Rationalization Hamster – Post Recycle

[Note: This post has been a fair amount of attention just today - 09/28/2012 - so let's make it really prominent.]

The Manosphere contains many, many words regarding a woman’s rationalization hamster because it’s such an effective and amusing way to describe how a woman thinks. Occasionally it’s necessary to re-educate Manosphere readers to the nuances and details of how the rationalization hamster operates.

The rationalization hamster is an analogy for the thought processes used by women to turn bad behavior and bad decisions into acceptable ones to herself and her friends. When a woman makes a bad decision, the hamster spins in its wheel (the woman’s thinking) and creates some type of acceptable reasons for that bad decision. The crazier the decision, the faster the hamster must spin in order to successfully rationalize away the insanity.

When the hamster rationalizes successfully, a woman can divorce [yeah, I meant to use that verb] herself from the consequences of her bad decision or behavior. Here are some examples:

Bad Decision:
“I’m going out and getting drunk with my friends.”

Resulting Consequences:
Drunken and unsatisfactory hookup sex with a stranger.

Hamster Processing Result:
“I was drunk and he took advantage of me or maybe even raped me! Maybe it was a date rape drug!”

Final Result:
“It’s not my fault.”

Bad Decision:
“I deserve only the most attractive and successful man despite the fact that I don’t have much to offer in the context of dating and relationships.”

Resulting Consequences:
Can’t find any man for dating or a relationship or only has one-night stands.

Hamster Processing Result:
“There are no good men” or “Men suck”

Final Result:
“It’s not my fault.”

Bad Decision:
“I have such chemistry [vagina tingles!] with this guy so I’ll ignore the obvious red flags regarding his character.”

Resulting Consequences:
The sex is great for a short time and then the guy dumps her.

Hamster Processing Result:
“All men are players”

Final Result:
“It’s not my fault.”

Bad Decision:
I want to have a baby but I don’t have a man.

Resulting Consequences:
8lb bundle of “joy” through dubious means and resultant loss of career opportunities because of time management issues.

Hamster Processing Result:
“I’m a strong and empowered woman fulfilling her own needs but who has an employer who doesn’t support my lifestyle decision.”

Final Result:
“It’s not my fault.”

Note how the final result is always the same.

The vast majority of women simply won’t understand the concept of the rationalization hamster. This makes the hamster immortal. Sure, it can be slowed down, but it always lives on. Hamster wisdom is now passed on to the younger generations of women with messages of “you deserve anything you want” or “you’re a special snowflake”. The hamster has become an integral part of our social fabric.

There is a social expectation that women cannot be faulted for their decisions and behaviors. Mark Rudov calls it the 11th commandment – Thou shalt not criticize women. This means that our collective folklore has “liberated” women to act on their worst motivations and behaviors without consequence. This will be for generations to come.

The Whining

Red Pill men face an enormous dilemma. There are many things that have a negative impact on guys, personally, socially, and politically. However, men are expected to shut up about such things and take it “like a man”. Opponents to Red Pill thinking and general men’s activism will frequently rebutt with “stop whining”. Given the expectation of being stoic – and the very real biological phenomenon that men are less emotional – this can be a very effective rebuttal indeed.

It takes a thick skin and a passionate purpose to shrug of the accusations of whining. It’s difficult because when a man feels so intensely about an injustice or issue that affects him personally and he’s will to talk about it, it must be something that he is truly passionate about. With such passion, it’s not easy to read news articles and blogs that dismiss him, and all other men passionate about an issue, as a whiner.

The best approach to accusations of whining is to take action and not address it with words. Ignoring something is an action. Deleting blog comments is an action. Banning commenters is an action. Simply do not engage such accusations with words. It’s a pointless exercise and only raises frustration and anger levels. Here’s some additional advice, don’t argue with feminists or people who are passionate blue pillers.

It all comes down to this double standard:

When women express themselves about social injustices that affect women, it’s an empowering experience and they must be encouraged with support.

When men express themselves about social injustices that affect men, it’s whining and they must be shouted down with insults.

Creeps Or Criminals?

[Note: For some reason, the word "creep" and its variations angers me greatly. The way women throw around that word is wretched. Perhaps men need to start tossing around the word "cunt" with impunity. For the record, I wrote this post about a year ago.]

Rarely do I address issues brought up by feminist writers or websites. The back story can be found here. It all comes from one comment from Amanda Marcotte, the snarky and not very intelligent feminist writer:

Women’s need to be safe comes first… the onus is on men not to be creepy.

The privilege and entitlement in the first phrase is patently obvious. Coming from a feminist, the hypocrisy is delicious. It’s apparently a man’s job to keep cupcake safe. I would be quite pleased to protect a woman who gives me love and respect or who is a close friend or family member. I will certainly protect an elderly woman. Random women? Not so much. Feminists, you’re on your own.

I have some degree of sympathy for women and their need for safety. Women, after all, are physically weaker. As well, they are vulnerable to a certain degree of emotional manipulation by guys with the right skills and dark motives. The problem – as Marcotte so nicely pointed out – is that women, in her opinion, can’t quite figure out who is the dangerous creep and who is the guy who simply lacks good social skills. So the StrongIndependentWomen™ lumps all socially inept (and likely physically unattractive) men together as “creeps”.

But there are three categories of such “creeps”:

Sullen loner with poor social skills – pissed off beta who comes across as creepy. He’s harmless but scares women because of the next category of bad men.

Sullen loner with poor social skills and weapons - pissed off beta who is likely to commit mass mayhem or some other act of violence. Think George Sodini or the guy who shot up the college in Virginia.

Ordinary guy with poor social skills – Another creepy (according to the StrongIndependentWoman™) guy but he’s harmless and likely very confused or distraught that he’s been lumped in the same group with the other two types of guys lacking social skills.

Marcotte is quick to dismiss any type of creep under the guise of “safety”. That’s a variation of the ForTheChildren™ defense because feminists can’t quite seem to decide if they are victims or they are empowered. I guess that depends on the situation and what they seek to gain. Quite the privilege, that.

