Friday, 25 January 2013

Love Be A Four Letter Word


Stingray has a blog post up about reaching her 37th birthday, and her subsequent lamentation of hitting The Wall, and what her husband sees. This is certainly a grim part of life for the lassie and bears much food for thought. I still remember my grandmother, vivacious as a woman in her early twenties, dressing well, doing all that kind of thing for my grandfather. She said she felt young inside. Vox Day and Stingray have talked about this love goggles concept a good bit, but again, like a lot of things, it seems like an increasingly, distant, intangible, vague concept to a Millennial in this day or age. Ah well sure.

Cheers! Bottoms up lads!


I dated a woman who had turned 30 when I was 20, shout out beta and all dat shit if you will, for a small bit of time. It was funny, I was vaguely aware of game at the time, and only discovered Roissy afterwards, but moreso it made me realize, the rate at which a woman's body declines, the rate at which beauty fades intae lines and wrinkles and sag, is utterly remarkable, comparable to an exponential function in effect, and sad, just really depressing to be honest. One less hot lassie to look at in the world. Now she was a good looker this chick, and being foreign she was eons ahead of the party girl bullshit of the Irish lass, and being 22 and eating an extremely healthy diet while lifting weight with a high libido, there are women in their late thirties/early forties that I find incredibly attractive and would bang without a second thought. But, you aren't in the same league as the 20 year old, my dear lassie. None of yous are. The 30 year old can still be hot, and obesity does more to stick the aul dick in a metal vice with spikes in it than an ugly lass can, something which is becoming sadly, increasingly ubiquitous on university campuses, which means that a hot 30 year old beats her porky little 18 year old sausage roll by quite the fucken margin, we're talking Ireland and Spain at the footy margin. But even so. Youth is but a breath on a window pane. That is all.

Anyway, back to dat most precious of things, love goggles. Bill Powell said on a recent blog post that men can fuck as many women as they want, but they can only love a handful of times before being jaded, and day to day cynicism is the norm. The mellifluous movements of the lassie wearing nothing but those black Ann Summers panties, clothes strewn across the floor, pirouetting around your room and singing Fix You by those Big Gay Bastards (TM) Coldplay completely out of tune, are arousing physiologically, but mentally speaking it doesn't touch you anymore. Is this how players are created, is this where players spawn from? Neil Strauss nerdom, or your ego experiencing its very own Hiroshima? Love is one of the few non bullshit things in the world. I wonder, how common is it for your ego to be completely and utterly broken down when a good lassie leaves you? I smashed shit up, I started drinking, a mad bender, I read The Pale King and The Outsider and Kafka short stories and all these works of fiction and think them mad cunts are turning intae bugs all day and no one notices this fucken shite carry on, carrying onn. Anyway, there is a reason why I bring all of this up. Love is a glue that keeps society together. Men can only take so many dents in relation to this. We can fuck as many lassies as whatever, but love is a different kettly fish. Women, well as everyone knows, de fairer sex is all hypergamous and whatnot, so they don't have the same capacity to go out and git dere hole like mad from all thse different people. It's not in them intrinsically, unless they are damaged, at a root, base level. This is pretty awful when you think about it. 

We are becoming more and more emotionally autistic. Men who have taken the hits have the Phelps effect of dem love goggles filled with water, and while sometimes motoring on will get yous there with all the crowds leaping intae the air, sometimes, you bail bail, into shocking blackness, it just be a couch it just be a FUCKEN couch ye fucken mad cunt! We can't love, patriarchy and shit, and it all breaks down. We love less, the glue weakens. We divorce. We don't want to get married. Even the ones who don't buy into this Cultural Marxist bullshit and realize marriage is children first and foremost, yous need love, like the fucking fuel in the car, tae get shit going. I was talking to a lassie about her future and she said about divorce, hilariously even "eh sure, if it doesn't work out I can always just divorce him!". And when we get the short straw, we step out, some noisily, but with porn and entertainment, we can do it quietly, no fuss and no muss. We don't invest in a society where there is no love, where there is nothing but irony, and conformist, hipsteride cynicism cynicism, but spell it with a fucken k. Stupid modernist narrative with its whats its like toos be a fucken human being, great being just letters on a page, isn't that right ken? We step out with a drink in one hand, no longer the wet behind the ears bairn, no longer foolish enough to fall in love with another lassie who simply isnae fucking worth it, and the world ends, not with a bang, but with a whimper.

I guess the story is fuck as many lassies as you want, but only fall for the good ones like. Stay away from dem slapper lassies. They tend not to wash, and tend to phone into Niall Boylan's smelly radio show a lot.

5 comments:

  1. You've been on fire of late, Begbie. Perhaps the polymath isn't yet a lost existence.

    More specifically, a problem, really less a problem than a thought-out and purposeful omission, common to the manosphere is the fact that pair-bonding is a two way street.

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    Replies
    1. It is, and it also goes into the whole "men are the romantics, not women" area of things. I wonder, if you were to offer Roosh a 9, Eastern European, virgin who was literally the perfect woman, but the tradeoff is that you can't do what you are doing anymore, would he go for it.

      I wonder does it have anything to do with receptors in the brain and the effect of oxytocin?

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