Rehosting "Dating Advice for the modern Serial Killer"
Dating App “just the tip”s & tricks
Jan 20, 2021
1. How to get a GF that’s 7 years younger than you, who is still young and sexy and not all busted up like women your own age
It’s happened. I’ve become one of those guys. I’m 30 years old and dating a 23 year old. I “met” her on tinder. Not even on “a dating app”, but the worst one. A female acquaintance (28) asked me if “she could see” who I was talking to, and first, I said no. “Why not?” Because you’ll think poorly of me.
Then I caved in, showed her my phone. She swallowed, blood drained from her face. She changed the subject to her own love life and the “personal trainer” she’s fucking, indirectly mentioning how much more built than me he is, to hurt me in the way I had just hurt her. When she saw her picture, and her age, that’s when I knew. I’m going to have to buy a gun. I’m going to have to protect myself.
Dating advice 1: Every girl is the last chance you’ll ever have to be happy. It’s not internet meme shit about getting “too involved” and thinking she’s “the one”. “The One” is a marketing strategy to sell women’s magazines. “Oneitis” is likewise a marketing strategy to sell men’s blogs. Both are nonsense. “The One” is a science fiction/kung fu movie starring Jet Li, about killing yourself over and over until the multiple-worlds interpretation of quantum mechanics makes you God.
Dating advice 2: Every girl is the last chance you’ll ever have to be happy, because every one jades you. It’s that simple. If you are in high school and have a sweetheart, marry her. It’s that simple.
There is a comparison possible to drugs and health. Drug culture is consumer culture. People think taking LSD will give them a profound experience, something unique and salient and transcendental. The kind of personality attracted to the culture of drugs — and it IS the CULTURE they are attracted to, not the drugs themselves — assume that there is something unique to be found, something extraordinary. A totality of expression that is otherwise unattainable.
This is incorrect, and such thinking is a product of a personal lacking, not a personal appetite or overflow; it is not the case that this excess is desired, and rationalised, by a desire for The Greater, it is born from a lacking, a lack of believe and a lack of access, to value. Any new experience or environment would give the exact same experience of transcendence and novelty as is desired in the psychedelic experience — literally, “getting a job” would be equally transcendent experience to the psychonaut.
The question of health, of being of sound mind and body, is a non-issue, it is irrelevant, the only relevant vector to him is “novelty”. This is a chaotic mode of being, and it is fundamentally a problem of lacking the language to express ones needs — and a lacking in belief that a state of equilibrium is even possible. The psychonaut is hopeless, he is characterised by his lack of hope; his lack of belief that a state of Peacefulness is attainable “in nature”, so to speak.
He lacks this belief because he does not know what nature is, because he lives, today, in industrial society, in media-hyper-reality, and what is known as “nature” to him, is signifier not signified. Most men have never experienced nature — they have experiences it only through screens, and confuse the picture for the pictured. They assume tranquillity to be transient and therefore shallow, a mere fata morgana, virtual only, because this is true for all other things in their experience. And so they search for shallow, imaginary, transient tranquillity and transcendence, because this is all they know. This is all they comprehend it to be possible to be.
When I was 20, I fell in love with this idea that having many lovers was preferable to having a single one, and I left a girl who would have moved mountains for me, to grasp my hands at dancing shadows of elves. This was about ten years ago now. I was living on the couch of a group of friends, one of whom I had had a small crush on, and who considered me a friend. She once travelled hours by train to take care of me after I broke up with my first girlfriend (who I had grown distant from, in some part on account of my infatuation with her). I felt our relationship was meaningful.
One night, we were out on the town. Me, her, her boyfriend, a mutual friend, and one of her friends. I don’t remember the specifics but I remember a sudden realisation of certainty that night, that I could have her — the friend of my friend. A classic case of the “you’re more attractive to women when you’re in a relationship, because they can smell it on you, and female intrasexual competition is a metaphysical force that transcends the material”, or, “because you’re more confident”, if you want to be a wuss about it. The way we spoke, the way she spoke to me, the way we innocently touched. For the first time in my life, I felt absolute certainty that this stranger was within my reach — I could just reach out and take her, and she would obey. Absolute certainty that she desired me.
The only reason I didn't, was because I had a girlfriend, I told myself. I didn’t even like this stranger, this friend of a friend, all that much. It was just new, novel, an expansion of my domain. It was just flattering. I broke up with my girlfriend the next day.
