Confessions of an Aloof Guy

You're expected to contextualize yourself

2018-02-17T02:45:00.000-05:00

Something that troubled me for a long time, but in a vague way where I couldn't put my finger on it, is the pressure that society exerts on people to insert themselves into a specific context. It took into my late 20s before the rough outlines of the problem took shape. Society, it turns out, demands that you define yourself as a bunch of things. You're supposed to be a gender, a race, a religion, a political affialiation, etc.

When I was a teenager, one of the biggest difficulties I faced is that I didn't define myself as anything in particular. I was smart, but I definitely knew I didn't want to be one of the smart kids. If you have any experience of American society, you know that the smart kids are not the place to be. Being a smart kid carries with it a certain aspiration. You're supposed to want to achieve some list of upper middle class things that matter. Good grades. Good college. Good job. Good life.

None of that really rung true for me. I've never enjoyed doing things from a list. I bore too easily for that to work.

I also completely whiffed on the importance of carving out an identity, contextualizing myself. I mean, it literally never crossed my mind that I was supposed to be defining myself when I was growing up. Even now, with an understanding of the idea, it feels very alien to me.

Not just socially alien. I mean, alien in the sense that you would feel extremely fucking stupid if everyone expected you to glue a fake third arm to your torso and use it because that's what they do. It wouldn't matter whether you glued the arm or not. Glue it on, and you'll feel like a fucking idiot because you don't need a third arm, so fuck that. Don't glue it on, and you'll still live with the weird realization that everyone glues on a fake third arm they don't need.

I've never been someone to put on a performance for others. I don't mean that in the sense that people do when they say, "I'm keepin shit real." Keepin it real is just a performance focused on conspicuous authenticity. It's still a performance conducted for the benefit of others in understand how you contextualize yourself in the tribe. You're the realest motherfucker who ever realed. Basically, modern hipsterism.

What always confused me when I was younger, though, was the anger that comes back when you refuse to perform for others. I'm not talking the nee-neener stuff that's typical of dumb human bullying. I'm talking the sub-psychotic rage that people feel when you don't give them an opening to get what they want.

The Contract of Mutual Performance

Part of the implied contract of the great human circlejerk is that I'll perform for you, and you'll perform for me. If I do all the steps to the dance, then I'll get the reward I want.

It's astonishing how embedded this is. You see it when you fail to perform your half of the dance, and that ultimately leads to them being denied the reward they seek. I've seen people literally go into blue screen of death mode. I've seen a lot more of them blow up to try to instigate shit.

The assumption baked into all human interactions is that everyone is involved in a game. If you fail to give someone their reward for playing the game, it's a judgment upon them. Shit doesn't just happen. The net effect is that people get pissed when they don't get theirs, even if you've displayed zero interest in doing the dance with them. It's your job, as a member of a society, to play the game.

What's funny is that human beings don't react by assuming you're an alien to their society. Again, shit doesn't just happen. You've devalidated them, and that triggers a rush of angry emotions.

People will do one of two things:

1) They will try to explain you away, but within a context that suits them.

2) They will get angry.

The funny thing about explaining you away is that the context still has to fit their cultural norms. For example, the guy who doesn't want to fuck the young chick who's offering herself up must be gay. It's not a point up for debate, because the alternative answer is that she isn't as hawt as she thinks herself to be. And . . . well . . . all the guys who've dry humped her leg stand as testament to her hawtness, so . . . fuck that.

As a human being, you're never allowed to exist outside a context. You're supposed to be actively fostering an identity that allows others to trade with you in order to get what they want. It's also understood that you're supposed to be trying to maximize your returns. It's not enough that you might want pussy. You're also expected to maximize the amount and/or quality of pussy you get.

I never understood that as a teenager. Or as a college student. I really only had a vague outline of the idea by my late 20s. It was only in my 30s that I figured it out.

Even when i arrived at a full realization, it was simply a piece of information. I didn't suddenly say, "Huzzah! Now I can slay the pussy!" I definitely understood the implication, and I did act on it when it suited me. I just didn't see it as something that necessarily defined me.

I still don't see anything as defining me, but lack of self-definition isn't acceptable. Again, you're job in contextualizing yourself is to facilitate trade. That includes the trade of your companionship and your seed. You're supposed to leverage whatever you can achieve with your status to breed to the best of your ability. If you don't do that, then you're either gay or . . . well, there isn't another option.

The funny thing with the fixation that people have with assuming a person is gay because of their non-responsiveness is that it still assumes you're open to trade. In other words, the underpinning logic is that the rejected woman simply failed to bring the right goods for trade. If she had the right goods for trade, then you would've activated and sex would've ensued.

FTR, I say from personal experience that it takes a while to fully exhaust this logic. I can remember being out in a very seedy underground nightclub a little over a year ago, and I just wasn't feeling it. A lot of time I just get out to get out. Sometimes the best cure to the blahs is to just go do anything, even if you're not going out with intent.

This guy who I kinda half-recognized from being around the same scene a few times decided to chat me up. To be clear, he was what I can only politely call obviously gay. I'm arrogant enough that just because I'm not gonna fuck you doesn't mean I won't drop a little aloof game on you just for the joy of emotional sadism.

I told him upfront I was straight, because there's really nothing that amps the feeling of emotional sadism up like watching a person bash their head against the wall against all reason. Don't get me wrong; I get why he thought it was worth a try. I wasn't feeling it in a dark room full of barely clothed women who were writhing all night. It's hard for me to ever put my finger on what precisely clicks for me with a chick. I just know when it happens.

I can't particularly remember the guy's sales pitch, except for some sort of creepy guy game he dropped in the form of "You know you're a very good-looking person." Like I'm supposed to be just so flattered that suddenly I'm going to fuck him after ignoring his advances. He eventually gets tired of failing and leaves well enough alone. By most standards, a slightly sad-for-him but whatever ending. He took his shot, so yay champ.

Therein lies my point. It always takes a long time for people to just give up and leave me be.

I cannot for the life of me tell you why sometimes the switch just trips on. I just know that the bulk of the time that it doesn't switch on, no matter how much futile social dancing you do to induce me to trade. The irony here being that physical dancing very much improves your odds. It's worth a try.

What depresses me a bit about human existence is knowing that I'll be subjected to anger for not wanting to contextualize myself in a way that facilitates sex. If I'm lucky, I might be subjected to being asked if I'm asexual. I'm not, but I at least respect the rare person who can be bothered to think outside the box.

In truth, I'm just so very bored. An occasional woman comes along who's exciting enough to cut through that boredom, and there's a good chance I might fuck her. Most people, though, are dreadfully boring, and I get far more entertainment out of watching them contort themselves trying to get my attention.

Written by women, for women

2018-01-23T01:31:00.002-05:00

If you read the blog much, you know I have a lot of misgivings about politics. More accurately, I have misgivings about politicization. Politics, I suppose, is just an extension of humans humaning. I pretty much skipped 2016 and 2017 because of the US election and the whole Donald Trump thing, though you can watch me try to handle my gag reflex over the coming right-wing, male shitnado from back in January of 2015.

I suppose I should've had some thoughts on the inevitable left-wing, female counter-reaction of 2017 and 2018, but I was just keeping my head down trying not to get sprayed in shit. Seriously, people suck in as many directions as there are on an eleven-dimensional compass. Who knew?

If you keep up with the confluence of American pop culture and politics, you've probably caught the revenge porn-y story of Aziz Ansari, a dopey manlet of a half-comedian whose virtue signaling attempts at feminism pretty much prepositioned him for a shit sandwich. (I don't really hate the guy, but goddamn is his comedy lame. He did do a joke about a sweater that was good, though, so there's that. I really don't get the whole attentionwhore-industrial complex at all.)

Imaginably, this led to whatever passes for soul searching these days. You know, motherfuckers creating clickbait from every angle and seeing which angle agitates the most clicks. There was the genre of "creepy/lame is as bad as rape, and every allegation should treated as gospel". (No it isn't, and OMFG what happened to due process?!?!) There was the genre of "Oh, this counter-reactionary shit is going too far." (Probably, but such is the nature of cultural reactions, counter-reactions, and over-reactions. I mean, Hollywood isn't exactly turning into Romania after the fall of communism.)

Then there was my favorite: the "Is our boys learnin?" genre.

The one that actually tipped me over into writing an article was this one: When Pop Culture Sells Dangerous Myths About Romance.

It actually starts out with a pretty good case. Fundamentally it boils down to "Say Anything" is a creepy fuck movie, and it's romanticization is dumb and wrong.

But, from the beginning there are references that piss me off. Specifically, the idea that the disgusting pop culture trash that women produce for women somehow informs the rape-y-ness of guys. You know what I'm talking about. 50 Shades of Grey. Twilight. Gossip Girl.

It's not the majority of the rape culture playlist, but it's definitely worth asking an important question: why the fuck do women like rape-y stories so much?

I'm a believer that the common female fantasy is the product of a desire to be desired. There's even a bit of a humblebrag component there. It basically translates to, "I'm so fuckin hawt that guy was ready to rape me."

It doesn't change the fact, however, that some of the most questionable rape culture artifacts are aimed at women as the primary consumers. Guys didn't learn anything from the movie Say Anything because they stopped paying attention to the plot fifteen minutes in.

Worse, some of the rape-y-est shit is written by women, for women. I mean, EL James read Twilight and pretty much said, "Oh, you think your gross stalker story was rape-y? Hold my fuckin beer. I'm gonna write some full-on dubious consent porn fanfic that includes relentless acts of emotional sadism and irregular deviations from an established model of affirmative consent. Poorly. Very poorly. Daringly poorly."

It's mind blowing. Frankly, feminism needs to get its house the fuck in order. Or face the fact that there's something really deep-down fucking dark in women's souls that's attracted to aggressive sexual predation.

If I saw someone constantly feasting on shit and always finding ways to only dine at places that served actual human feces, I would assume that person has some form of coprophagia. I would assume, despite any protests to the contrary, that their relentless consumption of actual shit was a demonstration of a love for eating shit. Because seriously, who complains about eating shit and then demands that they be served shit that was prepared by other shit eaters?

In the whole #MeToo movement, there's a lot of truth. I mean, even hardcore Red Pill gamers would acknowledge that jerking off into a potted plant in front of an actress is probably not even Plan Z, let alone Plan A. Or that it's even a plan as much as a gross reaction to having your plan stunted before it could bloom into whatever dubious consent scenario you were hoping for as the person with all the power. It's the sort of profound truth that shouldn't be profound, but apparently is for some guys. Again, humans suck in more directions than three-dimensional space can accurately describe.

Once you start trending into the Aziz Ansari territory, especially equating him to Harvey Weinstein, I'm out. Fuck you. That shit was revenge porn.

And do we really need to reframe the story as an object lesson in how boys are learning the wrong things?

Also, who the fuck thinks that any straight boys were watching Say Anything? Trust me, they were watching Fight Club and dreaming of the day they could find a hawt goth chick and fuck here like Tyler Durden. Seriously, it's literally written all over the PUA blogs. There was even a modestly famous PUA who went by the handle of Tyler Durden.

I mean, if you're gonna discuss heteronormative male sexuality, it might be instructive to start by looking at heteronormative male sexuality. Cuz talking about Say Anything and a bunch of whiny love songs is actually studying products that we manufactured for heteronormatively female consumers.

But that's not what we're doing. It seems that women don't even have the cultural vocabulary to describe how men see sex. Apparently women really are from Omicron Persei 7 and men are from Omicron Persei 9.

Conversely, men I don't think even have the right anatomical charts in their heads to describe the female experience. Seriously, there are right now a bunch of Jesus-y Mike Pence motherfuckers running around this world objecting to the use of birth control while not realizing precisely why they don't 20 children. (Hint: it's birth control.)

The problem is that rewarding aggression essentially triggers compound interest. If you reward one sexually aggressive man, you can expect two more to appear. And women reward male sexual aggression. In fact, they write Homeric epics about it.

If you think about it from an evolutionary standpoint, what is the downside for the Y chromosome in being sexually aggressive? If you're hot and it works, congratulations on being hot. If you're hideous and it fails, well it was at least worth a try because you're unfuckably hideous. (And you can apparently always just release your pent up tension into a potted plant. Again, who knew?)

One of the biggest reasons so many guys think all feminism is bullshit is because women are, frankly, sitting on the wrong side of the old "physician heal thyself" invocation. Women treat everything as an externality. The title of Hillary Clinton's book after she lost the 2016 election was "What Happened?"

I talked a bit about this problem three years ago on the blog. I will now crassly quote myself because I have fucking earned the right to do so . . .

For women life is something that happens to them.

Women seem to collectively refuse to take responsibility for their own sexuality, even a solid 50 years into the supposed sexual revolution. Everything in the world is a set of externalities acting upon them. There's never a point where women ask themselves, "Why do we consume so much pop culture materials that is seriously rape-y AF?" Women never ask themselves serious questions about their own romanticization of rape. Instead, they pretend that hetero boys actually watched Say Anything and took away a lesson from it. (They didn't, and they didn't. Again, they were watching Fight Club. I cannot emphasize that strongly enough.)

