I culled this from the Rooshv forum (required reading for any dude that fancies himself a rake). Enjoy.



"Patricia woke up not when her body was
ready to wake but when her smartphone,
which she lays to bed beside her every night,
vibrated and chimed with a text message
from Madison reminding her of the lunch they
would have later that Saturday afternoon. Her
eyes began adjusting to light coming from
her phone’s screen instead of the sun, to
Facebook and Instagram updates of the
amazing experiences her friends had the
night before. She was more than excited
when she noticed four new messages on
Facebook, but quickly realized they were from
losers. She let out a “lame” under her
morning breath before getting out of bed,
phone in hand.
She didn’t want to eat a large breakfast since
she knew she would be having a fattening
lunch later in the day with Madison at the
new restaurant that was the buzz of all the
local blogs—blogs she was now catching up
on after preparing a small meal of two toaster
pastries, banana, probiotic yogurt, and three
pieces of artisanal dark chocolate. There on
the center of her kitchen table was the
biography of Steve Jobs, and if you look
closely you can see a fine layer of dust on the
cover. She received it as a gift, and though
she read the first 16 pages with enthusiasm,
she got distracted with something else and
never picked it up again. She felt no loss for
failing to read the book because her extensive
blog reading and magazine browsing must
surely surpass the depth and wisdom
contained in the autobiography of only one
man. A book, unlike her favorite blogs, also
didn’t allow her to leave witty comments that
other people could give her recognition for in
the form of upvotes.
She arrived on time to lunch and greeted her
friend Madison with “You look amazing!” The
two other standard greetings she uses are
“You look great!” and “Oh my god where did
you get that—it’s so cute!” where the that
would usually be an article of clothing or
piece of cosmetic jewelry. There were two
seatings that took place; first their bodies, on
a square table besides the open kitchen that
draws attention from patrons whenever a
little fireball erupts from the grill area, and the
other seating was for their phones, which
they both placed to the right of their
appetizer plate and silver utensils.
Their menu browsing was interrupted with
snippets of their Friday night, each girl
teasing with small details that would be
explained more fully after ordering. Every
minute one would ask the other, “What are
you getting?” and the other would invariably
respond, “I don’t know, what are you
getting?” followed by a detail such as, “Did
you see Josh recently? He lost a lot of
weight!” The girl who did not see Josh pulled
out her phone to find a recent photo of him
on Facebook that confirmed his improved
appearance.
Madison noticed there was a typo in the
menu. She followed her gut instinct, which
was to take a picture and then tweet it to her
two favorite foodie blogs and the restaurant’s
Twitter account with the text “Still working
out the kinks?” She expected her discovery to
get many responses but three minutes later,
after their meals were ordered, there were no
retweets or replies and she was surprised,
because the typo was obvious and this was
supposed to be a serious restaurant, opened
by a chef of a famous food truck that sold
Mexican cupcakes with avocado sprinkles that
were locally sourced. It wasn’t uncommon to
hear people using their entire lunch hour just
to wait in line and buy a few cupcakes as part
of the combo special that came with a bag of
nachos and pumpkin salsa.
It’s around this time that the full recap of the
Friday night would be expected, two
continuous stories with a start and end, but it
resembled more a staccato, bits and pieces
that I was hard-pressed to connect to the
whole. Madison was more enamored with the
place settings than the story of Patricia
getting into an argument with a guy at the
bar who asked her for a “female opinion” on
something fashion related. Madison took two
photos of the table layout, selected the one
she liked most, applied a retro filter to make it
look more distinguished, added seven
different hashtags that were various spellings
of the restaurant, and then uploaded it to
Instagram. It took a little longer than she
liked to upload and she said “Come on” twice
while Patricia browsed through her phone so
she wouldn’t appear to have nothing to do
while waiting for her friend to finish with her
art hobby.
Patricia didn’t feel like taking photos at the
moment. Instead she launched an app that
would blast a status update to all her social
networks. She sent the following: “Having an
awesome time with Madison at the new
place!” Indeed, they were having an
awesome time, mostly because they could
share it in real time with the entire world.
The food arrived, presented beautifully on
large plates with squigglies of unknown sauce
going outward like heat rays a child would
leave on a drawing of the sun. Both phones
were out now, taking pictures from different
angles. It took a few minutes for each of them
to get their shots just right since the lighting
was less than optimal, but post-production
app filters were up to the task and produced
beautiful photos that they girls couldn’t
upload fast enough.
Patricia uploaded just two photos of her dish,
a Cobb salad, with the colorful ingredients
arrayed beside each other like bags of spices
in the Indian market she buys naan bread
from. Madison, coming to the realization that
this day would be special, created an album
with the date and uploaded four photos of her
Angus burger on brioche bun that was
topped so high a horse wouldn’t be able to
take a bite. She ate it not unlike Patricia’s
salad, picking at the vegetable ingredients
until she decreased its height enough where
she could replace the top bun and finish it off
in the normal style of eating a burger,
exclaiming “This is so good” a total of six
times.
Dessert was shared between them, a large
piece of chocolate cake, and Patricia got the
creative idea of taking a picture of Madison
when a spoonful of cake was approaching her
mouth. It would have been a better photo, in
my opinion, if Madison removed her oversized
sunglasses, but she partied hard the night
before and didn’t want people to see her
sagging eyes, which would suggest she’s
upset or not having fun, when the truth is
that she was having—like I already mentioned
