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Gaming Crazy Chicks

The crazy chick is practically an American institution. Delayed marriage, cats as alpha male fill-ins, marathon trash TV, childlessness, anti-depressants, and energy drinks with five pounds of added sugar will turn most normal girls into genuine headcases or poseurs who want men to think they’re headcases. A disconcertingly large minority of American women seem to believe that acting like a mentally imbalanced fruitcake substitutes for a paucity of femininity. It doesn’t. It only makes men think you’ll put out on the first date.

The crazy chick can be gamed, and there’s good reason to try. Men want three primary attributes in the ideal woman: beauty, an openness to sexual experimentation, and a sweet disposition. Crazy chicks often possess attribute #1, and always possess attribute #2. The problem is that they never have #3, so the smart man knows the crazy chick was put on the earth for fun only, to be discarded as soon as the ratio of her pain-in-the-assery exceeds her ability to sexually please. The crazier the chick, the quicker that P-to-P ratio turns upside down.

If you’re going to mix it up with crazy chicks, you had better know what you’re doing. Lesser men have gotten chewed up and spit out by the sexy siren who made a sport of baffling and blind-siding her prey. A man unacquainted with the Lokianne side of female nature can be ruined for all good women after a few months dangling on the painted meathook of a crazy chick. You’ve gotta know when to hold ‘em, and know when to fling ‘em out the door and change the locks.

It also helps to know which chicks are crazy to the bone, and which are just sad, tragic figurines fronting crazy for the attention whore fix.

Commenter Troubadour writes,

I’ve decided to seek outside opinions profiling the girl.

She has piercing, dark eyes that drill straight into mine, and our eyes stay locked while she throws out shit tests like these:

“It was my fault I was raped when I was 11. Everybody tells me I was asking for it, and I agree. I was asking for it.”

“I’ve often thought how much fun it would be to call a hooker over and then murder her.”

“I almost killed myself a little while ago. I cut too deep. That’s why I’m wearing the long sleeves.”

“I hope I die soon. I haven’t eaten in over a month to lose all that weight, and I’m in danger of passing out. I might pass out behind the wheel and die. I hope it happens.”

Is that the kind of crap a garden variety scene kid throws out to get attention, or is this chick scary fucked up?

What am I messing with here?

I’m no psychiatrist… just a humble man with a working penis and a blessedly light genetic mutational load… but I can tell you this chick is fucked in the head. She’s either a raging narcissist or a certified nut; in practice, it makes no difference to you. The emotional basket case attention whore won’t make your life any easier than the subclinical loon.

Maxim #41: A girl who mentions rape or suicide during the first few months of dating in any context other than as a third party making a wryly humorous observation immediately outs herself as a crank with borderline personality disorder who will be a living nightmare as a girlfriend.

Many crazy chicks will fool you with their lavish dependency, and then surprise you one night with a story about “this one dude at the art expo I went to (yeah I forgot to tell you I was planning to go) who kept pestering me and eventually I just gave up and had to kiss him to get it out of the way”. And you’ll be like, “Ok, what the fuck just happened here? Do I need to get myself tested?”

What I’ve learned is that the winning tack with crazy chicks is a studied indifference to their assorted psychological manipulations. And by the buttplug of pajamboy do they have a warehouse of mind games. Know what you’re getting into, and be ready to get out as soon as you catch her freak coming round the corner. One, you’ll want pussy on the side; crazy chick pussy is usually pretty good, and hard to tear yourself from if you don’t have a fallback. Two, whatever you do, don’t indulge her outbursts, her passive-aggressiveness, her pity ploys, her martyrdom, or her sensationalism.

The worst decision you can make is to be “exclusive” with a crazy chick, and try to reform her. That’s just begging for a world of hurt. You’re no magnanimous minister to the moon units, saving hos like Jesus saving sinners. The crazy chicks FEASTS on do-gooder betas. You show a glimmer of kindness, or patience, or a “need to understand” and your cuckoo boo will have your sanity for lunch.

The only cure for the crazy chick that’s been known to work on at least a few of them is The Wall. A headlong splat and total invisibility to men is worth more than ten years of therapy and annual pregnancy scares. When a young hottie has lost her source of power, her crazy stops befuddling betas and testing the tolerance of alphas. She gets ignored, and learns through Instant Feedback that her crazy antics, once so entertaining and lovable in the form of a 21 year old vixen, now isolates her from every social circle she knows.

The best counterstrategy for dealing with crazy chicks is bracing candor wrapped in condescension. Tell her what’s really going through your head, but do it in a way that leaves no doubt how little you care what she thinks or feels:

“It’s amazing how you can say shit like this while holding eye contact like a serial killer. Great stuff. Love it. What other tricks do you do?”

Meet crazy with the kind of male crazy that *really* drives crazy chicks nuts: detached amusement. The sex should be incredible. Just don’t stick around.


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