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You say evisceration, I say loving ministration.

Ah, Penelope Trunk. For some reason, she gives fellow aspie and open borders ivory tower bubbleboys chubbies, who can’t stop linking to her blog, (comments by “Dave” and “Anotherphil” are illuminating). But Chateau Heartiste called this broad out for the psycho, man-hating bitch she really is a long time ago. And how that judgment has been vindicated. Prescient? Nope. Just open-eyed observers of the human condition, coupled with a smattering of experience with these types of whipsaw women.

The latest Penelope Cunk dramafest comes courtesy of a post on her blog where she displays her wrinkled slate-flat cougar ass and her wretched uncaged id on national internet, complete with bruise she alleges was from her husband, who got sick and tired of her “look at me!” provocations and pushed her into a bedpost out of frustration.

The Farmer told me that he will not beat me up any more if I do not make him stay up late talking to me.

If you asked him why he is still being violent to me, he would tell you that I’m impossible to live with. That I never stop talking. That I never leave him alone. How he can’t get any peace and quiet in his own house. That’s what he’d tell you.

Translation: Penelope Trunk berates, nags, pesters, humiliates, shrieks and wails at her husband at ungodly hours of the night and throughout the day, and he responds, in piques of frustration abetted by his normal male propensity to avoid extended verbal fights with no ending or solution in sight, by physically stifling her to make the unbearable shrew torrent stop.

What feminists either don’t understand or don’t wish to understand is that a nontrivial amount of physical domestic abuse is in response to non-physical provocation. For every action there is a reaction. Women abuse men psychologically because that is where their strength lies, and fortunately for them the marks made by psychological abuse are less photogenic than the marks made by bedposts. So women, in addition to being the beneficiaries of the ancient biological force that subconsciously deems the female of the sex a more valuable commodity than the male, get to enjoy the sympathy of the bovine crowd when they post jpegs of their thigh bruises.

These volatile domestic scenarios are almost never one way streets. Look at Rihanna. Chris Brown is a violent thug, but Rihanna could have easily avoided his flying fists of fury had she just stayed the fuck away from him. And yet, she couldn’t do that. She *still* can’t do that, in fact, and in returning to him to shower him with her love rewards his shitty behavior. Penelope Trunk does something similar with her Farmer hubby, but takes it a step further; she instigates his flashes of anger and desperation purposefully to get a rise out of him, so that she can avoid feeling abandoned. Or whatever the fuck it is she missed out on from daddy.

When guys talk about crazy bitches to stay the fuck away from, Penelope Trunk is Exhibit A.

Now don’t get me wrong. These kinds of women have some use: they are great in bed. Gung-ho master class fucktoys who’ll take it up the poop chute and lick you clean if it means you’ll gaze deeply into her eyes just a little longer. But that’s where it ends. Save your love and commitment for the relatively sane chicks. You give your heart to a drama queen and attention whore like Penelope Trunk and you are asking for a world of emotional torment if you don’t know anything about the proper handling and care of such spaztastic specimens. Because when the screaming and crying and berating don’t work, she’ll step it up to openly flirting with other men in front of you, and then to cheating and leaving clues for you to find out about it, and finally to resorting to insane outbursts to get her hamster fix.

And you will never experience such roided up, coked up, caffeinated hamsters in your life. These critters are unstoppable.

My edumacated guess is that Penelope Trunk’s husband is a beta male at heart who has no clue about women, and even less clue about women like Trunk. He was smitten by her willingness to screw early and often, and her slender proportions, while well past prime attractiveness, compared favorably to the lumbering middle-aged cows on his horizon and put the boner in his pants for the first time in years. Being a man of little breadth of experience with women and zero game or state control, he was easy prey for Trunk’s urbane sadomasochism. She takes advantage of his rustic beta ignorance and naivete and pushes him to the brink as often as she can get away with it, while enjoying the thrill of refueling her ostentatious craving for coerced, theatrical displays of love and a relationship perpetually teetering on the precipice of doom. He, being a salt of the earth kinda guy, has no idea what he got himself into, and his instinct to control an out of control situation impels him to lean on the one defensive maneuver that worked in the past and which rises naturally from the contours of his male brain: his showstopper physical will to power. Of course, the solution is always temporary, and the cycle repeats. Which is exactly how she wants it. And she gets it.

I love a good pile-on as much as the next sadist, so here’s an ego shredding, soul killing, demonic diagnosis worthy of a Chateau Hall of Fame nomination, from a naughty little bastard called The Last Psychiatrist.