Women like men who treat women like dirt. I mean, there's a fuckin reason that Pride and Prejudice is one of the most republished and repurposed more than anything in the English language outside of Shakespeare and the Bible. Women get wet for Mr. Darcy, and I probably should be concerned that they also get wet for Christian Grey. (Hmmm . . . what's the commoanlity?) Ladies sure seem to like their emotional sadism and dubious consent, yesno?

Until women can explain with a straight face why they so thoroughly enjoy literature that involves hot rich guys treating them like utter dogshit, they're not going to be taken seriously. So . . . what I'm actually saying is that women will never be taken seriously, because treating women like dogshit is pretty much the same as giving hydrocodone to a fentanyl junkie: deep down they wish you'd give them even harder shit to get fucked up on.

Until women are willing to cross the Rubicon into city of their own desires, they're not going to come up the winners in this fight. As the leading consumers of rape fantasy porn, it's on women to embargo themselves.

Why so aloof? Sometimes The Second Girl wins

2017-11-28T00:38:00.004-05:00

If you've read much of my blog, you might have noticed a pattern that occurs when I describe social sets. I'm talking to one chick, and then her friend cuts in. You can see a prime example here. I'm not a huge fan of a lot of PUA-type theories, but I think social proof, the notion that people find something more interesting if they see others coveting it, is a solid one worth keeping mind.

This post has been on my mind for a while, but I've wanted to process it. Back in January of this year, 2017, I had met a chick at a fairly large party, north of 100 people in a private space that a friend of mine has access to. I was talking with some friends, and the conversation was getting pretty loud -- the kind of loud that attracts additional participants.

This girl who had been sitting by herself in the far corner of the room comes over, asks to sit down at the table where I'm standing. I say sure and keep going at the conversation. She's trying to participate, but she's pretty demure and this is a really loud and raucous set.

Eventually three of her friends show up and join the conversation. We're all BSing and eventually the topic turns to BDSM. One of my male friends I had been talking to and a completely separate female friend who was there are both heavy into some serious shit. I've been known to partake, too.

The Quiet Girl is intrigued and trying to steer the conversation. However, two of her three friends are much more boisterous. The one is in a committed relationship. The other is recently divorced, and she's little thick in the way I tend to like my women -- small top along with serious ass and thighs.

Every one of them is somewhere between pretty to downright knockout. The Committed Chick is a professionally trained dancer, 26, and frankly a high 9 in hawtness. The Thick Girl, 29, is a former competitive horse rider. The two demure girls are sisters, 20 and 25, both a little skinnier than I tend to like.

At some point, the conversation turn to pain tolerance. When it comes to consensual sexual violence, this is my wheelhouse. Not something I bring up much on the blog, but I don't fuckin play when it comes to hair pulling, spanking, pinching, etc. I've had partners look like they were in an auto accident when I was done.

The Thick Girl has been nudging in and trying to get my attention. She's definitely trying to cut her friends out.

At this particular moment, she decides she's gonna play big, and says she's always wanted to try BDSM. My male friend who's into it says something about having the right equipment with him, and he asks her if she wants to try nipple clamps.

Occasionally, I am possessed of the right thing to say. There are just moments where I can draw a line from A to B to C, and this was one of them. I looked at the Thick Girl and said, "No need. I can do it bare-handed."

She looks instantly interested. Pulls her shirt up. Pulls her bra down. present titties.

I look at her and say, "This is gonna hurt. I've had women say it's worse than nursing a teething child."

She laughs and leans in. I say, "Alright." I grab a nipple, and she drops to the floor in pain, barely missing the table with her face.

She's laughing, but not getting up. There's a whole room of people sort of waiting to see how this plays out. I just keep looking at her in agony.

Finally, after more than a full minute, she pulls herself up by the table. I ask her how it felt. She replies, "OMG, that was painful but I loved it!"

The room is relieved. My female friend asks her if she is okay. The Thick Girl says yes.

After a couple hours, we decide to go barhopping with the group. By this point, the Thick Girl is flying on raw energy after some dancing with me and a little more physicality (not anything quite so vicious as the initial nipple pinch, mind you).

She drifts off several times, and eventually the Quite Girl works her way over to me and we start talking. She's dropping indications of interest left and right. Knee touches, etc. Laughing at all my jokes.

I don't think too much of it because by this stage I have the Thick Girl eating out of the palm of my hand. She's grabbing drinks for the group, dancing with every guy there, laughing, and even torturing a beta male friend who's the manager of the place we settled down at to keep drinking.

I'm in full social game mode by this point. I even start up a conversation with a whole separate set of women who were there when I realize they all were alumni from the university I attended.

This ends up being an almost going til dawn kinda thing, as the two groups of women merge into one giant pile, along with me, the beta male friend, and another male friend of the first group who decides to move in on the alumni association. (Strangely enough, the Committed Girl's BF shows up, but he doesn't participate. Conversely, that dude was pretty fuckin hot in his own right, so . . . can't envy a winner too hard, man.)

Eventually the Thick Girl and I trade information and part ways. We make sure to set a date for the next weekend.

Party Hard

Next weekend comes, and I set up a date at what is as underground of a club as I know. This is the full people on Molly type place. I've seen it go to 10am. This is as sexualized a club environment as you'll ever see -- I've seen people literally fuck on the dance floor.

The Thick Girl calls me a little before midnight when we're supposed to meet up, and she's basically complaining that the Quiet Girl wants to come out with us. I don't have an issue with this, but apparently the Thick Girl is already in mate-guarding mode. I tell her to just sort it the fuck out because I'm gonna go get my party on with or without them. (Even when I have my social game on, aloof and uninvested is always a card I'm willing to play.)

Imaginably, she finds a way to appear -- without the Quiet Girl -- within ten minutes. To say things went the direction I went them to would be an understatement. And she was pretty damned vicious. This is full-on, back-and-forth, fucking up-against-the-wall in public shit. She even smacked me in the face. (Which followers of the blog will recall, is a go sign for me.)

I also win the "who has more energy game". She gave up and went home at 3am. I kept going and picked up another chick by 5am for a session of totally disposable makeout and titty play. (I'm a dedicated ass man, but damn that girl had some titties.)

By the middle of the next week, the Thick Girl is in emotionally deep. Probably a little deeper than is healthy. She's in full-bore "I need to hear your voice" at 2am on a Wednesday night mode. There's a lot of the standard barfing her emotional guts out to me stuff, which, again, you'll find happens a lot with me, as seen here.

She also gets into some comfort testing, emotional support stuff. And that's where things kind of went downhill. I told her this is a lot to pin on a guy she met a couple weekends ago and that she should be leaning on her friends for that kinda thing. Then she admits that the friend who serves that role is normally the Quiet Girl, and . . . well, you can imagine how that worked out.

This goes on like this for a couple more weeks until it becomes pretty clear to her that I'm intense but not the perfect guy. I'm a good conversationalist, but you'll find a limit to what that actually gets ya. I confess I did some pretty shitty things, like telling her about the 5am Titty Girl when she asked what I did the rest of that night. I also told her she shouldn't fuck up her friendship over a guy -- which, ya know, ladies, is actually pretty goddamned good advice.

As you can imagine, that sort of emotional and physical intensity is unsustainable. The End.

Autopsy

There's a lot to unpack from that story.

Probably the most obvious for regular readers is something to the order of "holy shit, that's a lot of social game for an aloof guy!" It is. As I've said elsewhere, though, I can roll social game hard when I feel the impulse to do so.

I do think it's funny how many times I go for the girl who cuts in. I love energy and verve from women. It works. Ladies, if you're trying to win a social set, it's definitely worth a try.

One thing that sticks out in my mind is how much women treat their close friends as sexual competitors. It never fails to amaze me how much effort they'll put into cutting in to grab a potential mate and then completely cutting their friends out in a retention effort.

I probably should have given the Quiet Girl more attention, but I've learned over the years to focus on banking the clear win when I have one lined up. You can definitely fuck yourself up trying to make a harem play or shooting for a threesome. Given the Thick Girl's later emotional outbursts and demonstrated mate guarding behaviors, I feel like that was the right play.

The Thick Girl and the Committed Girl were the queen bees of the group, and I feel pretty confident that favoring the Quiet Girl would have been a uniquely bad plan. Cutting against the queen bees when they're still present tends to backfire.

Anyway . . . for once you kids get a pretty detailed and relatively non-aloof story (if you just ignore the part where the Quiet Girl loses bigly).

Probably some good social dynamics stuff to ponder in there. A lot to be said for being a little outrageous and making yourself the center of attention in a social set. It probably helps that my male friend (the guy into BDSm who's mentioned waaaay early in the story) was a skinny dude who wasn't gettin any love from the girls at the initial party. If you can use your male friends as props, well . . . hey, at least he got to see some titties, right? He still retells that story.

There ya go. A relatively non-aloof tale from the Aloof Guy.

If I tossed your dog shit comment, that means it was dog shit

2017-02-01T02:09:00.002-05:00

Comment moderation is on, people. Make peace with that fact. If I think you're trying some lame ass shit to get me to moderate a comment and show it, I'm tossing it.

My view on dumbfuck commenters is the same as what they tell you about old meat in your fridge: when in doubt, throw it out.

A Great Attention Whore, or THE GREATEST Attention Whore EVER? You decide

2016-12-12T00:05:00.002-05:00

It's been a while since I've posted anything. That's mostly a case of why repeat the same shit. It took time, but . . . NOVELTY IS UPON US! I spent the better part of this weekend working over a single, large social group in a club setting. Infiltrating a large group isn't usually my preferred play, but this was a case where I could see an easy path forward.

The Group

The group itself consists of six women, three guys (not including me, because I'm-an-outsider-FTW). One of the guys is an ex-boyfriend of one of the chicks who just hasn't figured that fact out yet. The other two are the worst form of beta orbiters imaginable. Of the chicks, I'd say one is legitimately high-end hot, one is a full point behind her, two are legitimately cute, one is okay, and one is a legitimate slag who starts shit (God bless the commitment of female-centered groups to keeping one genuine "why do you even talk to her" chick in the group).

The females I'd count as a solid 8, two 7s, a 6, a 5, and a soft 3.5 (I'm kindly awarding the slag an additional half point for at least being clean, dressed decently, and doing her hair -- even slags deserve an attaboy. Remember ladies: got yer hair did is a full half-point.). All three of the guys are beta enough to not count.

The Situation

The problem is that the one 7 is a monstrous attention whore. As you might guess, the two beta orbiters basically spent the whole weekend backing up dump trucks full of affirmation and pouring it on her.

She's a super-cute spinner type who, frankly, could upgrade her game a little and improve a full point. She's a skinny but not in-shape person who could easily tighten her body up and get hotter, but she's also the motor of the group. She's the one dancing with everybody, the one singing karaoke, etc. Those beer carbs giveth, and they taketh away.

To say the 8 knows her status in the group would be an understatement. The betas aren't even allowed to talk to her, and she seems to be the only one in the group who was allowed to shit test me.

The other 7 ended up being my real target. Pretty blonde girl with a big enough butt to make her self-conscious. She didn't let guys grind on her or anything the whole weekend -- and this is a majority black club, so that's some real effort on her part. Demure, well-behaved, put-together type who parked herself next to me when we went for food at the end of the second night, and she kept finding ways to quickly touch me and then pull away before it became too forward. That sort of behavior in women is the fast path to having my attention.

Enter the Attention Whore

This is the point where the Attention Whore made what I can only call the least subtle move I have ever seen a chick make. Three of us were seated along the bar while our food was coming out (me, the 8, and the blonde 7) and turned to watch people doing karaoke. Attention Whore and the orbiters were, no surprise, doing karaoke because, ya know, hell is other people. The 6, the 5, the slag and the boyfriend got lost at some point.

When my order came, I stood up, turned around and asked the bartender for some ketchup. I gamed her a little bit, we chuckled, whatever. Those nice, fun, mini practice games are always a good way to get your energy up.

I suddenly feel the Attention Whore literally pushing against me as she leans across the bar. She's parked herself in the seat I just vacated, and she's trying to achieve as much body-to-body contact as possible.

The 8 and the blonde 7 shut down instantly. All banter done. All talk done.

I literally grabbed the chair and lifted it and her a full foot away from me to convey my displeasure. One of the beta orbiters ambles over and tries meekly to game her, and I do everything in my power to redirect her bullshit toward him. Finally, I just turn and start eating because food.

Did I say the Attention Whore wasn't subtle? She moves back over, but this time settles for elbow-to-elbow contact. (For those who think women don't do game, just remember this chick was recalibrating!) She leans in, asks if she can have some of my french fries. There's like one-quarter of the GDP of Idaho sitting there, so I told her have at.

Sure enough, the shit-testing 8 doesn't miss a beat. "Are you really just gonna let her eat your fries like that?" I said something to the effect of "I don't need all of that. She's doing me a favor." (Apparently, you can fail a shit test by not displaying an appropriate level of food aggression! Next time I guess I'll just have to snap a 95-pound girl's wrist to make sure the queen bee knows I'm a legit insanity wolf.)

I resume eating, and for grins I start talking up the beta orbiter and no one else. All bitches are on lockdown until further notice.

