post reccs

>>24522251 (OP)
Reminder that NOBODY has actually responded to this, just seethed and cowered
>Trevor was six foot three. He was clean and fit and confident. I’d choose him a million times over the hipster nerds I’d see around town and at the gallery. In college, the art history department had been rife with that specific brand of young male. An “alternative” to the mainstream frat boys and premed straight and narrow guys, these scholarly, charmless, intellectual brats dominated the more creative departments. As an art history major, I couldn’t escape them. “Dudes” reading Nietzsche on the subway, reading Proust, reading David Foster Wallace, jotting down their brilliant thoughts into a black Moleskine pocket notebook. Beer bellies and skinny legs, zip-up hoodies, navy blue peacoats or army green parkas, New Balance sneakers, knit hats, canvas tote bags, small hands, hairy knuckles, maybe a deer head tattooed across a flabby bicep. They rolled their own cigarettes, didn’t brush their teeth enough, spent a hundred dollars a week on coffee. They would come into Ducat, the gallery I ended up working at, with their younger—usually Asian—girlfriends. “An Asian girlfriend means the guy has a small dick,” Reva once said. I’d hear them talk shit about the art. They lamented the success of others. They thought that they wanted to be adored, to be influential, celebrated for their genius, that they deserved to be worshipped. But they could barely look at themselves in the mirror. They were all on Klonopin, was my guess. They lived mostly in Brooklyn, another reaoson I was glad to live on the Upper East Side. Nobody up there listened to the Moldy Peaches. Nobody up there gave a shit about “irony” or Dogme 95 or Klaus Kinski.
>The worst was that those guys tried to pass off their insecurity as “sensitivity,” and it worked. They would be the ones running museums and magazines, and they’d only hire me if they thought I might fuck them. But when I’d been at parties with them, or out at bars, they’d ignored me. They were so self-serious and distracted by their conversation with their look-alike companions that you’d think they were wrestling with a decision of such high stakes, the world might explode. They wouldn’t be distracted by “pussy,” they would have me believe. The truth was probably that they were just afraid of vaginas, afraid that they’d fail to understand one as pretty and pink as mine, and they were ashamed of their own sensual inadequacies, afraid of their own dicks, afraid of themselves. So they focused on “abstract ideas” and developed drinking problems to blot out the self-loathing they preferred to call “existential ennui.”

wen femcel required reading chart

>>24522281
The problem with women trying to feign surplus interiority turned inward like this is that they come across like fat spoiled princesses with no priorities, no quests, no longings other than "fun." To a man at least, a woman is basically a big fat noblewoman sitting on needlessly colorful cushions and eating needlessly sweet sweets. For that creature to go "oh heavens me, have you ever thought that the chocolate strawberries aren't as impressive as the chocolate strawberry salesman says they are? personally I prefer chocolate blueberries" doesn't mean anything. It's just a big stupid pig with a stupid bow with sequins on it, with no desire not to be a big or even to escape the pigpen.

Imagine having the good fortune to possess enough writing talent that you can get noticed and picked up, and spending it on writing Guess Whick Dick I Prefer and Guess Which Dick I Prefer 2: Guess Which Dick I DON'T Prefer. There's nothing in this that speaks to a man, it's a spoiled little gay kid saying "actually I DON'T give a fuck you bought me a PS5 mom." Whoa! Off-script! I was expecting the rich kid who likes expensive things to like all expensive things, not to be slightly jaded and bitter and cunty about how some of his unearned expensive things impress him slightly less than others!

The irony is that the men who are being described like props and foils in these stories always end up ending up having more character and being more sympathetic than the protagonist. As I read this I don't think "hmm yes, the hipster guys are fags," I think, "wow, all that effort put into being a hipster guy and she still dashes you with a fingertip because you were a little 'too much' hipster and hipster is passé apparently; wonder what it's like to be a man who stabilized himself as an archetype to impress women and then have it all be for naught? I wonder what that hipster guy is up to, I wonder what he'd think if he knew how she feels about him. I wonder what Trevor thinks about being preferred to the hipster; do you think he'd be disgusted by this ugly-souled broad's cynicism and look right through her at the hipster and make a friend?"

I could just give less than a fuck what impresses or doesn't impress Jaded Princess Faineant.

>>24522281
>Trevor was six foot three. He was clean and fit and confident. I’d choose him a million times over the hipster nerds I’d see around town and at the gallery.
yeah I'm not reading this. I'll stick with Houllebecq, Celine, Dostoevsky and the other incelkino authors.

>>24522251 (OP)
>reading a female author
fuck off.

Convenience Store Woman
The Wall
I Who Have Never Known Men
Diary of a Void
Eileen

>>24522281
OP here, not bad at all, it actually cuts deep

>>24522281
The character is a young blond woman who prefers tall chads over pretentious hipsters, yes. What else is there to say? A good insight into how these women work.