In all reality, most “creeps” are just ordinary guys who lack the social ability to make a girl’s vajayjay get all tingly. No tingles? He’s a creep. The biggest exception is when a woman like Marcotte needs her roof repaired or her gutters cleaned. That’s when the guy must show up, tend to the task, and completely ignore her lest she discover he’s a creep. Unless, of course, he’s a hunky, millionaire handyman.

Of course, the guys with the social skills that cause a woman to get weak between the thighs aren’t always pure of heart. Consider these two categories of confident cads:

Charming, confident cad – This is the classic player. He break hearts with impunity and without regard. Women love this type of confident man and flock to him. Worse, there’s a whole industry out there turning creeps into confident cads. After a creep has been rejected enough times (“get away, you creep!”), he’s not real motivated to use his new-found social skills for good and not evil.

Charming, confident felon – This is the player with the murderous or felonious intent. This confident fellow steals things from women or actually kills them. Ted Bundy, anyone? Oh, he was popular with the ladies even while in prison. It’s this type of man that women should truly be scared of. There are more of these guys then there are the George Soldini types. Murder isn’t always the result, but there are an awful lot of con-men and grifters preying on women.

So that awkward guy trying valiantly to make small talk at a social event is not a threat in any way. Just because a woman finds his lack of confidence to be offputting does not make him a potentially dangerous creep.

Watch out for the smooth, confident player who gets your girly bits all steamy. He’s the one who will charm the panties off you, the money in your bank account from you, and maybe even commit violence against you. Worse, he might have been a creep in the past but has taken the time and effort to learn the appropriate skills (Game) to elicit vagina tingles from unsuspecting feminists. That’s Marcotte’s worst nightmare. “Oh my God, I had sex with a beta!”

This Story Must Be Read… It’s Long, Too.

Fellow Manosphere blogger Ian Ironwood wrote a long and thoughtful post (link below) about the nature of female solipsism. He was motivated by Susan Walsh and her deep skepticism about the concept of female solipsism (link below). To me, it’s all a semantic issue and I won’t get involved with the exception of copying this truly eye-opening story that Ian wrote. Read and enjoy because the tale he tells bespeaks volumes on the nature of dames.  You’re welcome.

About 18 years ago I was working in a medical office with 13 women as a temp, and we were all destined to slave away for weeks on digitizing old records.  While we weren’t being paid based on how much we did, the fact was that there were 15,000 files to get through, a monumental job by anyone’s estimation.  I was the only dude (again!), the rest were women ranging in age from 21 to 58.  The FSM with a Southern accent.

15,000 files among 14 people gives you about a thousand per person.  We could each do about a hundred a week, if we worked steady.  By the end of the first week, I’d made my quota and then some . . . but it became clear that not everyone was being as dilligent.  I posted a list of employees along with how many completed files they had for the week, just to show everyone where we were and how much we had ahead of us.  I thought it was pretty innocuous — wasn’t that the point, getting the job done?

Apparently not.  Within two days my list disappeared and I was called into my supervisor’s office.  The list was on her desk.

“What exactly are you trying to accomplish here, Mr. Ironwood?” she said, reprovingly.

“Uh . . . digitizing medical files?”  I really didn’t understand what the problem was.

“Of course you’re digitizing medical files!” she said, exasperated.  “And I can’t help but notice that you did more than everyone else.”

“Thirty-five more,” I said, proudly.  “I figure I can get another five done a day, if I press myself.”

“Stop it.”

“Huh?”  WTF?  Wasn’t I here to do a job?

“I said stop it, Ironwood.  Stop posting this list — it’s bad for morale.  Did you see Betty in the break room?” Betty was in her 50s, on her third career, and was slow as January molasses when it came to processing files.  I could get five done in the time it took her to do one, and she hated the computers and the computer system.  She didn’t even really understand what “digitize” meant, but she made cookies and always was the center of conversation, a kind of matronly figure for the other women.  “She was close to tears, after she saw herself at the bottom of the list.  And you have Angie and Courtney at each others throats, because they’re running neck and neck and Angie is convinced she’s better than everyone else.”

“But . . . I did more than twice what Betty did!” I protested.  This was crazy.  We had a job to do, a quota to fill, a definite metric of progress . . . and I was getting yelled at for paying attention.  To object to my work because I was “hurting someone’s feelings” implied that a) emotional feelings were important to getting the job done, of which I was unconvinced, and b) I was somehow responsible for my co-workers feelings to begin with.  Shit.  I was just grinding mindlessly at data entry.

“That’s my point!” she said with a disgusted sigh.  “You’re trying to make everyone else on the team feel bad about the job they’re doing.”

“Uh, shouldn’t they?  I mean, you could fire Betty and let me grind through her stuff and probably save–”

“MR. IRONWOOD!” she bellowed.  “The only one in danger of losing their job is you.  I will not have a disruptive influence on my team.  You trying to promote yourself over everyone else, clearly, and you’re trying to sow dissension among your teammates.  What are people supposed to do when they see this list?”

“Uh, work harder?”

“They’re going to start getting competitive.  They’re going to start to stress out that they aren’t keeping up.  They’re going to start to blame each other for falling behind, and then every lunch hour will turn into a big bitch fest about who isn’t doing their part.”

I shrugged.  “Doesn’t bother me — I work through my lunch.”

“You WHAT?”

“I work through my lunch,” I said, slowly and deliberately.  “Because I’ve got a thousand and change of these things to get through, and I don’t want to spend the rest of my life here doing it.”

“You know you don’t get paid for that!” she said, her nostrils flaring.  “I don’t want to see that on your time card!”

“Oh, no problem.  I’m just trying to get the work done.”

“You’re just trying to sabotage my team,” she said, eyes narrowing.  “No more working unpaid during lunch. No more posting stupid lists to start fights.  Got it?”

I answered in my best Blue Pill Beta ass-kissing tone, and then went back to work.  I was so angry that I redoubled my efforts — the male ability to work through problems through work was in full bore.  I got nearly two hundred done that second week, but the following Monday morning found me once again in my supervisor’s office.  Her nostrils were flaring already, and I knew I was in trouble.

