My wife is hitting the PMS portion of her cycle, which means it’s comfort test time. For those of you Red Pill hellions who are married or in committed relationships (sorry…), you’ve probably learned this already, but you absolutely, positively, cannot treat a comfort test in the same manner as a shit test, even though the two look pretty much identical. While there are exceptions to every rule, if it happens while she’s ovulating, it’s most likely a shit test. If it happens during her non-fertile times, it’s probably a comfort test. Like I said, this isn’t an absolute, but it’s a really great starting point.
I’ll be honest. My wife is running out of material. She’s been recycling old stuff for the past few months. This time around, we get the tried and true, “Why don’t you love me any more?”
The obvious response she’s looking for is, “I do love you,” which she will promptly piss all over since she so intelligently preempted that response with her phrasing, get extremely angry, then begin lambasting me for all of the things I do and all of the things I don’t do, hoping I’ll apologize profusely and get back in line as the loser slave I was a year ago, because if you really loved a woman, you’d willingly be her sexless source of money and validation. This shit where you live your own life and do things you enjoy while still magically taking care of business around the house because you possess basic time management skills and good work ethic isn’t what you’re supposed to do. You’re supposed to be a boot-licking slave.
But it’s comfort test time, not shit test time, so I figure I’d better say something. I don’t answer her immediately. I pour myself some scotch. She knows by now that if I were going to blow her off, I’d have done it already, so she waits quietly. I smile inside at this while remaining impassive on the outside.
“Look up ‘begging the question’ on Wikipedia.”
“You’re baiting me. Ask a better question and I’ll answer it. But first, look up begging the question, like I said.”
“I know what begging the question is.”
“Then…” “But all day you’ve been…” “HEY! I was talking. Let’s try this again. Did you want to ask me something?” She looked like she was about to cry because I cut her off so sharply. I probably shouldn’t have been quite so abrasive.
“…Do you love me?”
“I love you the way a man loves a woman. Your problem is that you want me to love you the way a woman loves a man.”
“Every day, you do all kinds of things for me. I probably only notice a third of them. Because they’re not the kinds of things I would do for you, or even think about doing. But I’m thankful for them.”
“Well, you don’t show it!”
“Sure I do. But I show my love in my way. Do you ever consider the dozens, or even hundreds of things I do to take care of you and [daughter], that barely register with you? Your life’s better for it. But because they’re not the kinds of things you do for me, you hardly notice.”
“Look, we play to our strengths, all right? If you want to marry a woman, you’ll need to move to another state, and I know you like our house.”
Bam. Comfort test done.
We piss all over women around here, but for what it’s worth, women are pretty smart. They understand social interactions extremely well, but generally only through the lens of being a woman. Women suck at empathy. They really, really can’t put themselves in another person’s shoes or imagine any viewpoint except their own.
This makes women experts at girl things. They can look across the room at a couple and tell you whether that girl’s really into that guy in three seconds, with 99 percent accuracy. Because women notice and understand what women do for men.
But women suck at being men. Everything men do for women is pretty much invisible to them, because it’s not something women do for people they love, or even something women think about.
Men and women love each other differently, and one of the reasons relationships are such a dismal failure is that men bend over backwards doing shit for women, and the women don’t recognize that any acts of love ever occurred. Meanwhile, the women do all kinds of shit for men, then get all pissed off that the men don’t fall over thanking them.
Women [think that they] want a man who loves them the way a woman loves a man. They don’t express it that way, but when they complain about how a man who loves them to death and does all kinds of shit for them doesn’t do anything for them, that’s what they’re complaining about. They [think that they] want that man to do shit for them that they would do for a man they were in love with.
But that’s not what women actually want. It’s just what they think they want. The more a man cooks, cleans, does laundry, bathes the kids, gives backrubs and footrubs, and supports his wife’s career, the less his wife wants his dick inside of her. Because straight women don’t want to fuck women. They want men. They just don’t understand men.
The TV sitcom trope of the century is about how confusing women are. How tough they are to understand. How they’re a mystery, and men can’t ever hope to really understand their women. But the media markets to women, not men. The truth is that it’s women who suck at empathy. Women don’t understand men. We confuse them. We do all kinds of shit out of love, and they piss all over us, like we’re stupid, because they don’t understand. They missed it.
Meanwhile, we have the capacity to get it. With the Red Pill, we have the capacity to understand women. We know what they really want and what they really need – as opposed to what they say or think they might want.
The Red Pill is your empathy. It’s how you tell whether your woman needs comfort or boundaries. Whether she needs to be tossed on the bed and fucked like a cavewoman or held while she cries. The best way to beat women isn’t to punish them for all that awkward shit we experienced when we were stupid losers. It’s to understand them.