#negging

[sometiktoksarevalid]

[former-incel]

There are times when insulting women works.

You have a trusted connection with her in which you roasting each other is part of your relationship. You'd expect her to roast you also. You both understand each other and are careful to avoid crossing the line from playful roasting to insulting.

She asks for your opinion and you tell her what's truthful instead of what you think she wants to hear, but you're also careful to phrase it in a way that's helpful and not insulting.

You don't give her compliments on how young she looks, how thin she looks, or anything else that's only a compliment because of social constructs. You don't outright call her old or fat, but you also don't argue with her when she calls herself old or fat.

But if you're following the pickup artist technique known as "negging" in which you insult her in order to manipulate her into seeking your approval, then a "loneliness epidemic" is a very likely outcome.

[hasanpikemedaddy]

Cream & Communism Chapter 1...

Characters: Hasan Piker//you **

Just something fun I came up with a few days ago, finally getting pen to paper on it. ENJOY

Now live on AoC here!

You’d watched him stream through power outages, through breakups, through the absolute dregs of modern politics. Hasan was background noise when you were folding laundry, entertainment when you were meal-prepping, emotional support when your landlord raised rent again.

He was a habit. A parasocial one, sure—but so is caffeine.

You rarely typed in chat. That space was its own chaotic biome—inside jokes, mods bickering, subscriber spam, emotes flying by like migrating birds. You watched. You lurked. Sometimes you smiled quietly to yourself when someone made a good joke. Sometimes you rolled your eyes when chat got weird about a guest’s outfit.

But you stayed silent. Safe.

Until tonight.

Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the way his hair looked under that stupid LED backlight, pulled back messily, those loose strands catching blue around the temples like the moonlight was flirting with him. Maybe it was the way his hoodie dipped just low enough to reveal that chain on his collarbone—something about the soft cotton and gleaming metal that made you think about biting things.

Whatever the reason, you typed.

imagine sitting on your face during the trump debate stream. you’d never come back up for air.

You hit Enter before you could second-guess it.

The line scrolled by with a dozen others. You figured it’d disappear instantly. Forgotten.

Then he stopped mid-sentence.

His eyes flicked to chat.

Brows pulled together.

“Bro,” he muttered. “What the fuck—hold on...”

You froze.

No, no, no—

His eyes scanned the screen, then narrowed.

“Who the fuck is—‘OohLaLatte69’?” he read out loud. He pronounced it slowly, like he couldn’t decide if he was amused or deeply offended.

You wanted to dissolve into the floor.

Hasan leaned toward the monitor. “‘Imagine sitting on your face during the Trump debate stream. You’d never come back up for air.’ ARE YOU GOOD?”

The chat exploded.

💀💀💀

CAUGHT LIVE OMG

she horny on main fr

ban her lmfao

MODS

“I—I—bro. No. You’re getting muted. That’s a timeout,” Hasan said, clicking furiously. “You can’t just drop that in the middle of a take about fracking!”

Muted. Ten minutes. The little gray icon appeared beside your name.

The worst part?

You saw the exact moment he tried to hold back a laugh. His mouth twitched. His eyes crinkled. He ran a hand over his face and muttered something about degenerates and sex pests and needing a palate cleanser.

And then he moved on.

Just like that.

But you couldn’t.

You stared at the screen. Heart hammering like you’d just confessed a crime.

Muted. Silenced.

You didn’t even really regret it.

You regretted getting caught.

You didn’t tell your best friend.

She was a mod now. Deep in the trenches. She’d recognize your chat name instantly. She’d laugh herself breathless, then post a screenshot to the Discord. You’d never live it down.

So you stayed quiet.

You kept lurking.

After the timeout ended, you didn’t type anything for a week. Then a month. You changed your profile picture. Subscribed with Prime, but anonymously. You watched him play horror games with the lights off. Watched him rage at Valorant. Watched him argue with chat about rent control and milk pricing and how often men should wash their towels.

But you didn’t speak again.

You couldn’t risk it.

Especially now.

Because that same voice that mocked you for being horny on main?

That same face you watched from behind your laptop, curled up in bed with a spoonful of peanut butter and a weighted blanket?

It walked into your café.

Real. 3D. Larger than life.

And you—God help you—you looked him straight in the eye and said:

“Name for the order?”

But that’s Chapter 2.

[domorewithgore]

I’m always asking why Gore Vidal hasn’t gotten his due, and why it doesn’t seem to be on the horizon. I’ve cracked the case wide open and it’s devastating.

Everyone knows that after a celebrity dies, there is a window of time where the culture reflects on their life and decides how they will be remembered, there’s eulogizing, young people learn about people they might of only had a vague name sense of before, there is the potential for someone to be noticed at the time of their death, as actually very cool and ahead of their time all along. How did this not happen to Gore Vidal when he died in 2012? He published an explicitly gay novel in 1948! He was anti-war his entire life! He was a class traitor! He was a man of letters! He was so hot! Myra fucking Breckenridge!

Well I blame Jay Parini. Jay Parini published the only posthumous biography of Gore Vidal in 2015 and Knopf publishers calls it “authorized” even though Jay Parini says in his own introduction that he intentionally deceived Vidal for decades about his plans to publish after his death, he knows GV would consider Empire of Self a betrayal, and that he’s “not looking forward to our meeting on the other side.” Gore Vidal’s estate was litigated after his death and it all belongs to Harvard, perhaps they’re allowed to call it authourized because Harvard authorized it, but thats not what they’re trying to imply, obviously.

