The Best Of Roosh is a compilation of my 90 best blog posts published between August 2006 and January 2013, from a total of 1,742 that were written. They include topics on game, dating, sex, self-improvement, lifestyle, feminism, American culture, and travel.

Here is a sample of 15 titles included in the compilation:

• Two Things That Tight Game Comes Down To
• Anger Is An Aphrodisiac To Women
• The Secret To Getting Laid
• How To Deal With Crippling Approach Anxiety
• 7 Signs You Should Approach A Girl
• The 9 Immutable Laws Of Pickup
• Warning Signs A Girl Isn’t Worth A Relationship
• How To Cheat On Your Girlfriend Without Getting Caught
• The Secret To Fast Sex
• It’s Better To Have Guts Than Brains
• The United States Of Broken Women
• You Can’t Get Laid In The United States
• The Three Components Of Female Beauty
• Feminism Killed The Nice Guy
• How Culture Affects Game

The ideas, advice, and analysis in this compilation represent both a celebration and examination of masculinity and male achievement while rejecting Western society’s push to androgynize and marginalize men.

All included posts have been digitally remastered for your reading pleasure. The paperback is available from Amazon for $13.87, the Kindle edition is $2.99, and the PDF edition is free (supported with plugs for four of my previous books). Click one of the following links to continue:

• Read sample pages from the book
• Order your paperback or Kindle copy
• Download free PDF edition

Web sites come and go so I wanted to create this compilation as a way to allow my best blog work to endure. I also think the compilation serves as a good introduction to game and the red pill. Let me know what you think.

P.S. My newest book is called 30 Bangs. It's about 30 of my bangs. Click here to learn more about the book.

USA: She was a virgin with a pear-shaped body, the type of girl that I wouldn’t even notice today, let alone have sex with.

2. The easiest way to get a flag in America is to to go to salsa clubs. You don’t even need to know how to salsa, though it wouldn’t hurt. From this you’ll start meeting foreign students, interns, and international development workers that offer a gateway to Latin flags.

Czech: She was petite, but I didn’t appreciate her dimensions at the time because I was brainwashed to believe that women should have meat (i.e., fat) on their bones. It would take some time until I would hunt for petite women almost exclusively.

3. If you’re flagging in your own country, stick to your own country’s game. If she liked her own beta men, chances are she wouldn’t have left her country in the first place. She must adapt to your game and your sex speed, not the other way around.

Philippines: Her pussy was incredibly tight. I don’t think I lasted more than a minute. I pretended I didn’t come so she wouldn’t think I was a poor lover.

4. If she’s talking to you, a foreigner, it means she’s adventurous. She likes different cultures and travel. Therefore tell her stories about culture and travel. Definitely don’t drone about how you are a stable man who cares about family and office work.

Puerto Rico: She was feminine, sweet, and the first girl to ever cook for me. I went to South America partly because of my positive experience with her.

5. Erase a big game mistake by blaming your culture. If you make an error that pushes her away, tell her this is how things are done in your country and that she should be more open-minded. You can use this get-out-of-jail-free card only once.

Argentina: A bang that came after a month of heavy labor with Australian guys in a dingy Cordoba hostel. She was blonde and an English teacher. It was my first time having sex in a love motel.

6. Save the rough sex for later. While foreign girls may love vigorous sex, they prefer a lot less abuse than American girls, who don’t mind that you begin choking upon first penetration. Even hair pulling may be too much right away.

Brazil: The most beautiful girl I’ve fucked. If anyone sealed the deal in my exit from America, it was her. Sadly, she has since become a Facebook addict.

7. Select wingmen based on looks, not on skill. When you’re in America, you want a wingman who can disarm cockblockers and take one for the team, but when you’re abroad, what you want is attention. You want women to have eyes on you and to clearly notice you are an exotic man. Having a good-looking wingman accomplishes this.

Colombia: A one-night stand where she cried afterwards. I would later see her around and it was clear I was not the only gringo she had slept with.

8. Keep your openers simple. Two openers that don’t fail abroad: (1) “You look like you speak English,” and (2) “You don’t look like you are from here.” Ramble for a minute until she asks you where you’re from.

United Arab Emirates: My biggest cheat flag—a super blonde Italian girl born in the desert to diplomatic parents. She was very beautiful but I got needy and then she dumped me.

9. Tell stories that make her seem like a prude compared to your own girls. To duplicate the fast sex speed of American girls, I told foreign women how “sex is super quick” and “everyone is a slut” back home, as if sex is just about anonymous. This makes her relieved that she is not the easiest girl you have been with.

Spain: A doctor attending a month-long course in DC. She had a sexy accent and long, curly hair. She found out about my blog a day before I went to Iceland and cried on the phone.

10. The kiss has less meaning. For some cultures, the kiss is not as important as a prelude to sex as in America. What’s more important is getting her back to your place, whether you kissed before or not. That said, I like to do at least a short kiss before inviting her back just to make sure I’m not completely surprised once she comes over.

Iceland: A slut approached me when I was walking home from the club, a mere 100 feet from my apartment door. It was the easiest bang of my life.