Did I say the Attention Whore wasn't subtle? She taps me on the shoulder and starts trying to feed me. I wave her off and say, "Don't get weird." (Yes, I dropped a People of Earth joke on her.)

Both of the beta orbiters are moving in, and I try to work them into the conversation in order to enforce the freeze out. The blonde 7 senses the opening and tries to get back in the game, but don't worry because the Attention Whore isn't subtle. She gets up for a second, adjusts her chair and sits down facing the blonde while simultaneously forcing ass-to-crotch contact with me. A minute later, the 8 cuts between the blonde and the Attention Whore. The blonde is now literally being double-covered by the two most socially dominant females in the group.

Apparently, the 8 is very committed to her food aggression plan, because she starts taking french fries without asking and even manages to swipe a half-eaten chicken finger. I confess at this point I'm feeling rather dispirited and wondering why the fuck I deviated into group game, which is not my preferred game.

The Attention Whore now decides to grab a wad of french fries, jams them two inches away from my mouth and says, "It's not weird." My inner white trash peeks out at that moment, because I glared at her and said, "I don't know you ferfuck. It's weird." She puts the fries down and pushes her ass into me. She then offers the fries again, muttering and pouting,"It's not weird." I push her hand down, but I did give her a pretty good squeeze on the ass cheek because I'm honestly at the point where, fuck it, I'm not even the one running game at this point and I know it.

A Slag Appears

I fucking swear women can smell from a mile away when a superior member of their group is trying to ice the deal with a guy. The slag comes into the bar from outside and immediately invokes some sort of treaty obligation under the Slag-Attention Whore Axis demanding backup in her full-blown attempt to make the 5's soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend status official. This is full shit-starting five-alarm slaggery, complete with claims that he threatened to hit her.

Faced with having to abandon her positional advantage, the Attention Whore suddenly becomes the sanest and most reasonable person on earth. "Is 5 in a safe spot?" "Sure, next door at the pizza place." "Are they going anywhere?" "No." "6 is with her, right?" "Yeah." "Then leave it the fuck be."

Clearly, Henry Kissinger was right: great powers don't commit suicide to save their allies.

Don't worry, the 8 now senses her chance to fuckin ruin everything for everyone. A full demonstration of the 8's social dominance ensues, as she grabs the blonde 7 by the arm and pushes the two beta orbiters out the door to ride posse on the destruction of her friend's relationship. The Attention Whore has "dafuq" written all over her face, but once the rest of the group is outside, she follows without saying a word to me.

I ask the bartender where the bathroom is and go take a piss. Eventually I walk outside and past the pizza place. At this stage, apparently the 5 is now fighting to preserve her boyfriend's status with all the other group members in full-bore pitchfork mode. The now-ex-boyfriend sees me walking away from the pile and asks if I care if he walks with me. We get about half-a-block before the slag goes into full screaming bitch mode and draws the ex-boyfriend back into the fight. At this point, I'm prepared to amputate above the knee, so I leave him to his fate and go find my car a couple blocks away.

Autopsy

As I'm writing all of that out, I'm realizing there are other moving parts definitely in play besides the Attention Whore. Clearly I walked into a situation where the knives were already out, and I totally failed to ask the question, "What y'all holdin behind yer backs?"

I've never dealt with a group situation that got this ridiculous, but there's a sick sort of beauty to how it all unfolded. I start out feeling like I have the situation on a good track with the blonde 7, but I literally turned my back for a minute and a fuckin prairie war breaks out.

I'm not even clear what the fuckin 8 who dominated the group was trying to accomplish. I wouldn't rule out the possibility this was a case of her pissing on everyone just to remind them who the fuck is queen bee. My best guess was that she was trying to contain the two 7s and maintain an option to make a move only after she administered her shit tests.

As best I can tell, the major mistake I made was making a clear play for the blonde 7 when my assessment of her status (relatively high, though artificially inflated due to my preference for how she comported herself) did not match the group's assessment. I had her ranked 2 of 6 while the group had her ranked 3 of 6, and the group's #2, the Attention Whore, was willing to engage in carpet bombing to achieve her goal.

In short . . . "women, right?!" Or maybe it's "people are the worst." I mean, why not Seinfeld? I already have Sartre and Chekov's Gun worked into the story.

So . . . yeah . . . it takes a lot to make me publish these days, but there ya go.

Dear Abby needs to hire someone with game

2015-08-05T11:48:00.002-04:00

The quote:

My husband of two years is every girl's dream man - the kindest, gentlest, most patient guy. He loves me for everything, including my flaws. I honestly believe he is the only one who could ever handle me.

So why am I cheating on him?

And the answer:

You're playing at matrimony as if it were a game instead of a deep, enduring partnership.

Hahahahahaha!! It is a game. LOLz were had. This bitch is never gonna get her gina tingles going from this poor sad sack of a guy.

How I see the world as a deeply uninvested male

2015-07-09T13:57:00.003-04:00

Something that's been floating around my mind lately is the idea of how women objectify men like me, but they wish -- magically / somehow -- that a guy like me is going to come around and be nice. The entire romance novel industry is based on this premise, and like all forms of pornography, that's a clue as to how realistic it is.

A big chunk of what makes women so fucking dangerously nuts is that they think they're going to somehow magically split the difference on this one, gaining the interest of a male they see as an ideal alpha / dominant / billionaire with an 8-inch dick who can fly and then stuffing him into a container where he'll be awesome and fun and domesticated and loyal to her. Minding you, the minute he concedes to any of this, her attraction begins to drop like a rock.

With a guy like me, it's worse because I make it very clear upfront that zero concessions are going to be made. I'm not even gonna be bothered to lie to you even once in order to sleep with you. I am direct and honest about how I do things, and this leads to lots of pouting from women.

The logic on the female side is that she gains validation from every concession that an alpha male makes in order to sleep with her. That is what makes me a deeply infuriating guy: you're not getting a single concession from me. You can take that snatch of yours anywhere you damned well please, because I am not making any concessions. Pussy just ain't that important to me.

The cosmic joke of this is that women are wired to freak the fuck out when a guy does that. The lack of a single concession by a prospective mate makes him more attractive. And there are women who get completely jacked on that feedback loop. No concessions raises attraction, and then the higher attraction level makes her want to push harder.

The problem is that there's no exit from that loop. That's where I end up dealing with women who end up screaming at me, shoving me and having to be escorted away by security. They don't know how to jump out of the loop, so they basically escalate until they're left with no remaining option except violence and threats.

Something that's hard for me to get across to women is this: if you like me, hooray, but forget trying to make me do or be anything you want me to be. Just skip it, because it's not happening.

As I said, what's hilarious is that women lose there shit when a guy treats them this way. I was messaged a couple weeks ago on a kink website by a chick. I looked at her profile, saw she wasn't into anything I was really into and I told her that there's nothing there and she needed to move on. Also, if I'm being 100-percent honest, she could have used to lose 30 pounds and 5 years.

Did she move on?

Oh, hell no! Instead, she responds by telling me how much that raises her interest. I tell her several times, not gonna happen. That leads to attempts at initiating a longer conversation. I'll humor that as long as its not completely retarded. Then eventually she drops "aren't you gonna try me before you deny me?"

OMFG. I can't imagine being so hard-up that I'd ever say anything like that to anyone.

I will say that it never helps that I tend to go soft on women who aren't at the top of the heap in looks. I'll never drop a pure "fuck off" on them. I do this for the same reason you wouldn't punch a retarded kid: it's not cool to be mean to those who can't really defend themselves.

My point, ultimately, is that women go ga-ga over uninvested men, and then they get pissed when it turns out that univested men tend not to get very invested.

I think it's great that you want to feel good about yourself. Have at. I just think it might be a little wiser to find someone other than me to scratch that itch.

Quelle surprise! PUA marketing assholes complain about holes in their walled garden!

2015-05-24T23:44:00.005-04:00

For reasons that fall readily under the headings of "unhealthy interests" and "trying to stay hip," I manage to poke my head into some of the bigger blogs in the ~~right-wing cryosphere~~ manosphere, PUA, men's rights, whatever other flavor of the week / rebaranding bullshit that's going on.

One complaint that I've always had with these fucks is their perverse commitment to monetization. For people involved in a jihad to save humanity from feminists and libruls, they sure do spend a lot of time selling you books and other bullshit. You'd think these sort of ideologues would be funneling that money back into saving civilization, but . . .

Let's just be honest. The whiny manosphere stuff is a sales pitch modeled on the early days of right-wing talk radio. That's why they're complicit in selling self-contradicting bullshit. "Women are sloots!" "Sloots are bad!" "Women only want relationships!" "Men should be plowing sloots!" "The loss of patriarchical households is ruining cibble-luh-say-shun!"

You'll note that consistency of message means nothing to these guys. Thematic and even ideological purity can get tossed right over the side of the HMS Manosphere if it means ginning up the outrage monkeys and getting more people clicking. They are, at the end of the day, crass marketers.

And now they're pissed that a lot of people are seeing the cracks in their walled garden business model and escaping. To wit, this "neomasculinity" bullshit from RooshV:

The red pill is a non-commercial version of PUA with cultural observations thrown in. They hold firmly and obsessively onto rigid dogmas such as the alpha/beta male dichotomy to explain all male behavior while basing their “truths” upon a shaky foundation of pop evolution. Because it has no council of elders to guide the ideology, it is now being steered by the mob and watered down—or outright trolled—by entryists who are blue pill.

The bolding is mine.

Here's the thing with these dweebs . . . their formulate is astonishingly easy to replicate. In fact, you can readily start a subreddit and start pimping it, which is exactly what happened. And, of course, people figure out that they don't need the books and they don't need all of the right-wing political bullshit. Pretty soon, the audience has escaped the walled garden.

Like all marketing assholes, their solution is . . . fucking rebranding.

If you don't like the conversation, change it. And that's what they're aiming to do.

Isn't it funny how quickly they get pissed when all their little jihadis run off without any guidance from their central revolutionary council? It's almost like keeping everyone in the walled garden and hooked up to the marketing machine is more important than the message itself. Gee. What are the chances that a right-wing leaning group of marketers might just be exploitative assholes soft peddling angry ideology in order to extract money from gullible and angry guys?

So, rebranding it is. Of course, it is. What else would it be? Allow the young guys to go around without their paid gurus? BAH! That's very unlikely.

Let's be realistic. Most guys who amble into PUA / Red Pill / men's rights / manosphere stuff do so to get laid. The whole ball of wax is just cognitive behavioral therapy for people who are too proud to go to a therapist.

Girls are scary? Approach. See? It's not so bad.

That's not a massive revelation. It's Cognitive Behavioral Therapy 101. Identify a fear, then minimize the patient's anxiety by allowing them to learn that the experience is not going to be the end of the world.

In that regard, by bringing basic cognitive behavioral approaches to a mass of young men who are never going to visit a therapist without being ordered to do so by a judge, they're doing a massive service. Who gives a fuck how these guys take that first step as long as they take it, right?

The problem is that the marketers know most of the guys bail out from the rest of the program once the basic approach anxiety problem is resolved. That hurts the bottom line.

One of the creepiest things they do, in fact, is pimping the rape accusation fears of their audience. Think how perversely, fucked-uppedly cool that is?

You're selling a program for guys who are afraid of girls, right? What sells the success of the program better than, "Dude, you might be accused of rape once bag one of these sloots!"

How clever is that? And there's a wonderful push-pull. The reader in anxious and angry about the lack of available poosy, but on the other side of the equation you're also making him anxious and fearful about his possible success.

You're already selling to cognitively challenged and vulnerable audiences with this shit. These are the same guys who used to buy products to improve sexual prowess advertised in the back of titty mags back in the 1970s. Their judgment is, shall we say, often questionable.

The best part, though, is that basic cognitive behavioral therapy works. So the scam starts with something that's very scientifically valid. And that leads to the inference by the exploited party that, gosh, maybe this other stuff they say is legit, too!

It's a fascinating racket, but . . . people figure this shit out.

There's a reason a lot of people turn to the unguided forums for advice. The fact is that basic cognitive behavioral practices can be taught to anyone by anyone. Think about it. These fuckin far-right morons figured it out and passed it along, ferfucksake!

Most guys who get into this stuff want to get laid. I've seen the data on the subject. The retention rate for readership in the TRP world is fucking miserable, and a lot of the dropout rate is caused by success. Guys don't need to read all of the whiny rape accusations bullshit and the racist, anti-immigrant bullshit. They don't need the deeply anti-feminist screeds.

All they need is a soft nudge -- the cognitive behavioral nudge -- toward confronting their sexual anxieties.

That's not to say that the entire conversation is invalid. Quite the opposite. The battle of the sexes is a totally evergreen topic, and that's of course why marketers of all stripes constantly find a way back to it.

The problem, however, is that a number of the vulnerable and gullible are escaping the walled garden. They're finding free sources of information. They're learning that basic cognitive behavioral approaches to their sexual anxiety concerns are far more useful than three hundred blog posts about false rape accusations and how Hillary Clinton's cunt has an agenda set on strangling Western civilization.

My advice? Take the good, throw out the bad.

