[Professor Fox]

This same female wrote a sad exercise in navel gazing and self-aggrandizement in Elle some years back where she professed to be now "grown up" and regretful of her past. It's basically a line by line textbook case study on how modern women's choice addiction and failure to lock down commitment while they're still young and beautiful destroy their best chance at happiness:

Quote:

Failure to Launch: When Beauty Fades
Prozac Nation's Elizabeth Wurtzel confronts her fear of aging and losing her good looks

By Elizabeth Wurtzel
Sex & Relationships
May 20, 2009



Because I need to make a point, I'm just going to be immodestly candid: I was a remarkably adorable child, the kind with such rosily expressive cheeks that grown-ups couldn't resist pinching them. So when I became a teenager and then an adult, I was what you would call a hot number or something like that—at any rate, they put me half-dressed on the covers of my books to sell them, so draw what you will from that. Now that I'm in my forties, people say, I think kindly, She still looks good. This is to be followed by a phase of ...for her age, which is hot on the trail of handsome, and then—then who knows? I think it deteriorates from there, enough so that the vain among us start to look forward to death, or at least stop resisting its horrific pull.

So here's what I'm getting at: I was, at least at some baseline, a pretty girl, the kind that boys were supposed to like and sometimes did. And because I was cute all along—it's not like I blossomed into honeysuckle after adolescence—I was given to believe that love would be easy, men would be elementary, and I would have my way. I was meant to date the captain of the football team, I was going to be on a romantic excursion every Saturday night, I was destined to be collecting corsages from every boy in town before prom, accepting such floral offerings like competing sacrifices to a Delphic goddess. It was all supposed to be to the tune of some glorious Crystals song from the early '60s, when everything was still innocent, and my life would be a wall of sound from "Then He Kissed Me." Love would be simpler than tying a string bikini, the kind I wore a lot while waiting on the beach for my ship to come in.

Alas, love has been complicated.

The men have piled up in my past, have fallen trenchantly through my life, like an avalanche that doesn't mean to kill but is going to bury me alive just the same. There's really no point, this late in the day, in picking through all the boys in order—alphabetical, chronological, epistemological—but looking back, I have been in far too many scenes that could have happened in a John Cassavetes movie or an Edward Albee play, if only they rose to that literary level. I attract (and seek) bottle throwing, foot stomping, door slamming, pot clanging, hair pulling, and, above all, a lot of loud screaming and walking out in a huff—usually leaving me crying, wondering what just happened, or, more often, too astonished to cry.

Or else: There is the thrill of loving for a little while—a night, a week, a month, even a year—and then loving stops, just like that, in the coldest, blankest way, a screen going snowy at the end of a movie. There is no yelling, only silence—the kind in a Carole King song: the phone that doesn't ring, or the words you didn't say that you think of on the staircase spiraling down once the door is locked behind, or maybe even months later.

When I was still in my twenties, for several years I had this wonderful boyfriend; I'll call him Gregg—he's the one we're all waiting for: tall, blue-eyed, with this thick black hair, all smart and sensitive, an inveterate graduate student who used to rub my feet at the end of the day with a lovely pink peppermint lotion from the Body Shop. It was young and romantic. You'd have thought we were happy. I think really we were happy. He was good for me: People met him and liked me better because I was going out with him; his sweetness redounded to me like a sunny day on a dark sidewalk. I could have and probably should have spent the rest of my life with him, might have avoided scenes like the time some guy I was seeing later on chased me down Topanga Canyon with a hot frying pan, screaming at me something about learning to make my own goddamn omelets. In other words, had I just stuck with the good boyfriend, I could have prevented a good deal of extraneous craziness.

But something went wrong—terribly wrong. The calm I had during those years was like a dormant illness or an allergy that doesn't emerge until later in life, or something you don't see coming because it's coming from within: You are making yourself ill. I became seasick with contentment. It was nauseating daily, and I couldn't still myself against a funny feeling that there had to be more to life than waking up every day beside the same person. To say I was bored would be to misunderstand boredom: I did not need to take up table tennis or ballroom dancing—I needed a sense that this wasn't the end of the story. The idea of forever with any single person, even someone great whom I loved so much like Gregg, really did seem like what death actually is: a permanent stop. Love did not open up the world like a generous door, as it should to anyone getting married; instead it was the steel clamp of the iron maiden, shutting me behind its front metal hinge to asphyxiate slowly, and then suddenly. Every day would be the same, forever: The body, the conversation, it would never change—isn't that the rhythm of prison?