“What the hell is this, Ironwood?” she demanded.  “I thought we had a word last week!”

“We did!” I said, confused.  “I didn’t post anything.  I’m not working through my lunch.  I’m not claiming anything extra on my time card!”

“Yet you still finished almost three times as many files as Betty did.”  She said it like I had walked up to the old biddy and slapped her.  “She was in here this morning, crying her eyes out, because she’s worried I’m going to let her go.”

“And that’s my fault?”

“You’re creating an environment that’s hostile to her,” she said, falling back into Personneleese.  “You are deliberately trying to turn her co-workers against her.”

“How?” I demanded.  “All I’ve done is sit at my desk and enter data!”

“Oh, I think you know very well how,” she said, eyes narrowing.  “And I won’t put up with it!”

“I’m still in the dark,” I shrugged.  “Unless you can elaborate further.  Can I go now?”

“One more thing,” she said.  “About lunch…”

“I told you, I didn’t put my lunch on my timecard.  Consider last week a gift.”

“It’s not that.  You’re the only one who doesn’t eat lunch in the employees lounge.”

I shrugged again.  “So?”  Honestly, it was the last place I wanted to spend the precious half-hour that divided my day.  I didn’t eat lunch at all most days, I just went out to my car and smoked cigarettes and read.

“So I want to remind you that company policy says that the only place where you may eat is in the Employee Lounge.”

“I’m not eating,” I shrugged.  I did a lot of that on that job.  I figured that would handle it.  It didn’t — my boss looked at me like I just spit on her.

“You don’t eat?” she asked in disbelief.  Lunch was the sacred birthright of every clerical worker.  My co-workers started discussing when lunch was, what they brought or ordered that day, and the glories of lunches past nearly every morning like daily prayer.

“Not lunch.  Why, am I required to?”  I admit, I was a little sarcastic at that point.

“No,” she said, slowly.  “But the rest of your co-workers would appreciate it if you would join them.”

“Why?” I was really confused about this — I was getting the definite impression that my co-workers were forming a Consensus against me.  “I don’t eat, I just read.  They’re too loud to read in there.”

“Nevertheless, I want you in the lounge at lunch time,” she insisted.  “And I recommend you eat something.  You’re making your co-workers uncomfortable by not participating.”

“In lunch?” I asked in disbelief.

“Courtney and I talked last Friday, and she mentioned that it was strange that you didn’t sit in with everyone else.  In fact, you have apparently become the topic of some speculation, Ironwood.  You disappear for the entire lunch period, then come back and barely say a word to anyone.”

“I . . . I’m just working,” I said, even more confused.  “I’m just sitting in my car reading.”

Her eyes narrowed again with suspicion.  “Are you really, Mr. Ironwood?  Because that’s not what your co-workers think.”

I waited.  I didn’t say anything.  I was getting pissed.  She waited for me to defend myself, or to give a good excuse for my behavior, or something.  But I wasn’t playing.  Even back then I recognized her baiting tone as a shit test.  And even back then I knew how to deal with an obvious shit test.  That’s one difference between men and women in the workplace: when a dude has had it, that’s it. She wanted me to ask “so what do my co-workers think?” with some level of concern, and I wasn’t biting.

“Your co-workers think you’re flirting with the receptionist across the hall.”  She said it as if I’d bent the poor girl over and ravaged her.  She was attractive — but I’d only spoken to her twice, she was engaged, and at the most I’d smile at her through the glass doors of her office as I went in and out of the building.

“Well, I have a girlfriend,” I protested (yes, this was when Mrs. I and I were shacking up, albeit seriously at that point, and at the time I resented the implication.).  “I’m not flirting with anyone!  I’m reading a book in my car!”

“You aren’t where they can see you,” she emphasized.  “That’s a problem.”

I just stared at her blankly.  “Why . . . is where and how I choose to spend my lunch time . . . of any possible concern to anyone other than myself?”  I tried to be diplomatic and logical.

“The problem, Mr. Ironwood, is that your actions lend to the perception that you are . . .” she trailed off, suddenly at a loss.

“That I am . . . what?  Molesting puppies?  Smoking dope?  Abusing myself?”  When stated in those terms, she started to look silly, and she knew it.  And yes, I actually said ‘abusing puppies’.  I still remember that.

“The perception that you are not a team player.”

“Yet I perform at twice the level of . . . some other co-workers,” I pointed out.  “How is that not being a ‘team player’?  And how is spending lunch by myself . . . or the perceptions of my co-workers . . . relevant to my job performance?  By every objective metric I’ve been an ideal employee.  I’d be happy to review my performance with my agency, if you’d like.”  The threat was implicit — if this kind of thing continued, I’d get the temp agency involved.  While that wasn’t the end of the world, it would call attention to the matter, and my boss was in the same social circle as the owner of the temp agency.  I knew that.  I might not be in the FSM, but I know how to use it.

“Just . . . conform to the company policies as they are explained to you, Mr. Ironwood.  That is all,” she dismissed.

While I was seriously resentful, I also needed the job.  Cushy temp work in the air-conditioning paid a lot better than construction or waiting tables.  Beside, I was still enough of a Puerarch to want to subvert the whole operation just to spite her.  So I appeared to knuckle under and concede.  I started spending my lunches in the employee lounge where I was subjected to all sorts of inane feminine chatter.  My one concession to eating was bringing in a single, phallic banana every day, carrying it around with me wherever I went, and then devouring it in seconds at the start of lunch.  After that . . . well, I can’t read when thirteen women are comparing their weekends and jockeying for matrix position over microwavable pasta.  There’s just too much distraction.

But I can write.  I’m a writer, everyone knew that.  I had a book and everything.  It was easily the most interesting thing about me.  I started bringing a notebook to lunch with me, and I would sit over in the corner and write stuff down.  Sometimes I doodled.  No big whup.