And for the love of gawd, always be aware that these motherfuckers are crass marketers.

Possibly the worst sentence I have ever read

2015-05-01T02:14:00.002-04:00

This review gives rise to this . . .

But "What About This" is an authentic outpouring like a warm river in full flood; you get swept off the bank and its languid physicality destroys you.

We all struggle to maintain a certain level of economy in our use of language, but there's a difference between having a bit of diarrhea of the mouth and just flat-out needlessly jamming adjectives in there sideways to lard up a fucking sentence.

First, if you've never been in a river that's in full flood, let me assure that they are not fucking warm. Why does a flooding river need to be warm? Fucked if I know. This dude just wanted to make his labored metaphor about poetry sound more poetical.

Second . . . yeah, reviewers are typically terrible fucking writers. They're often writers who write about writers because they wish they could be writers, so they find jobs writing about writers in order to be writers.

Third: "languid physicality"? Huh? Unless you're describing what happens to an NFL nose tackle's gut while he's being blocked by two other guys, I struggle to see how anything that's at once capable of physicality can also be languid. #EnglishFail

Added bonus . . . this fucking sentence . . .

Editor Michael Wiegers carefully selected this work from 10 collections, including parts of "The Battlefield Where the Moon Says I Love You," Stanford's best-known work — a swollen, ambitious 542-page epic poem in which even Jesus and Sonny Liston speak — as well as reams of unpublished work.

If you ever write a 542-page epic poem, you're an asshole. If you ever encourage people to fucking read a 542-page epic poem, you're a retard. Seriously, who the fuck writes a 542-page epic poem "in which even Jesus and Sonny Liston speak"?

Is that a fucking joke? I swear to gawd this guy was just stapling words the fuck together without any forethought. I assume that the only reason anyone would ever write a 542-page poem of any type is to troll the shit out of wannabe intellectuals.

SMFH. Just because you can use the English language to form sentences doesn't mean you should.

Some answers are too easy

2015-04-27T17:14:00.003-04:00

I was reading this artricle, The mystery of billionaires’ long marriages, and all I could think was . . . how the fuck do we not discuss the obvious answer?

Women objectify male status and success. Yes, that status and success can be contextual, as anyone familiar with the idea of a chick being into a drug dealer will tell you, but the important thing is that women will stick through almost anything to be with a successful guy.

Even the article's discussion of the divorces among billionaires, such as Elon Musk leaving his wife for an actress, fit nicely into the Red Pill view of relationships.

A billionaire man who isn't inclined to cheat is unlikely to have a cheating wife, because he fulfills all the criteria that women seek in men. He'd have to be an astonishingly unaggressive, ugly and unfuckable pussy of a man, and even then I'm not sold there'd be a lot of fears of infidelity. Women lerv success, and if you have piles of success just sittin around, your wife is not going to leave you, especially if it's clear that your success is permanent, and not some weird one-off thing (for example, athletes' wives will cheat on them).

I don't feel inclined to condemn the female attraction to success. In part, that's because I think people tend to tag the "gold digger" thing as the source of trouble when in fact it's a more basic attraction to success. In the absence of a monetary economy, women would find another measuring stick for success, I promise.

I do, however, shake my head at the failure of people to comprehend the idea of success objectification.

Game has penetrated too far into the public conscience

2015-04-26T04:07:00.000-04:00

I never offer much in the way of field reports anymore, but this Friday had a sequence of interesting events that are worthy of discussion in the world of aloofness and social-sexual game.

I had been out much of the day because I was helping a friend with some wacky fun drilling holes into the floors of his place and running cabling. (I got skillz . . . and 18-inch-long drill bits . . . but mostly skillz.) It was a full day of guy time, including partaking of the local sports team losing. He had to boot me out early due to work / sleep commitments, so I took myself to a bar in the next town over (college town, BTW).

It's important to remember that I went there to watch sports. (Yes, I paid a cover charge to watch sports.) FTR, if you can quantify anything in this world, it's a fair bet that I'm trying to angle my way into making a buck from it. Imaginably, that means that gamble on anything and everything that hasn't been nailed down. And when I'm trying out something new, I do not distract easily. The new gambling enterprise, BTW, is baseball, and the math is working out to be very consistently profitable.

That informs this next part . . . the bar I went to keeps it's sports-watching section right next to the dance floor, allowing people to go to the sports bar section for drinks and permitting the bar to not have to operate a third bar area (the first is for a larger social area at the front that resembles a large college rec room) in order to service the dancers and the sports watchers. This is actually one of the least scummy bars I know (if you follow the blog much, you know I prefer bars where the drugs and violence flow), and the crowd here is a little different than my usual suspects -- this is not a place I go to run game.

So, that's the setup. Clean bar, watching sports, tracking in my head how successful my math work is.

If you ever want proof that disinterest is the flame that lights the pussy fire, this is the story for you. I'm standing way off to the side, near the bathrooms in fact, watching my sports and minding my own business. A group of college chicks who were in full dance mode kept creeping closer. I didn't make much of them because drunk dancing college chicks are just par for the course in this place -- it's the definitive place for white girls to get white girl wasted and dance like monkeys being electrocuted (again, not my kinda bar at all). Eventually the monkey herd starts getting too close, but I stick to the same game plan that I always use in every situation: ignore everyone in the whole fucking world.

Again . . . disinterest is the pussy ignition button. (It dovetails nicely with the concept of devalidation. Apologies for the link to Chateau Heartiste, but even right-wing racists fucks can be correct about some facts, and this is one of those times.)

The shortest girl in the group takes the first shot, dancing epileptically in front of me. Dancing doesn't draw me out, so she tries dancing and asking my why I'm not dancing. I blow her off with some variant of "I'm not required to." She tries the usual pull on the arm thing, but I resisted. Eventually she just resorts to leaving her drink at my table as a pretense for coming back. Whatever.

By this point, other guys are gathering around, and they slowly start slicing off portions of the herd. I'm thinking I have a fighting chance of getting on with my greater concerns for gambling money.

Wrong.

Instead, the short girl and her taller, skinnier friend circle around and run the "come dance" routine again. I'm still not buying it.

And then the proof that game is too fucking ingrained in our culture hits: the tall girl snatches the knit cap off of my head (it's been a cold spring in the Northeast, and I was rocking the knit cap plus car coat look). Yes . . . this chick actually did the steal the hat game technique. She walked off with it and hid behind the DJ booth with her friend, so I had to walk across the dance floor to recover it. The DJ saw the look on my face, grabbed the cap from her, giving it to me, and told her, "This guy wants hit hat back."

I went back to my spot for a few minutes, but eventually decided to relocate away from the dancing herd. This bought me about two innings of baseball watching before the tall girl decided to really properly crawl up my ass this time. To say that I was getting everything including the kitchen sink thrown at me would be an understatement.

Of course, she starts with the arm pull and "come dance" sales pitch. No sale, so she tries chatting my up. I'm largely ignoring everything she says, but the bitch is physically blocking my view of the TV screens. She starts asking what I'm doing there. "Watching baseball." Are you from around here. "No." Then where are you from. "Not here, that's where."

What's funny is that the whole time I can see that none of this is registering with her. Young women who see themselves as desirable have no context for rejection. She's working under the assumption that I'm just gaming her because game has reached a level of social penetration such that it has become the default explanation in young women's heads for why a man would act the way I do. Ugh.

It is interesting, however, to watch how quickly women degenerate into beta male game. Her next sales pitch was, "You seem like a really sarcastic and cool guy." I respond, "The sarcastic part is right."

She goes through the guessing my age game through so many iterations that out of pity I just eventually tell her that she got it right like two tries back. That elicits something in the form of "That's really cool."

Then she takes the next step down the ladder to creepy guy game, telling me that I "smell too good." I made a statement to the effect of, "No old man smell. That's what I was shooting for."

She then decides to indict my rudeness. She overtly states that my behavior is rude. I blow this off and don't even respond.

She actually fucks up and goes for alpha male game next, and I probably should have given her the points for this one, but she was already pissing me off, so I didn't. She tells me that my beard makes me look like "an Amish businessman." That is a good one.

Unfortunately, she undoes that small success in the next try by asking, "Why do you keep making me yell?" (Implication being that by this point in the conversation I should have closed the gap between us. At this stage, she's overtly complaining about the fact that the social-sexual script is not being followed.) I respond, "I ain't making you do shit."

Next tack: explosive behavior game. She yells loudly directly into my ear. I don't even recall what she yelled.

Understand something about my upbringing. I come from the type of background that fosters difficulty in joining the middle class white world. This is a pretty good description of the default set of skills you learn coming from my type of background:

If you live in a place that’s unsafe, where the schools and community have broken down and families are under strain, then you might lose some of your chances to learn self control. Actually, being impatient and impulsive and being quick to anger might even be skills that keep you alive.

This is one of the reasons I stick to the scummier bars, night clubs and places full of rude boys. If I'm in a club full of armed black guys, half of whom are dealing drugs, I can function in that environment. I know the rules and customs, and I get along nicely in those environments because people from bad backgrounds recognize each other. You carry it a certain way, and people who've had to carry it the same way understand you on first sight.

To be clear, this is where I know this whole situation is just exceeding the parameters of my upbringing. The truth is that the middle class white world and my assbackwards, ain't learned nothin' redneck ass get along mostly because I follow a policy of detente. I keep the fuck out of the way -- aloof -- and the world leaves me the fuck alone. In return for this courtesy toward me, I focus my considerable intelligence on beating the system for profit instead of engineering a virus to wipe you fuckers out. Or just grabbing the next middle class drunk white college girl who pisses me off and duct taping her up and throwing out to die in the woods.

That's the deal. That's how the world and I plan to get along well enough for me to die a natural death in my 70s rather than a death by lethal injection in my 50s. (The appeals process takes forever. And fuck The Man, I'm using every appeal and exhausting the system's resources.)

I tell the chick, "I'm working very hard here to avoid just overtly telling you to fuck off, but you're really not getting the point here." I then do my best to look past her rather than at her.

In any other social context, surely she would have gotten the point. But she's a drunk white college girl who has never been rejected. The funny thing is that she's not expressing anger. She's not upset by my behavior. She's just blank because she's failing to process what's going on.

The only explanation I have for her behavior is that so many guys are now running PUA game on chicks that she's just operating under the assumption that I'm negging her or devalidating her or whatever. I get that chicks who see themselves as the cream of the crop don't understand rejection, but this chick is crossing over to a seriously Rain Man / autistic / Mr. Spock from Star Trek level of social retardation at this point. Women who see themselves as hot chicks simply don't exist in a world where rejection happens, and they sometimes behave worse than the worst aspie on the planet simply because they've never needed to learn the basic social skills needed to not be killed for saying or doing the wrong thing.

Her response to all of this was to playfully try to tap my beer bottle out of my hand when I went to take a drink. That was psychological trigger time for me. I looked at her and said, "Touch my beer again and I'll break your fuckin wrist."

If you ever want proof of how sheltered middle class, young white women are, this is it. She pulls up her shirt sleeve, exposing her little bird-boned wrist and holds in front of me.

For a moment, I thought perhaps this was finally going in a direction that I could understand. My brain was primed for the white trash outburst that fits contextually from my upbringing. I was expecting something in the form of a loud, "Go ahead motherfucker! Be a big man and break my wrist!" sort of display.

Instead, she just stood there holding her skinny wrist in front of me. No affectation. No emotional response. Just presenting it. This is just pure escalate and antagonize game, with maybe some fucking turn-on element from reading 50 Shades of Grey or some horseshit (besides The Game, 50 Shades is probably the next worst book in terms of drilling into the cultural supercontext and making life annoying for all single people).

Realizing that the context is not going to be white trash outburst -- unfortunate, because that would have brought the bouncers and solved the problem -- I realize that the overt physical threat is only rewarding her behavior. She wants attention, and the threat is attention.

So, I tell her, "Either you fuck off, or I'm going to have someone from security make you fuck off." (Whoo-hoo! I win points for de-escalating and using the wealthy white man's approach to the problem rather than going all white trash . . . which is my default mode.)

She rolls her sleeve up, steps back about a foot, but just keeps looking at me. This is like the human equivalent of the Blue Screen of Death. She doesn't do or say anything. Her expression doesn't change. This chick just stands there for at least a full minute. Not mad, not happy, not laughing, not nervous, not pissed. She's literally not processing anything, not doing anything. I guess she was trying to see how long of a stare down she could give me before I'd say something. That or I completely broke her software.

Out the corner of my eye, I see a security guy doing a walkaround of the place, and I give him a small hand gesture to come over. He comes over, I look at him and tell him, "I told this chick to fuck off, and she isn't fucking off."

The guy steps between me and her. As best I can tell, she doesn't say anything to him, but he does have to lean into her a bit to get her to move. He eventually gets her herded together with her herd on the opposite side of the dance floor. There's no gesturing or anything, so I eventually lose interest and resume watching my baseball game. By the way . . . my team won, I made money, and I made money on my full slate of bets for the day. Eventually the chick and her friends disappear entirely, although I didn't notice when it happened.

