The Cock Carouseler’s Lament
June 6, 2018 by CH
Julia Allison is a media whore, “relationship” blogger, reality TV participant, and poz pusher for esteemed clam mags like Cosmo. In other words, civilization’s late stage dead weight.
At age 37, single and childless, she had a gratuitously delayed revelation. Overcome with the emptiness of her life and womb, seized by the unfamiliar sting of a piercing self-awareness, she felt a rare emotion: Regret.
Oh, she has a family…
A social media addict, she has two laptops, a desktop, an iPad & an iPhone along with two Facebook profiles, four Twitter handles, a Myspace page, a LinkedIn account, a Flickr feed, four Tumblrs, three Movable Type blogs, one WordPress, two Vimeos, one Quora account, two YouTube channels and a photogenic white shih-tzu named Lilly who – yep – tweets (@Lillydog). Combined, her accounts number over 150,000 fans, followers or subscribers.
…but, oddly, remains unfulfilled.
In a self-aggrandizing confessional, she blames a TV show produced by gay men that glamorized the lifestyle of the barren urban slut for leading her down the Plan B path.
Readers, get ready to journey across the pages of ancient Chateau tomes. Every banality of the modren wahman observed and noted in this outpost of love is sounded out in Mzz Allison’s cacophony of rue. There will be cock carousels, rationalization hamsters, Wall impacts, beta bux, jerkboy fux, femcuntery, psychological litter boxes, and more cameos to titillate Chateau guests.
Dating columnist reveals how ‘Sex and the City’ ruined her life
“Sex and the City” premiered on HBO 20 years ago this week, imprinting on a generation of women a love of fantastic fashion and dreams of their own Mr. Big. Among them was Julia Allison, who moved to New York in the early 2000s to live the Carrie Bradshaw lifestyle. She became a dating columnist, a party fixture and one of the first internet celebrities — thanks to Gawker, the site that loved to hate on her. But her pursuits sent her, ultimately, down a path of unhappiness and unfulfillment. Looking back on how the show’s ideals negatively impacted her life, Allison, now 37, tells Doree Lewak: “If I could go back and do it all over again, I wouldn’t.”
Ten years ago, on May 27, 2008, I was on top of the world.
I was riding in an Escalade en route to the “Sex and the City” movie premiere in Midtown with a Bravo camera crew in tow. When the SUV door opened, I stepped onto the pink carpet in my Allison Parris dress and Chanel bag. I felt like a star. I felt beautiful. I felt proud. I was rubbing shoulders with celebs and the goddess herself: Carrie Bradshaw, a k a Sarah Jessica Parker.
Since moving to New York City four years earlier, I’d established myself with my own dating column and graced the cover of Wired magazine. I was a public figure who was regularly photographed alongside such famous faces as Henry Kissinger and Richard Branson. I went to all the glam parties, was fodder for gossip sites, had signed a deal with Bravo for a reality show,
For those of unpolluted mind, Bravo is the gay channel. All gay, all the time, with a supporting cast of f@g hags.
and dated more than my fair share of Mr. Bigs.
Pump and dumps. But if she spoke with radical candor like that she wouldn’t be able to soothe her chafed ego and vagina. Anyhow, it’s funny that she thinks admitting to hopping a parade of cocks like a real life Samantha is both humble and bragging.
I had been profiled in the New York Times, and New York magazine called me “the most famous young journalist in the city.”
The biological clock is wound down, and the Kingdom of Zog is at hand: repent ye, and believe the 14 words.
I was considered by many to be Carrie Bradshaw 2.0. And I was happy to be given that identity for a while, but it was all a lie. At the premiere, I also felt like a fraud, insecure and embarrassed — like I didn’t belong.
But she soldiered on for another fourteen years play-acting as Carrie Bradshaw.
I grew up a nerd in Chicago, more likely to duck into the library than talk to other kids at recess. At 12, I thought I would never be kissed.
Everyone at age 12 thinks this way. The difference is that girls turn it into a theatrical release while boys who don’t bust a move drift into silent celibacy and are never offered paying gigs to write about it.
(Boy, did I make up for that later.)
What every man looking for a relationship worthy woman wants to hear. /s
The show was my road map. Of all the die-hard fans I knew, I was the most influenced by “SATC.”
Dating red flags.
At Georgetown University, where I enrolled in 1999, I started to wear dresses and learned how to do my makeup and curl my hair. The newfound male attention I received felt exhilarating.
Still delusional. Julia, in your late teens and early 20s it wasn’t your dresses and curls that captured the men’s attention.
I even started a dating column for my college paper called “Sex on the Hilltop,” which was modeled after Carrie’s column in the fictional New York Star.
Just the hilltop?
