This is a great article on Rooshv. One of the best!
http://www.rooshv.com/western-culture-poisons-women
Western Culture Poisons Women
By Roosh
Are you familiar with twin studies that are supposed to determine how much of our personality is influenced by genetics versus the environment? Well I have my own twin study going on in Poland, where I observe girls who have lived in America and Britain with those who have not. The differences are striking. It confirms to me that it’s no accident Western women possess so many horrible qualities.
A few weeks ago I met a tall Polish girl who lived in America for two years. She tried to make fun of me for being alone in the club, when she was in fact alone herself. She smiled while busting my balls, as if she was getting enjoyment out of it. I hadn’t had to come up with insult retorts in quite a while, so it took me time to deploy my counterattacks. They were guided in by GPS satellites, beautifully destroying their target. Her face turned sour and she looked like she was about to cry.
I remember the Lithuanian girl I approached in the grocery store. She lived in Britain for five years. Since this was a day approach, I gave her no cockiness, yet when I asked her to repeat her difficult name a few minutes after she first said it, she said, “Really? You can’t remember my name?†Her attitude was flippant, ready to punish me for trying to build rapport with her.
I remember another Polish girl who lived in Britain for one year. She was the coldest one yet, telling me to “Shut up and listen†while going on about how she’s tired of one-night stands and is finally ready to sucker land a guy for a relationship. She questioned everything I said, had no humor about her, and told me she doesn’t wear heels because “they hurt.†Even though she wanted to continue talking to me, I cut the interaction short.
I’ve interacted with several dozen Eastern European women by now (mostly Polish) and these are the only three times that I was left with a bad taste in my mouth when a cockblock was not involved. While not all my interactions with Polish women result in beautiful lovemaking, it’s very rare that I’m wondering to myself why she had to act in a rude manner when I wasn’t disrespecting her. Therefore it’s easy for me to conclude that Western cultures cause direct negative harm to a woman’s feminine vibe and allure. Here are eight things that happen:
1. She loses the ability to flirt with a man without busting his balls or insulting him.
2. She does everything in her power to withhold interest, even when it’s clear that sex is on the agenda. She takes “play hard to get†to an inhuman extreme.
3. She looks for every opportunity possible to turn a man’s banal utterances into an opportunity to debate him on his beliefs or behavior.
4. She uses conversation as a means to her entertainment, instead of a means to getting to know a man more deeply.
5. She becomes more lazy about her appearance by gaining weight, wearing flats and flip flops instead of heels, and cutting her hair short into strange lesbian stylings.
6. She goes out of her way to brag about her accomplishments as if she was a man while doing her best to ignore your more lofty achievements.
7. She becomes obsessed with her cell phone, playing with it incessantly and using it as a substitute for social interaction. She loses the ability to enjoy the present moment.
8. She becomes a status whore more concerned about your job, who you know, and what you own instead of the experiences you’ve had.
Western culture is a like a disease on the female human. I don’t know the exact epidemiology of infection, or what sorts of experiences cause such devastating damage, but stepping foot inside the borders of America or Britain for more than three months will cause the female victim to become infected with the Western virus. For every year she spends in the West, she must live for ten years in a culture where feminism and unbridled capitalism has not yet corrupted society in order to rid herself of the disease. Unfortunately, by the time all traces of virus are undetectable in her bloodstream, she will be old and craggily, no longer suitable or capable of mating. Western culture essentially renders them sterile.
To give you an idea of how far gone Western women are, I present the following article: My first-date dress works every time. It’s a story about a horse-faced woman who has determined that her success in getting call-backs from men is due to wearing a reasonably attractive dress.
Men respond better to “feminine†clothing items, such as dresses and skirts, than they do to pants, according to professional matchmaker Rachel Greenwald, author of “Have Him at Hello.â€
American women are so clueless about how to act like women that they have to re-learn common sense from “professionals†who teach them (for money) that men like skirts more than pants. I’m guessing these experts also moonlight in teaching others that the sun will rise again tomorrow.