My imagination, my ability to understand the way love and people grow over time, how passion can surprise and renew, utterly failed me. I was temporarily credentialed with this delicate, yummy thing—youth, beauty, whatever—and my window of opportunity for making the most of it was so small, so brief. I wanted to smash through that glass pane and enjoy it, make it last, feel released.

And so, I cheated on him. With everyone I could. Bass players, editors, actors, waiters who wished they were actors, photographers. And everywhere I could, like that Sarah Silverman and Matt Damon video: on the floor, by the door, up against the minibar. I couldn't sit still or stand still or lie still. And I didn't want to lose Gregg either.

He knew, or must have known. But he was such a gentle guy that he gave me a chance to fix the damage. We were sitting at brunch one Sunday; Gregg was in his denim jacket and Sonic Youth T-shirt, his hair swept across his face, and he grabbed my hand over the table and looked at me so earnestly that if it had been a movie, the audience would have laughed. "I wish I could make whatever is bothering you feel better," he said.

"I know," was all I could say.

Months later, when Gregg found out for sure what I was doing, when he went through files on my Mac and found letters never sent to this lover or that one, he didn't want to make me feel better anymore. He threw a two-thirds-empty bottle of Stolichnaya at my head when I finally found him at a friend's house. He told me, I was your only chance at happiness—now it's over for you.

Years later, when I was dating a guy who drank much too much and did things like toss lamps around because he had a temper when he was loaded, and I was ducking to avoid some projectile and wondering how I'd found my way to this, I knew Gregg had been right: I could have been a contender; it was over.

And then, somehow, years go by.

Dating this person for three months, that one for a few weeks, sometimes longer. They come, they go, someone is always coming as someone else is going; it's not like there's no one, but it's all so lonely. I have no trouble meeting them, and I meet them everywhere: the usual places like friends' rooftop barbecues and downtown dive bars—but also in business meetings, where we end up making eyes at each other instead of working, or standing in movie lines or walking home at night. I am a hopeless, shameless flirt. I wish I were shyly, quietly intriguing, like Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy, like someone French and fashionable who knows how to twirl her ladylike locks just so and walk adroitly on kitten heels, who is all gesture and whisper—but I am unfortunately forward and forthright: When I am interested in a man, he absolutely knows it. And I like men quite a lot and convey so much excitement and heat that I can keep the game going, at least for a while. Occasionally, I meet someone truly wonderful, and my heart breaks because I don't know how to sustain the energy. It never quite starts, and I can't tell you how it ends—all this pretty persuasion is a big pull for men, but then they're gone. All of them. Somehow, I can seduce and be seduced for a moment here and there, but I can't seem to meaningfully connect. That's why it's not seduction at all; if it were, I'd be getting what I want.

And I can get what I want in so much of life. I can sell sand to the Saudis, tea to the Bengalis. I get fired from one great job and then hired by a better organization. I decide in my thirties to go to law school and get into the very best one despite some questionable credentials. It's what you would call not a bad life, even a good one.

But I am baffled by men. When they want me, I don't want them; when I want them, they don't want me. We are just shooting dirty pool. Or maybe it's more like I'm still sitting at the baccarat table at a smoky, dingy casino in Reno, it's well past 3 a.m., I'm in hock to the house, I'm drinking bottom-shelf martinis and eating stale canapés from the complimentary smorgasbord, my mascara is smudged, there's no reason to reapply Cherries in the Snow to my chapped lips, it's long past the point where any reasonable person would have cashed in her chips and gone home—but I keep thinking I still might win or at least break even one of these hours or days.

Age is a terrible avenger. The lessons of life give you so much to work with, but by the time you've got all this great wisdom, you don't get to be young anymore. And in this world, that's just about the worst thing that can happen—especially to a woman. Whoever said youth is wasted on the young actually got it wrong; it's more that maturity is wasted on the old. I was both emotionally unkempt and mentally unhinged—deeply depressed, drugged, sensitive, and nasty all at once—during the years I was supposed to be spousing up. My judgment was so lousy, I probably deserve plentiful wedding gifts—Tiffany silverware to serve several dozen—for all the people I didn't marry, because the men I dated were awfully bad choices, and I was not such a good bet myself.

These days, I am a stable adult professional—a practicing attorney, capable of common sense—but I still know how to live life on the edge. I was a terrifically brooding and mature teenager, then a whiny and puerile adult, and now I may finally approximate the grace of a person who has come of age. But it took a very long time—probably far too long. Now that I am a woman whom some man might actually like to be with, might actually not want to punch in the face—or, at least, now that I don't like guys who want to do that to me—I am sadly 41. I am past my perfect years.