When the last episode of “Sex and the City” aired in February 2004, I hosted a viewing party for 200 guests. It was my swan song as well: Eight months later, I would move to New York, where, armed with my “Sex and the City” DVDs, my transformation really began.
What a headcase.
Based on what I knew from “SATC,” I expected the city to sweep me off my feet. I envisioned nonstop brunching and shopping.
Women really have no idea what their lives would be like if beta males decided to opt out of the civilization building racket. Brunching and shopping fantasies would be replaced by Hobbesian survival fantasies.
It had such an outsize influence on me that — even with a very expensive degree in government — I said to myself: “I’m obviously going to be a columnist.”
Another STEAM grad putting her knowledge to work. Grrlpower!
I later moved to Time Out New York, where I made $750 a week — a huge improvement, but still not enough to buy Manolos and barely enough to afford the $2,500 rent for my 400-square-foot apartment in Hell’s Kitchen.
Cheaper alternatives exist, but that would mean reduced proximity to Mr Bigs.
I lived on food bought for me on dates and the occasional bodega tuna sandwich.
Beta thirst is as responsible for the corruption of American woman as any prime time show on Twat TV.
Different men I dated gave me YSL shoes and status purses, just like Big did for Carrie on “SATC.”
The dirty secret about picking up women in NYC is that the men there are game-less marks who really do try to buy substandard pussy with shoes and purses (and wonder why they get strung along in asexual purgatory). This makes pickup a lot easier for the cockybrah who expects sex without a price tag.
(In 2006, when I landed a six-figure editor-at-large gig at Star magazine,
What talent does she have?
I also subscribed to Carrie’s ethos when it came to men. There was no such thing as a bad date — only a good date or a good brunch story.
Can you believe she’s still single at the post-Spring chicken age of 37?! What man wouldn’t want to wife up a broad who screws around for years of brunch convo fodder and has the crow’s feet to prove it?
In my writing,
which sucks, btw.
I gave my boyfriends nicknames (one was “Prom King”) just like Carrie and her friends did.
She writes like she’s 14 years old.
I went out with a prince: Lorenzo Borghese from “The Bachelor.” I even dated the British ex-boyfriend of “Sex and the City” creator Candace Bushnell — the original Carrie.
Common denominator: all the men are exes.
He was one of a few men who comprised the composite character Mr. Big.
In 2008, my two best girlfriends and I had just filmed a Bravo pilot for a show called “It Girls” (it wasn’t picked up). We were all invited by a 40-something billionaire to his Miami mansion; he even sent his private jet for us. It was just him, the three of us and his butler and chef. I don’t think this man was used to being told no, and he started chasing me around his mansion. I finally had to lock myself in the bathroom. The worst part: He sent us back on JetBlue.
“No, I don’t do double penetration.”
[Gawker] wrote about me as much as they wrote about Paris Hilton, but I had none of Paris’ resources to defend myself. Their core complaint about me was that I was a quote-unquote “fame whore.”
Gawker nailed that one. Bonus nailing: Gawker is gone.
Then, in 2011, one of my pilots was finally picked up by Bravo. The whole concept of “Miss Advised” was “real-life Carrie Bradshaw.” It was about three single women in three different cities, and I was the dating columnist for Elle in Los Angeles. It was “SATC” meets journalism. Producers sent me to a mind architect, a love coach and a witch in the pursuit of love.
But it came too late: In my heart, I was finished trying to be Carrie. When the show wasn’t renewed for a second season, I was relieved. The experience made me really look at myself: I was trying so hard to be liked that it was coming across as inauthentic and bitchy. Also, it was miserable to have cameras around all the time.
Women cultivate a growing dislike for cameras coincident with their number of years past prime nubility (and nearing prime sterility). How suspicious!
Finally, I cut my ties to New York and moved to San Francisco full-time in 2013.
If she had moved to a small Midwestern town instead of a coastal shitlibopolis, she might have a family to love today.
Finally, I decided to go private for a while. I stopped blogging and writing. I rarely post on Instagram.
Imminent Wall impact will do that to a girl.
These days I work as a change activist,
for world leaders and serving as an adviser to startups and entrepreneurs looking to better the planet.
How many flights between Nü York and San Tranny does she take?
I dated a woman for a while
Young lesbianism: experimentation
Old lesbianism: necessity
But dating is not front and center in my life anymore,
…she says as if it was her choice.
although it was all I talked about in my 20s.
There was more conversational material to work with back then.
That’s pretty one-dimensional.
Aging beauties find comfort in scoffing at the preoccupations of their younger, hotter, tighter selves.
Last year, I ended a two-year relationship with a man who ultimately couldn’t [ed: wouldn’t] commit and wanted to be polyamorous.
