The Dating Game Isn’t a Playground – It’s a Battlefield
Every woman built to conquer the world gets tripped up by chump alpha wannabes who fold like wet cardboard. You’re a five-language, sailboat-driving, tattooed warlord with a prosthetic leg you wear like it’s a damn badge of honor. Yet the first time a guy sees your full arsenal, he high-tails like he’s been jacked out. That’s not you failing the dating game, jackass. It’s the weak links getting weeded out by a woman who wasn’t bred to kowtow.
False Positives Are Just Losers Playing House
Swipe-right culture is a meat market run by morons. You see a guy’s photo, he’s got a pout like a pimpled Shakespearean actor, and you’re already calculating his bank balance. Then you meet him in real time and realize he doesn’t even own a decent necktie. These false positives aren’t your fault – they’re the digital version of a guy flashing you money in 1989 and expecting you to buy his story. Your prosthetic leg isn’t a red flag, it’s their radar detecting a woman who’ll out-earn, out-sail, and out-survive the sorry sacks he’s been stringing along. Don’t waste your bullets on chumps who check out before the date starts.
Solution: Prey on the Men Who Can Handle the Hunt
You don’t wade into the Congo with a Haversham Hotel crowd. When you’ve got the stamina to sail through storms and the IQ to crack foreign languages like safecrackers crack vaults, you need predators who’ve faced their own jungles. Older men with passports stained by real travel – not just flight clubs – will meet your fire with something hotter. They’ll see your mohawk and think it’s the tip of an iceberg, not an icepick to their ego. Let the weak-sauce beta males lick at puddles while you drown in oceans.
Why Your 'Quirks' Are a Woman’s Secret Weapon
Some broads dilute their flavor to taste like Skoal – you’re a bourbon they can’t handle. The men who’ll keep up with you? They’ve had their own come-up, they’ve bled for their stories, and your French horn skills make them want to play you an a cappella blues ballad in the backstreets of Lisbon. You’re not too much – you’re a rare strain of lethal in a world of knockoff champagne. Let the posers say their goodbyes. Only the ones with matching fire want to dance in the ashes of their own pride beside you. That’s not a scarcity issue – it’s curated availability.
Stop Being the Man’s Comfortable Shoe
Do you want to date the Steve Trevor who’d carry Wonder Woman up Everest? Or the pencil-necked loser begging for a lasso of truth to survive your presence? A man who can’t handle your glow is a moth who’ll burn out the second you flick your lighter. You don’t owe anyone a performance review on your sailing certifications or your ability to out-clean a Navy seal. But you also don’t owe the weak links a second date. Keep your knife-honed edge out, even if it cuts through three weak-sauce suitors to find the one who’ll keep up in the real apocalypse.
The 'Wasted Ace' Problem – It’s Not Your Fault
Listen tight, WA – a friend who’s turning her face into a toxic waste dump while calling you a poison? That’s not friendship, that’s code for "I want to burn your house down and blame the fire department." Your asexuality isn’t a corporate policy, and S’s jealousy isn’t your problem to fix. She’s got a personality that’s actively repelling the world – I bet she talks like she’s chewing battery acid. Her horniness problem isn’t your deficit, it’s her own Chernobyl-level vibe.
Why Her 'Jealousy' is a Survival Alert
S’s not angry about your legs or your hair or your clean skin. She’s furious that while you walk tall like a queen with a prosthetic limb, she’s stuck in a body she’s waging jihad against. Her "friendship" is a backdoor hazing mission where she’s trying to guilt-trip you into being her human doormat. But when you’re built to last like you are, you don’t let someone’s midlife crisis of self-worth become your personal burden.
No, You’re Not 'Wasting Your Body'
What a goddamn ableist insult. You’re not wasting anything. You’re living with the precision of a Swiss watch – using your strengths like a general deploying troops smartly. The man who’d respect you doesn’t care if you bleed out your asexuality like a manifesto. He just knows you’re a complete human with a spine he can’t break. And S’s so busy hating you, she’s missing the real lesson: self-respect isn’t caught, it’s earned – especially in your skin.
The Friend Is the Enemy You Created – Or Should Have Fixed
She’s not a friend; she’s a mirror for your self-worth. Every time she drags you through her pity party, she’s saying "I’ll only respect you if you kneel." Keep playing her bad-faith game and you’ll end up with no friends at all – just a roommate who treats your success like a personal betrayal. College’s a new war zone – you’ll need allies, not landmines disguised as companions. Cut the cord now or get pulled into her downward spiral. Real strength’s not about keeping her. It’s about knowing you don’t need her approval to exist fully.
Final Shot – Burn the Weak Links
Men who bolt when they see your full arsenal? Good. They were filler in your pack. Your body’s not a trophy to be wasted – it’s a weapon you choose when and where to deploy. And that asexual friend? She doesn’t hate your looks. She resents her own inability to stop talking like a sour wine. Keep moving forward. Your next target will be the kind of man who doesn’t run at your smoke signal. He’ll follow your flame because he knows what real survivors smell like.