Enter Female Solipsism: the practice had an immediate and intriguing effect.  Suddenly, everyone in the building was extremely interested in just what I was writing.  And it became A Thing.

Because every woman there was convinced — utterly convinced — that I was writing stuff about her.  Specifically, stuff that was unflattering to her.  She was sure of it, be she 21 or 51.

If that isn’t solipsism, I don’t know what is.

It only dawned on me that this had become A Thing when Courtney, mid-20s, came to me after lunch and actually flirted with me for the first time.  Courtney was office hot, definitely doable, but she clearly had a higher opinion of herself than I did.  Still, I was polite, if laconic.

“So,” she said, after meaningless bullshit.  “Whatcha writin’ about?”

It took me by surprise.  “Oh, just character sketches and stuff.  Notes.  I’m working on a new book.”  I didn’t mean anything by it at the time — I’m a writer.  I’ve been “working on a new book” since I started writing.  It’s a stock answer.

Courtney, however, took it to mean (rather solipsistically) that I was writing a new book . . . about her.  Or the someone in the group.  She asked me more probing questions, and as I figured out what she was trying to do, my answers became more and more vague and mysterious and she got more and more agitated.  I hadn’t given her one single piece of concrete data, yet by the end of the day ‘everyone knew’ that I was writing a book about Courtney.  Or someone in the group, but Courtney was pretty sure it was about Courtney, otherwise I wouldn’t have been so mysterious.  In FSM terms, Courtney had used the episode to “push” herself up in position, because a dude writing a book about you is incredible attention, the coin of the realm in the Matrix.

The next day, four women approached me before lunch with meaningless reasons, and all four managed to mention my writing somehow.  I didn’t take the bait.  My notebook remained on the corner of my desk until lunch.  At lunch, now that I was aware of the interest in my book, I began to take notes with more purpose.  In fact, most of the stuff I was writing down had nothing to do with anything or anyone in the office.  But it was the way I wrote it that perpetuated the myth.  I waited until there was a break in the conversation, for instance, and then scribbled something down furiously while everyone in the room watched and tried to keep from looking like they were watching. Then I’d stop, the conversation would resume, and I’d wait for another break.

As an experiment, I decided to pace my notes based on which woman was speaking.  I picked Margaret, one of the older women, for no real reason.  Every time Margaret opened her mouth, I was writing.  It took a few times before she was aware of it, and then she got uncomfortable.  Then some of the other women clued into it, and were immediately abuzz.  Margaret started blushing, and ended up excusing herself to the ladies’ room.

I hadn’t said a word.  It was fucking hysterical.  In the literal sense.

By the end of the day, everyone was certain the book was about Margaret.

The next day, I focused on Lisa, and wrote down stuff mostly after she was talking.  Lisa got flustered, too, but instead of running and blushing, she started paying a lot more attention to her diction and word choice.  Half-way through lunch, I switched and did the same thing with Courtney again.  After lunch, Margaret approached me as I was heading back to my desk.

“You know, Ian, I really don’t appreciate that!” she said.

“What?” I asked, genuinely confused.

“You writing about me in that notebook,” she accused.  I almost smiled.  Instead I affected a confused expression.

“What do you mean?  Who said I was writing things about you?”

“Everyone knows– look, I’m just a very private person, and if you want to know anything I would appreciate it if you would come to me, personally, and not rely on other people.  Okay?”

“Uh . . . okay,” I agreed.  Not only had she assumed that I was writing about her, she was absolutely convinced that I was talking to other women in the office about her.

Every day that week I ground away at the pile of files and then amused myself with the luncheon Solipsism Floor Show.  It became a game for me: how little could I say and do and still inspire wild speculation about my “book”?  Just how much of a tizzy could I through these ladies into . . . without doing a damn thing but my job?

If women weren’t solipsistic, then it wouldn’t have worked.  As it was, it worked spectacularly well.

Wednesday it was a divided room, as I wrote only after the younger women (less than thirty) spoke, and ignored the older women.  Thursday, Janet — who hadn’t spoken two words to me the entire time I’d been there — started pumping me for information about my life and my book over in the corner.  I gave her as little as possible, and gave her no false information, and figured I was just frustrating her.  Only I didn’t realize what she’d done — with our little private conference, she’d made it appear to the Matrix that she had the inside scoop, and she used that leverage brutally in the free-for-all that followed.

That afternoon, when I was coming back from the Men’s Room (the Fortress of Solitude, I called it), I caught that old biddy Betty trying to slyly leaf through the notebook.

“Excuse me?” I said, coming up from behind her and slamming my hand down on it.  “Is there a problem?”

“Oh, I was just looking for some staples,” she said, airily.

“There are none in my notebook.  Check the supply closet.  That’s where I’d put them.”

She shuffled away guiltily.  And it became a trend.  Suddenly I was getting called away from my desk every ten minutes or so, and when I went to get more files one of the girls stalled me.  I’d set my telephone on top of my notebook, which frustrated them because I made a point to pay attention to how the cord was arrayed.  When I got back, it hadn’t moved, and I got a lot of frustrated glances.

Thursday, it was almost mayhem.  I was having a hell of a good time watching these ladies push each other off of the swing set — it was more fun than doing it yourself.  I still hadn’t admitted anything.  I hadn’t done anything.  I’d just written some notes down in a spiral notebook and quietly ate my banana.  But the inclination to assume, automatically, that the unknown words in my book were clearly about them — whichever ‘them’ it was who was assuming — drove these women to distraction.  Thursday was a shit day, production wise, and a dozen little arguments broke out over stupid stuff.  I kept to myself and jammed.  I was doing about 50 files a week above quota, and the more I was exposed to this toxic estrogen environment, the more I wanted to be done.

Lunch was a lot of fun — that day, I wrote according to boob size.  The bigger the boobs, the more “attention” they got from my pencil.  They didn’t know my criteria, of course, but the result was fun to watch. Another woman, call her Melissa, came up to me after lunch on Thursday, too.

“Margaret’s pretty pissed at you,” she said, with a lot more concern than one usually accords a temporary co-worker.