The best analogy I can make to this pathetic state of affairs is the human race losing agriculture, the ability to grow their own food. In a panic they collect experts from around the world who slowly figure out that seeds go into the soil, that the soil needs water (not Brawndo), and that the substance growing out of the soil can be harvested as food. Sadly, Western women are rapidly losing the knowledge and ability to be women.
For men there are only two courses of action. The first is to adopt an “ignorance is bliss†attitude where you only date Western women, never realizing that you’re injecting your seed into a diseased body. You can go to sleep thinking you just ate filet mignon when in fact it was ground beef patties treated with ammonia. Close your eyes and pretend.
The second option is to get a taste of feminine women abroad, specifically in South America, Eastern Europe, or Southeast Asia. Your palate will explode with sensations and tastes it has never experienced before, leading you to curse yourself for not sampling it sooner. Yes, you will have a couple years of unhappiness when you’re still stuck with Western women while your Brazilian long-distance girlfriend begs you to return, but you will gradually complete the necessary actions to ensure that you never have to date a contaminated woman again.
I implore you to act on the second option by going straight to the farm for the freshest, tastiest food possible. Otherwise you are stuck with a glorified McDonalds dollar menu, which is exactly what Western women have become: mass-produced dreck that you consume only when you’re drunk and nowhere else is open. You deserve better.
Western Culture Poisons Women - Rooshv
Western Culture Poisons Women - Rooshv
Last edited by Winston on September 28th, 2012, 8:21 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Another good one by Rooshv.
http://www.rooshv.com/united-states-of-broken-women
The United States Of Broken Women
By Roosh
Not until I was back in the U.S. for five months did I go on a date with an American girl I hadn’t already slept with. My game up to that point was only one-night stands and late-night meetups, and while it was serving me well, I was essentially porking the same girl over and over again.
This new girl I took out was a little different—classy and elegant with superb body posture developed from years playing the piano. I initially approached her at a coffee shop and we connected on various levels: we both have traveled extensively, we both speak Spanish, and we both hate D.C. The first date would be judged as a success by most people, with kissing at around the two-hour mark and enough gas left in the tank to keep it going for far longer.
I have a bad habit when I kiss a new girl without sleeping with her (i.e. when there is still sexual tension). For the first night I think about her. I imagine how the relationship would pan out along with all the nice little moments we’ll have, until I snap out of it the next day. But with this girl, my brain wouldn’t go along with my cheesy routine. I struggled to conjure up any sort of future scene between me and her even though we matched quite well on paper. I started to think of the reason why.
If I showed up looking nice on a date with a Brazilian girl, she’d compliment my appearance. An American girl would ask if I was a “hipster,†or make some otherwise neutral comment similar to one a random elderly lady might give in a grocery store line. Do I need a girl to make a positive comment about my appearance? No.
If I was having a great time with a Colombian girl, she’d touch my thigh and say she was having a… great time. When an American is having a great time, she’ll tell a convoluted story about how her friend is dating some guy she met on the internet. It’s my responsibility to flesh out some underlying metaphor that is supposed to represent her feelings for me. Do I need a girl to make a statement telling me she’s enjoying my company? No.
If a Puerto Rican girl likes me, she’d invite me to her home to bake a dish from her country that she suspects I might like. An American girl will offer me her Chipotle leftovers or make me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, untoasted. Do I need a girl to cook delicious food for me? No. I don’t need a girl to do anything but spread her legs, but these optional things hit the provider buttons of my brain, telling me that I can put more effort and investment into the girl. They tell me to take a short break from the game and enjoy at least a little bit of time with this new person.
Two days after the date with the American girl, I was out, prowling harder than ever. While she kissed me with enthusiasm and let me begin to make explorations of her petite body, the interaction had the same staleness I’ve become numb to. There was nothing about it that instilled any type of hope or feeling that my happiness would increase if I spent more time with her. The best analogy I can give you is that we were colleagues trying to hide an affair from everyone in the office. It didn’t matter that we were in the dark corner of the bar or isolated in a car, but it’s as if people she knew were watching and judging her, and she was not allowed to say pleasant things or initiate a touch that could be considered “strong interest.†And forget about displays of natural human vulnerability—that’s simply not allowed.