—an awesome time. After the cake was
finished, there was a full seven minutes of
conversation when neither operated their
phones, but glances were stolen at their
respective devices, and with no new
notifications in such a prolonged period of
time, Patricia thought that she lost signal and
compulsively turned on the screen. The signal
was full strength. Three more minutes went
by before she got a like on the status update
she sent earlier, but it was from Cody, who
was really creepy the other month when he
displayed skepticism that free birth control
should be a basic human right for women.
The most passionate part of their lunch date
was when the check came and they debated
how much tip should be left. The service was
acceptable, but at one point Madison had no
water and she had to flag the waiter to come,
going so far as twisting her torso in an
unnatural position to locate where the waiter
could possibly be. It seemed unnecessarily
difficult, she argued, and convinced Patricia
to levy a 5% tip penalty from the standard
20%. (Later that night, Madison went on Yelp
and left a 3 out of 5 star review, citing the
poor water service and menu error as reasons
that the restaurant “still had a ways to go.”
She added a joke, hoping it would get
“Funny” likes, but she only got two “Useful”
likes instead.)
They left the restaurant and—I don’t know
who came up with the idea first—agreed to
take a picture in front of the main entrance. It
was their luck that the name of the
restaurant could easily be seen. Patricia asked
a male passerby to snap the photo. He was
more than happy to do so, but Madison
began to get anxious because what if Patricia
forgets to upload the photo? She didn’t want
the opportunity to pass because she may
never come back to this restaurant again
after the poor service, so she asked the man
to take the same photo with her phone. The
man happily obliged. He hung around an
extra twenty seconds longer than necessary
and then thankfully went away without
bothering the girls. He wasn’t good-looking.
It was time to walk off the meal by checking
out the Old Town shopping center a half-mile
away. Only three pictures were taken along
the way and they considered buying a
cupcake at a classic bakeshop but the line
was too long and cupcakes are no longer in
with the important foodie crowd that they
considered themselves a part of. The Old
Town was capably designed, they agreed,
with a second level patio that oversaw a small
fountain in the center of the complex. There
wasn’t much else that I saw, but Patricia and
Madison must’ve been moved because they
excitedly took out their phones and got ready
for picture taking on the patio that oversaw
the little fountain. They believed that this
moment must be captured with a camera
sensor to not only be appreciated by their
friends and beta orbiters, but also so they
would never forget this special day for as long
as they lived.
Patricia stood on the edge of the patio so
Madison could take several shots (with
Patricia’s phone, of course). Patricia examined
each resulting image as soon as they were
taken and grimaced each time, as if she was
expecting a photo with an entirely different
person than herself. After eight photos, she
was finally pleased with one and then the
process repeated with Madison, and then
repeated again with both of them together
thanks to the help of another male passerby,
who was even more eager than the first. An
extra “Thank you so much” was said to get
him to buzz off. Not long after, in front of a
Chinese restaurant, they stumbled on a
display of an oversized Coca-Cola bottle, the
classic bottle that can no longer be found in
stores, and a handful of more pictures were
taken beside it with exaggerated facial
expressions.
From the beginning of their lunch date until
the end, a total of 52 photos were taken.
Sixteen of those photos would be uploaded to
various sites to garner a total of 48 likes,
comments, and retweets, including a
comment from the restaurant, apologizing for
the menu typo. Not a bad haul for a Saturday
afternoon, Madison thought proudly. She
realized that through her effort and ingenuity
hundreds of people—no, thousands—would
not have to endure an unprofessional typo in
a restaurant menu.
Patricia had a date that evening to prepare
for. It was a casual date with a man she met
on OK Cupid, and though she was reluctant
to go since she wasn’t Hot (she was getting
serviced twice a week by Brody, her ex-
boyfriend), she had nothing else to do. She
arrived 17 minutes late to be greeted by a
man who seemed slightly less attractive than
his rock climbing photos suggested. She felt
cheated that he uploaded the best version of
himself, and while he may be able to say the
same of her, since it was obvious her photos
were from a younger time when the stress of
her studies didn’t allow for the dining
experiences she has become a connoisseur of,
he was just proud to get a date out of
messaging god knows how many women.
He ordered a gimlet while she ordered a
mojito that came in a unique glass. She took
a picture of her drink and then left her phone
on the table while her date put his away. The
sun was starting to fade from its peak
intensity, signifying the arrival of evening,
and so the texts began pouring into her
phone. She was polite, only catching a quick
glimpse of who was contacting her when her
phone’s screen would light for three seconds
before fading back to black. Her date
soldiered on with his life story, talking about
his recent experience in the Peurvian
mountains where he took ayahuasca and
achieved spiritual enlightenment. He also
remarked how he accumulated a vocabulary
of 1,000 words in Quechua to learn important
Andean wisdom from wise elders that has
never been published in English. His story,
however, could not compete with her phone.
She responded to his prattle with a series of
uh huhs while becoming more curious about
the contents of her six unread text messages.
The anticipation reached a boiling point, not
unlike when she was a young girl on her
birthday and wrapped presents were shoved
in front of her upon the ceremonial blowing
out of the candles. Look, another pretty doll
that she could play with for hours without
worrying about anything else in the world,
quieting her for such long periods that her
parents would periodically get a feeling of
panic that she wasn’t in the house. “I just
have to check something real quick, sorry,”
she said, then turned on her screen and