“Yeah, so? What did I do?”

“I don’t know — but she’s pissed off at you.  Something you said, I guess, or maybe something you wrote.”

“Really?” I asked.  Time to throw the sharks a puppy.  “Something I wrote?  That’s strange . . . I’ve only shown it to one person, and I don’t think she would have told anyone what was really in my notebook.”  I left for the Fortress of Solitude post haste.  Melissa looked both horrified and gleeful: the Swing Set had a potential infiltrator!

The crowd went wild.  Suddenly, every woman in the office suspected every other woman in the office of being my “secret” friend as news that I’d shown the thing to someone — one of them — spread.  Someone knew what was in the notebook . . . and everyone denied that it was them, and accused everyone else.  Despite not having a shred of actual evidence, every woman in the place was convinced of conspiracy against her.  Paranoia is a common side-effect of solipsism, I’ve observed.

Friday was fun.  The women had abandoned subterfuge and were approaching me outright.  “So, what’s in the book?” Courtney asked, once again.  Time to show a little of my irritation.

“Would you believe that it’s none of your business?” I asked.

“Of course it’s my business!  You’re writing it at work, about me!”

“Please explain the logic underlying that conclusion,” I said, patiently.

That took her by surprise.  She expected either a denial or a confession, not a challenge to her reasoning.

“I . . . everyone knows . . . I . . . Margaret and Melissa said . . . Ian, just tell me what’s in it, okay?” she pleaded.

“So you don’t have any idea what I’m writing about,” I stated, flatly.

“Well, if you would just tell me–”

“None of your business,” I repeated, and walked away.

There were more attempts to pester me and more attempts to sneak a look.  Margaret approached me just before lunch, on my way back from the file room.

“So, I saw you and Courtney talking earlier,” she said, tentatively.  “Is she the one you let see your writing?”

“Does it matter?” I asked, blandly.  “In fact, does it matter at all what I write in that book?”  I sounded annoyed enough so she backed down a bit, and re-approached the subject from a less-confrontational perspective.

“You’ve got a lot of people very curious,” she offered.

“Not something I set out to do,” I lied.  “It’s my personal time, it’s my personal notebook.  My business,” I repeated.  That just seemed to confirm her suspicions.  She lowered her voice and glanced around.

“Look, you little shit, if you write anything about me ever, I’ll gut you, understood?”

“Gosh, that sounds like a threat of workplace violence.  This is becoming a hostile work environment,” I mocked, walking away.  Inside, I was busting a gut.

At lunch on Friday, for once there was very little said.  I’d decided to give a preference to brunettes over blondes that day.  I’ve always had trust issues with blondes.  Courtney was blonde.  Margaret and Lisa were brunettes.  Hilarity ensued.  I still just gobbled my banana and kept to myself, silently scribbling (notes about siege warfare, if I remember correctly). They got to talking about a birthday party one of the women (forget her name, call her Becky) was having over the weekend, to which all of us had been invited and most of us had agreed to attend.  I had not.  Lunch was over a lot more quickly than usual, and I got some daggers stared at me for the traditional No Good Reason, and I banged out another couple of hundred files before quitting time.  Then I got the hell out of there and went home to forget them for the weekend.

Monday morning, I was let go.

Not technically — technically, the company and my immediate superior were “re-allocating resources due to the differences in planning and execution”, or some bullshit like that.  My temp boss (one of the most reasonable women I know) told me later that the project had fallen behind, and despite the fact that I was doing huge amounts of work, faster and more efficiently than any of the others, I had been “randomly” selected to be retired instead of being included on the “adjusted schedule”.

My boss at the office told me that morning, and she was not happy.  She gruffly mentioned that there was going to be an organizational change, and I was going to be re-assigned.  I would be paid for half a day, end of story.  That’s both the advantage and disadvantage of temp work: it can come or go without notice.

And then the subject of the notebook came up.

“It’s come to my attention that some employees have been making unauthorized notes, possibly about patient files,” she said, carefully.  In case you hadn’t picked up on it, she didn’t like me, I didn’t like her.  “That is strictly against policy, and in violation of the NDA you all signed when you came to work here.”

I just waited — if you noticed, she hadn’t accused me of anything, and until she did, I didn’t have anything to say.

“It has been noted that you frequently write in a notebook.”

“In my own time, off company time,” I shrugged, for the last time.  “And it’s my private work.  I never wrote down any patient information.”  This was before HIPA, so Non-Disclosure Agreements were pretty standard in medical offices.

“Still, I can’t take the chance that you did,” she said, with an air of finality.  “Please go get it for me.”

“Uh, no,” I guffawed.  “That’s my private work.”

“Which you brought onto company property, which makes it subject to search,” she reasoned.

“Unfortunately for you, that notebook is not on company property.  It’s in my car,” I pointed out, getting angry.

“Ironwood, damn it, I want to see what is in that notebook.”

“Why?  I’ve told you it isn’t patient information.  That should be the only thing you’re interested in.  The idea that I actually would be scribbling down patient information is ludicrous.  Or that I could remember anything by lunch time, which is the only time I write.  So . . . no, not until you give me a compelling reason why.”

She looked at me thoughtfully.  She was on thin ice and she knew it.

“People are saying you write things about them in that notebook,” she said, quietly.

“People say a lot of things,” I challenged.  “Which people?  I’d like to hear it from them.”

“I’m not at liberty to say.  It’s a personnel matter,” she said. “But you don’t deny it?”

“I don’t confirm or deny it.  I’m wondering what evidence you base this on.  Or are you going by rumor?”

“If the accusation is serious enough, it has to be investigated,” she rationalized.

“And just what am I being investigated for?”

“I need to see what you wrote in that notebook, then we’ll decide what to do about it.”  She was trying to be forceful and commanding, but she had no legal right to compel me, and we both knew it.  She was trying to brow-beat me into submission, and for the first time I realized that she thought that I had been writing about HER the whole time.

“Unless you can tell me why, and how you came to those suspicions, I think our work is done here.”

