The female equivalent of the pick up artist is the conceited woman who endlessly self-aestheticises, poeticising about devotion, spirituality and archetypal romance, imitating the mythic and speaking in its register, whilst possessing none of the integrity, humility or necessary depth and obsessive force to properly create and sustain what she wants you to think she intimately embodies and breathes. This farce - even more than smut itself - is the height of feminine porn, a debasement and corruption of the pure through the masturbations of the pretender - a mock beauty paraded and adorned to signal a greatness that is conceptualised as it is repeatedly verbalised, without ever being internalised. The signalling itself as a mode of incessant consumption is the product, because that which it implicitly markets does not even exist. In any other domain, we’d call that a scam. With the unimpressive but imaginative woman, we generously call it “romantic imagination”. Like the pick up artist, the pretender muse tries to pass herself off as a woman far more soulfully pretty, morally virtuous and intricately sophisticated than she really is, to try and entice a caliber of man she does not grasp or deserve. For every 1,000 pretenders there is approximately one genuine article. You do not know her, because she does not want you to know her, and so as far as you’re concerned she does not exist - your entire reference frame is fakes. The genuine article is so rare, that the frauds are the majority and so deception easy, for most men do not have a genuine reference point to compare the pretender to, and so think her remarkable until they see beneath her performance and realise she’s shallow. Masks are temporary, they can only be worn for so long until they begin to crack and invariably drop. In terms of rarity then, the psychic would be more analogous to the muse than the pick up artist, for they too perfectly encapsulate what it is to be the mythical exception in a den of frauds.