I'd like to say that's the end of the story, but if you read this blog for long, you know that I have an emotionally abusive streak and never leave well enough alone. Being an instinctive predator, I decided to scoot along about an hour later to the next white girl bar in town, knowing full well that this chick was going to be there. I just wanted to see how she'd respond, because I like to poke at things and see if they're still alive.

When I see her in the crowd -- and it was disgustingly crowded -- I decide to walk past her group, ignore her and keep going. Again . . . for science.

I eventually took up a spot on the opposite side of the dance floor from her group. It takes her about half an hour, but she eventually works her way over to my end of the dance floor. She doesn't say anything. Instead, she moves directly to my left and stands there dancing by herself for about ten minutes. Never says anything. Doesn't touch me. Just stand there dancing . . . right to my left. After ten minutes, she gives up and starts working her way through the crowd back to her friends.

The place was disgustingly crowded, as in smell of human sweat and swimming in humidity from body heat, so I decided to move along to a more dive bar type of club so I could properly be myself and enjoy myself. She never showed up there, and I managed to spend my night being chatted up by a shot girl who was trying to get my name and life story.

Weird experience. I have to say that I've never had to have a bouncer actually make a chick go away before. That's a new one.

I think part of the problem is that this chick didn't have any context besides game for processing my behavior. The idea that I was genuinely ignoring her and wanted her to fuck off did not compute. The only thing that made sense, in her mind, was that I was freezing her out.

Practitioners of game will tell you to not push a woman to a point where she thinks you're uninterested. What gets lost is that some women have themselves rated so far up the hot chick scale that they can't imagine male disinterest toward them. They don't know what to do when confronted by it. The truth is, they don't even register that it's a form of confrontation. All they see is guys gaming them, and they're just trying to process what your game is and bridge you toward participating in their game. The idea that you'd not want to play just isn't anywhere in the script.

That said, I've never seen a woman fail like that before. Women get pissy. They get whiny. Violent? Sure. I've never seen one just go into stand-by mode and stop functioning.

That was different.

The difference between outcasts and willful outsiders

2015-04-10T01:07:00.001-04:00

I was making the mistake of reading around some of the PUA, men's right and other right-wingish, pro-manish stuff that's out there to survey the current landscape, and I happened upon this bit about being a high school outsider. I found the blod post interesting in large part because 1) it stands in stark contrast to my own experience and 2) it reminds me a great deal of a friend's experience.

The crux of what this guy, Chris, who runs the blog Good Looking Loser, had to say was encapsulate in three paragraphs.

Para 1, describing his hometown:

The premise for the wildly popular 90's show "Beverly Hills 90210" was based on Winston Churchill High School and the town of Potomac (and Bethesda, MD.).

Para 2, his thesis:

My advice is to become OBSESSED with your appearance.

Para 3, the true "holy shit" moment for me:

I know what it's like to be teased when my brother died from cancer. (4th grade)

So, let me address the holy shit factor first. Where I grew up, the ass beatin' you would've gotten for pulling bullying shit like that, even in 4th Grade, would have been unreal. If your parents didn't do it, someone would have done. If all else failed, one of the male teachers would have found a way to make it happen (likely by recruiting a few of the boys who had been raised right).

This might as well have grown up on the fucking moon when I compare my experiences to his. If you read the blog much, you may recall that I grew up dirt poor and rural. While high school shit happened, it happened within a specific context, and most of it was standard jousting for position. There weren't even that many kids who engaged in bullying in my high school, at least relative to what I hear people describe happening elsewhere.

It's funny to me reading that post because it reminds me that there are three types of outsides in this world:

Outsiders who are looking in through the window and wishing to join the cool kids.
Outsiders who are pissing in through skylight and laughing their asses off.
Outsiders who are just passing through and don't care whether the natives kill each other.

I happened to be the third type of outsider, except on days when people insisted upon pressuring me to be included, and then I became the type that pissed on everything in sight. Most of my friends were the type to piss in everyone's Cheerios, and the remainder were almost always the the outcasts who wanted to be cool. I'm a lifelong friend of the fuck-ups and the losers of the world, despite not being someone who is seen as a fuck-up or a loser.

To some extent, a lot of the tension that I experience in life arises from pressure that others wish to apply to people who they see as potential social assets to join their group. The problem in my case is that I have such a well-developed image of myself as a casually aloof outsider just passing through Western civilization like an anthropologist handing out machetes and shotguns to the locals (this isn't a joke; Napoleon Chagnon actually did this!!) that it's very hard for me to make the necessary mental and emotional leaps to ever be included in any group. I enjoy being an outsider, largely because it allows me to appropriate for myself the right of relentlessly pointing and laughing at the stupidity of others.

If you go and read the post by Chris and then compare it to some of the stuff that I post, you'll notice a lot of differences. For shit and grins, let's actually compare and contrast . . .

The Life of Chris

Wealthy school district
Obsessed with body image
Wanted to be cool
Mostly harmless poppped collar type
Struggled to get the attention of the opposite sex
Emotionally abused girls through systematic rejection

The Life of the Aloof Guy

Dirt poor school district
Barely aware of the concept of body image
Willfully firebombing what little passed for cool
White trash raised around people who committed several homicides and numerous suicides
Confused by the attention of the opposite sex
Emotionally abused girls through systematic rejection

You'll note that the last item is the same. There's a reason I included that. I think its interesting that two very different sets of life experiences can bring two very different people to the same conclusion.

First off, trust me when I tell you that shutting of the attention spigot is likely the worst form of abuse that you can inflict upon a woman. That's the money shot if your goal is to really grind a woman down and question her self-worth. You can beat a bitch senseless, and she'll love it because physical abuse is attention and attention means emotional investment. If you wanna really fuck a woman up, you have to feed her about three breadcrumbs of attention and then cut the supply off entirely the moment she thinks she just might have a fighting chance.

What interests me, however, is that we arrived at the same point from very different starting lines. Chris wanted to be one of the cool kids and wanted the girls' attentions. I aimed to always be an outsider and a fuck-up, and I only wanted the girls' attention if they could be crammed within the very limited space allowed by definition of myself and my limited set of social skills.

At the end of the equation, however, we both wanted to get revenge on the girls. He wanted revenge because they hadn't paid attention to him. I wanted revenge because I didn't understand what the fuck they were trying to get me to do and felt confused and hurt by the entire experience.

How socially retarded was I in school?

It's worth re-reading one of the earliest posts on this blog if you wonder just what a socially retarded mess I was. http://aloofguy.blogspot.com/2011/11/road-to-aloofness.html

Here's the truth of it. I was so socially retarded that I actually thought:

Girls who liked me in high school did so purely because we had been around each other.
Overt sexual or physical advances weren't any sort of proof of any actual interest.
Some girls just liked to talk about stuff that interested them with me.
If a girl liked me, she would let me know, especially if I had already said something.
Girls simply jerked guys around because they were batshit crazy. (This, however, was based upon my sister, who was crazy enough that a fake pregnancy scare was her go-to move to get a guy to be more serious in a relationship.)

I had zero clue that there was any type of game being played, let alone what anything like game might have been. My basic assumption was that game playing was purely pathological.

I was dumb as a motherfucker when it came to girls.

For example, my first kiss came during a summer party that a friend of friend's family was throwing (they were very devout and decent people from a good background -- just because I was white trash didn't mean I didn't know decent and well-off folk, which is typical of small town rural life in America). I was going into 7th grade the next year, and one of the 8th grade girls who was there (I didn't know who she was) took a shine to me and spent the whole day trying to make her intentions known to me, asking about, trying to corner me and chat me up, etc. None of this registered with me, and in fact I thought she was bullying me.

Toward the evening, the adults had asked the older kids (ya know, 7th and 8th graders) to organize a game of hide and go seek for the younger kids. Eventually the 8th grade girl (usually I change names to protect the innocent on this blog, but in this case I really can't recall what her name was!) got her turn to be it. She made a point of seeking me out, and found me behind a bush at the very edge of the property. She then went straight in for the kill, grabbing me and planting a kiss right on my mouth.

Being the socially retarded mess that I was, I quit the game and spent the trip home bitching to my friend about the girl. His parents never invited me to anything after that tirade, BTW.

At my old age, I of course understand what happened. What happened was I had won the fuckin lottery in terms of middle school accomplishments and then proceeded to light my ticket on fire and run away. Worse, I was pleased with my choice!

I can remember years later discussing this story with a woman on a first date, and she just smiled and laughed, telling me that it was the cutest first kiss story that she had ever heard. In retrospect, I know that most people would think it was a really cute story, but for me it was awful and left me feeling a tad violated. (There is an argument to be had here that if a boy did this to an awkward girl that it would be viewed as closer to a sexual assault than a cute story of young love.)

The difference

For me, the frustration of dealing with other human beings has always been the unwanted pull from them. For a guy like Chris, the frustration arose from wishing that they were pulling him toward the social center.

I think that difference is relevant. Why?

The big advantage I had over a guy like Chris is that I was practically a perfect natural to some of the real nuts and bolts elements of sociosexual game. Having an aloof personality and a strong personal need to push others away allowed me to easily avoid the neediness trap that usually catches guys well before they discover the basic social dynamics of game. I also displayed signs of authority problems at that age, and that of course always sells well in the sexual marketplace. You also create an obvious abundance mentality when all of the girls around you see how retarded one of the hot ones is willing to go. In short, I was packin' aloof bad boy game from the day that I hit puberty, and I couldn't even be bothered to care that I was.

My biggest regret about high school isn't that I could have been cooler than I was. My biggest regret was that I didn't understand just how much pussy I was swimming in.

I've said before on the blog that it would be pointless to go back in time and tell my younger self the deal simply because my younger self would not have cared.

I was so angry about the way girls played the game that it wouldn't have mattered to me. In more than one case, I got the picture well enough to understand that a particular girl liked me. Trust me, when you're sitting in 9th grade Spanish class with a girl leaning back on your desk and tossing her hair around trying to provoke a response, you do get the rough outline of her intentions. For me, at that age, it was pure anger at the idea that this whole dumb process was somehow required.

In that particular case in 9th grade, I just wanted that girl to stew in her own insecurities and self-hatred for not responding to my direct indication of interest in her. I got the idea, vaguely and roughly within my limited scope of social skills, that she wanted me to do something, but I was so pissed that she hadn't provided any response to my direct request, in writing, for a relationship that I simply figured she could go fuck herself. If she cared, she'd do what I did. That's simply how I saw the issue.

I somehow doubt that the younger me, even with the whole concept stretched out in a straight line and explained in detailed, would have changed his disposition in the slightest. If anything, I suspect that I would have been even more angry. Even now, the whole concept of how women half-assedly flirt with guys and then expect guys to carry the entire burden of a potential rejection leaves me feeling a little chaffed. I may understand the concepts, but I still don't find the whole enterprise amusing in the slightest. It's still chickenshit.

It's also important to realize that I never processed the idea that puberty had actually happened to me. I had a self-image going back into elementary and middle that was based in being fat and smart and poor. The fact that puberty had rectified my basic shortcomings didn't get processed until I was in my late 20s.

Making the leap of logic doesn't help

In fact, in retrospect, I think that's where the real evidence of my social cluelessness sits. Even through college, the idea just never sunk into my brain that attractive women found me to be attractive. The biggest problem that I had was making the logical leap to the idea that I was expected to form up as part of the in-crowd, be successful and just act like an attractive and successful person is supposed to act. The concept just never struck me.

Even now as I progress well into my 30s, I may understand the concept, but I also take a perverse pride in laying waste to it. I still quite enjoy watching women go stupid over me and then treating them like shit. I've never ceased to get a kick out it.

Somewhere along the way, I simply developed too ingrained of an image of myself as an outsider, a poor kid, a fuck-up, a fat kid, etc, that it became very easy and very normal to me to sit on the periphery of humanity. I'm proud of it. The idea of seizing my right to be a handsome and successful man has zero appeal to me.

As a willful outsider, it doesn't feel right to me to be cool and to be lavished with attention. What feels right to me is to treat those people like shit and then sit there smirking at them when it sinks in that I'm not playing with them: I really am just mistreating them for my own amusement.

It is funny. I never get tired of watching some cute young thing's face change when she realizes that at least one man in this world just isn't buying into her bullshit, no matter how desperately she tries to explain herself.

I also can't lie: watching almost every single girl who comes into my orbit and shoots out the other side then proceed lose 10 to 20 pounds within six months is the greatest form of ego massage a man can experience. It happens like clockwork, and it is frankly fascinating to watch, especially if you have a sadistic streak and like to watch women hate themselves. I don't even have a strong preference for thing girls! I just like watching the consequences of their internal turmoil and self-hatred boil up into real world results.

I should also point out that frickin lerv feeding a woman just enough line to make her think she has a chance. The longer they stay on the line struggling and fighting, the more I like it. It's hard to find the ones that will stay there for months or even years, but damn is it satisfying when ya do.

Conclusion

It's intriguing to see the difference between someone who's trying to pull people in versus someone who is trying to push them away. It's also interesting to examine how we each get our kicks from getting revenge on the opposite sex. Life experiences take us all to strange places, and a few of us end up being really fucked up messes.