I carry in my wallet a card from a deck of cards. I picked it up from the floor of a wooden cabin my high school class had rented for a party, when I was 15 years old, and had just started boarding school. I had moved away from my home town to start fresh in a world where no one knew that I had suffered brain damage, and wouldn’t treat me differently because of it. I kept this secret from them for 3 years, to have a chance to be judged only by my merits, and not by comparison to the boy they knew from before, who had died, and who’s corpse I had woken up inhabiting. I was helping a different girl I had a crush on, clean up, because I wanted to impress her and spend time with her. The deck of cards had been strewn about in some kind of drunken antic. I picked it up and put it in my pocket, thinking: “I’ll keep this as a keepsake, because this was the first time I ever felt normal.”
A year after getting out of the hospital and a year before that party, I was sitting in my childhood room over the summer, doing something or other on the computer. Posting on a forum. My dad came into my room, and asked me, confused and ashamed and disappointed: “don’t you want to go out with your classmates, live life, fool around, secretly drink beers and kiss girls? that kind of stuff? don’t you feel bad sitting here?”. Then we didn’t talk for 10 years.
Last girl I saw was in fall. We went on two dates. Once to a café, to meet face to face and make sure I wasn’t an axe-murderer or something, where we sort of hit it off. Made me feel like I was still human, like I “still had it”. Like I wasn’t about to turn 30. The second time where I invited her for dinner in my home. A tall busty woman. My height. Enormous chest. Rich family. Studying to become a medical doctor. She wanted me to push her over and fuck her, and when I didn’t she hung around all evening getting progressively more bored and frustrated with me. All the time I was constantly thinking: Do I really want her? Do I really? Do I? Is this what I want? Huh? Then we talked about the role of national militaries in the 21th century and the geopolitical state of warfare, until finally she was no longer wet, and thanked me for a pleasant evening and went home, at around midnight. She was very disappointed. I do not say this to compliment myself.
She didn’t smell right. I couldn’t make myself do it. She asked me to play the piano for her and she stood too close to me, touching me, as I did. She threw herself at me. I couldn’t make myself do it. I still couldn’t do it.
On our coffee date, I had told her about an idea for a novel I’d had. It was sort of a treatment on the idea of the mythological “serial killer”, except, he’s a man who’s grown up in a world of serial killer tv shows and news items and social media and red pill blogs, so he knows that serial killers get fanmail — he knows that being killed is what women WANT. Which renders him neutered, castrated, unable to do it. “Even the worst thing I can think of doing to her, she’d get off on it. No matter what lengths of depravity I could imagine, she’d still be topping from the ultimate bottom”.
So he can’t bring himself to do it, despite his urges to control and humiliate and destroy. There is no humiliation possible, no denial of her, that would not also simultaneously be his own submission to her. He realises he is not in control, but alway-already within Her fantasy. And since what his pathological desire and hatred for women IS, is a desire to escape imprisonment within a female fantasy (in practical terms, growing up without a father, and with a domineering mother), he realises that he is within a social, cultural, media landscape that is inherently a female fantasy, and his desire to break out of it with violence, is part of the prison he inhabits. Like in the hit transsexual film the matrix 2 where Neo is told the entire previous adventure was just a link in a larger system of control. Or, just like in the real world, where literally all political organisations are controlled opposition.
And so what the guy does instead is, he goes on dates with girls he meets on tinder and dating sites, and he charms them with his ability to be extremely open and sharing intimate — TRUE — things of himself, with perfect strangers. He weaponizes his HONESTY, and it’s not even a lie, or a put on persona. He might change bits and pieces here and there, depending on the girl, but at it’s core, his just being very honest and raw and open about his feelings. A sort of literary NUDISM. It doesn’t always work, but sometimes it does, because the girl in question hasn’t ever had anyone be honest with her in her entire life, or, she has a distant father and this openness soothes her inherent core emotional trauma from childhood. Seducing them emotionally. And then-
Refusing them. Refusing to consummate. Refusing to hurt her, refusing to fuck her. Refusing her at every point. Ghosting her entirely. This, he has discovered, is his only way to ritually recreate his moment of victory and trauma. And so, he’s like this sort of inverse “serial killer”; all the shapes are the same, all the supposed psychology is the same, it’s just without the killing. Because that’s the only way he can win. It’s the only way he can humiliate them. And so maybe, he’d take trophies in the form of writing blogposts on the internet about the conversations he’d have with the girls, under a pseudonym, or something.
She didn’t get it.