A man unmotivated to tie himself down with a road worn, has-been slut? Will wonders never cease.
Again, “SATC” and the “lessons” it taught me is the culprit.
Julia Allison fucked her life up and she wants to blame a vapid TV show. “How do I write women so well? I think of a man, and take away reason and accountability.” (Fact: the ultimate culprit is the 19th Amendment.)
The show wasn’t a rubric on how to find a lifelong partnership.
She needed a TV show to teach her how to find a man and start a healthy relationship? Where were all the older female relatives in her life? Where was her brain?
If I was more grounded and had honestly assessed whether this man was a good partner for me, I don’t think we ever would have dated.
Translation: “If I was more grounded and had honestly assessed whether I was still good enough for any halfway decent man, I don’t think I’d be single and writing this pile of crap through tear-stained cheeks.”
Crushed and needing to regroup, I took a sabbatical and lived in Bali for eight months on a healing journey.
I was also celibate during my time there.
I do wonder what my life would have looked like if “Sex and the City” had never come across my consciousness. Perhaps I’d be married with children now?
Lady, I’m certain your arriving spinsterhood isn’t the fault of SATC, unless you’re easily brainwashed. Hmm, have I been overestimating women this whole time?
Who knows, but I can say for sure that, as clever and aesthetically pleasing as the show was
She obsessively stalks this show like it was an ex-bf. Psycho!
— and, as much as I agree with its value of female friendships — it showed too much consumerism and fear of intimacy disguised as empowerment.
It also showed, if she were willing to see, the damaging consequences of slutting it up and cackling about your smashed pussy with other empowered sluts.
It’s like candy: In the moment it feels good to eat it, but afterward, you feel sick.
Women have been warring with their essence for a few decades now, and the battle has been pitched in recent years. The Slut Pride degeneracy and its various cultural tributaries is women — particularly low to middling SMV women who must find novel ways to compete with hot babes — defying their sex-specific emotional burdens and aiming to exert a false, if momentarily satisfying, control over what they perceive as the weaknesses and vulnerabilities of their sex. One of these feminine “frailties” that the modren wahman wants to purge from herself is the undeniable truth that casual sex bothers women a lot more than it does men. Women simply can’t compartmentalize noncommittal sex with the same easy facility that men can. Hence, women like Julia “feel sick” afterward, something that only the soyest of soyboys would feel after licking clean the putrid slits of SATC-aping urban sluts whilst unwittingly grinding their microboners to a climax in the fur of a curious cat sniffing around their nethers.
Whom you’re dating, what you’re wearing, or how good you look at that premiere — none of that s–t matters unless you genuinely love yourself. Solid relationships are what really matter.
It’s funny how aging broads discover solid relationships matter when they start having trouble getting them.
Sure, I could have been a dating columnist for the rest of my life but, honestly, I gave really bad dating advice — and so did Carrie Bradshaw.
If a shiv artist like yours truly had told her that when she was younger and hotter, no doubt she would have lashed out like a cornered alleycat. The ravages of time and the looming threat of insol wonderfully focus the waning slut’s mind.
I want to be a different role model from the one I got. Two months ago, I started seeing someone I never would have dated 10 years earlier.
Cue Mr Beta Bux! Or just Mr Beta. Not many men with romantic options are excited about dating, let alone wifing up, a wrinkled slattern with a vagina that echoes. Luckily for Julia, there are desperate vegetable lasagnas willing to settle for her flabby hide rather than live in faptivity.
Back then, I wasn’t looking to get married or seek a lifelong partner, and that was a mistake.
Reciprocally, it would be a big mistake for any man with an ounce of self-worth to commit to a post-carousel cock holster rapidly nearing her expiration date. Why buy an old cow whose udders dried up long ago when fresh milk is on every slore shelf?
This man is a very reasonable choice, and I’m at a place in my life where reasonable is very sexy.
“reasonable” = passionless. What every woman knows deep in her heart is that the later in life she gets serious about finding a long-term partner, the likelier it is she’ll have to resign herself to settling down with an unexciting herb she doesn’t truly love. The remainder of her life will be a slapstick comedy of fake orgasms, fake headaches, screaming brats, and bathroom retreats with a dog-eared copy of Fifty Shades of Sadomasochism, all the while resentfully rasping through a fog of regret for the alpha males who got away when she was younger, hotter, tighter and thought she had all the time in the world.
Nah. Blame yourself. And if your current relationship with your Reasonable Beta lasts longer than two more months after he reads you admitting that he would have been ignored by you ten years ago when your sexual rejection would have mattered, count yourself lucky. It could be worse. You could find yourself spending numberless weekends at the fertility clinic to birth your autistic twins. Oh wait.