Because of the way that these random shitshow relationship stories tend to get get scooped up as kindling for the next Red Pill asshole weenie roast, and because the men I love most–my brothers, many of my guy friends, my husband–seem to be particularly vulnerable to these Machiavellian betches, I am on the one hand incandescent with rage about this newest inductee to the Gold-Digging Whore Hall of Fame. On the other hand, this story has all the LOLs.
I am reasonably certain that my husband’s first wife is out there quaking with fury at the realization that someone else made off with this kinda haul without even having to get a new driver license or update her voter registration. LOL to that.
LOL at this succubus saying she “deserves” a larger ring because she’s gonna be so thrifty about the wedding.
LOL at thinking that hosting 40 people for 4 days at a ski chalet is a thrifty wedding.
LOL at including a degree that you don’t even farking have in your personal email signature. (I work in academia and I understand what PhD candidacy is, but who in the pissing whingepot shit puts that in their Gmail?)
LOL at moving some rando from college into your apartment because she got into a fender bender and you forgot Greyhound is a thing. And then starting the one-year-to-put-a-ring-on-it-or-your-ass-is-grass countdown and maxing out every line of credit available to pay the world’s most expensive call girl because you forgot that vaginas are standard-issue equipment for literally half the humans on this planet.
LOL at the Freudian slip in her statement that she would enjoy this ring “for the rest of her married life” [emphasis mine].
LOL at her rolling her eyes in her engagement photos.
LOL at “Teenie Dickens” and the Great Barnaby Zero Fluorescence Heist of ’17.
LOL at “Even Teenier Dickens” and the nascent realization that she really should have picked any major but art history since she’s juuuust internet famous enough to never be able to pull this scam again.
LOL at that saying that men who hire prostitutes aren’t paying for the sex–they’re paying them to leave.
Everyone in this story (except perhaps Daddy Dickens who is probably still reeling from the horrific realization that both his wife and daughter are greedy little hobgoblins with enough evil in them to fuel the MRA movement for generations to come) is a bag of dicks stuffed in a douche nozzle with a turd sandwich on the side.
I feel sorry for this guy and have, many times over the past few years, SO. BADLY. WANTED to pull all 3.5 billion men on the planet into one big conference room and let them in on the dirty little secret that the hole they love so much doesn’t close up when a woman goes out and gets a job and starts acting like a grown-ass adult. Sadly, I think that for many guys it takes a calamity like this to put them off of the borderline waif types and get them interested in women who are functional human beings.