That sentence contains at least five follow-up questions she WANTS you to ask. Where in Florida? What brought you here? How long have you been in the area? What do you miss? How does it compare to here?
She handed them to you on a silver platter. And you said, "Oh cool. I come here every week. I love this band. Ummm... pretty crowded tonight."
She smiled politely. Nodded. And never texted you back.
I was that guy for years. Talking too much. Listening too little. Panicking about my next sentence while she was literally feeding me the answers.
Then I found 22 rules that fixed the whole thing. Rule number one: shut up and listen. She'll tell you exactly what to say.
You made your case like a lawyer. Stable job. Good guy. Ready for something real. All true. All irrelevant.
She weighed your points, nodded along, felt nothing — then fell hard for some tattooed bartender with a motorcycle and a gambling problem.
Logic is where attraction goes to die. The "22 Rules" work a level deeper, on the subconscious switches that decide within minutes whether you register as a MAN or as part of the furniture.
Stop presenting evidence. Start flipping switches.
Me. I also have a daughter.
Who enjoys shame? No one. Hence it’s used as a corrective measure.
The downfall to having a wh-re of a daughter, is she won't tell you about it if she knows you're the slut-shamer.
You've replayed it a hundred times. She stood three feet away, scrolling her phone. You had an opening. You composed the perfect line — after she was gone.
For all you know, she's married now. To some guy who said something. Anything.
Openers are cheap. Almost any sentence works when it's delivered within three seconds. The expensive part is the standing there, drafting and deleting, while the window quietly closes.
The "22 Rules" stripped out my hesitation. What to open with, how to keep it alive, and the one habit that costs guys more women than anything else: waiting for perfect.
Sure that can happen. But a father would likely be a fool to not know. I grew up with such women. And if I were their father, I’d likely, though not definitely, know.
Also, would such a daughter tell her pal for a dad (something he shouldn’t be) such a thing? “Hey daddy, because you’re such a nice daddy, there’s something I wanna tell ya…”
The argument isn't if you're a fool to not know or know. Way to deflect.
Well then, this is a double-edged sword, if you don't want to know about it, then you can't enforce it.
I had no intention of deflecting. I fully absorbed your points.
Do you mean prevention of whorishness or slur-shaming?
No, prevention of your kids keeping secrets from you.
I could talk to any woman I wasn't attracted to. Charming, funny, relaxed. Then a gorgeous woman looked my way and I'd become a sweating, babbling mess.
The fix took me years to find and ten minutes to learn. Nervousness and excitement are the same physical state — pounding heart, adrenaline, flushed face. Your brain just picks the label. And you can pick a better one.
Rule 16 shows you how. You feel the nerves, relabel them as excitement, and let that energy pour out as enthusiasm. Women notice the guy radiating it. They always do.
I believe that’s prevented by high-investment parenting with welcomed communication and understanding.
Children begin deceiving their parents at a very early age. Sometimes they're caught, sometimes not. Sometimes they fess up. It's just something that all kids do. By the time they are teenagers MOST will find ways to keep parents in the dark on some behaviors.
This is probably the best way to mitigate it. Parents don't need to be best buds with their kids but they can make them feel comfortable with dialogue, at least.
I think it has to do with likes and like-mindedness. If they're the type to want to be religious as you, or same political party as you, they'll be open about it. So if you let them know ahead of time you don't blame women for sleeping with a lot of guys, you'll only know if they're like-minded as you.
I suppose. Though I’m not going to show approval for that which I don’t. Neither is my wife.
You asked her if she wanted to grab coffee. Then you asked if the time worked. Then you asked if the place was okay. Then you asked if she'd prefer tea.
Four questions. Four chances for her to say no. Four signals that you're terrified of making a decision.
Plan it. Pick the place. Pick the time. Tell her where to meet you. She'll either show up or she won't.
Either way, you look like a man instead of a scared little boy.
Oh yes, if a father is air headed and doesn’t educate his son on what women are like. My son will be well informed. Plus I have a library of related must-read books for him.
It appears you need a primer on what caused the incel crisis in the first place.
The last couple of days, I been hanging out in a Hispanic gang-infested area, looking to hire a bilingual person to translate for me. Supposedly, girls in gangs don't just hang out on street corners anymore like they did in the '70s and '80s. So I been having a hard time even finding women. Supposedly trick-or-treating was a bigger thing back then too, I don't know what feminism has to do with these changes.
Three seconds. That's how long it took. Your shoes. Your posture. The way you held your drink. Whether you looked at the floor or looked at her.
She already filed you away. Interesting. Boring. Safe. Bold. Before you even opened your mouth.
Everything you say after that is just her confirming what she already decided.
So stop rehearsing lines. Fix the first three seconds. Stand tall. Look up. Smile like you mean it. Walk like you belong wherever you're standing.
The words come later. The impression comes first.