Her nostrils flared.  “You bet it is.  You’re not a team player, Ironwood, and that’s sad.  I had high hopes for you.  Margaret says you didn’t even go to Becky’s party on Saturday.” She said it like she was accusing me of buggery.

“It’s my day off.  I barely know Becky.  I’ve spoken to her like five times in three weeks.  We’re not close.”

“Still, if you had gone, maybe we could have worked something out.  As it is, you’re probably going to get a poor performance review from the company.”

“One that points out I did twice as much work as . . . some people?  Because that’s what I say in the detailed response that I’ll include in my file, a copy of which — detailing some other things I’ve observed — will go to your office.”  She paled a little.  Nice effect.

“So, you’re not going to cooperate…” she said, making one last stab at intimidation.  I was done for the day.  I had nothing to lose.  “I want to see what’s in that notebook!”

I snorted.  “You didn’t even say ‘please’, so no, no, no. No you may not.  My private property — and as a writer, a published author whose words have some nominal value, it could be construed by a jury or the Employment Commission as an attempt to unlawfully appropriate my ideas.  Give it up, Lady.  I’m out of here, and so is my notebook . . . and whatever might happen to be in it.”  I walked out, made one last stop at the Fortress of Solitude, stole two rolls of high-quality toilet paper the all-male staff of physicians horded for themselves, slung my backpack over my back and headed out.  I smiled one last time at the pretty receptionist, and just couldn’t resist sticking my head into the cube farm door to say good bye.

“It’s been real, Ladies, but I’ve been re-assigned,” I explained, simply.  Half of them looked at me anxiously, the other half looked away disgustedly.  I had no idea why, but I’m sure it was something terribly, terribly important.  A few of them were kind enough to hug me good-bye, but most gave a half-hearted wave and got back to work.

The lesson of the story is that every single aspect of the response from a group of 14 women (13 co-workers and a boss) was based on a) her solipsistic belief that I was writing about her based solely on the fact that she didn’t know WHAT or WHOM I was writing about  b) her belief in the absence of evidence that my stubborn silence was proof that I was writing about her and c) the belief that every other woman in the group was conspiring against her over the imaginary book for some reason.

I’ll freely admit, there were other dynamics at play here — race, class, ethnicity, education, etc. were all present, as they are in any large office in the South.  But the undeniably solipsistic nature of their response remains to this day in my mind the epitome of demonstrating female solipsism.

It ain’t a peer-reviewed study, Susan . . . but it’s one hell of a raw data set.

The Red Pill Room – The Tangled Chains On The Swing Set of Solipsism

Hooking Up Smart – Sex Differences

What’s He Doing Wrong?

My incoming mail yields greatness. This one arrived just today and I’ve posted unedited and uncorrected. So, what’s he doing wrong? This is a test. Consider his age and the nature of his out-going messages. Your comments are expected. If you don’t comment, my dog will bite you. Ta.

We all know women on dating sites get a ton of messages.  However, they almost unanimously say that it’s still very difficult to find someone decent, because those messages aren’t from the “right type of guy.”  Well, I’ve come to a realization:  They are completely, 100% full of it, and I’ve got proof based upon my own experience.

I’m going to describe myself a little; but first, let me add in a little disclaimer to avoid any misunderstanding.  I am in no way trying to imply that I’m an amazing guy every woman should be swooning over.  I can’t be the judge of that; and even so, I really don’t see myself that way at all.  What I’m going to tell you are just characteristics that can be picked up from my dating site profile, and elements of my conduct on these sites.  I will try to keep it as objective as I can.  So here we go:

-I’m six feet tall.
-I work out regularly and am in excellent physical shape.
-In my early 20′s, I have a well-paying full-time job in a highly respected field. (Income is listed at $50,000-60,000)
-On OKCupid’s MyBestFace, an app which pits your photos up against others and has people judge which are more attractive, mine are chosen the vast majority of the time.  In other words, strangers have rated my photos as significantly more attractive than most.
-I don’t have any cell phone mirror pics or other forms of douchebaggery.
-I don’t have a sketchy or threatening look about me.  I’m clean-cut… no facial hair, no tattoos, no piercings, etc.
-I always write with proper grammar in mind.
-When I message someone initially, I always try to start a conversation based on something in her profile.  I end every message with some kind of open-ended question.  I do the same throughout the convo if she responds and we start going back and forth.  I never give physical compliments, make mention of anything sexual, or say anything even remotely impolite.
-I don’t message the hottest girls I can find; I message girls who are realistically cute, and who I think I’d get along with based on their profiles.  I don’t believe that my standards for “cute” are all that high, as I tend to find more women attractive than my friends do.
-I only message girls within a few years of my own age.
-My profile doesn’t brag in any way, or contain any hint of negativity/bitterness.  It has a playful tone throughout.  It’s about medium as far as length (yea yea that’s what she said).

Jaded older men probably believe that I’m the kind of guy these women devote all their attention to.  Well, want to know what kind of results I’ve gotten after messaging over 100 women?  Not one date.  Not even a phone number.  Nothing.  About 70% of women ignored the initial message I sent.  Of the 30% who responded, every single one either put in zero effort and basically forced me to drag her through the conversation (in which cases I gave up), or randomly bailed out of the conversation at some point (always within several messages each back and forth, because at that point I suggest exchanging phone #s/adding each other on facebook).  I’ve taken a bunch of messages that resulted in seemingly interested girls ceasing to respond, and run them by a female friend, asking her “how I’m managing to scare off every girl I talk to.”  She said she could find absolutely no fault with any of my messages; that I sounded fun, interesting, intelligent, and normal.

Let’s go back to the original point of contention… that girls claim to only get interest from the “wrong type of guy.”  Now go back and reread the facts I listed about myself, this time with this horrible little tidbit in your mind:  That person whom those facts describe… is STILL the “wrong type of guy” according to these women.  Wrap your head around that one.