scanned through the text messages that
were waiting for her. One was from Brody,
which was a pleasant surprise, since he didn’t
usually contact her until Sunday evening. She
decided to only answer the most important
text message, the one sent by Madison, who
asked how the date was going. She replied:
“He’s so boring.. what time are we going to
the club tonight? I want to wear my slutty
dress.” She smiled as she typed this out with
her thumbs, a smile that her date could not
elicit from her no matter how hard he tried.
He suggested another round of drinks but she
said she was tired and that she needed to get
some rest from a hard week of work at the
office. He was disappointed but not surprised,
and when the check came he was pleased
that she made a sincere offer to pay, but she
actually had no money in her purse. He paid
the bill and got a pleasant hug with Patricia’s
breasts pressing slightly against him,
completely unaware that his Monday evening
“How was the rest of your weekend?” text
would go unanswered. I could easily argue
that the date was a waste of time for both,
but Patricia didn’t see it that way. She got a
free cocktail, a cool photo, and a fleeting
string of conversation for her friends that
would last at least 15 seconds and display
how valued she was in the dating game,
immediately followed by a comment about
how there are no exciting men anymore, only
boring ones who think doing hippie drugs,
learning dying languages, or climbing
mountains make them interesting.
Back at home, Patricia put on her favorite
Nicki Minaj party mix and began getting
ready for the club. She dressed in her Vegas
outfit, the skimpy black top and skirt paired
with heavy makeup and heels so high and
uncomfortable that a full half-hour of the
night would be spent complaining about
them to anyone who would listen. While she
didn’t look as good as two years ago, you
couldn’t tell by increased amount of attention
she was getting from men, even when she
went out in sweatpants.
She stood in front of her bathroom’s mirror to
take some self shots. This took a while to get
right. The secret to a good self shot, she
understood, was making it look completely
natural as if the act of taking a photo next to
the toilet bowl was a spontaneous event that
came in a rare moment of artistic inspiration,
when in actuality she has done this over a
thousand times. I was impressed at how
skilled she was at striking a pose that was the
prettiest she could possibly look in spaces
that rarely exceeded 84 square feet, with
fluorescent lighting that would have easily
highlighted her developing second chin had it
not been for a precise 20 degree up-tilt of her
head that didn’t decrease the brilliance of her
blue eyes like a 25 degree tilt would. After
fifteen minutes in the bathroom getting it just
right, she raced out the door and mentally
braced herself for all the idiots who would
make unwanted sexual comments about her
body, thinking she dressed that way to get
attention instead of to feel confident about
herself and who she was as a woman.
She and her crew, four strong, assembled at
a lounge. There was such a flurry of ensuing
activity that I had trouble keeping up with
them. Guys were coming out from behind
bushes, it seemed, to put in their attempt,
and even Patricia began to feel threatened by
the street harassment as she raced with her
girls from one club to another, easily skipping
the line for peasants and straight into the VIP
where rich men with bottles of vodka and
sometimes whiskey were waiting to pour
whatever they wanted. Numbers were given
to the cute and confident men and a couple
of them were able to get up close to Patricia
and sneak in brief kisses on her glossy lips.
During all this the girls maintained death
grips on their phones, usually in their left
hands so they could party with their right. It
would have been too risky to put their phones
in their purse because the bass from the
speakers would make it impossible to feel the
little vibration of a “Where are you?!” text
from a friend or a booty call text that would
almost always start with the sentence “You
out tonight?”
The fact that the girls were dancing with their
phone didn’t reduce the fluidity of their
gyrations or the rhythmic grinding on men’s
crotches, and when a screen lit up from a
new notification, even a minor one like an
acquaintance not heard of in months being
tagged in a photo, the dancing would stop for
ten seconds and then commence again as if
the interruption didn’t happen. The night
wasn’t all joy, sadly, because Patricia forgot to
recharge her phone midday, and now her
battery level had sunk down to a perilous
14%. She couldn’t take any more photos with
flash, which in the dark club essentially
meant no more photography. Her night was
on the verge of being ruined because her
friends could record the exciting moments
happening while she could only spectate.
In spite of the battery problem, which killed
her phone not long after because of the
irresistible urge to take just a few more group
shots, the night was a raging success.
Between the four girls, 266 photos were
taken. Sixty-two would be uploaded,
garnering 1,158 likes, comments, and so on,
mostly from men. The girls gave out their
number a total of 13 times, and 6 men were
kissed. Patricia stumbled home alone and the
first thing she did was plug in her dead phone
into its charger. She patiently waited beside it
to boot and then enjoyed the explosion of
backlogged messages and notifications that
came in all at once. They soothed her soul
and validated her self-image as a popular girl
in a big city.
She put her phone on silent then fell asleep,
waking seven hours later. The first thing she
did when she opened her eyes was reach for
her phone, which lay beside her like it does
every night, and already there was a text
from one of the guys she met the night
before. Who was it? She didn’t remember,
and it didn’t much matter, because the
photos, the texts, the likes, and the pleasant
notification chime gave her more happiness
than these men could provide for her. If you
asked Patricia to forever give up her
smartphone in order to meet the love of her
life, the one in a billion man who would satisfy
her both physically and emotionally for as
long as she lived, and who would serve her
like a queen until his last days, it wouldn’t
take her even ten seconds to respond with a
decision.
Three days later, the best self shot she
uploaded had amassed 102 likes. It was a
new record."