11. If she asks if you want to have a cigarette, say yes. This applies even if you don’t smoke. For girls who smoke (and there’s a lot of them in European countries), smoking is a great rapport builder that will increase your notch count. When a girl offers you a cigarette, enter flavor country with enthusiasm. I’ve lost out on at least three possible bangs from saying no.

Denmark: I was in a coffee shop, slightly depressed that I committed two months to such a lame country. A blonde flight attendant approached me as I was leaving. We later went to my house to drop off my bag, but we never made it back out.

12. Stick to your core competency. If you are good at day game, stick to day game. If you’re good at night game, go to the clubs. You will be tempted to throw away everything you know about women when in a new place, but your existing knowledge is the foundation for foreign success. Simply make micro-adjustments after every few approaches. Therefore the more approaches you do, the quicker you’ll understand the local women.

Poland: She rejected me before she fucked me. I thought I was out of the running but I saw her in the unisex bathroom and she smiled. I smiled later in he bed, and for six months in Poland thereafter.

13. Talk about what she knows. I can’t guarantee that the foreign women you’ll meet will be smart and chatty, but I can tell you they’ll be knowledgeable about their own culture. Ask her questions about her food, drink, history, women, men, religion, and so on.

Latvia: She approached me while I was suited up and asked why I had a terrorist beard. Later, I fucked her like a terrorist.

14. The better you can get laid in America, the higher value you have abroad. Women of the world like confident men who approach them and know how to seal the deal. If you can do it in America, then chances are you can do it in other countries with occasional adjustments. Guys who fail to work on their game in tough environments are in for a disappointment when they step foot in another country thinking it will be obviously easier.

Estonia: She was unhappy with her relationship and was looking for adventure. I gave her adventure on my bed, and on my couch, and on the kitchen counter. Her face was very pleasant to look at.

15. Dates have more meaning abroad. Foreign girls are more likely to pay attention to you and consider you for sex if they show up for dates, unlike in America where you’re more a mechanism for validation or fodder for her dating blog. This is why one-night stands are less of a necessity, but always be mindful about how you’re going to transition her from the date venue to your room. If you are unable to afford a private room, work on your money game first.

Lithuania: I met her close to last call and banged her in under an hour. I regretted raw dogging her, but her body was nice.

16. Less travel is more. Until you have time and money to do major expeditions over the course of months, it’s best to limit your travel speed to no more than one city per week, and even that is fast. If your game is average, you should commit 10-14 days in one city. You will surely encounter difficulty in whichever city you pick and be tempted to go somewhere else that you feel may be easier, but the correct move is to stay and make it work with the full force of your character and effort.

Ukraine: I met her on International Woman’s Day and smashed on the first date. We talked only in Russian.

17. You will have to talk more. Foreign girls don’t give you the chat quantity that American girls give (if she does then something is probably wrong with her). You will also be dealing with girls who are more accepting of silences than you are. Understand that your culture has trained you to abhor silence, and if you keep this belief with a foreign woman, you will come across as a goof. Let the pause sink in for a few seconds to give her an opportunity to break it. If not, ask her an open-ended question.

Iran: A freebie flag. She was a horny girl who approached me with a mild insult. I didn’t care that she was on her period.

18. American-style bars in foreign countries have the ugliest women. As much as I hate clubs that are rocking the David Guetta playlist, these are the places where beautiful women go. I highly recommend these earplugs, which I credit for keeping me in night game longer than I had planned. If you don’t see yourself as a club guy, put in 2-4 hour day game sessions where you hit the malls, supermarkets, universities, bookstores, and public squares.

Finland: Sweet girl who took quite a while to bang by Scandinavian standards (over two hours). We kept in touch for months until I realized I was never going back to Finland.

19. Aim a little low. I know you want to get with the girls who wow you right off the plane, but you must crawl before you can walk. Banging foreign girls is like any other skill where success builds upon success to form mastery. There is no shame in a 5 or 6 flag. Use that flag as research to get better the next time. On the bright side, what a foreign woman may lack in looks will be more than made up for in femininity and sweetness. A foreign 6 is like an American 8.

Sweden: The best blowjob of my life. My ensuring bedroom performance was not satisfactory so she kicked me out.

20. Foreign girls care much less about money than you think. There is a long line of guys who went abroad with the intention to impress women with cash but came away completely empty-handed. Bragging to a foreign woman turns them off just as much as American women. It’s fine to insinuate that you are a man of means, but don’t expect money to get the pussy wet. The four main techniques for your flag should instead be: (1) approaching, (2) good ramble, (3) willingness to escalate, and (4) logistics. The best use of your money is locking up the best logistics you possibly can.

Norway: She was on the pill and let me blast inside. I filled her up four times. I’m glad I gave her a fake name.

21. Foreign girls don’t need to be as drunk as American girls to have sex. You don’t need to be as concerned about plying them with drink. I’ve banged many Euro girls who weren’t impaired in the slightest, and it continues to surprise me how a simple coffee date can lead to passionate sex. In fact, I try not to get them too drunk because they become less interesting and more sloppy.

