MMX2010

Yes. And they have the nerve to assume (like many people in this thread do) that scientific consensus has slowly but steadily changed the minds of many individuals. But the truth is that the slow but steady increase in bullying and twitter outrage has made people afraid to vocally oppose transgender-ideology.

It's practically impossible for a woman to do this, because: (1) the kinds of skills that are required to succeed in the free market as masculine traits, many of which are correlated with testosterone and (2) an identifiably feminine woman's best trait is her fertility and femininity, which are correlated with lack of testosterone. The opposite is true. Rollo Tomassi posted a gigantic (like fifty-pages or more) article outlining typical objections to evolutionary psychological conclusions, followed by effective counter-arguments. The one I most remembered, "Societies in which people are free to choose their own genders end up being more stereotypically divided into masculine/feminine genders, not LESS - as you just assumed."

Why have a suspicion AT ALL? I get that I've an advantage here, because I've had romantic interactions with a women whom everyone would agree is a unicorn, and her opinion on promiscuity is the opposite of what you suspect. But my point is, why have a suspicion AT ALL? The reason why it's dangerous to have suspicions, rather than direct personal experiences, is displayed in your post. The verb "THEY KNOW" is a statement of knowledge. It is not a suspicion. So you began with a suspicion, and have developed it into a statement of knowledge.

No, even if only because the alternative possibility exists that you want to be told a good reason to live.

Makes enormous presumption about my emotional state, and then says. Meanwhile, a person who really cares about personal attacks treads extremely lightly around making personal presumptions. A phony person who routinely personal attacks, FIRST personally attacks and THEN says "It wasn't my intent to personally attack you." (As if your intention decides whether you were personally attacking, rather than my emotional sense that you are or aren't attacking me.)

Have you ever wanted to watch a movie to kill time AND have fun? I ask, because every time you make a counter-argument, you reduce the focus to ONE GOAL. (As if I can't Game a chick to make her laugh AND to pass the time AND to hopefully get laid.) That ONE GOAL focus is really annoying, and doesn't exist in the real world. As for the last part, YES. So deal with it. AGAIN. All-or-nothing thinking with zero nuance. Is it a bad thing to reflect or not? ONLY two choices, ONLY yes/no answer. Meanwhile, a nuanced answer like, "It is bad for koroviev to reflect, but not bad at all for MMX2010 to reflect." would drive you nuts, because you can't see how that could be possible, let alone plausible, let alone true. You should only be applying it to yourself, because you're the one who keeps re-visiting it. And you're the one who started this thread to discuss it. I only mention it in response to you mentioning it. I get downvoted twenty times a day, and do you hear me telling people, "Just because you downvote me, doesn't mean you're better than me as a person?" No. Because it never occurs to me to say such a thing.

"Are you saying as soon as there is an audience the goal is no longer the truth?" (No, dude. I'm saying that as soon as there is an audience, the audience responds to things other than "reason", "evidence", and "logic". They also eventually give their opinions about who has the better argument, and the winning side enjoys more social influence.) "Should people not reflect on what kind of person their arguments make them?" (It's not a binary issue. You can reflect wrongly OR reflect correctly OR not reflect at all OR not reflect sometimes, but other times reflect.) "Are you saying people who refuse to concede a point don't know their self worth, and therefore are more concerned about, or ignoring, what their argument is saying about them?) (No, I was explicitly fucking clear: "People who constantly need to remind others, "Just because you happen to be correct doesn't make you A BETTER PERSON.", are, ironically, constantly asking themselves, "What kind of person does this make me?" Hence, when you defeat such a person in an argument, they feel like their entire worth as a person has been attacked. So they lash out, or make threads, or accuse people of trolling.) (The capitalized part is most important, because, you know, it's capitalized.) "What does this say about people who argue that being correct makes you a better person, and that people who are incorrect "lose?" (I don't know. Why don't you find someone who explicitly made that argument and give your opinion?)