I don't think I can ever understand, on a gut level, why anyone would fight to be one of the cool kids. It's just more fun to make everyone feel like shit because you won't join them. And it's even more fun to string them along and watch their puzzled expressions.

Perhaps my primary complaint about women

2015-04-07T01:38:00.003-04:00

I was dwelling on the past the other day, and a particular pattern over my lifetime struck me. To be clear, this isn't a relationship pattern. This a pattern that pertains more to how I respond to the initial flirtation and attempts at feeling me out that women try.

Particularly what I don't like is the assumption that I as a particular type of man who they might happen to like am somehow wasting a perfectly good life by not being what they what me to be. I've been subjected to multiple variants of comments (including in the comments section of this blog) to the effect that it's terrible to see such a good alpha male waste his life by being me.

If you know much about me from reading the blog, then you'll know that I'm not a fan of the alpha male label. One, because it's dumb to assign dog pack concepts to human. Two, because most guys I know who seek out the alpha male label do so for really dumb reasons. There are fake alphas doing it for pussy. There are guys who really want to be large and in charge. There are dude with unresolved shower rape issues from their time in on the varsity football team.

I don't see myself as an alpha male, and I object to the idea that I'm obliged to see being an alpha male as a worthy goal. I understand that most guys given the chance to have women call them alpha males would leap at the opportunity. Therein, for me, is half of the problem. What's the big deal about being a big deal if you sit around like a fourteen-year old girl really want to be a big deal? It's kind girlie and not very becoming of an actual man.

It's easy to tell that women are so used to men defining themselves as the pursuers of women that women struggle to process any other dynamic. The idea that a man wouldn't want to be an alpha male is deeply foreign to the average woman.

To be honest, you, as a woman, are well within your rights to want to have an alpha male in your life. I think it's lame, but I also think religion and politics are lame, and somehow society keeps chugging along despite my objections to those too.

Where it starts to piss me off is that I end up being the object of a lot of anger from women for not wanting to participate in the great alpha male game. There has been a clear consensus among the women I've known in my lifetime that there's something deeply wrong with how I play the game. To make the problem worse, they get very pissed that I refuse to play the game. It seems to be a high crime for a man to opt out of this bullshit, and most women are heavily insulted when they try to flirt with a guy and simply has no part of playing the alpha role that she wishes to cast him in.

Understand, I have had my fair share of women lash out physically at me for not playing along. We're not talking about women just being pissy about it. There are sore losers all over the world, so that's not my problem.

What bothers me most is the implication that I, as a man who has all the potential to fit within this obnoxious and highly objectified role of the alpha male, have not right to want to be anything else.

Women expect men who can reel women in to be out doing as much of it as they possibly can. And that in its own right is fine. The problem arises when they simply refuse to leave it at that.

Hey, if some other guy wants to be your dancing monkey alpha male, hooray for him. But don't make it my problem just because you think I would make a superb alpha male. So fucking what if I would? It's not my goddamned job to be whatever you feel I should be.

I get that the supply of men who can fit the objectified dominant role in a relationship is very low. I do not, however, consider it my fucking civic duty to make up for that by pretending to be what you want me to be just so you get a little tingle down in your girl parts.

I'm not required to be anything, and it amazes me how lacking in self-awareness women are when they start dropping shit like that on me. So what if I'd make a great alpha male? It might be a fuckin' tragedy for you, but it's just not something I want in my own life. Fuck that. That whole dynamic is obnoxious, and I have every right to chart my own path outside of the norms that women want me to conform to.

I just don't care enough about the well-being of your pussy to be bothered with being the man you think I should be.

What I know at this stage in my life

2015-02-02T01:10:00.004-05:00

These are in no particular order. This is rather stream of conscience.

1. The amount of information I know is huge. The amount of actionable information I know is small.

At my old age (soon to be 37), I've realized just how much information there is in this world and how very little of it ever helps you make a real decision.

2. I'm going to die childless and alone.

The math simply supports it. If I were inclined to show a shred of humility in how I respond to women by now, it would have popped up in my behavior enough to make a difference.

3. If you really want to control a woman, forget violence of any kind.

I never was one to be physical toward women, but as I've dealt with more and more of them over the years, the utter lack of utility of being physical toward a woman has become even clearer.

Go start a Fetlife profile and see how many women right now are trolling the internet hoping for just one brutal guy to be emotionally invested enough in her that he wants to beat the fuck out of her and put her in her place. For far more woman than will ever admit it, a good beating is practically a fuckin Christmas present. Rihanna's made the last half of her recording career into nothing but an ode to domestic violence and the desire to fuck brutal men.

But, as a guy, you can't win playing that game. If you want a woman to really be under your thumb, you have to just let her go entirely off your radar. It's like dealing with a child who constantly threatens to run away -- the only solution is to completely ignore the threats and special pleadings and just get on with your day.

4. If a woman wants your attention, there's no limit to what she will try.

5. Failing to pay attention to a woman rarely dissuades her.

Women, unless they've been treated as reprehensible for clearly obvious reasons (extreme obesity, serious signs of genetic defects, extreme small chestedness -- pretty much only really extreme failings), don't register the concept of a soft rejection.

It's one of the things that bothers me most about women. On balance, I prefer to be nicer about rejections where possible. It sucks to be rejected, and I try to soften the blow as much as possible.

6. Softening the emotional blow is pointless.

There's no version of a soft, safe, controlled landing with women in any sort of emotional business. The best you can ever manage is to just thoroughly discourage a woman to the point that her attention-seeking ego can't take it anymore and she eventually gives up. But as long as you remain softly engaged, she'll be willing to keep hoping and hoping and hoping.

When it comes to getting women to go away, "cut deep and cut once" is the preferred approach. If that fails, cut deep and cut a second time. And keep cutting until she gets the goddamned point or she's emptied her entire soul out on the floor in front of you.

7. Women are, on balance, good decision makers. Until they want a particular man.

In most day-to-day decisions, I recommend discussing them with a woman. I don't always advocate following a woman's advice, but you should definitely hear at least one woman's perspective regarding almost ever serious decision you ever make.

The absolute exception to this is is anything romantic. Never, ever listen to a woman when it comes to matters of the heart.

A woman's view of love is as sensible as a dog's view of eating roadkill: they'll swallow the most poisonous shit on the planet just to feel a little fuller.

Beyond that, be aware that the allure of "the right man" makes every woman you meet dangerous. For the right man, a woman will kill her own kids. For the right man, a woman will abandon here entire family. For the right man, all fucking bets are off.

Women think it's hilarious that men can be honeypotted, but the truth is men get over it and often correct their mistakes moving forward. Women will do the same dumb, dangerous shit over and over and over again hoping that the next guy who's "right man" material will somehow see her virtues.

8. Don't be too invested in attracting women.

I think it's a huge mistake to start fashioning yourself into what women like. Lots of guys on the internet right now are discussing what a great idea it is to be fit, successful and dominant in order to attract women. I deeply disagree with this point.

Be fit. It's a good choice. Don't sweat any more success than you really need to do your thing the right way every time. Fuck dominance. Just be as commanding as you need to be to negotiate life's turns, and beyond that let the rest of the world burn.

Being the image of perfection and desperately wanting it is lame and contrary to what it means to be a man. Own your shit, but be aware that there of lots of assholes trying to convince you there's other shit you should own that doesn't matter. Big, studly PUA moves are shit that you don't need to own. They're not your shit. They're someone else's crazy, and you should keep other people's crazy out of your life whenever possible.

9. Women flock to the idea of a particular man.

I can remember a couple years ago reading a few pages on the web of women talking about Viggo Mortensen. The prevailing view was nearly universal: he's ugly as sin, but women want to fuck him hard.

The idea of who you are as a man means waaaaaaay more than anything else with women. The simple way you go about your business is what will get you laid.

The gut-level feeling that a guy is simply "right" in some way is what gets women going. And nothing makes you feel more right to a woman than simply being present in the world without letting it all get to you. Be in command of your existence, and waste little time expecting to command the world around you. Women eat that shit up.

Women know that hard ass boss men are always the fuckers trolling Fetlife looking for a domme to shove a dildo in their asses and then pull it out and make them clean it off with their mouths. Don't be the hard ass boss. Women frown on that. Be the guy who just is present and capable without being a mouthy and in-charge fuck.

10. Lots of women are doing it wrong. Who cares?

There are lots of women who get their social signals mixed up and pick the wrong guy. There are lots of women who overemphasize the most wrong and brutal sexual signals too. There are lots of women who get wet for hot cars and nice suits.

Those things are their problems, not yours.

The fact that a certain class of woman might have ignored you or misjudge you means nothing. They're working through their own crazy shit just as much as you're trying to work through your own crazy shit. The fact that their crazy might not fit together like Lego blocks with your crazy doesn't mean much. Stop letting it bother you.

11. Stop relaxing and instead just focus on your own ideas.

To really be a man, you need to define your own world and your own sphere of influence. That means cutting the bullshit and building your own fully formed ideas about the world. It means exploring your interests without any regard to what the human race things of them.

12. Embrace the hopelessness of all existence.

Life is meaningless. There is no God and there is no salvation. You will die and be forgotten. Within a few million years at the very, very most, the universe will show no evidence that humanity was ever here. Forget trying to be meaningful or successful in the big and broad sense. Focus on your existence and abandon any delusions of grandeur. It's pointless.

You're not even the tiniest speck on the surface of the tiniest speck. And that's OK.

Someday, this bubble in space-time that we think of us the big and important and totally awesome and relevant universe will collapse. There will be no evidence that any of this horseshit ever happened. So none of it matters.

If you always wanted to know what human flesh tasted like, there's no compelling reason not to give it a try. If you always wondered what it would feel like to jump to your death, have at. Always wanted to be the pivot man in an MMF threeesome? Go for it. Wondering whether a diet of nothing but ketchup is the big breakthrough you need for improved fitness? Bottoms up. Wanna speed? Do it. Think unprotected sex sounds like a swell idea? Do it. Just wanna play video games and eat Doritos until your heart prematurely resigns from play? Enjoy.

That's all a list of shit I don't care to do, but it is all irrelevant and will soon be gone. Don't sweat any of it.

13. I don't particularly want to change.

At my old age, I've realized that however much change I might have in me has already been spent. I don't have it in me to become anything else at this stage in my life. There's not much use in feeling bad about that fact.

One of the biggest realizations of my life was coming to the conclusion that I've managed to completely blow off at least three perfectly marriageable women in my time. Bigger realization: I don't even care.

Does it hurt a bit to think about it? Yeah.

Would I do anything differently if presented a new chance? Nope.

On some level, I simply prefer to be me, even if it means dying alone and childless. It's not some noble battle, either. It's just me being me.

14. No matter how hard you try, you won't achieve all of your goals.

And that's not a bad thing.

If I had the resources to do everything that I wanted and I started going through the list in the most efficient manner possible, I couldn't possibly do it all before I died. There's no reason to feel bad about that fact.

If you leave behind a couple stories for other people to tell about your exploits, then you did well.

Humans are manipulative -- get over it

2015-01-27T14:48:00.005-05:00

I've long had a theory that the whole internet-based men's movement that loosely ties together pick-up arts, men's rights advocates, angry neckbeards, and right-wing "Red Pill" politicos in disguise is ultimately unified by a single thread: autism.

More than anything, I think this entire zeitgeist is driven by autistic individuals coming to the realization that human existence is inherently manipulative. Anyone who works with autistic people in therapeutic situation will tell you that arriving at some understanding that human beings are manipulative is one of the big steps forward that an autistic individual can take.

Where I think thinks turn poisonous in the discussion among these guys is that it tends to be a bit of a half-realization that ends up being exceedingly self-soothing and self-serving. Rather than making the full leap to the concept that, "OK, they're manipulative, I'm manipulative, everyone's manipulative," they tend to lean on the crutch of "women are manipulative because they think its fun, and men are manipulative because women's behavior forces us to be that way."

That's an incredibly childish take on the problem. Even allowing for the idea that women might be more manipulative, there are strong evolutionary reasons why that might be the case. For example, if half of the members of your species are going to have a size and strength advantage against you, it's probably worth your time to develop an asymmetric advantage in order to fucking survive.

Beyond that, it's an astonishingly victim-centered view of oneself to feel that only one of other group of human beings are evil monsters who make you do something that you'd otherwise not do. Exceedingly immature, and worse the political right-wing element that's fostering the men's movement on the internet is leveraging this on a daily basis.

Worse, let's just be honest about autism and manipulation. Autistic people are manipulative. They just really, really suck at it. It's not unusual for males of prime reproductive age to get angry about their own inability to acquire a mate, but this particular subset (autistic, male, internet-heavy, prone to blaming others) is so far the fuck out in left field it's unreal.

The fact that you suck at something and therefore don't do it should not be confused with the idea that you wouldn't do it if you could. I may not be the world's greatest jumper, but that doesn't logically lead to the idea that all people who are good at jumping are engaged in an extant conspiracy to prevent me from dunking a basketball. It's just too much of a logical leap.