www.rooshv.com/patricias-smartphone

lol ! quite interesting .

EnterPRO:
lol ! quite interesting .

Indeed. Thanks for stopping by, it was beginning to get quite lonely here
But don't let me keep you. Bookmark vivalamanosphere.com, red pill heaven I sayn.

Ironic that a new 'like' notification is what brings me back to read the OP.
My own experiences indicate that things have worsened considerably. Girls will get their like fix, and guys, nothing for you. I just perma-signed out of InstaMessage/Instagram after a frustrating 2 days of liking/DM-ing just about any half decent girl that popped up on my timeline. Needless to say, they all took a peek at my profile and promptly ignored me. Except for the desperate runs girls. I'm simply not attractive enough. Thankfully I get to read this thread again this morning and I am consoled that I'm (probably) not quasimodo-esque and many other fellas have the same experience.
These days you have to be Whizkid or Banky W.

It felt terrible.

BoboYekini:
Ironic that a new 'like' notification is what brings me back to read the OP.
My own experiences indicate that things have worsened considerably. Girls will get their like fix, and guys, nothing for you. I just perma-signed out of InstaMessage/Instagram after a frustrating 2 days of liking/DM-ing just about any half decent girl that popped up on my timeline. Needless to say, they all took a peek at my profile and promptly ignored me. Except for the desperate runs girls. I'm simply not attractive enough. Thankfully I get to read this thread again this morning and I am consoled that I'm (probably) not quasimodo-esque and many other fellas have the same experience.
These days you have to be Whizkid or Banky W.

It felt terrible.

Mine was the like that drew you out. This satire is so...delicious. Had to go checkout the website myself! Although it's still one of the many tabs I have open, I'll get to it.

And about your experience...you won't take it to heart, surely? If it soothes you, some girls get that too.

koolJ1:


Mine was the like that drew you out. This satire is so...delicious. Had to go checkout the website myself! Although it's still one of the many tabs I have open, I'll get to it.

And about your experience...you won't take it to heart, surely? If it soothes you, some girls get that too.

I'm better now, thank you