If 2 people are having a private conversation, then that's probably true. But if 2 people are having a public conversation, that's definitely not true at all. Private = cooperation. Public = competition. People who constantly need to remind others, "Just because you happen to be correct doesn't make you A BETTER PERSON.", are, ironically, constantly asking themselves, "What kind of person does this make me?" Hence, when you defeat such a person in an argument, they feel like their entire worth as a person has been attacked. So they lash out, or make threads, or accuse people of trolling. Someone who already knows his worth as a person doesn't wonder how winning or losing an argument reflects upon him as a person.

You're not "allowed" to first confess that you've never met a woman whom you call "unicorn", and then predict exactly how she's going to think and feel. (More accurately, you are "allowed" to do that, but it's just presumptuous.) As for the blue, how old are these women on average, and how much casual sex do you think they've had? If they have had a ton of casual sex, would you characterize their new found desire for men who haven't had a lot of casual sex as hypocritical or enlightened?

Ottinger said: "You yourself can make this a competition. And given the amount of negs you have received, I think it's safe to say that isn't working out so well for you. I replied: "It's working out quite well, actually. Some people, like you, have negative emotional reactions and then give bad arguments. But other people have become Skype friends or people who routinely attend FDR meet-ups with meetups with me, and they both highly appreciate my contributions." During the 2.5 hours between when I made post #58, and you asked me about my English skills, I had a 45 minute Skype conversation with a long-time FDR member. We spoke about her family situation, a recent trip she took, and a couple of paragraphs from The Last Psychiatrist - (a topic I might call Stefan about). At some point in the conversation, it clicked for me why she appreciates talking to me. So I said, "And now I know why you like me." And she quickly replied, "If I could photocopy you, I would. If I could make you teach in universities I would. You're such a breath of fresh air compared to what goes on here and on the board." So while you were anticipating victory in the competition by pointing out the downvotes I've received, I was winning the competition by helping that woman IN REAL LIFE. Only a fool thinks that negative or positive attention on the message board is comparable to negative or positive attention in real life. (And you're not the only person who thinks that way.)

The Anonymous Conservative is one of many people who believe that this is addictive behavior. They turn their social media likes into dopamine. Roosh wrote a long but beautiful article describing it. I made my niece read it. --------------------- http://www.rooshv.com/patricias-smartphone 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 horny (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.

I cannot logically explain to you why people emotionally react in certain ways. And the fact that you expect a logical explanation for other peoples' emotional reactions is revealing in itself. Popularity AND Truth. It's working out quite well, actually. Some people, like you, have negative emotional reactions and then give bad arguments. But other people have become Skype friends or people who routinely attend FDR meet-ups with meetups with me, and they both highly appreciate my contributions.

You're experiencing this conversation as happening between you and me. But the fact is that this conversation is happening between you and me and anyone who reads this exchange. So their presence makes this a competition. And their desire for the most efficient pathway to the truth makes this a competition. You can say all you want that they're behaving illogically. And maybe you're right; maybe you're wrong. But even if you're right, their emotional decisions won't alter themselves just because you said they're being illogical. No. I'm promoting politics and philosophy. Market forces exist the moment a crowd exists. No way. Since when have 200 diversely-thinking people ever agreed on anything related to the truth, especially regarding something like human sexuality or economics?