Maybe we were starring in a reality show and she wanted to solidify a hard-as-balls reputation so that she would get a future book deal with an idea she had been tinkering with for the past couple of years: “How To Be A Cutthroat Independent Woman In A Cutthroat World. Did I Mention Cutthroat? Cutthroat!†There wasn’t a scrap of feeling or emotion, and any opening up on my part by making positive but non-needy comments about our interaction would be severely punished with her not returning my texts or calls. Opening up to a Colombian, Brazilian, or Puerto Rican girl would be rewarded with reciprocation and a further deepening of the relationship.
The connection I get from one month with a Brazilian girl is the same connection I can get from spending one year with an American. The former starts calling me “baby†by the second date, something I started to do but actively repress for American girls. I’m two different men—one cold and unaffectionate to get some cheap f***s that tide me over until I’m rewarded for being a passionate, confident man to a grounded woman who knows how to be happy in a relationship.
I’ve dated too many American girls like the one I’m describing to you, so many “coworkers†who wanted to stay professional. (The only time that mask comes off is when I penetrate her—then she adopts a completely different persona that is best described as porn satire.) One reason I have tolerated this behavior recently is I was only interacting with them for a short time until getting to sex. And most of that time was under the influence. Prolonging the process with long-form dating reminded me of how challenging it is to accept this masculinity and lack of warmth, especially when you’ve discovered that it’s not real, that women are really not like this. Believe me when I say I’m not angry, bitter, or sad—I’m only disappointed that the women of my birth country have been destroyed through the work of intellectual man-haters. Or is it the fault of suits in power who go along with the anti-man nonsense to lock up the female vote? All I know is that winning the lottery is only marginally harder than finding a woman who can serve her man like in the not-so-distant past.
Read this profile and tell me if it was written by a man or woman:
I’m an ironically-self-proclaimed “bright young thing†in Washington DC, by way of the midwest. I currently work as a researcher/analyst/Intelligence and Reconaissance Ninja for a social media PR agency, where I anxiously await the DotCom Bust 2.0. I also frequently find myself on the fringes of the DC libertarian movement, having begun my life here as an intern for the free-market think tank mafia. My favorite pastimes include brunch, blogging, sharpening my wit, terrifying people with my charm, self-parody, and digesting the absurdities of the world around me. And in case you were curious, I’m much sweeter in real life.
If you told me this was written by a man, I’d raised my left eyebrow (the only one I can raise independently) at the “much sweeter in real life†statement, but I wouldn’t be particularly shocked. It has the hallmark style of a guy trying to be witty and smart to impress whomever might read it—with the intention of sparking interest in a girl who desires someone with a stable job. Well it’s in fact written by a woman, a term I have no choice but to use loosely these days. After taking several hours and a dozen drafts to get it just right, I guarantee you “she†congratulated herself for coming up with such a powerful! and impactful! description of who she is. While I have no doubt that sexless dweebs who didn’t notice her misspelling of reconnaissance are lining up to shower her with attention, her profile is what I think about when I want to get rid of a persistent boner, or when I want to last longer in the sack while I’m f***ing a girl.
I won’t neglect to mention the flip side of the detached, professional woman because I just met her a couple weeks ago—a young lipstick feminist educated in an expensive university. She was sexy but had the bad habit of biting my lip, and not the sensual nibble that increases pleasure, but a sting that caused me to instinctively pull my head back. “Don’t bite my lip like that,†I said the first time it happened. “Oh come on,†she replied. It was my fault I didn’t enjoy the bite, even though it felt like the prick of a novacain needle before getting a cavity filled. She did it again. I’m serious don’t bite my lip. She was insulted. How dare I question her chomps of passion!