No one says to my face that 41 is just a little too old to still be dating—in fact, people like to point out how it's normal these days, which is also true—but I know what's up. I just moved a couple of months ago, and I made a determined effort to put my effects in order. I went through a box of old photographs and contact sheets from shoots I had done throughout my twenties and thirties, pictures in all kinds of poses, various stages of dishabille and froufrou and frippery, too much makeup and barely a bit of blush, Kodachrome and black and white, in studios and hotel rooms and cornfields and corners of streets—piles of portraits, marking a life. And I looked at the girl in all these images, as varied as they were, and still I could see the same person somewhere in there. But most of all it wasn't me anymore. It's not what I look like now—I have aged since. Oh, it's nothing to cry about, nothing to mourn for—I probably have another decade before I really start to look old, but something has changed.

I don't know what it is—I don't have wrinkles or age spots or any of the telltale signs that the years have gone by. Thank God for La Mer and Retin-A and Pilates—and, yes, hot sex, which is good fun and may be no more than a Maginot Line against the inevitable, but that's not nothing. And my hair, honey-highlighted for years now, has the swank length of mermaid youth—which is how I plan to keep it no matter what proper pageboy is age-appropriate. No question, there are physical facts about my age that are undeniably delightful. I am much sexier now than I used to be—I suddenly have this voluptuous body where I used to just be skinny and lithe. Really oddly, a couple of years ago I got serious breasts, to the point where people think I've had them surgically enhanced, which I certainly have not. Still, I think, the honest truth is that I'm just not as pretty as I used to be. Something has abandoned me. I don't know what that thing is—they've been trying to jar it and bottle it for centuries—but it's left, another merciless lover. My hips are thicker, my skin is thinner, my eyes shine less brightly—will I ever again glow as if all the stars are out at night just to greet me? What finally falls away, after enough things don't go as planned, is that look of expectancy—which, when worn down to pentimento, is revealed to be exhaustion.

So here's the funny thing: There seem to be more men coming around these days, and they keep getting younger as I get older—I'm an interesting, mature woman to a man in his twenties, while to a guy my age, I'm just jaded—but I think they are falling in love with a person I used to be, with a girl in a picture, with an idea or an image, not with who or what I am now. Because with every passing second, I feel I am less physically desirable, even though I'm finally, in fact, a desirable person. It makes no sense, it's not fair, and it sucks.

I'm hopeful that there will be a moment in the next few years when I'll be more striking than ever because some aura will wash over me in that way that these things just do: as when feminine confidence and feisty intelligence overwhelm the depredations of age, and suddenly women smolder anew—running companies, winning Oscars, reaping millions, landing heavenly younger men. After all, there are many famous women who seem ageless, like Catherine Deneuve; or have aged sexily, like Susan Sarandon; have aged voluptuously, like Catherine Zeta-Jones; have aged beauti­fully, like Michelle Pfeiffer. But eventually, at some somber and sobering calendar date, most of us lose our looks and likewise one of our charms—and I will lose mine. At which time, for me at least, there won't be much point to life anymore at all.

I don't want to look back at what was, tell stories of once upon a long time ago, of what I used to do, of the men I once knew way back when, of 1,001 rapturous nights that were and are no more—I don't want my life to be the trashy and tragic remains of a really great party, lipstick traces on a burned-out cigarette at the bottom of a near-empty champagne goblet. Sex and sexuality, at least for me, are not some segment of life; they are the force majeure, the flood and storm and act of God that overtakes the rest. Without that part of me, I'd rather be dead. And I know all I can do right now is hold on tight to the little bit of life that's left, cling to the edge of the skyscraper I'm slipping off of, feel my fingers slowly giving way, knowing I'm going to free-fall to a sorrowful demise.

Maybe I would not have to hold on with such tough white knuckles if I'd done things right when I was still young.

Oh, to be 25 again and get it right. People who say they have no regrets, that they don't look back in anger, are either lying or boring, not sure which is worse. Because if you've lived a full life and don't feel bad about some of what you did, pieces are missing. Still, there are some mistakes that one is eventually too old—either literally or spiritually—to correct. I can't go back.

Few things in life are more pathetic than a aging spinster trying to pontificate while her hamster is coughing and wheezing from decades of abuse and overwork. 2Wycked or someone else could do a hilarious article about her at ROK.