Making the whole problem worse is that there's a readership-writer feedback loop of validation. The more times a Red Pill blogger uses the term "hypergamy" (which is just the natural tendency of all human beings to seek the best available mate pairing) the more times he's applauded by commenters and readers for pointing how terrible the women folk are. The readers feel validated, and then the writer feels validated, and that all leads to a feedback loop of circlejerk "hooray for us" crap that doesn't help anyone become a better human being.

At some stage you have to make a bigger leap forward. It's not enough to notice the role that the manipulative behavior of others plays in your life. You have to, in order to be healthy human being, understand that all social existence is inherently manipulative. Anyone who's ever watched a baby cry and then check for its mother to respond knows how much of a bedrock principle this is.

The problem is that ultimately, autistic children with underdeveloped manipulation skills tend to develop strong victim mentalities. There's a feeling of being constantly bullied -- even in situations where it's actually just more normal social interaction. The feeling of bullying is validated by the fact that bullies tend to pick up on autistic kids' lack of social skills and target them. That's all understandable, but if you aim to lead a healthy adult life you're going to have to move beyond that.

It's not enough to glare at the rest of the world saying, "I recognize what all you fuckers are doing." Recognition isn't much. I can recognize that I have cancer, but that recognition hardly is going to save my life all by itself. It takes other steps.

The human ego is incredibly defensive and good at insulating itself from attack. A lot of pathologies ultimately start when an individual lays down that first defensive barrier that's so think that reason will not penetrate it.

There has to come a point where a healthy adult makes the effort look out from their defensive position and see a world that might be worth visiting on occasion. Autistic kids are great at building their own little worlds, and they become adults who do a terrible job of leaving their defensive fortifications for very long -- if at all.

The problem is that if you ever aim to have a healthy interaction with a member of the opposite sex, you're going to have to suck it up and move away from the fortifications. There's more to life than simply defending your ego from harm.

Feeding into an internet monoculture where damaged autistic males sit around discussing how evil women are and how we'll all totally show them is pretty much the worst thing you can do. Yes, there are basic realizations that come with the PUA/Red Pill/MRA ideology that are worth discussing and even incorporating into your worldview.

A lot of it is quite useful on a daily basis. You shouldn't go through life being the bottom bitch to everyone you meet. You shouldn't be cloying in your eagerness to please the opposite sex. You should be aware that other people are trying to manipulate you.

There's nothing wrong with any of that, but it's merely a tool kit. You can't allow yourself to become fixated on the minute details of those working to such an extent that you forget to live an actual life. You have to be bothered to do more than just succeed at approaching a couple girls and maybe get a piece of ass.

The horror of it, at least as far as I can see, is that young men are making a monstrosity out of the very thing that they want.

One of the things the Freud got right -- and despite all the point and laugh factor people have with Freud, he got a lot of shit right despite working at the very dawn of time within his profession -- is that objectifying the opposite sex is an act of aggression toward them. To look at women as monsters because they don't offer you the ready supply of happiness and pussy that you expect is an act of aggression. Like most acts of aggression, it arises from a feeling that active defense is better than taking an ass-kickin'.

If all you feel toward the opposite sex is a need to engage in acts of aggression in order to not be caught defending yourself, you need to get your head straight. No one owes you sex. No one owes you happiness. No one owes you the best mate available. You have to make yourself a person worthy of the things that you want.

Villifying the opposite sex as a bunch of mean and manipulative brutes is dumb. Actively seeking to fuck them as a form of revenge for making you feel that way is creepily Freudian.

You really want to live your life being "creepily Freudian"?

How quickly a woman can switch tempo when she wants a guy

2015-01-16T03:16:00.000-05:00

I was doing a bit of reading -- yes, I've slowed down enough to read this week! -- and came across something discussing the idea that if a woman wants a guy, she won't make him wait. In fact, she'll move mountains to make a piece of ass happen.

This got me to thinking about a specific story.

I have a friend who I like to call the Internet Pimp. For whatever reasons, he's good at online dating. I tried to figure it out once, but I realized that online dating chicks are just the same annoying shit only with more work, lies and distance involved.

Whatever the case, he can pull it off. To a point. Probably his biggest weakness is an unwillingness to commit to a brutally pervish alpha male approach to things, despite the fact that he sure seems to be turning these chicks around on about a two week timeline once he has them properly engaged and pushing toward meeting and sex. He grew up in a very social conservative environment (practicing Catholic, lifelong Republican), so all I can ever guess is that some of his more beta behavior is a self-defense mechanism where he's protecting himself from the truth of his own rather ruthless sexual intentions.

Every so often he manages to get an attractive chick talking. I've seen no evidence that he can close these chicks, but just hooking a non land whale into a convo through an online dating site is in point of fact an accomplishment.

I hang around his place enough that I get mentioned pretty often in these convos in the form of "I have a friend here". Every now and then a rather frisky chick will ask for a pic (yes, single women know no bounds of rudeness). I'm not a fan of this stuff, but that doesn't mean I'm not willing to have a few predictable laughs at a chick's expense. This, however, gives rise to one of the more, "Wow, I did not realize how stupid women can be in the pursuit of dick," moments.

He was talking with this chick who works at a federal law enforcement agency in an in-the-field capacity. The friend thing came up, and the pic thing came up, and suffice it to say she went full retard.

She wanted to chat me up a bit, but I took a pass, so he just opted to annoy me on here behalf (did I mention he can do some obnoxiously beta things?). Being who I am, I just blew it off and responded to the questions in pretty much my standard form: treating her like a non-entity, an idiot and a total piece of shit.

Within two hours this evolved into her offering to travel more than two hours at that exact moment. Beyond that, she indicated that she'd use government resources to do it! Apparently she was in a position within law enforcement where she could insinuate herself into local happenings and use that as an excuse to travel on the government's dime whenever she wanted. (Yes, these are the people protecting you.)

Aside from the fact that fucking a federal agent seems like a pretty obvious "no" to me, I thought the whole eagerness to meet factor was creepy as fuck. I'm all for telling women that their behavior is creepy. They don't get told it enough.

She kept pushing the issue, so I finally told him to tell her that if she's that hard up for a piece of ass, I'm sure we could just order her a male prostitute in her area and save her some travel. She tried to laugh it off as impractical and haha, but I noted that wherever there's a federal presence of any size there's definitely going to be prostitutes of all genders and orientations available for ready exploitation.

She took umbrage to this, and he brushed it off as me having a strange sense of humor. (I do, but that's not what this was about. I just don't like encouraging women's creepier tendencies.)

The conversation subsided. Several days later, he saw me and said, "You know that chick asked about you again. She wanted to know how you're doing."

I asked, "What did you tell her?"

He replied, "I told you're my friend, not my kid. I don't keep track of how you're doing."

I'm pretty sure sometimes he engages in these exchanges just for the benefit of taking notes on how I respond to women, because that response seemed like a significant and sudden upgrade for a guy who had recently humored her attempt to bypass him and seek his friend's attentions.

What's funny is that he told me he had been trying to work her over for two months. Further proof that a woman isn't willing to advance toward the finish line, cut her loose.

I, of course being an arrogant bastard, thought the whole thing was funny. He couldn't get her to agree to anything in two months, but all I had to do was treat her like dirt for a little while and she was offering to use government resources to come meet me right away.

That's your ladyfolk for ya. Thoughtful, kind, well-adjusted, decent and capable . . . right up until a mean boy who they want to fuck refuses to give them the attention that they seek. Then they turn into corrupt, dangerous idiots who are willing to commit a federal offense and lose their jobs.

It doesn't paint a reassuring portrait of the fairer sex, but it certainly explains a lot of bullshit.

Dropping by to say hello

2015-01-16T02:49:00.000-05:00

My apologies to folks who were regular readers. I managed to dig myself pretty deeply into a major math project that's had my attention since the middle of the fall.

Being Mr. Darcy

2014-08-23T02:46:00.002-04:00

There are times when I realize precisely how very fucking little men even bother to try to understand women. Want proof? How about the Jane Austen classic romance novel (and satire, if you're inclined to believe the feminists and the lit geeks) Pride and Prejudice.

Pride and Prejudice is basically a weapons manual that explains how to unlock the full power of the human pussy. Or a story of social moorings and love blooming in the face of initial rejection. But really it's a how-to guide for getting women wet, and that's why it's lasted more than 200 years.

Pride and Prejudice is a parallel story about two relationships, but there is literally not a woman on earth who gives a fuck about anything except the one relationship. The relationship that gets women wet for a 200-year-old fuck fantasy is between Lizzy and Mr. Darcy. Lizzy meets Mr. Darcy at a social gathering and he pretty much treats her like dirt. In fact, that's the entire theme of the book. Mr. Darcy basically calls her an unfuckable pig in polite, early 19th Century terms. Again and again and again. Even when he fuckin' proposes to her he tells her that's she's "reprehensible" and pretty much a worthless and unfuckable lump of unwanted carbon and water.

Here's the real punchline: women fucking worship this novel. I've read reviews of Pride and Prejudice that actually lament that men don't read it! The crux of such reviews is basically that men would know how to romance a girl if they read Pride and Prejudice.

A reminder: Pride and Prejudice puts the worst of PUA game to fucking shame for its raw and hateful view of women. Lizzy is treated like dogshit even at the high points of her relationship with Mr. Darcy. He constantly explains to her again and again and again what a seriously unfuckable manbearpig she is. And the more he does it, the more swoon-worthy he becomes to her.

Of course he goes off and does manly things. Hell, he even does nice things. And then he turns around and pretty much says, "There ya go, you worthless, unfuckable pig on two legs."

Being Mr. Darcy

I've been called Mr. Darcy on multiple occasions by women. I tend to find that a bit funny for two reasons.

One is my raw and abiding hatred for 19th Century English romance novels. I cannot express how very fucking much I'd like to desecrate the graves of the Bronte sisters. I hated 11th grade English for the specific reason that between Bobby Burns and Jane Eyre that I became convinced there was zero redeeming value to anything literary that had floated over from the British Isles. Thankfully, we did Shakespeare in 10th grade at my school, so he managed to be quarantined from the shit mess of terrible English lit that followed him. Seriously, folks, once men stopped wearing bloomers, writing in Britain went to hell.

Two is that I'm not an insulting guy at all. I'm just distant and difficult and more than a tad inaccessible. When I read Mr. Darcy, I just don't see much of myself there. He's an overtly offensive human being and very direct in his rejections. That's not me. I just leave everything in a very information-poor environment, where a chick is never going to really know anything of whether I may or may not like her.

I have, however, gotten the Mr. Darcy comment (compliment?) often enough that I know that it's salient at least to those women who dig that. Probably the biggest kick I ever got out of it was when a chick who was a couple years younger than me (I'm 36 these days . . . fuck I'm old) made the Mr. Darcy comment and really acted like she had simply said the most novel thing that anyone had ever uttered. She crashed down pretty hard when I told her that lots of women said it, and that first chick I recalled saying it to me was just out high school. (For reference, the Mr. Darcy remark didn't start appearing until I learned some game in my 30s.)

Mr. Darcy has classic push-pull jerkboy game going for him. I suspect that he's someone who'd be considered autistic spectrum these days. He has socioeconomic status, treats everyone at parties like shit . . . UNTIL!!! . . . after having been criticized by Lizzy he decides to play nice for no readily apparent fucking reason. Of course, despite having repeatedly called Lizzy the most worthless pig that ever stuck her snout in a trough to hog down some slops, Mr. Darcy slowly takes an interest in Lizzy.

Yup . . . Pride and Prejudice is basically the worst form of girl porn possible. It's the core "I'm so worthless but somehow a handsome stranger with some bank suddenly takes an interest in me despite my clear and present worthlessness" fantasy that pervades all good pussy-wetting novels. Total bullshit, of course. I mean, a guy can be a bit bit distant and perhaps take an interest you. I know that from personal experience. And a guy can warm up to you. But, if he's treating you like dogshit from day one and clearly stating that he wouldn't fuck you with a ten-foot pole, then there's no hope.

What Mr. Darcy really teaches us, from a game perspective, is the importance of engagement. Women don't care what vile shit you say to them. They just care that you're interested and present. In fact, constantly trashing them while remaining engaged is an intoxicating mix.

Not Being Mr. Darcy

As I mentioned, I don't see myself as Mr. Darcy. My approach to women is to never give them anything to hang their hopes on, good or bad. I like to watch women swing helpless in the wind, hoping that I'll somehow wake up from my disinterest. I'm typically friendly enough that they don't feel hated, but I'm also unengaged enough that they don't feel like they're the object of any of my fantasies.

The worst part about me is that I can like a chick and then completely forget about her. I can remember this one girl who worked at the grocery store deli that I regularly go to. Pretty girl but with a lot of slightly off features that certainly could feed into a low sense of self-esteem, especially in girl world. Small-chested, skinny, a bit lanky and awkward, a bit of an over-bite, a bit drowsy-eyed . . . but a very pretty girl. In fact, the type that modern modeling agencies love to find. She was always very enthusiastic when she saw saw me. I liked her, but the impression never stuck with me. Every time I saw her I was kind of taken aback, because I always managed to completely forget about her.

The one day I managed to run into her at the deli on an off-day. She was there as a customer. And I could see her instantly go into "oh-shit-oh-shit, dammit, play it cool" mode when she spotted me.

