Despite a robust evening out, complete with hard alcohol and hard dancing, one so inept as to not be able to sexually perform at a high level (twice!) at 4AM under the smoldering pretense of fresh new thirty-five year old pussy ought to turn in his man card.

I presume that adopting this defeatist position is a tacit admission of the relative value of female sexuality.  To mull over mishandled opportunity is to pedestalize it, to make the moment greater than the man behind it.

As it was, I merely shrugged.  Not the best outcome, but by far not the worst.  I made mistakes – a bit too much to drink, a bit too little sleep during the day.  But it could have gone sideways, and for a relatively quiet ending I was thankful.


Squaring the Circle

With the bulk and the density of the high quality dialogue taking place lately on Rollo’s Rational Male blog, I felt it a little unnecessary to write.  The Petraus soap opera/noise machine has generated a feverish interest in analysing every available sliver of inuendo, from Petraus’ dorky posture (beta) to the sum total of his potential lethality (mega-alpha).  What could I add to that discussion, nay any discussion, with such esteemed discourse consistently being traded?  Sometimes I feel as though I’m on the outside looking in, my first opportunity at being the dumb kid at the back of the class.

Then I flip through the comments section on Heartiste’s political blogs, and instantly feel better about myself.

A friend request came in recently on my Facebook page, presently undergoing consistent and severe culling.  A member of a small dance community meets a lot of the same people and their friends, and I had made acquaintance with a stunning young woman at a going-away party for one of the local narcissists.  I hadn’t been pursuing her, but I happened across her Facebook – I don’t recall whether she requested me or I did – but a followup comment on my Timeline sent me into hunt mode.

I petitioned her forthwith, and with somewhat lackluster game (and the fact that I’d been in the bullpen for far too long) I dropped the ball, getting her to tentatively agree to a weekday date before having her cancel on me, citing that she was only hoping to meet friends and to get better at dancing.  And such nonsense.

I chalked it up to a failure on my part, and promptly deleted her from my FB, weathering the loss of several dozen pictures of her performing as a fitness model.  A pity, of course, but one does not tolerate the presence of an unattanable steak amid hunger pangs.  I was at fault; the best thing left to do was to move forward.

I saw her intermittently from there, never making an attempt to reach out to her other than a casual ‘hi’ if I happened to be passing by her.  I was genial in every sense, but never went out of my way to see her.

Cue forward six months.  Before shutting down Facebook late one evening, I notice I had a friend request; it was her again.  Puzzled, I clicked back to her page, seeing of course that she’s in a relationship now, still a fitness model, still smoking hot.

I let it hang, unresponded to.

The Mimic

To wit:

-The romance market is driven strongly by the principle of least desire; that is, the party with less interest in the transaction holds the greater share of power in the transaction.

-Most men are crippled by a nearly overwhelming desire to have sex with lots of different partners, insofar as it grossly influences their decisionmaking processes at all stages of their lives.

As a recovering Nice Guy/AFC, my inherent nature is to want to be very sweet, attentive and kind to women that I find attractive and are nice.  I find myself natuarlly a little aloof and dismissive of women I am not so interested in.  If I like them as being of good personal character, I will often be outright friendly to them – re: treat them nicely and enjoy their company if it is amenable to do so, but I will not accede them benefits for their gender alone; the partiality, provision and protection that women generally know to expect from men.

Given the average women’s supply-side positioning in the sexual marketplace – they are the objects of desire, and therefore in demand –  women of any degree of attractiveness whatsoever intuitively understand the position of the supply-side bargain, which is to sort out the prospective offers and to determine which is the best one, or whether it’s ideal to hold out for a better offer than the ones being presented at the current time.  (‘I’m just not ready to date right now…’)

To stifle my own desire to want to be sweet, loving and kind to nice women that I’m attracted to goes against my inherent nature.  I don’t like doing it.  It feels good to be giving, warm and open to women.  Yet women inherently understand that given men’s demand-side positioning in the marketplace, they are expecting to be desired by men UNLESS the men are receiving better offers elsewhere.  A man receiving a good offer is a stamp of approval of the value of that man in the sexual marketplace, one which women regularly rely upon to quickly judge the relative worth of a man.

Is it bullshit? A little bit. Mimicry of attractiveness traits, the core of ‘Game’ psychology, seems craven and manipulative on its face value to the average woman. Women want the REAL thing.  The very prospect of uncertainty whether a guy really is dealing with five other competing women on the side or just knows not to text you back immediately is threatening to relational competitive theory where success is directly proportional to the amount of information available to the opposing party.  A girl might subconsciously ask herself – is John willing to commit to a secure relationship if I have sex with him?  What’s his income level and professional prospects?  Will he continue his display of confidence and self-assuredness if locked into a legally binding marriage contract, or will he slowly allow himself to be browbeaten into wimptitude?  The thought that it could be a carefully constructed series of behaviors (‘I got you some Skittles for your birthday’) rather than the natural fruits of simply having too much competing pussy on tap is unnerving to a woman.

And thus the backlash against ‘Game’ behaviors from righteously offended women – women who want real men, and not fakers!  Men who say what they are, and can be chosen openly for their true and honest qualities, with all their hearts and intentions and futures laid out in the open!  Women want these men, women who engage in mimicry of their own with the red blush and lipstick that suggests they’re ovulating, with the short skirts that suggest that they’re sexually available and looking, with the pushup bra that makes their tits look bigger and the eye shadow that makes their eyes look bigger and their faces look younger, and the nice outfits that suggest that other men are buying them stuff, and the facelift that conceals her age, and the heels that make her ass stick out and look nice.  Women want real men, after all, because nobody likes a counterfeit.

As the demand for the remaining decent women continues to scale by a shortening supply, mimicry will scale disproportionately on both sides; by men in ever more desperate competition for the few remaining slender chicks, and by women whose expectations grow ever higher from the attention.


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