She calmed down for a couple hours, but then it came again much harder than before. You might as well have taken a binder clip meant for a stack of papers and put it on my lip to pinch off a piece of flesh. I flipped out and the interaction terminated. I’m certain she went home to complain about me to her friends: “What a loser I met tonight! When am I going to find a real man who can handle this jelly!â€
During the five days it took for the little scab to slough off my lip, I wondered where I could score some of the testosterone she must be injecting so I, too, can adopt a take-no-prisoners attitude that she was taught will get her what she wants out of life. In reality the testosterone is not injected directly into her skin—it’s absorbed by her brain through the culture, which is rewarding young girls when they display go-getting aggressiveness that men used to possess. At the same time it punishes the easy-going, compliant qualities that are necessary to maintain fulfilling relationships and sane households. Even basic human traits like charm and flirtatiousness are like abstract paintings in America, nebulous constructs that no one wants to figure out or work on.
I thought back to the Colombian girl who was too meloso (affectionate) after just a couple weeks of dating. Not used to this behavior, I sternly told her to tone it down. I still remember her response—it was the same as a newborn kitten adjusting to earthly light: scared and confused. What a heartless monster she must’ve saw me as! Thing is I was a monster. They say acceptance is the first step, and with each foreign woman I date, I come closer to being a man that I would’ve never been had I not peeked around the corner into the “bad†neighborhood that all the cool kids seem to be sneaking out of.
Grab a random man off an American street. Take away the penis, broad shoulders, and body hair. Add breasts, a crotch hole stingy with its lubrication, and a tendency for inane chatter that is insignificant to all forms of life two minutes after it’s uttered. You have an American woman. I’m not attempting to be funny: I sincerely cannot feel the difference between the men and women of this country once you take away the clothing and hair. Men look and act like fags while women act like men of yesterday, all to make a lot of money in an office park that contains a Starbucks. If you draw a venn diagram of both genders the circles might as well completely overlap. My expectations with women here are so low that going out with one is like spending time with my 7-year-old brother: as long as she doesn’t piss her pants and embarrass me in public, the date was a great success.
The man who doesn’t mind American women is cold and disconnected himself, hopelessly confused about his masculinity and his place in the world. I’d be an easy cheap shot for me to say “they deserve each other,†but the truth is no one else wants them. If a Brazilian man couldn’t f**k an American girl, he wouldn’t spend a minute with her on a beach in Rio while educating her about his culture. If a Russian girl couldn’t get a greencard from an American man, she’d rather put up with the alcoholic trolls dying off like flies in her own country than swallow her pride and post a dating profile on the internet.
An American man mating with his own kind reminds of when I saw two stray dogs having sex on a South American beach. The male had a little bicycle tire stuck around his neck which was attached to a long rope that trailed behind him (put there by some teenager I imagine), while the female was a nasty little thing infested with boils that finally let the male mount her next to a heap of trash. Locals and tourists were laughing at the scene, rushing to grab their cameras to take pictures. The dogs finished their business oblivious to the mocking.
One day later and the tire and rope was still attached to the male. I’m certain he died with it. The American man is not as helpless—he is free to remove the tire and rope, but decades of brainwashing have led him to believe that a f***ing tire around his neck is the way things should be and that there is no alternative. Like the feral dog, he will fade into oblivion unaware that people are laughing at him when he copulates with the man-beast he calls a woman, or worse, a wife.
While traveling I rather say I’m a dirty Muslim Turk than an American. Seeing drunk douche bag Australians pull over my American counterparts is all the proof I need that the people from my country turn off others. Our culture of money and flash is universally admired, but the ignorant, fat, and lost populace that make up 99% of this country is wholly revolting to those who accept what it means to be human. The less American women I date and the more steps I take back from what it means to be American, the more I feel like a real person.
http://www.rooshv.com/united-states-of-broken-women
The United States Of Broken Women
By Roosh
Not until I was back in the U.S. for five months did I go on a date with an American girl I hadn’t already slept with. My game up to that point was only one-night stands and late-night meetups, and while it was serving me well, I was essentially porking the same girl over and over again.
