The End of Roosh

Roosh is exhausted.  Anyone who reads his blog between the lines can sense he nearing the the end.  He is trying to prepare his fan base for the inevitable End of Roosh:

"When I first got to Eastern Europe, my standards were lower than what the market provided. I bought all the product available, a binge that coincided with doctor visits and antibiotic treatments. But each new notch increased my standards by just a tiny amount, until one day, standing in a plentiful, fully-stocked market, I did not make a purchase. The reason is that my standards overshot the local markets I found myself in."

In other words, he found himself, in a veritable "poosy paradise," to be impotent.

"I tried to drug myself with alcohol to make the market more appealing. It used to work in the past, but no longer. Even after many drinks, my brain knows true beauty. Only when my boner supplants my brain, when I walk around the market with a priapismatic [sic] erection that is not stimulated by the external, can I proceed with a transaction."

Let's reword this, shall we?  "Especially after many drinks, I am unaroused despite the abundance of attractive young women in my view."

"Please tell me how to go back to when my standards were lower, when I was not a machine for detecting aesthetic flaws in women, of spotting misshapen thighs, an extra dollop of adipose tissue over the stomach, eyebrows that weren’t properly groomed or even a voice one half octave too deep."

Gosh, I wish I could help here.  Perhaps you need to entertain the notion that while sex without emotional connection can be fun, as a daily diet it is lacking essential nutrients.  You have dedicated your entire identity, your life's very purpose, to detecting and exposing the flaws in women.  This is the End of Your Game: no one real can now meet your standards, and the sexual act has become about as meaningful as gorging on a bag of potato chips.


When I look in the mirror, I see a physically flawed specimen, so why have I come to seek perfection? My brain demands it, and it is defeating my boner, putting me on the path of one day seeing sex as a biological nuisance instead of a pleasurable necessity.

Ah, my love!  You are beginning to see the light: Sex is BOTH "a biological nuisance' AND "a pleasurable necessity."  Is Little Roosh beginning to grow up?

Almost all women I’ve had sex with in the past I would have sex with today, but only on one condition: I wouldn’t have to put in a stroke of work. They would have come to me, touch me, disrobe, and then let me play with their bodies as I see fit. I would not put 10% of the original effort that allowed me to have sex with them in the first place. This must be the end of the player, when the development of his brain defeats the evolutionary demands of his penis, or is it the natural order of man, with the hyper-sexed player and his demands of never ending variety being the anomaly, the freak of nature?

Let's not get carried away here.  You write as though you have actually had sex with a huge number of women, but we all know, don't we, that this is not exactly the case.  You also write as though "the penis" makes "evolutionary demands" as part of the "natural order of man."  In other words, your entire life philosophy needs a major overhaul.  And I don't know whether that will sit very well with your readers.
 
The club is horrible and I want to leave. I pick the most beautiful girl in the venue, one who my brain liked, but she rejects me, not so softly. I can’t leave after having done just one approach—I can leave after two. I go through the motions on the girl next to me, cute but not extraordinary, just slightly above the mean of what I’ve had in the past. She likes me. She’s touching me, complimenting me. She is ready to do the work that I don’t want to do and so my brain allows me to proceed and I will have sex with her three days from now. Unless it’s easy or unless the girl in the top 0.01% of women I’ve seen in 25 countries and counting, I can’t seem to be bothered.

OK, OK -- you've convinced me!  Sex addiction is a Real Thing.

Roosh is trying to tell his readership that he has had enough.  Little Roosh Wants To Come Home.  Don't make him keep trying to fuck strange women in strange countries!  It's starting to tear at his very soul.

But what else can Roosh do?  Sans the porno, does anyone care what Roosh does or says or writes?  It looks like he will soon find out.