PS: Here she is now. WYB?

[darklightdispatch]

WNB. She doesn't look bad for her age overall, but she's got those crazy eyes and her gaze in the last pic just fucking scares me lol. I'm actually kind of impressed with that second article after reading the first one that was posted. A fair amount of hamstering, naturally, but she seems cognizant of her SMV. Reading it reminds me of most of my interactions with post mid-20s American women, romantic or otherwise. They piss me off and turn my stomach and then they make me feel really, really sad.

[T and A Man]

Doesn't look bad? look at the phot with her wearing a blue singlet.

She looks like a re-treaded tire. Hookers look exactly like that.

[J DOE]

(02-12-2014 09:45 AM)T and A Man Wrote:  

Doesn't look bad? look at the phot with her wearing a blue singlet.

She looks like a re-treaded tire. Hookers look exactly like that.

I was just about to say. This bitch has some serious miles on her.

[Menace]

Frog face. Also, huge ass. WNB.

[j r]

(02-12-2014 09:17 AM)darklightdispatch Wrote:  

WNB. She doesn't look bad for her age overall, but she's got those crazy eyes and her gaze in the last pic just fucking scares me lol. I'm actually kind of impressed with that second article after reading the first one that was posted. A fair amount of hamstering, naturally, but she seems cognizant of her SMV. Reading it reminds me of most of my interactions with post mid-20s American women, romantic or otherwise. They piss me off and turn my stomach and then they make me feel really, really sad.

The problem is that she wrote the first article after the second article. She had a brief money of relative awareness and then went back to being crazy and delusional.

The good news is that the comments get it and Val her out being delusional, narcissistic and lacking any substance.

[Dusty]

(02-12-2014 09:45 AM)T and A Man Wrote:  

Doesn't look bad? look at the phot with her wearing a blue singlet.

She looks like a re-treaded tire. Hookers look exactly like that.

I co-sign.

The fact that most 45 year old broads look like hell doesn't give her a pass.

God damn, at 48 I'm glad I don't have to date girls in my age peer. It's good to be a man.

[Mekorig]

When i saw her photo this guy come to my mind:

[Aurini]

>PS: Here she is now. WYB?

Yikes. I've never understood the term 'Cougar' as well as I do right now.

Her use of beauty is being exposed for what it always was, with her: a form of cruelty. A cold, hungry look in her eyes, the straight-set of her lips, the lithe cat that will stalk you with what beauty remains, and use it to consume you.

Beauty can be a great gift, or it can be a form of sadism (C.S. Lewis got this, see Voyages of the Dawn Treader, even faithful Lucy was tempted by it). In her case, it's sadism. From day one, she's used it to hurt others. She says she was merely enjoying herself - enjoying the corsages, the dates, the attention - but deep down it was more than that. Deep down, her own enjoyment wasn't what drove her - it was hatred.

The dates and the enticement of her youthful years were done to hurt the men she was with. She didn't cheat on Gregg because she wanted more; she cheated on him because she wanted to hurt him, to make him lose faith in love and in women. A vile, black spore had taken root in her soul, and she was trying to spread it to others. That's how she managed to drive a gentle guy into throwing a bottle at her head (Note: likely exaggerated, I suspect he threw it at the wall, but regardless she drove him to violence).

Beauty is a tool, and she used it for evil. The regret she feels now - which is masquerading as self pity for a youth wasted - is really the regret she feels for damaging so many lives. The guilt of destroying - or at least, hurting - so many men and women (by seducing their husbands and boyfriends).

She hasn't learned her lesson; pretending to have learned her lesson is another avoidance technique, it's channeling the guilt for destroying others into guilt for destroying herself - thus raising herself up as a victim, yet again. Thus avoiding responsibility, yet again.

Make no mistake, brothers: that is the face of a woman who worships pure Evil.

[Faust]

Guys, that's not a lawyer, that's a Murloc. I haven't played World of Warcraft in something like 6 years, and I still recognized it on sight.

"Murlocs possess bulbous bodies, large mouths lined with rows of sharp fangs, and slime-coated skin."

[kdolo]

(02-12-2014 03:48 PM)Aurini Wrote:  

>PS: Here she is now. WYB?

Yikes. I've never understood the term 'Cougar' as well as I do right now.

Her use of beauty is being exposed for what it always was, with her: a form of cruelty. A cold, hungry look in her eyes, the straight-set of her lips, the lithe cat that will stalk you with what beauty remains, and use it to consume you.