This new girl I took out was a little different—classy and elegant with superb body posture developed from years playing the piano. I initially approached her at a coffee shop and we connected on various levels: we both have traveled extensively, we both speak Spanish, and we both hate D.C. The first date would be judged as a success by most people, with kissing at around the two-hour mark and enough gas left in the tank to keep it going for far longer.
I have a bad habit when I kiss a new girl without sleeping with her (i.e. when there is still sexual tension). For the first night I think about her. I imagine how the relationship would pan out along with all the nice little moments we’ll have, until I snap out of it the next day. But with this girl, my brain wouldn’t go along with my cheesy routine. I struggled to conjure up any sort of future scene between me and her even though we matched quite well on paper. I started to think of the reason why.
If I showed up looking nice on a date with a Brazilian girl, she’d compliment my appearance. An American girl would ask if I was a “hipster,†or make some otherwise neutral comment similar to one a random elderly lady might give in a grocery store line. Do I need a girl to make a positive comment about my appearance? No.
If I was having a great time with a Colombian girl, she’d touch my thigh and say she was having a… great time. When an American is having a great time, she’ll tell a convoluted story about how her friend is dating some guy she met on the internet. It’s my responsibility to flesh out some underlying metaphor that is supposed to represent her feelings for me. Do I need a girl to make a statement telling me she’s enjoying my company? No.
If a Puerto Rican girl likes me, she’d invite me to her home to bake a dish from her country that she suspects I might like. An American girl will offer me her Chipotle leftovers or make me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, untoasted. Do I need a girl to cook delicious food for me? No. I don’t need a girl to do anything but spread her legs, but these optional things hit the provider buttons of my brain, telling me that I can put more effort and investment into the girl. They tell me to take a short break from the game and enjoy at least a little bit of time with this new person.
Two days after the date with the American girl, I was out, prowling harder than ever. While she kissed me with enthusiasm and let me begin to make explorations of her petite body, the interaction had the same staleness I’ve become numb to. There was nothing about it that instilled any type of hope or feeling that my happiness would increase if I spent more time with her. The best analogy I can give you is that we were colleagues trying to hide an affair from everyone in the office. It didn’t matter that we were in the dark corner of the bar or isolated in a car, but it’s as if people she knew were watching and judging her, and she was not allowed to say pleasant things or initiate a touch that could be considered “strong interest.†And forget about displays of natural human vulnerability—that’s simply not allowed.
Maybe we were starring in a reality show and she wanted to solidify a hard-as-balls reputation so that she would get a future book deal with an idea she had been tinkering with for the past couple of years: “How To Be A Cutthroat Independent Woman In A Cutthroat World. Did I Mention Cutthroat? Cutthroat!†There wasn’t a scrap of feeling or emotion, and any opening up on my part by making positive but non-needy comments about our interaction would be severely punished with her not returning my texts or calls. Opening up to a Colombian, Brazilian, or Puerto Rican girl would be rewarded with reciprocation and a further deepening of the relationship.
The connection I get from one month with a Brazilian girl is the same connection I can get from spending one year with an American. The former starts calling me “baby†by the second date, something I started to do but actively repress for American girls. I’m two different men—one cold and unaffectionate to get some cheap f***s that tide me over until I’m rewarded for being a passionate, confident man to a grounded woman who knows how to be happy in a relationship.
I’ve dated too many American girls like the one I’m describing to you, so many “coworkers†who wanted to stay professional. (The only time that mask comes off is when I penetrate her—then she adopts a completely different persona that is best described as porn satire.) One reason I have tolerated this behavior recently is I was only interacting with them for a short time until getting to sex. And most of that time was under the influence. Prolonging the process with long-form dating reminded me of how challenging it is to accept this masculinity and lack of warmth, especially when you’ve discovered that it’s not real, that women are really not like this. Believe me when I say I’m not angry, bitter, or sad—I’m only disappointed that the women of my birth country have been destroyed through the work of intellectual man-haters. Or is it the fault of suits in power who go along with the anti-man nonsense to lock up the female vote? All I know is that winning the lottery is only marginally harder than finding a woman who can serve her man like in the not-so-distant past.