2. Dating App advice for getting lots of Hot GF’s with Big Tits
So I’m browsing tinder and I hate it. It’s ritualistic self-abuse. It’s not good. It’s not healthy. As I constantly say every time I open my mouth, because it’s the only valuable insight I have, fetishism is the formalisation of which distance towards the object of desire is safe. Engaging with dating app technology, is to engage in fetishism. You don’t actually use the app to find a partner, you do it to avoid finding one. You don’t do it because it is supposedly “easier”, than “just going up and talking to” some girl who might strike your fancy in the real world — that’s a story you tell yourself. That’s an excuse. You do it because it is *safe*. You can experiment, you can be as weird or as mean or as vulgar as you want — it doesn’t matter, there is no social consequence for failure. Only your own emotional relation to it; so usually, you set yourself up to fail, deliberately, to engage with yourself. This CAN be therapeutic if it’s on a small scale and done knowingly. It’s not, and you’re not.
It is a way for you to approach the object of desire (women, love, connectedness to a greater world, a feeling of a coherent society/expanded meta-family) at a *safe distance* (shame, regret, humiliation — these are emotions you are *comfortable* feeling, because you’ve been trained for it in public schooling systems and your media consumption). You are not *comfortable* feeling, for example, excitement and optimism and the irrational fire and bravery that makes your heart beat in your chest because you took a leap of faith and just Went Up And Talked To Her.
The ideal positive use of something like tinder, is not finding a girl, or many girls, you like, and getting to talk to them. There is a clear difference here between stated and revealed preferences! The ideal use of tinder, is to browse the profiles of women, watching them try and fail to present themselves in a positive light, failing spectacularly because they are sheltered and stupid and have been raised by television and American mass media, and are functionally cognitively at the level of children, playing with technology they don’t understand, and roasting them with your male friends.
“I’m really shy also I have two kids “?— JESUS CHRIST I AM GOING TO KILL MYSELF WHAT THE FUCK YOU STUPID BITCH. YOU MONSTROUS WHORE. WHAT THE FUCK YOU CUNT FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT FUCKING FUCK, one might say. You friend laughs, you have a little bonding moment. OH YEAH I BET YOURE REAL SHY YOU FAT UGLY LYING PIECE OF FUCK. I CANT LIVE LIKE THIS. THIS IS HELL. DEATH WOULD BE A BLESSING. This way, you establish a shared emotional reality, activate mirror neurons, and receive psychological relief and mutual recognition of the other-as-self, rooting your sense of identity and being from seeing eye to eye on something, soothing your feelings of anxiety and loneliness. EVERYTHING WOMEN LOVE IS CANDY AND DISNEY MOVIES BECAUSE THEY ARE RETARDED CHILDREN AND FUCKING ANIMALS and its FUCKING DISGUSTING JESUS CHRIST GIVE ME ONE ADULT WOMAN I’m GOING FUCKING INSANE. I CANT TAKE THIS. WHY ARE THEY ALL DISGUSTING EVIL MONSTERS. WHY DO THEY THINK THIS LOOKS GOOD TO ANYONE. THE FUCKING PRETENSION, THE FUCKING DISGUSTING SELF-SATISFACTION, THE FUCKING ENTITLEMENT. I assume women do the same, just with, like, working out or fishing or whatever it is. Cars. Having stupid pictures of their abs, or something. I don’t know the particular memes and I don't particularly care. Just something arbitrary to grab on to and complain about, you know.
(note that it’s important to remember that just like how social media isn’t representative of the general population, 1% of the people make 99% of the content, and pathology rises to the top — so is the average woman you see or talk to on a “dating site” not representative of the general population of women. To post on twitter 200 times a day, you have to be either insane or a loser with nothing better to do. Why are women who use dating apps, using dating apps?)
My proof of this is the existence of every twitter gimmick account about posting “epic owns” of women on dating apps, or, the entirety of something like Instagram.
All social media started as a site for rating the hotness of female classmates, started by a horny Mark Zuckerberg who wanted to get off on the idea of “rating” his classmates, in this way achieving a metaphoric “control” over them. Because he was an impotent socially incompetent nerd, and his knowledge of systems, grading and coding was an environment in which he felt SAFE to approach the OBJECT OF DESIRE for FETISHISTIC ENJOYMENT in the FANTASY WITHIN WHICH HE IS IN CONTROL AND HOLDS POWER OVER THEM.
Then he got scooped up by the CIA, and the rest is the End of History.
A tree blossoms from it’s roots.