Beauty can be a great gift, or it can be a form of sadism (C.S. Lewis got this, see Voyages of the Dawn Treader, even faithful Lucy was tempted by it). In her case, it's sadism. From day one, she's used it to hurt others. She says she was merely enjoying herself - enjoying the corsages, the dates, the attention - but deep down it was more than that. Deep down, her own enjoyment wasn't what drove her - it was hatred.

The dates and the enticement of her youthful years were done to hurt the men she was with. She didn't cheat on Gregg because she wanted more; she cheated on him because she wanted to hurt him, to make him lose faith in love and in women. A vile, black spore had taken root in her soul, and she was trying to spread it to others. That's how she managed to drive a gentle guy into throwing a bottle at her head (Note: likely exaggerated, I suspect he threw it at the wall, but regardless she drove him to violence).

Beauty is a tool, and she used it for evil. The regret she feels now - which is masquerading as self pity for a youth wasted - is really the regret she feels for damaging so many lives. The guilt of destroying - or at least, hurting - so many men and women (by seducing their husbands and boyfriends).

She hasn't learned her lesson; pretending to have learned her lesson is another avoidance technique, it's channeling the guilt for destroying others into guilt for destroying herself - thus raising herself up as a victim, yet again. Thus avoiding responsibility, yet again.

Make no mistake, brothers: that is the face of a woman who worships pure Evil.

Good analysis.

and Evil ??? yes, but why ?? because she is angry ?? angry at what ??

that she is a woman and not a man. The is the fate that befalls all the hyper feminists - suffering from massive penis envy - they destroy their own lives and try to the same to others.

[kdolo]

(02-10-2014 10:48 PM)RawGod Wrote:  

Is she a New York Jew? Lately I've cottoned on to their style and started googling when I hear this kind of thing, I'm usually right.

the stereotypical neurotic New York Ivy League jewess.


its like she's a character out of a novel or movie.

[lurker]

(02-12-2014 01:38 AM)iknowexactly Wrote:  

(12-09-2013 12:57 AM)lurker Wrote:  

(12-08-2013 11:37 PM)not_dead_yet Wrote:  

Ugly bitch is a lawyer too, ftw! Yale, in case you were wondering.

Yale to Boies Schiller, no less. Although it took her a few tries to pass the bar.

She only scored a 160 LSAT. Not exactly a logical heavyweight.

How did she get in to Yale law with a mediocre LSAT?

What 2Wycked said. Also, you have to remember that most of law is just writing. For all her faults, she (at least was, once upon a time) a great writer - Prozac Nation is a gripping story that exploded onto the literary scene.

For what it's worth, YLS likes to self-select for the really weird/"special" kids with really unique stories. Doesn't get much more unique than that.

[Akula]

WNB -- she's hideous. Yet another American 4 who thinks she's a 9 because 60-70% of females in American are extremely overweight and/or obese (so she comps out rather well compared to them).

In the land of fatties the somewhat attractive 4-5 is queen still I guess?

What guy in his right might would date and/or (G*d forbid) wife this up?

[Sombro]

Gaah -- I used to think she was hot back in her (and my) 20's, but now she just looks used up.

Shitty, fucked-out complexion and muscle tone, and she still dresses like a 21-year-old.

And that's not even getting into her personality.

No class.

[CaP7]

She has Madonna arms.

Depressing human being. She'd be a lot happier if she had a 9 year old to distract her and give her life meaning as a woman. Instead she went to law school so she could afford Pilate's lessons.

Run.

[WD-40]

(12-08-2013 02:01 PM)scorpion Wrote:  

Once the last of her looks fade, she will literally be left with nothing but cats, wine and memories of her youthful whoredom.

And when the cats are gone, there is cat food.

Women like her do not save for retirement.

It doesn't taste that bad, actually.

[not_dead_yet]

Guess who's getting married?
http://www.nytimes.com/2014/09/21/opinio...e-wed.html

Let the discussion begin. I'll start -- where is the harm of riding the carousel if you can get married at 46?

[Sherman]

New York City is the toilet bowl of Western Civilization. "Sex and the City" glorified their perverse lifestyle and now the checks are coming due. Who the hell wants to marry a sarcastic frog?

[AnonymousBosch]

It seems the standard operating procedure for Slutty Aged Female Typists is to start bragging to their readers about meeting their Mr. Right - including how kind and handsome and charming he is - whilst never once being publicly-photographed with the guy to let their readers judge his quality for themselves.