Read this profile and tell me if it was written by a man or woman:
I’m an ironically-self-proclaimed “bright young thing†in Washington DC, by way of the midwest. I currently work as a researcher/analyst/Intelligence and Reconaissance Ninja for a social media PR agency, where I anxiously await the DotCom Bust 2.0. I also frequently find myself on the fringes of the DC libertarian movement, having begun my life here as an intern for the free-market think tank mafia. My favorite pastimes include brunch, blogging, sharpening my wit, terrifying people with my charm, self-parody, and digesting the absurdities of the world around me. And in case you were curious, I’m much sweeter in real life.
If you told me this was written by a man, I’d raised my left eyebrow (the only one I can raise independently) at the “much sweeter in real life†statement, but I wouldn’t be particularly shocked. It has the hallmark style of a guy trying to be witty and smart to impress whomever might read it—with the intention of sparking interest in a girl who desires someone with a stable job. Well it’s in fact written by a woman, a term I have no choice but to use loosely these days. After taking several hours and a dozen drafts to get it just right, I guarantee you “she†congratulated herself for coming up with such a powerful! and impactful! description of who she is. While I have no doubt that sexless dweebs who didn’t notice her misspelling of reconnaissance are lining up to shower her with attention, her profile is what I think about when I want to get rid of a persistent boner, or when I want to last longer in the sack while I’m f***ing a girl.
I won’t neglect to mention the flip side of the detached, professional woman because I just met her a couple weeks ago—a young lipstick feminist educated in an expensive university. She was sexy but had the bad habit of biting my lip, and not the sensual nibble that increases pleasure, but a sting that caused me to instinctively pull my head back. “Don’t bite my lip like that,†I said the first time it happened. “Oh come on,†she replied. It was my fault I didn’t enjoy the bite, even though it felt like the prick of a novacain needle before getting a cavity filled. She did it again. I’m serious don’t bite my lip. She was insulted. How dare I question her chomps of passion!
She calmed down for a couple hours, but then it came again much harder than before. You might as well have taken a binder clip meant for a stack of papers and put it on my lip to pinch off a piece of flesh. I flipped out and the interaction terminated. I’m certain she went home to complain about me to her friends: “What a loser I met tonight! When am I going to find a real man who can handle this jelly!â€
During the five days it took for the little scab to slough off my lip, I wondered where I could score some of the testosterone she must be injecting so I, too, can adopt a take-no-prisoners attitude that she was taught will get her what she wants out of life. In reality the testosterone is not injected directly into her skin—it’s absorbed by her brain through the culture, which is rewarding young girls when they display go-getting aggressiveness that men used to possess. At the same time it punishes the easy-going, compliant qualities that are necessary to maintain fulfilling relationships and sane households. Even basic human traits like charm and flirtatiousness are like abstract paintings in America, nebulous constructs that no one wants to figure out or work on.
I thought back to the Colombian girl who was too meloso (affectionate) after just a couple weeks of dating. Not used to this behavior, I sternly told her to tone it down. I still remember her response—it was the same as a newborn kitten adjusting to earthly light: scared and confused. What a heartless monster she must’ve saw me as! Thing is I was a monster. They say acceptance is the first step, and with each foreign woman I date, I come closer to being a man that I would’ve never been had I not peeked around the corner into the “bad†neighborhood that all the cool kids seem to be sneaking out of.