Penelope Trunk has a history of sexual abuse by her father.  She has a pattern of intense, unstable relationships; a history of self-cutting, bulimia; is emotionally labile and reactive; and her primary defense mechanism is pretty obviously splitting, i.e. things are all good or they are all bad.

Trunk says she has Asperger’s, and maybe she does, but what I’ve described is “borderline personality disorder.”  BPD is not a description of behavior exactly, it is a description of an adaptive coping strategy.  In other words, people persist with BPD because it works. […]

Knock down fights and great make up sex is psychologically more fulfilling than a normal, calm, low-affect marriage.  Mind numbing jealousy is preferable to being 100% sure of their fidelity, to the point that it will actually be invented.  “Are you just looking for things to be upset about?”  The answer is yes. […]

Nothing is to be gained by saying her husband abuses her, which he does, but nothing is to be gained from saying that unless he’s listening.   She is abusing herself.  I’m not judging her, I’m not saying she is bad or that I don’t understand it, but she’s setting up, well, a pattern of intense, unstable relationships because she needs the intensity and will thus tolerate the unstability.  A relationship isn’t one sided, or bi-directional, it’s a dialectic.  They are very much in it together.

A worthy flaying. Borderline personality disorder is the scientific term for attention whoring, although not all attention whores are BPD victims. Every woman has the seed of an attention whore in her, as it is the caprice of their sex, but some women, women like Trunk, through a combination of genetic enhanced femaleness and environmental instability during the formative years, become raging monsters of insatiable egos with no self-awareness or cultivated sense of modesty.

And here’s the catch. What the Last Psychiatrist describes as a deranged personality imperfection is just the normal female psychology amped up to unsustainable levels of estrogenic insanity. Women really do like a little — or a lot, for some women — uncertainty in their relationships. This is a scientifically as well as observationally settled fact. It is the natural female inclination to swoon and tingle for men who offer doses of delightful discomfort. This inclination, it should be noted, is stronger in younger, prettier girls for whom the option to act out in this way without consequence is readily available.

The Last Psychiatrist has to know that this predilection for drama, affect and uncertainty is primarily a female affliction, and, in small manageable doses, is actually the normal state of emotional functioning for the majority of women. Hamster spinning wackos with advanced cases of BPD like Trunk are extreme manifestations of this innate female condition, much like power hungry sociopaths are the extreme manifestation of the innate male predisposition to maximize status. TLP is right to highlight Trunk’s disease of the id, but he should not be tempted to think that Trunk is a wholly alien representative of the female sex.

Trunk is, to put it mildly, a hyperfemale.

But, alas, the wall looms for hyperfemales as surely as it does for emotionally grounded women. The attention whoring that provoked so much reaction from men when she was younger elicits nothing but indifference at best and contemptuous pity at worst from men when she is older and uglier. TLP:

The thing is, BPD “works” when you are young, there are always people around to tolerate it.  Parents, boyfriend/girlfriend, employers, etc– and being pretty, which Trunk obviously is, helps a lot.  This doesn’t mean people are necessarily nice to her, or that she’s happy; only that  “crazy” behavior is more tolerable to other people when you are young.

The problem for her is she’s not getting any younger, and like it or not the only one who will put up with a 60 year old borderline is no one.  Except maybe the kids, which we will get back to.

Once women start experiencing the consequences of their flighty behavior from getting older and invisible to men, the smart ones among them adjust their expectations, emotional indulgences and demands accordingly. Penelope Trunk, thanks to the sycophantic chorus of her careerist fembot and scrap-begging mangina readers, will likely continue her coyote ugly act on into perpetuity, winding up alone and unloved by anyone but her imagination and bug-eyed omega commenter nerds desperate for human contact. If she hasn’t burned too many bridges and was effective at concealing her complicity in her personal calamities, then she may retain the love of her kids into dotage. That’s a big if. More likely, the kids will slowly realize what a loon she is, and will withdraw their love until they feel safe from entanglement in her manufactured crises.

There is an easy, convenient way to deal with BPD attention whores that won’t get you socially ostracized or locked up. If I had the ear of Trunk’s husband, I’d tell him this. Instilling a dab of dread — a phone call, say, from a location where she can hear the voices of laughing women in the background — would go a long way to satisfying the drama-feeding maw of Trunk’s vagina-shaped id. No blog-fodder bruises required. At the very least, such knowledge can give him more options in women, freeing him from his desperate, fearful clinging to a visually stimulating BPD headcase.

I’ve said it before. Game can save lives. This is not hyperbole. This is goddamned truth.


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