As I alluded to before, I am very far from a perfect person, and I make no claim of being an Adonis that every girl should want.  I have no problem acknowledging that.  But while I have my share of faults, none of them are really things that come through in a dating site environment.  From what little info about me these women possess, I have no apparent flaws.  Yet not a single one ultimately deems me worth getting to know.

I write this not to whine about my situation.  In fact, I feel very lucky to have some superficial things going for me in the first place.  God help the poor bastards who are 5’7”, or unemployed; I’m sure they’re discarded even more readily.  I write this to give other struggling guys some perspective on the type of women they’re dealing with on dating sites.  These are people who are completely and hopelessly self-deluded.  They have convinced themselves that anyone who doesn’t meet their pathetically specific, unrealistic vision of Prince Charming is “the wrong type of guy.”  You should not feel inadequate for being unable to gain their approval, because no one can.

The Running Of The Buicks – Weekend Weirdness

Living in South Florida (Fort Lauderdale area) has given me the opportunity to indulge in a special kind of weirdness that is simply unavailable in the rest of the country. For example, four small bales of soggy marijuana recently washed up on the shore of my local beach. A good citizen actually turned in those four bales over to the local authorities. Or, six bales washed ashore and the clever citizen kept two.

This is not about the South Florida drug trade. This is about commuting to work and dealing with the large population of retirees down here. I ride a motorcycle. It’s my only vehicle. So, I ride to work and back. Contrary to what you might believe, the retirees stay off the roads during rush hour. They’re not stupid, they know their driving skills decrease with age. They also tend to avoid the highways and stick to surface roads.

Commuting on a motorcycle in South Florida is fairly straightforward. I use I-95 and I am legally allowed to ride my motorcycle in the carpool (HOV) lane. My fellow commuters are mostly consistent and predictable. It’s been extremely rare for me to witness stupid driving when commuting. These folks know where they’re going and are mostly focused on getting there. Sadly, using cell phones while driving is allowed in Florida and that includes texting. The worst part about commuting on a motorcycle down here is the weather. We have intense tropical downpours and so I must religiously check the doppler radar to see if I have to put on the rain gear before leaving.

Sometimes I run quite late. This is the running of the Buicks. I am convinced that the large retirement communities release the Buicks at about 10AM, well past rush hour. If I’m on surface streets prior to getting on the interstate highway and it’s after 10AM, I feel like a runner in Pamplona, dodging death from large moving things. I can never be sure when a retiree in a Buick might drift into my lane or turn directly in front of me. My level of focus is intense, my head swivelling back and forth to look for an errant and unpredictable Buick. There’s one! It’s at complete stop during a 90 degree turn, the driver likely confused. It’s ironic that I feel safer when I reach I-95 and get to cruise happily at 75 miles per hour amongst 18-wheelers when I felt in mortal danger when on the surface roads at 30 miles per hour.

I-95 has large, illuminated, and changeable digital signs at regular intervals. These signs inform drivers about traffic conditions, accidents, and other relevant information for interstate travel. My favorite is the “Watch for motorcycles” admonition to those behind the wheel. My second favorite is the “Silver Alert”. This is a notification that an elderly driver is out and about and unaccounted for. It shows the year and brand of car (Yes, often Buick) and the license plate number. I see this one daily and I always wonder about the circumstances behind it. Perhaps grandfather swiped the keys and went for quick drive. Or maybe grandmother hasn’t returned from her doctor’s appointment.

I rather enjoy it here, despite the road risks. And as a bonus, there’s a lot to ponder about South Florida and a curious of ages and nationalities. It keeps my mind quite busy as I take my usual walk up and down the beach, looking for bales of marijuana.

Online Dating Profile Photos And Honesty

Is there any such thing as online dating profiles and honesty? I wonder. This is the primary photo for a local woman who claims to be 47. So she serves up her primary photo:

This is an attractive woman. Yet, the photo looks older. A printed version of City Link? (background). No comment.

Hmmmm…. Here is another profile photo that somewhat matches the first online dating profile photo:


Note the changes to the face. This photo is obviously not 12 years old.

Oh, the joys of online dating.

New Blog To Watch

Red Pill wisdom is percolating nicely on yonder interwebz. While bopping around the Manosphere and chasing various links, I came across this gem of a blog:

Adventures in Red Pill Wifery

In this blog, a married woman with kids is going through the process of taking the Red Pill and writes about it with remarkable candor. Here’s a sample post:

Feminine Attracts the Masculine

Since I was a young girl, I’ve been taught that femininity = weakness. I grew up a little tomboy, never wore makeup, rarely wore dresses or skirts. I kept my hair long, but I never did anything with it. I can probably count the number of times my mother got dressed up on one hand. She never taught me how to wear makeup, and for that I’m kinda glad, because she’s not very good at it either, bless her heart.

Girls are bombarded with the message that they shouldn’t bother trying to look feminine, while at the same time are berated if they don’t look a certain feminine way. It’s confusing and makes no sense. “A man should love you for who you are, even if you’re overweight and ugly and don’t try!”, “Femininity is weakness!”, coupled with “If you’re not rail thin with huge boobs and nice hips, you fail.” It makes for a bunch of women who feel entitled, yet have no self esteem.

I really hated all things feminine growing up. And after joining the military after high school. And through part of our marriage. I even demanded purple instead of pink at my daughter’s baby shower.

However, as Mr. RedPill often reminds me when I start to make a distasteful face at something pink and flowery, “the feminine attracts the masculine”. Old hamster thinking lead to to thought, “Why doesn’t he love me for meeeeee?” We had MANY fights over this, particularly on the issue of makeup.

Why is femininity’s attractiveness such a toxic idea for feminism? It seems that an embrace of women’s natural femininity would be a good ideal, but it runs contrary to the belief that men and women are equal, and therefore exactly the same. It’s an idea that has become so ingrained in modern women that I find myself falling back on it at times, even though I know better. Men and women can be equal in their dignity and human worth, but still be fundamentally different.

