your romantic storyline, delineated: boy meets girl, girl coaxes boy inexorably into his psychic submission, boy commemorates his acquiescence to a lifetime of female control by buying girl a twenty thousand dollar blood diamond. lmAo.
in my revised script––the original divine storyline––boy meets girl, boy looks prettier than girl doing it, boy collapses girl into existential and spiritual crisis that collapses hierarchical black magik power structures and births the new five dee world.
ask the question and don't wait for the answer. the answer has always been the same. girls run circles around boys in the modern era, capitalizing on sexual and psychic leverage that they've wielded since the dawn of time.
exhibit ay––not for the faint of heart: engaged ingénue wants to suk and fuk enrique iglesias on stage at his concert. lmao!
to be fair, she must have been off of birth control that month.
now, before you freak out and begin justifying, explaining away our young protagonist’s behavior, allow me to diagnose what you just observed.
some of my readers––indeed, even my male readers––will protest that any conclusions emanating forth from a singular video like this cannot possibly be accurate or revelatory, that context is important, that i need to be fair to the weaker sex, that most girls are so loyal!, blah blah blah.
but if you're at all enticed in this politically correct (and more emetic) direction, you're not paying attention. or perhaps you don't want to––perhaps you have a vested, egoic incentive not to pay the requisite attention.
and you haven't learned from maybe the greatest psychosexual field experiment yet captured––and perhaps my preferred video in the youtube compendium.
if the mise en scène is perfect, the relational context is sublime. it appears that, just moments before her prurient transgression, our busty maiden publicly revealed her personal backstory––explaining to enrique, and his concert audience broadly, that she was celebrating her birthday that nite with friends, and that her fiancé was at home, unavailable for comment.
in the proximate wake of this admission, enrique begins to serenade our girl protagonist with one of his acclaimed songs hero, which visibly reduces her to a puddle of teenage female hormones basically instantly.
as he commences his serenade (at around 0:20), tell me honestly what the chances are that her thoughts are with her husband to be meticulously attending to the dishes at home hmm? lol. now adumbrate the probability cloud that, in her heightened, liminal, sexually charged state, the only thing she feels––the only thing she knows––is the sustained, tingling sensation between her legs as she takes in the pop star's energy under the stage lites.
if you can summon the courage, let yourself evaluate her serene, guileless gaze––the default public female expressive facial form. watch her eyes as enrique ramps up his physical intimacy, his hands insolently grazing her perky breasts (her smiling, morally unencumbered acquiescence to which would probably be sufficient to impel any boyfriend slash fiancé to mental insanity, lollz).
let yourself perceive the full force of her *reflexive* energetic and sexual submission to the preeminent latin pop star of the modern era––to an energy signature so overwhelming, so unfamiliar, so manifestly undeniable––the brute strength of which apparently enough to collapse her into starry–eyed amnesia, and perhaps the embryonic stages of narcissistic self-delusion (he's authentically in love with me).
and all of this transpires as a mindless, amoral female crowd hivemind––thoroughly apprised of her affianced status––amplifies, promotes, energetically sustains their deviant sexual chemistry. why. it's almost as if they're accessing our protagonist's heightened energy state vicariously through her as she plays out their sexual fantasies in real time. as their hero.
they cannot help themselves in the presence of his energy signature. and the inconvenient moistness between their legs is the reflexive, unconscious corroborator of the hypergamic instinct in play. and the harbinger of a custody settlement. sigh. girls will be girls.
maybe the most devastating take away from this exchange is that enrique, perhaps, believed he was giving this girl a gift that nite. lolz a gift with abundant reciprocal personal sexual benefits, to be clear, replicable in every city on earth––but a gift nonetheless. after all, what young girl wouldn't want to be summoned on stage to be swept off her feet by the object of her (pre)pubescent infatuation? but seriously. a part of him perhaps believed that he was granting her a beautiful, intimate experience she could cherish and relive with her friends and family until their dying days in a decaying, forgotten corner of the world. which is likely the moral rationale invoked by most celebrities congregating with the great unwashed during their virtue–signaling orgasm service projects across the third world.
but what he doesn't realize (and what all eminent energetic playmakers who enter and exit disparate energetic contexts on autopilot never seem to realize) is that he has ruined her life forever.
because what happens in the wake of that concert, in that silence after the lites go off?––as the confetti degrades on the stage in the empty arena somewhere in the third world where a star, for one fleeting moment, coaxed a girl out of her spiritual and sexual mundanity and into his world forever.
forever isn't hyperbole. that's the thing about energy signatures. once they permeate, once they land, they never really go away––especially the superhuman, transcendent ones. these leave indelible scars on the human psyche, particularly female psyches––which, unlike their male counterparts, are shells, thoroughly amenable to energetic imprint, positive or negative.
so where does our leading girl retreat to in the darkness of the nite, long after the sun has set? what can she do in the wake of this energetic exchange––the contrast between his world and hers defined now so clearly, evinced so patently, so stark, so overwhelming?
where does a four go after she's accessed, gotten a taste of, a ten, however ephemerally––in the wake of an energetic exchange she was never supposed to have?
what will she feel now when she and her fiancé make love hmm? what thought patterns will surface now as she tastes her fiancé's lips again, peripherally evaluating his early onset 'dad bod' in the cold lite of day, now that she's gotten a taste of something so much better?