A normal and sane person would of course take this as his opportunity to pipe up. And she was giving every indicate of interest. Looking then looking away. Play with her hair. Adjusting her outfit. For her, this was clearly game time. The barrier of the counter was removed. The limitations of talk to a customer were removed. I could easily tell that she thought that this was her big chance.

I am of course not a sane or stable person. Watching a woman squirm and start to hate herself because I don't engage her the way she wants is precisely what gets me off. I have a weird gift for timing things well across long distances to ensure that I extract maximum torture value out of ignoring a chick. In that spirit, I managed to run into her again at the check out line, and she set to trying to show interest again. I, of course, once again ignored her.

Needless to say, the next time I saw her at the deli counter, she was less-than-enthused.

Perhaps I'm a covert Mr. Darcy

The one thing I will say is that it rarely matters what you do or do not say to a woman. What matters is how you make her feel. In that regard, perhaps the Mr. Darcy tag applies better than I'd like to admit. I'm very good at making a woman feel like dogshit. I just do it in a much more subtle fashion.

It's a very weird form of passive aggression. Trust me, I get that. The thing is, if you really want a woman to feel like dirt, you can't mistreat her. That just doesn't work, as Mr. Darcy proves in Pride and Prejudice. Women are typically submissive and emotionally enslaved by nature, and they'll take whatever scraps of attention they can get from a guy if he finds them attractive. You'll watch women kiss a guy's ass no matter how filthy he treats -- you can break a woman's eye socket and she'll love you simply because of how powerful your feelings are. Your raw anger makes her feel better about herself, even if you leave her looking like she went through a car wreck.

What really drags a woman down is nothing. Just pure nothing. Nothing good. Nothing bad. Just fucking nothing. Nothing to latch onto. Nothing to hang her hopes on. No hatred. No love. No interest. Not even on the radar screen. Treat her like a complete non-entity.

It occurs to me that the Mr. Darcy characterization is an attempt to rehabilitate me from being Captain Nothing. It's like doing auto body work on a really rusted out panel. If you had any goddamned sense, you'd just replace it, but . . . instead you put a mesh over it, apply filler and make it work. Build it up, prime it, paint it, wax it and make that fucker look like new.

That's what I think women are trying to do with me when they drop the Mr. Darcy remark on me. They're using the jerkboy template to fill the big, rusty gap between what I want (to kill their souls by keeping them tethered to a hopeless attraction to a guy who gives them nothing) and what they want. They jam Mr. Darcy in there because it gives them something to hang their hopes on. After all, that's what the Mr. Darcy archetype is all about -- the sexiness of just hoping and willing an attractive man of means into fucking you.

I probably should just learn to take it as a compliment, but it just runs so fucking counter to what impels me.

Howdy

2014-07-19T13:30:00.001-04:00

I haven't posted for a while. Figured I'd drop by to let anyone who reads this stuff know that I'm still alive.

I haven't posted largely because where I'm at in life right now defies being put into this format. Not seriously dating -- no worries there, I'm still more than emotionally unplugged enough that there isn't going to be a sudden "OMFG" moment where my life changes. I'm debating whether and how I want to post what's going on. Until I resolve that debate, there's likely not going to be much to post.

Gender difference

2014-06-05T00:55:00.003-04:00

Something I've been trying for quite a while to try to figure out how to communicate to other people is the idea that while I believe in gender differences, and I may even be more than a tad sexist, I don't feel that women are inferior to men. The thing is . . . I feel like the difference between men and women is radical enough in human beings that you can't treat men vs women as an apples-to-apples comparison. And I think I've largely come up with an apt and rather labored metaphor for explaining it.

Think of the relative intelligence of a crow versus an octopus. Both are pretty goddamned clever animals. But they're also very different and very adapted to specific purposes. A crow is not inferior to an octopus or vice versa. Even if you wanted to prove the point, they're just so radically different as to defy comparison.

Men and women are adapted to different purposes. For whatever reasons, evolution has made humans one of the species where there are very obvious differences between the two genders. Those adaptations make men and women different enough that you can't meaningfully ask them to be or do the similar things and expect similar results.

None of that is bad in itself. Someone does need to take risks. Someone does need to raise their hand and ask, "Does anyone else think this might be a stupid idea?" Yin and yang are wonderful things.

A great deal of social engineering effort has been committed to changing the dynamic between men and women as genders. And not only has it largely been to no avail, I think you can argue that feminism has largely backfired on those who wished for greater equality. While the sexual revolution provided gains that shouldn't be reversed (trust me, I ain't livin in a world without birth control!) it also did almost nothing to ding the basic dynamic of submissive women seeking male mates who are dominant. If anything, by pacifying the weaker and more middling males, it only accentuated the gap between aggressive men and non-aggressive men.

But here's the thing . . . reflect on other social engineering projects. For example, look at the painfully slow process of freeing black folks in America. For good or ill, the dynamic between white folks and black folks in America changed. In fact, the dynamic of race changed so radically that whole groups who never appeared in America, such as South Asians, are here now.

Whatever you think of racial social engineering projects, you cannot deny that they radically changed the dynamic. Once you did away with the presumption of white dominance, black submission was thrown out the window pretty hard -- even in the face of rather violent blowback, first in the form of counter-demonstrations and killings in the 60s, and later in the form of tacit oppression through the use of the police in the 80s and 90s.

Conversely, social engineering and awareness as applied to gender doesn't seem to have done a hell of a lot. In the last decade especially, it appears that women are openly drifting back toward submission. The only thing that feminism and sexual revolution really did was afford women a larger window of opportunity for seeking a mate. The actual idealized mate that women choose has not meaningfully changed. He's still basically 6'2" tall, white, 180 lbs, educated, aggressive, successful. If you took the image of Christian Grey, packed him in a time machine, and sent him back to 1950, the lady folk of the time would have no issue hitting on him.

Where racial social engineering projects have yielded massive changes within a limited time, gender-based social engineering has simply moved the existing dynamic into a larger playing field. While the results of feminism aren't going away, it's quite clear that a fourth-wave form of feminism isn't coming. Women have largely cherry picked the victories that they like (birth control, working in their 20s, starting families late) while casting aside the things they don't care for (actual equality). They've essentially leveraged feminism in order to play a long version of the game as it existed before birth control. But at the end of the day, it's still the same game.

That's not a good thing or a bad thing. Evolution is agnostic. Evolution don't give a fuck. But it's important to realize that gender differences are significant enough that social engineering not only doesn't seem to change them, but it appears to have actually amplified them.

The core difference between men and women

2014-04-26T13:52:00.001-04:00

For women life is something that happens to them.

For men -- and here I mean the 20% or so who are dominant men, but those are the only men who count as men as far as women are concerned -- life is something that they make happen.

It's a fine difference, but it lens out into a major difference with time and repetition due the rewards of aggression. If you wait for life to happen to you, you are unlikely to accrue any wins beyond those that nature blesses you with due to biology. You can cheat a little here and there, but at the end of the equation small cheats don't accrue wins.

Ultimately this is why dominant men run the world.

Good advice from a PUA blog

2014-03-23T13:50:00.000-04:00

http://thisistrouble.com/2014/03/23/hacking-your-sexual-marketplace-value-as-a-male/

The money quote . . .

A girl by herself does not care if you are an inspiring writer, or want to travel the world. But, she would love to show off to her friends what an ambitious, reach-for-the-stars kind of guy you are.

I haven't posted much lately, but this reminded me of a first date experience I had recently. I'm a big believer in salsa dancing as a first date. To start with, even if your data flakes on you, you're going to an event that's going to be like 70% female. It shows culture, sexiness, a willingness to engage in fun activities. Salsa dancing is killer. (Also, I'm an NFL-size white guy who people tend to incorrectly peg as kinda of conservative, so it tends to just blow the doors of assumptions.)

Anyhoo . . . my last real first date I went on a couple weeks ago I took salsa dancing. Needless to say, yeah, I closed that deal. But that's not the point of this post.

One of the first things my date did after we finalized our plans was to post it repeatedly on her Facebook wall. Straight up "hah! bitches! I gots me a man to take me salsa dancin so fucks youz!!!" type post. OK, not that loud, but in girl logic, bombing your friends with the great shit a guy does for you is pretty much always a polite way of screaming "ha bitches!"

It's good advice to model yourself into something that she can show off to her friends. I'm not wild about a lot of the PUA advice out there, but it's important to realize that women prefer their male partners to be success objects that they can exhibit to their friends in the form of "ha bitches!"

Sorry for the slow posting

2014-03-05T13:17:00.001-05:00

I've actually been off having too much work and too many adventures to really post. Not much has changed in my worldview from those adventures, but a few have reinforced some attitudes that I already had.

When I get a chance, I shall try to fire those up.

I should rename the blog

2014-01-18T22:30:00.004-05:00

I think we should start calling the blog "Ragefest for Bitches Who're Angry About Guys Being Mean to Them and Are Going to Yell at the Aloof Guy Since That Sexy, Distant Guy They're Pining for Stopped Returning Her Texts".

OMFG, ladies . . . please . . . shut . . . the fuck . . . up.

I get it. You're going to say a bunch of mean shit to me because I made you haz a sad by telling you the truth about men being mean to you.

Seriously, if you have nothing valid to contribute but your own rage and your desire to put me in my place by telling me that I'm a nice little boy who you'd chew up and spit out, please, please consider giving your vibrator one more hit and then curling up with your cat while reading 50 Shades for the fifth time in a year.

2014 state of the blog

2014-01-12T23:06:00.001-05:00

I never imagined that this blog would attract any attention. Much of my reasoning for writing what I write is to just barf it out there. So I'm always mildly amused, impressed, and weirded out when other people try to make sense of it.

I figure the blog's been up a while, and it might be worth going over some thoughts about where it's at now . . . here goes . . .

So many female readers

If there's one thing that disturbs me most, it's that this blog attracts a largely female readership. Nothing here is written from a female perspective or for a female audience. So the only reasonable answer I can imagine for why that might be is that a lot of women have a taste for angry, distant men that treat them like shit. Not that that's a particularly novel discovery, but it never quite ceases to amaze me.

Upset female readers

When I say this, I'm mostly referring to this post: Why are men so aloof and mean to the the girls they love?

One thing that really pisses me off about the female readership of this blog is that they're not looking for any real insights into dealing with a real relationship. They're just hoping that someone will hand them a quick trick for unlocking some aloof guy who they wanna bang.

It's disappointing. As this blog goes along, it becomes more and more a cautionary tale.

Except that begs the question, "Who the fuck am I bothering to caution?"

It's not like women want to be cautioned. When a chick wants to fuck a guy -- and especially when she wants to unlock an aloof guy and fuck him -- all bets are off. Women complain that men only have enough blood to operate their brain or their dick at any one time, but I've seen little evidence that women are any better. Guys may get stupid for more random girls, but when women get stupid for a specific guy it's pretty goddamned scary compared to how guys are.

I do wish they'd take some time to appreciate that it's not my job to help them better embrace their own pathology.

What the hell are the male reader doing?

This blog may be written from a male perspective, but I honestly have no fucking clue what most of the male readers are up to.

My anger toward women who've been in my life

It never fails to astonish me how little women hold men accountable. For that matter, how little accountability figures into anything that women do when they like a guy. Sometimes I'm just thankful that I'm more of an avoidant than a sociopath, because I could leave behind a serious trail of wreckage if I were so inclined.

It's depressing because there comes a point where you simply realize that women serve no policing function in their own sex lives. They just don't give a fuck. If they want the guy, there's no limit to where they'll allow the game to go. It makes it hard, as a man, to look at women with any level of respect at all. Women simply don't take ownership of their sex lives or their relationships in any form.

If everything in your world lands at my doorstep, then please be aware that I consider the people who put those things at my doorstep to be complete pieces of shit. It is not possible to respect a person who doesn't take ownership of their own life. By definition, that means that it is not possible to respect the overwhelming majority of adult women.

Everything in a relationship stops with how a woman feels toward a guy on a sexual level. If he keeps her in a terrible emotional state, but she's still aroused by him, then nothing else matters. Frankly, it makes it very hard to see women as anything except the suppliers of a warm hole.

Mind you, outside the relationship arena I believe women have immense value. There are whole industries that I believe should be turned completely over to women (banking, in particular). Successful female leaders are generally of greater value to society than successful male leaders. Competent women are very useful creatures.

Just . . . for the love of gawd I wish the female sexual response worked in a manner more conducive to modern living.

My own aloofness

I would like to say it has improved. It hasn't. It's gotten worse.

I cannot bring myself to take the idea of a meaningful, long-term relationship with a woman seriously. Honestly? At this point in my life I find women so unbelievably laughable that I cannot picture allowing one to stake claim to half of my shit or have any say in how I go about my life. I have no clue why anyone would allow that to happen to themselves.

To be blunt, women are highly interchangeable. I could easily count on one hand the number of women I've known who I even remotely think were worth my time.

In truth, I simply do not get what the value proposition is supposed to be. What the hell use is a woman in a man's personal life? Why would any man want a relationship? I just don't see it. You're welcome to answer those questions in the comments.