I’m currently reading “Care and Proper Feeding of Husbands” by Dr. Laura, and she speaks to this. Many of us expect men to act like women as well. We expect them to be a girlfriend that listens to our problems without fixing them. We expect them to feel loved without touch. We expect them to know what’s going on in our female brains. Even though I still suck at remembering these things, I’ve been trying to remember and treat Mr. RedPill like the manly man he is, and I’m slowly transforming my closet into something respectably feminine to catch his eye.

Good stuff, I hope she keeps at it.

Cautionary

Down the rabbit hole I go. Deti, being brilliant and savagely honest, has been commenting prolifically at The Woman and the Dragon (link below). This comment stands out. It’s a searing observation of the infamous cock carousel.

As always, his comments are brilliant.

In light of the incalculable damage feminism has done, in light of our society being on the brink of irretrievable and total collapse, I think women need to ask themselves, individually and collectively:

Was it worth it?

Was the cock carousel worth it?

The sex, the occasional orgasms, the attention and validation, the rush, the feelings?

The drunk dancing on tables, the hangovers, the feelings of immediate regret, the knowledge that you’ve just been used as a semen receptacle (for the 14th time)?

Was it worth it?

The ridiculous thoughts to yourself that, no, THIS TIME it will be different. This time I won’t get f**ked over. This time I will get what I want. This time I will save it for a good man, a kind man, the right man — who never shows up.

Did you get what you wanted?

Did the hot man, the rich man, the sexy man, the alpha, marry you? Did he give you the brass ring of commitment? Did he pledge his life to you? DId he promise to stay around for longer than just until he’s tired of f**king you and putting up with your bulls**t?

Or did you fall (again) for the player’s smooth line that “hey, I think it’s great that a woman like you can have sex with who she wants. That’s only fair. It’s a man’s world, and you should get to partake in it just like we do.”

You get out of his bed. You’ve got to get to work this morning. You try to find your panties and put your miniskirt and 4 inch heels on to walk to your car and get an Egg McMuffin and some coffee. You add another notch to your lipstick case (one you’ll have to come clean about someday to your therapist or drug counselor or ER doctor, if not your husband). He says “I had a great time. Let’s do it again. There’s some coffee downstairs. Help yourself. I’ve got a lot of things to do today so I need to get going. Sorry I can’t have you stay longer.” You reply weakly: “It’s OK. Call me, OK?” “Sure. You bet I will.”

Little do you know that he just infected you with genital herpes. You’ll find out in a week or so after the incubation period is up and you have festering blisters all over your pubic area. The pain is so excruciating you have to take the day off work, get some treatment at the ER, and stay in bed. You can’t wear panties because the weight of the fabric on the sores is too painful. You can’t walk because the skin on skin friction hurts. Oh well. I’m sure your future husband will understand.

Tell me: does it occur to you that you did it again? Does it occur to you that you’ve f**ked up yet again? Are you getting it yet that the guy who blasted another load on your chest or in your hair last night has no intention of returning the texts you send him, unless it involves an encore performance? Does it dawn on you that maybe what you’re doing isn’t working and maybe you need to try something else? Does it dawn on you that the only things you really got out of last night were a couple of bottles of beer and bragging rights?

It’s 6:45 am on a Sunday morning. You stumble through yet another Walk of Shame across the quad back to your apartment, with your hair and clothes reeking of Aqua Net and stale cigarettes and Old Style and semen. You pray to God above that you don’t see any of your friends. He smiles on you and today, you are spared the agony of your good friends observing you in all your disheveled, deflowered ignominy. But you see mirror images. You pass by other girls in miniskirts and heels, some of whom lost their bras last night and couldn’t find them. You see other men on their way home, some of whom are hungover, some of whom have little smiles on their faces. You exchange knowing glances with both the men and the women, some of whom you kind of know, others you don’t — but the looks are the same.

“I know what you did last night”.

“I know WHO you did last night.”

“That sex sucked. But he was hot.”

“I’m never doing this again.”

So as you get home, exhale a breath, disrobe and try to wash the stench from the oddly arousing yet horribly convicting things you did and you allowed another human being to do to you, on you and in you, do you ask:

Is this worth it?

Do you have anything more to show for your life than N>10, an STD, recurrent UTIs and probably an abortion in there somewhere?

The Woman and the Dragon

Pre-Selection While Absent

Your friends can help you with women even when you aren’t around. If a friend or group of friends and is out and about and meets up with girls and there’s an extra for you, it’s their obligation to somehow get you involved whether you’re present or not. The first priority would be to contact you and invite you to an arranged location, preferably not where they first met up with the girls and not in a loud nightclub. This is a venue change opportunity.

The girls in question must know that you are being contacted to be invited into the group. This is not a simple matter of stating “I’m calling Bob to see what he wants to hang out with us.” This is a huge opportunity to pre-sell Bob. Frankly, it’s your friends’ sworn duty to pre-sell you. Especially if they are single. Yes, this also applies to friends who are out with wives and committed girlfriends, provided you get along with wives and committed girlfriends. The sales pitch could be something along these lines:

“Oh we have to meet up with Bob later, he’s a great guy.”

“Bob needs to hang out with us, he’s really cool.”

“If we don’t get to party with Bob, I’ll be really disappointed.”

You get the idea. The girls will get a very positive vibe about you and should be anticipating your arrival. This is pre-selection while absent. Should you do arrive later, it’s important that you make a strong entrance, if possible. Don’t shuffle in quietly. Yell out to them as you walk in. Slap backs with smiles all around. This is your crew, dammit, and you’re really pleased to see them. Your friends should then commence with the introductions to the girls and your Charisma should kick in. But your frame should be that out came to see your friends, not the girls.

If logistics prevent you from meeting, then the girls know of your existence, they know you’re a cool guy, and you might run into them. Hopefully, they will still remember the pre-sell pitch and you can use that to your advantage.

In order for all this to work, you must have charismatic and outgoing friends who are usually out and about. Housebound friends won’t work. Shy friends won’t work. Friends without social skills won’t work. This may require you shift your social circle or perhaps even make new friends.

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 2,076 other followers