Here's a post from Kevin Beal in the Friends With Benefits thread: "If I present myself as a police officer, wear the uniform and a badge, does that make me a cop? No. The fact that you say that feigning disinterest is part of the PUA deal, necessarily implies the lie. If it weren't a lie, it wouldn't be feigning." I replied: Your argument above which equates "presenting yourself as a police officer, when you're really not" and "feigning emotional disinterest and aloofness to get a woman to like you" made me think of FDR 71. And I later said, And the most important difference is that "feigning emotional disinterest and aloofness" is at best an aesthetic violation, NOT A MORAL ONE. And he replied: Your distinction has nothing to do with any of my arguments, and changes nothing about the logical consequences. It's just pedantic quibbling. Even if what you were saying were true, it would only ever be a red herring. Again, just change the analogy to something which isn't illegal or ostensibly immoral. It changes nothing whatever. It's just boring. And he also said to OmegaHero99: We've already established that PUA is not game and that PUA is pretending. My entire objection to PUA is that it's pretending. My only problem with game is when it is pretending. If you don't understand that, then I don't know what the hell you've been reading, but it's certainly not anything I've written. ------------------------------ Four things are important here: (1) Kevin Beal thinks establishing the distinction between lying (a moral violation) and "feigning emotional disinterest to get a girl to like you" (an aesthetic decision that she may, or may not, find aesthetically appealing) is BORING. (2) The great Stefan Molyneux, who wrote the most important book on ethics known to man, Universally Preferable Behavior, does NOT think that establishing the difference between Moral Violations and Aesthetic Infractions is BORING. We know this because UPB spends chapter after chapter establishing the differences between the two categories. (3) Kevin Beal is focusing on "the logical consequences" to determine that the distinction between Moral Violations and Aesthetic Infractions is BORING, a tactic that Stefan DOES NOT USE in UPB. (4) Kevin Beal left that discussion, pondered it for months on end, and is now counseling the entire board to lump together all instances of "projection" and "logical inconsistency" into one singular emotional reaction: boredom. Kevin, it is NOT logically consistent to assume that moral violations are the same thing as revolting aesthetic actions. You can be as logically inconsistent as you want, but counseling the entire board to be like you is a completely different (and vain) matter. Also, this board is about the pursuit of self-knowledge, and you can acquire achieve self-knowledge by pondering the emotional experiences of those with different aesthetics. From my position, many women find it aesthetically pleasing when a guy feigns emotional disinterest, especially within the first two months of dating. But when you have the identical emotional reaction to her behavior as you would to someone who is lying and/or behaving immorally, you will aesthetically repel her! And since her emotional reaction has nothing to do with Morality, she will find your Moral Dismissal of her to be arrogant, condescending, and presumptive. Finally, both you and WastachMan should be ashamed of yourself for not caring about the difference between Moral Violations and Aesthetic Infractions. This board is primarily a philosophy board and you've both read UPB - but both of you fail to make (or even care about!) the most important distinction in the book!

Doesn't this argument smash together every form of "logical inconsistency" into only one singular emotional response? Suppose I accuse you of over-eating all the time, and you catch me eating three slices of pie for dessert. Am I projecting? Absolutely. Is it a big deal? Not really, dude, because it's three pieces of pie. Suppose now I accuse you of bullying others, and you catch me bullying someone else. Am I projecting? Absolutely. Is it a big deal? Absolutely, because bullying is a big deal - it's a moral infraction. So you CANNOT lump together all forms of "logical inconsistent" into only one singular emotional response. I get that it's the most convenient thing to do if you adore logic, but if you want to understand people and have wonderful relationships with them, you have to separate aesthetic annoyances from moral infractions. Stefan, himself, agrees with this in Universally Preferable Behavior. There are two flaws with this argument. The first I already mentioned: you're clumping together every type of logical inconsistency into only one emotional reaction: detached boredom. The second is this. You're obviously implying that you're oh-so-dedicated to finding out the truth about false assumptions people make about others. Now, on the one hand, you can charge into debates where you feel like someone has falsely accused you of being a certain way. And you can both slug it out in public, until the issue is either settled or not. Yes, publically debating a perceived aesthetic flaw in your character is annoying. Yes, it becomes doubly-annoying if you perceive the assumption as false, cannot legitimately convince the other person that they're wrong, and have to deal with the fact that they aesthetically dislike you. But seriously, Kevin. How is writing a much-loved treatise on trolling an adequate substitute for charging into the debate about perceived aesthetic flaws in your character? How many words does it take in this thread to get to the truth about what's bothering you in other threads? That battle you left, because you were bored, is still abandoned. And you can still go back to it, if you'd like.