3. Ok for real though. Here are the tips and tricks for getting a Young, Rich, Huge Tits, and she’ll do anything and bro I mean anything. And she hasn’t done it with anyone else, it’s just you. I’m not saying ass stuff but I’m not not saying ass stuff (all women do ass stuff you fucking idiot you think youre so fucking special youre a loser and a coward and you deserve to die. I’m saying cuck stuff, orgies, rape. I’m talking sexual cannibalism. I’m talking necrophilia. I’m talking incest. I’m talking giving her brain damage so she can’t function properly as an adult and then legally adopting her, and then fucking her. Shut the fuck up I’m talking)
Ok so I’m browsing tinder, because they have an algorithm thing now where the amount of ladies who see your picture is dependant on your own use of the app, and I’d like to have a wife and children because my time is running out. There is a one in a million chance that if I keep my head clear and I don’t engage with it for more than like, a few minutes at a time, and I don't indulge in the hatred and fetishism, then maybe, I might break the system and end up meeting a nice misguided girl who’s just started using the thing and hasnt yet been corrupted by, what happens to the female users, the cyborganic melting of the female mind with the machine, in which she becomes less, and more, than human. And I just save her in the nick of time and we live happily ever after mutually disavowing all technology forever and moving out into a hut in the woods.
The odds aren’t great but I am thirty and I am not rich, and I am a deeply troubled person, who is very bad at working within my current historical-social-political consumer-incentive sphere. Which is too say I’m too smart to make money. As I am writing this, I am currently in minor financial hot waters and I am writing this instead of taking direct action to solve my immediate problems. Because I’m so smart.
…and I see this girl I used to know, ten years ago. Lets call her B.
Different group of friends, mostly. Little overlap here and there. I didn’t do drugs with the people I mentioned before. I did drugs with the B-friend group. Neo-hippies. What united was not a shared politics or beliefs or suffering or trauma, as much as it was, proximity to supply of drugs. At the time I considered it to be “mutual trauma” that united, and that we simply self medicated together. Maybe I shouldn't speak for everyone. *I* was there for the proximity to a supply of drugs.
My very first impression was that she was still dressed like a wannabe hippie, with white people dreadlocks and stupid looking clothes. Gave me a sinking feeling. Seeing who I used to be, what I used to want.
There was a sense of perpetual competition over B. She was “easy” but not, *actually* easy. There was just this general sense that you had a shot, because, the usual suspects, “free thinking” and drug culture and that kind of thing. She fucked more than some, less than others. There was just a cultural understanding between us boys at least, that despite what the material circumstances might be, you felt like, you had a shot. I remember thinking about it, thinking, maybe, it she gave me an opening, you know. I don’t remember who was fucking who at this point, but I’m pretty sure one of my friends had a crush on her for a while, and another one fucked her a couple of times. And maybe that’s really everything I ever knew about her sexual history, and the rest was just the wind.
I think she knew what we thought about her, and I think she enjoyed it. I think she enjoyed, even if only in this weird abstract way, that we “fought” over her, as we did — because she was approachable, as she was (or wasn’t). Nowadays I’m no longer fighting over girls. Now I’m fighting with my dad.
The normal function of tinder is suddenly obstructed to me. I can’t get mad at her for being a disgusting, entitled monster. She is humanized to me; I know her, I feel for her. She’s just a little person. I considered her a friend. She gets too close and my established boundary to the object of desire is transgressed. She gets too close and I remember her and who I used to be and the things I used to do. She has dreadlocks and smokes pot. I’m sitting up at midnight eating chicken and drinking milk after lifting weights at 11pm, and I have been sober for six years. The party is over. I’m thirty. I’m thirty and I have a 23 year old girlfriend I met on tinder who knits sweaters and wants to be a school teacher.
I think about “liking” her, just to talk. Just to go “hey, long time no see, isn’t this weird haha”, and reminisce. I think about pretending to do this, and try to fuck her. I think about why I would want to fuck her, if I did. To fulfil the prophecy? To feel young? To cuck myself? To cuck my friend in the past? I look at her. How she’s aged. I think about whether I actually want to fuck her. I think about how she might do or think any of those things about me. I wonder if she would recognize me at all. I’m thirty now. I have short hair, I don’t have a beard. I lift weights in my bedroom and I drink milk and eat chicken at midnight. I’ve been sober for six years. I’m thirty and I have a 23 year old girlfriend. Or, well, I haven’t met her yet, but I’m feeling pretty good about it. We’re going on a date Saturday.
>woops! you missed a match. Buy TINDER GOLD to see who likes you…
I am going to have to buy a gun.