Sorry for my long absence. Ill, injured, depressed and looking for meaning all took their toll. Beyond writers block, I simply lost the will to sit in front of my computer to type shit up.
I’m a true INT something. J maybe? I took the Meyers Briggs test long ago and it fit me like my zodiac sign. Perfectly. Virgo in case you are unawares. Being INT depletes me, even blogging. Go figure.
I will be back shortly but the new strategy is to create smaller posts so I don’t get sidetracked trying to make epic posts. This means you’ll see lots of overlap as I abandon trying to consolidate drafts. My drafts are growing like Fangorn and I need to deal with them before I write on any new topics in the sphere so you may see me post about crap that’s none too relevant. I will note each post with a *draft save * tag so you know.
I also intend to answer a few criticisms and questions left in the comment section of my incel post with a follow up, now many months removed from when I first published it, and about a almost a year since I wrote it… new man that I am. Hopefully I’ll have that up prior to my interview in the reddit Redpill Room late March. I’ll post time/details later.
To wrap up, the title of this post is a reminder of my going through online profiles of women and as sure as you can be of death and taxes, you will find them prattle on about their love of inane shit like red wine or being a foodie, as if it matters in life or relationships.
But you go ahead you fierce, independent woman, enjoy your yummy sea monster meat with your red wine.
Just don’t forget how it got on your plate.
(In case you didn’t know what those men where doing at the end I’ll clue you in. They were crying. They were showing emotion. Yes. Men are human beings with emotions too. Perish the thought.)