In the early 1990s Vidal asked Jay Parini to take over writing his biography but he didnt take the job. “My wife, perceptively, insisted that I decline, saying that I would have to choose between the biography and my freindship. I couldn't have both. She understood that he would try to control what I wrote at every turn, driving us both insane. So I decided then to write a book that could only be published after his death.” He says he kind of fake wrote a book for years? And then on one of their last visits together GV wondered if he would ever follow through and finish and makes it clear he would still want him too. The quote really doesnt sell it to me that Gore authorized a posthumous biography. Parini says himself that he knows what he did end up publishing is explicitly against Gore’s wishes. Parini strung him along for 30 years knowing he would write a self serving salacious mean-spirited tear down after his "friend" died. He compliments himself for having the "patience" to "stick it out," with his plan because Gore is such a difficult person and it was expensive to travel to see his "friend" over the years. It's so mean. Right from the very first pages it's so mean.

One of the ways Jay Parini tries to make his splash is by casting a lot of doubt everywhere, on core narrative elements from Gore’s life he didnt waver about in 60 years. we will get into the examples of this as i develop this, but let me open up with casting a little doubt of my own.

I’m sorry to make you do this, but please read these abridged opening paragraphs of the intro to Empire of Self:

My freindship with Gore Vidal began in the mid-eighties when i lived for a period on a sabbatical with my wife and young children in Atrani, a village on the coast of southern Italy. We rented a small stone villa on a cliff overlooking the sea, …….We had a rooftop terrace, above which rose a lemon grove and limestone cliffs. A massive villa - alabaster white....loomed above us, and we wondered who lived there in such opulence. Some Italian nobleman? A local mafia don? A film star?.........I admired his commentaries in Esquire and The New York Review of Books. I never forgot his fiery debates with William F Buckley…..I’d read half a dozen of his novels,.......responding to a note I'd sent gore pounded on my door one afternoon not long after our arrival, inviting my wife and me to dinner. I was terrified, as his reputation preceded him, and thought he might be tricky

Ooooh, Big Jay, I think you’re lyin’. I dont think there is one fucking chance in the entire universe you accidentally, unknowingly, rented a villa as close as you could possibly afford to Gore’s house in Italy when you were “on sabbatical” only a couple of years after you finished your PhD anyway. I think you targeted him. You have made your career riding coattails, your only recognized work is writer bios and your special spin on well trodden ground is revealing more than ever of their messy difficult private stuff and adding your little Freudian take on their personality.

Jay Parini is a lot of things: an unreliable narrator, a clout chaser, unethical, a climber/poser, extremely privileged, a professor emeritus at middlebury college…..but he is not, and never was, a friend of Gore Vidal.

The whole fucking thing was based on a lie from the very begining. But im sure Gore knew this. I dont think he would be confused or taken by such a lie. He probably at best thought it was cute and flattering and enjoyed this middle aged man moving his whole family to his front yard in Italy, immediately attaching himself to Gore, and pretending all the while it was happenstance. Unlike Parini himself, and unlike the epitaph hes tried to carve for GV, we know the truth, Gore was kind and classy.

Welcome to this many part series, where I go off on the vulgar homophobic pile of shit “Empire of Self” by Jay Parini.

[princesssarisa]

I know I made a poll about it before, so I don't need to bring it up again, but I wish that Jane Austen fans wouldn't accuse Darcy of "negging"!

Negging is manipulation. Negging is when a man insults a woman or gives her backhanded compliments to break down her self-esteem. The point is to make her grateful that he likes her despite all "flaws," to stop her from thinking she's too good for him, and/or to make her think no one else would want her.

Darcy isn't negging Elizabeth when he insults her looks at the beginning: he's genuinely not interested in her and genuinely doesn't find her pretty at first. The omniscient narrator tells us that he only gradually becomes attracted to her as he gets to know her better.

Nor is he negging during his first proposal when he makes such a big, insulting deal of Elizabeth's lower social status. He's not trying to manipulate her into accepting him: he thinks she's already been flirting with him and has no doubt that she'll accept. He's just being excessively, brutally honest.

I know some of the people who say "Darcy invented negging" are just joking, but it's not true. For all his other flaws, he's not a manipulator.

[oasisr]

When men neg you by putting down your talents, run. Things will not get better.

Even if you aren't good at something and are just a beginner, he should not be mocking you or bullying you for that.

I'm not a great singer or painter, but I enjoy singing and painting sometimes. My ex would mock me and tell me that he wanted to marry someone who could actually sing.

I gave him another chance after he hurt my feelings. He was good for a couple of weeks, and then went right back to mocking me and putting me down.

Just run. You are beautiful even if you aren't good at everything you try. You don't need someone to put you down and try to harm your self-worth.

You are worthy of someone who will treat you like you are a special and beautiful woman. Because you are.

[eisenkrahe]

I don't know if it is still called "negging" but in the '90s before they even had that term a guy tried this on me. Not the deodorant trick but something similar enough. And I didn't even have a word for it but I knew he was trying to break my self-esteem down to make me a "softer target." I threw that mother fucker out of my life so fast and so hard. And everyone told me I was overreacting and meanwhile it was this shit right here. Old games. And anyone who tells you you are overreacting is a damn fool.