This is about the sixth Typists I've researched - and some have been married for a few years now - where their personal websites and google image searches only show picture after picture of them conspicuously-alone, so I have to wonder.



Or, like the 'Eat Pray Love' Typist, you're delusional about what you've landed, and tell everyone he's a 'sexy south American hunk', when he's just a balding old dude with a paunch.

[Days of Broken Arrows]

(09-22-2014 12:44 PM)not_dead_yet Wrote:  

Guess who's getting married?
http://www.nytimes.com/2014/09/21/opinio...e-wed.html

Let the discussion begin. I'll start -- where is the harm of riding the carousel if you can get married at 46?

In order to assess this, we need to put it in context. In book circles, she's become known as the Lindsay Lohan of authors. She can't be depended on.

A few years ago, she had to return a book advance because she did not (or could not) finish the book. Here is some of the legal info.

So she's hitched her wagon to an up-and-coming writer who is getting his advances -- and/or his trust fund. I pretty much know who he is, but don't want to say it unless I can confirm it. Here is a clue. (Update: I confirmed it, but for some reason don't want to out the guy. I kind of feel bad for him.)

Anyway, I'll point out that there is a sentence in her article that no sane man anywhere in any country at any time would ever want to read about a woman he's going to be sharing his home, his money, and his penis with:

"It is my good fortune never to have wed the 374 or so men I dated before Jim."

It's an exaggeration, sure, but from what I've heard, not much of one.

[Dusty]

(09-22-2014 11:38 PM)Days of Broken Arrows Wrote:  

(09-22-2014 12:44 PM)not_dead_yet Wrote:  

Guess who's getting married?
http://www.nytimes.com/2014/09/21/opinio...e-wed.html

Let the discussion begin. I'll start -- where is the harm of riding the carousel if you can get married at 46?

In order to assess this, we need to put it in context. In book circles, she's become known as the Lindsay Lohan of authors. She can't be depended on.

A few years ago, she had to return a book advance because she did not (or could not) finish the book. Here is some of the legal info.

So she's hitched her wagon to an up-and-coming writer who is getting his advances -- and/or his trust fund. I pretty much know who he is, but don't want to say it unless I can confirm it. Here is a clue. (Update: I confirmed it, but for some reason don't want to out the guy. I kind of feel bad for him.)

Anyway, I'll point out that there is a sentence in her article that no sane many anywhere in any country at any time would ever want to read about a woman he's going to be sharing his home, his money, and his penis with:

"It is my good fortune never to have wed the 374 or so men I dated before Jim."

It's an exaggeration, sure, but from what I've heard, not much of one.

What is the guy getting out of marrying her? I mean she's old, ugly and crazy. Does she have money? Or does he lack options?

[CRR]

(09-22-2014 03:38 PM)AnonymousBosch Wrote:  

It seems the standard operating procedure for Slutty Aged Female Typists is to start bragging to their readers about meeting their Mr. Right - including how kind and handsome and charming he is - whilst never once being publicly-photographed with the guy to let their readers judge his quality for themselves.

So true.

It's as if they are talking themselves into it.

Regarding the 374, that was certainly the first thing that popped out.

This article reminded me of the article from a few months back where a middle-aged fat pig bragged about banging 'gorgeous' men in a variety of countries. I recall thinking that she was either lying or at best she was getting bent over behind a dive bar near the dumpster by some homeless dudes. Her husband must've been humiliated.

Point being, it's gotta be embarrassing for the guy marrying such a narcissistic hag with a blown out vag.

Quote:

Dusty What is the guy getting out of marrying her? I mean she's old, ugly and crazy. Does she have money? Or does he lack options?

It may not apply to this guy, but I think some guys have been so brainwashed by our feminist culture that they date who they think they should date instead of who they want to date. They have been told to date women their age and that it is 'creepy' to date younger women, and 'shallow' to have physical preferences. Thus they end up with a used up slut where they only thing they have in common is age.

A 45 y/o man with his shit together could easily snag an attractive younger woman.

[Dismal Operator]

Yeah that 347 figure leaped from the page when I was reading it. Even if she might be inflating the number a bit, she's undoubtedly well into triple digits. Whatever the real N is, with women like that, generally speaking, I don't really blame someone if he doesn't mind being number N+1. You just have to be aware upfront that there is guaranteed to be an N+2, so act accordingly, as in not committing any more than the time it takes to bang her, let alone marrying her.

[UroboricForms]

Elizabeth Wurtzel Wrote:

I AM A HUGE CUNT

Indeed!