when she wakes beside her 'soulmate', i wonder if she'll yet find his snoring endearing. will his absent six pack be yet attributable to his tireless work ethic and lack of time because he's such a good provider? or i wonder if that lie on automatic repeat now begins to quietly recede into a distant corner of her mind.
there is an out. she can train herself to forget. her supernatural capacity for self–induced amnesia and cognitive dissonance––the prototypical female art form––having worked once, twice, infinite times before, will save her from herself again.
because even before the li(t)es of the arena have faded, her retroactive mitigation strategy is already in play.
can you see her now, communing with her heartbroken fiancé in the early hours of the next morning––her eyes saccading around their makeshift living room, a gesture strategically ostensive of overpowering thoughts and emotional disquietude––as she affirms to him that what she has with him is real, that she was drunk, and that she cherishes him for who he is on the inside!, for his kindness and generosity and undying loyalty, blah blah you know how this story goes.
can you see her.
as she begins a rehearsed diagnosis of their present impasse, let her words––infused with that prototypical female inaneness you've come to know so well––fade into a bleary, distant backstory of your awareness.
for the first time in your life, i want you to focus now on her furrowed brow. allow yourself to contemplate the contrived corrugations on her forehead, effectuated to signal spiritual perturbation and emotional vulnerability and an intellectual depth that isn't there. note the masterful subtlety of the accentuation of her gaze––genetically and epigenetically perfected over eons across infinite lineages and distant geographies, every immaculate detail of her physiognomy premeditated to evince purity so unrelentingly.
he's confronting her now, straining all of his cognitive faculties to summon a challenge to her pathological revisionist history.
she's responding to his accusations, her cheeks failing to suffuse with characteristic color as she fails to 'recall' the 'details' of her 'experimental', horizontal college years––her perpetual drug-induced stupor, the litany of virile fraternal boys (and girls) she rode into bouts of ecstasy once upon a time––revealing a cognitive dissonance so compulsive, so surreal.
she answers emotionally that she wasn't even attracted to him!, that physical appearances don't matter to her anymore, and that she has 'matured' beyond 'superficial' trivialities like physicality, which are fleeting and inane. contemplate the waxing and waning forms of her lips as she (tsk tsk) effortlessly cognitively pushes back memories of all the physically endowed men she pursued and sucked and fucked and loved when she was younger, hotter, tighter.
can you palpate the relief in her awareness that her beta bux has not accumulated the requisite sexual history (n=1.5) to evaluate the size of her vaginal canal contextually-–rendering this variable wonderfully irrelevant? and even if he were able to make the requisite discernments, love transcends trivial variables like sexual history, duh.
she pauses now, her gaze deadening for a moment, her pupils bearing down upon a distant corner of the room––a contrived, evolved intelligence-signaling behavior designed to convey her vulnerability, her omgz unmitigated emotional desperation, her victimhood. watch her gesticulate exaggeratedly as she enumerates her soulmate's myriad virtues to him in succession––the preeminent ones among these being his 'integrity' and 'generosity'. notice how her gaze softens as she recites all of his socially endorsed 'inner qualities' in a vacuous outpouring of cliché––the euphemistic subtext of which confirming his voluntary enrollment into emotional and psychic enslavement.
not long from now, like clockwork, she will be telling him that she loves him, and that she will love him for the rest of their lives, until the end of time. that 'they' can 'overcome' this (her failures are shared with him––her successes are her own). and her swarthy husband to be––confronting her palpable affection for him and apparently sincere desperation (himself perhaps not destined to win catch of the year any time soon)––will persuade himself that she was just having a 'fun time' and acting 'silly'. he will tell himself the lie that what they have is real.
and what she will bury-–what she will try to tuck away thoroughly forever––is the truth. her awareness that the only thing that was ever real was the pre–cum effluent secreting into her black lace cheekies as she communed with a star on stage last nite in a dark arena filled with fog. a star with whom both she and her fiancé could never hope to compete, energetically, physically, spiritually, existentially, whatever.
...her masterful, preemptive contemplation of the backstory she memorized and recited so mercilessly sincerely. the efficacy of the lies she danced, the ensuing victimization performance she staged. the vulnerable and innocent desperation act she feigned. the certain inevitability of the forgiveness she never craved––the assured pardoning of her lactating, ineffectual beta bux who plays at four inches and change.
all men in 'love' only have to ask is, who would she be fucking if she was hot enough to have anyone she ever wanted?
the female psyche quietly gets high off of sins unredeemed, transgressions unsurfaced, unreconciled, buried away forever.
even as it professes to adore you, it is always privately evaluating, appraising, making plans to upregulate––all whilst publicly pretending to be lost in a dark scary forest on the precipice of tragedy. there is no resonance, no elegance, no enduring spirit in that game––only the tides of waxing and waning lust, the (presumed) inevitability of biological degradation, and the desire to capitalize on youthful beauty and the attention of alpha fux before the lites go out forever.
pretty girls learn to hate me fast because i can articulate their psychic playbooks like they breathe.
amethyst is the chromatic intermediary between red and blue––someone call morpheus.
cupid never wielded a bow but a nepenthe.
LS
pee es. to the dumpy feminazi cunt collective whose worldview i just collapsed, no, i’ve never had my heart broken. 😈