Grab a random man off an American street. Take away the penis, broad shoulders, and body hair. Add breasts, a crotch hole stingy with its lubrication, and a tendency for inane chatter that is insignificant to all forms of life two minutes after it’s uttered. You have an American woman. I’m not attempting to be funny: I sincerely cannot feel the difference between the men and women of this country once you take away the clothing and hair. Men look and act like fags while women act like men of yesterday, all to make a lot of money in an office park that contains a Starbucks. If you draw a venn diagram of both genders the circles might as well completely overlap. My expectations with women here are so low that going out with one is like spending time with my 7-year-old brother: as long as she doesn’t piss her pants and embarrass me in public, the date was a great success.
The man who doesn’t mind American women is cold and disconnected himself, hopelessly confused about his masculinity and his place in the world. I’d be an easy cheap shot for me to say “they deserve each other,†but the truth is no one else wants them. If a Brazilian man couldn’t f**k an American girl, he wouldn’t spend a minute with her on a beach in Rio while educating her about his culture. If a Russian girl couldn’t get a greencard from an American man, she’d rather put up with the alcoholic trolls dying off like flies in her own country than swallow her pride and post a dating profile on the internet.
An American man mating with his own kind reminds of when I saw two stray dogs having sex on a South American beach. The male had a little bicycle tire stuck around his neck which was attached to a long rope that trailed behind him (put there by some teenager I imagine), while the female was a nasty little thing infested with boils that finally let the male mount her next to a heap of trash. Locals and tourists were laughing at the scene, rushing to grab their cameras to take pictures. The dogs finished their business oblivious to the mocking.
One day later and the tire and rope was still attached to the male. I’m certain he died with it. The American man is not as helpless—he is free to remove the tire and rope, but decades of brainwashing have led him to believe that a f***ing tire around his neck is the way things should be and that there is no alternative. Like the feral dog, he will fade into oblivion unaware that people are laughing at him when he copulates with the man-beast he calls a woman, or worse, a wife.
While traveling I rather say I’m a dirty Muslim Turk than an American. Seeing drunk douche bag Australians pull over my American counterparts is all the proof I need that the people from my country turn off others. Our culture of money and flash is universally admired, but the ignorant, fat, and lost populace that make up 99% of this country is wholly revolting to those who accept what it means to be human. The less American women I date and the more steps I take back from what it means to be American, the more I feel like a real person.
Check out my FUN video clips in Russia and SE Asia and Female Encounters of the Foreign Kind video series and Full Russia Trip Videos!
Join my Dating Site to meet thousands of legit foreign girls at low cost!
"It takes far less effort to find and move to the society that has what you want than it does to try to reconstruct an existing society to match your standards." - Harry Browne
Join my Dating Site to meet thousands of legit foreign girls at low cost!
"It takes far less effort to find and move to the society that has what you want than it does to try to reconstruct an existing society to match your standards." - Harry Browne
-
PeterAndrewNolan
- Experienced Poster
- Posts: 1729
- Joined: April 21st, 2012, 3:25 am
This is correct...feminism in the west makes women hate filled shrews and they do not even know they are hate filled shrews.
I just met a woman in Melbourne Australia who has had her "awakening" recently....she was brought to CAF and then to me.
She is 110% lined up on what is going on......the despicable way women treat men.......she sees it everywhere...and she had no idea how bad things were in divorce but she is not surprised....we have been having quite a nice chat since she is one of the few western women who are awake to the total, utter and complete depravity of the western world.
Nothing like the other 99.9% of western women...as she noted...she can barely stand western women herself......I have told her about my fav#1 and she is amazed that I can find lots of women similar to that in Germany.
I just met a woman in Melbourne Australia who has had her "awakening" recently....she was brought to CAF and then to me.
She is 110% lined up on what is going on......the despicable way women treat men.......she sees it everywhere...and she had no idea how bad things were in divorce but she is not surprised....we have been having quite a nice chat since she is one of the few western women who are awake to the total, utter and complete depravity of the western world.
Nothing like the other 99.9% of western women...as she noted...she can barely stand western women herself......I have told her about my fav#1 and she is amazed that I can find lots of women similar to that in Germany.
Feel free to check out my blog:Click ME!
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