England: A virgin one-night stand, my first. She was ultra feminine but sarcastic at the same time. The contrast kept me interested, until it no longer did.

22. It’s more acceptable to buy a foreign girl a drink, but don’t go nuts. Only do it when you want to a enjoy a drink with her, not because you think the drink will create attraction. If you get too loose with your wallet, you give her a green light to use you just like an American girl would. You have only yourself to blame when you put out the signal that you’re wiling to give without receiving.

Germany: She was a tall, sturdy girl who refused to come to my place. I tried to fuck her in the woods but she refused. She finally did come over and I was surprised at the tightness of her pussy.

23. Put your logistics on steroids. In the first week within a city, approach full-time and identify the spots where girls are most receptive to you, whether it’s a day or night venue. Then go on Airbnb or Booking.com and book an apartment that is mere feet away from that spot. I did this in Zagreb to achieve two new notches in one night, the first time I’ve done so.

Croatia: A nursing student who loved men with beards. She had jet black hair and slutty skin. I had to call her for a repeat because of her loud yells that suggested my penis was having a strong impact.

24. A basic apartment is better than a flashy hotel. The former says “possible businessman” while the latter says “weekend tourist.” You want to suggest permanence to foreign women who are more relationship minded than Americans. Plus apartments are cheaper, you can cook your own meals, and comfortably watch a movie with your girl on the couch.

Italy: I approached her on the street asking for a good bar. I’ve heard nightmares about how hard Italian girls are, but it was only 3 hours from meet-to-bang.

25. Be vague about how long you are staying. The dark side of flagging is that being 100% honest about your travel plans will cost you bangs. I’m not urging you to lie, but let her imagination fill in the gaps with what she wants to believe. Say things like, “I’m staying here” or “I’m looking for a long-term apartment” or “I have to travel to another city in a few days before coming back.” Honesty is fine for sluts, but the sweeter girls won’t really consider a man who will leave in a couple days.

Romania: I banged her on the first date. The approach was broadcasted on Romanian television.

These 25 tips will serve as my personal guide for the next 25 flags that I suspect will take me many more years to achieve. While you can get flags in your own country, especially if you live in a cosmopolitan city, you’ll get more satisfaction from flagging on foreign soil, not unlike how brave conquerors of the past left home with no idea of when—or if—they’d return.

Read Next: How To Get A Flag In 5 Days Without Pipelining

P.S. My newest book is called 30 Bangs. It's about 30 of my bangs. Click here to learn more about the book.

Even though I’ve long been aware of the corrupting influence of Western culture, I believed the properties of water were in part tied to its location, that water from the East could mimic by only a small degree water from the West, but never be just like it. I was less experienced when I had this belief, for now I know better. Water that has been boiled into steam still has the molecular properties of water, and once the atoms cool down, it will readily take up its more familiar form.

Both of my eyes opened after my first month in Poland. The women astonished me with their sweetness, femininity, and reliability. It’s true that the ones who had spent time in the West were less sweet and less feminine, but they were still miles ahead of girls who grew up there. The influence of the West, I figured, was self-limiting, and that girls with sweet natures were sweet from birth.

Two years later I went back to Poland, but this time in Warsaw. It’s the capital city with expensive clubs, heightened competition from a strong need to prove oneself, and lots of guys. I saw ratios worse than Washington DC. Polish girls, who I believed had genetic sweetness, were asking me to buy them drinks with not a care about getting to know me. “Are both of your parents Polish?” I would ask. And their parents as well. Girls danced with their phones in their hands, checking Facebook every minute. They gave me their number with no intention to hang out. This was not the Poland I remembered.

The problem was easy for me to diagnose: the vibe of the capital city and the unfavorable demographics created the Toronto of Eastern Europe. It’s no big deal, really, because these macro factors can be ignored by going to a different city. I went three hours east by bus and soon received the Polish sexual pleasure that I originally came back for.

Water takes the shape of the container it fills.

Usually I would go to a country and stay in the city I land in for two months, but this has led to some unpleasant stays so I tried a new strategy in Romania—one week in several cities to reconnoiter before reaching a decision on where to stay for two months or longer. After three weeks of travel, I concluded that Bucharest was the baseline, Cluj in the northwest was below, and Iasi, for a man who lives for the second-tier, was above.

No girl in Cluj asked me to buy her a drink, but two girls yelled at me. One because I didn’t move from her “spot” in the bar and another for a trivial reason that I forgot as soon as her neck cocked back and forth while yelling at me like she was a black American girl. What caused them to get so angry at me when no girl in Bucharest or Iasi have even given me a sneer? It’s the same country—are they not raised from the same stock? Or was it simply that the local conditions of Cluj, which had a surplus of men from all over Europe, allowed girls to behave in such a way but still get what they wanted? Would a girl display a single negative trait if it prevented her from finding a good man or living a comfortable life?

Water takes the shape of the container it fills.

I appeared on four separate Romanian TV channels, soaking in local fame, trying to get easy lays. I was recognized more times in the ensuing two months than I ever have in Washington DC. When a girl stared at me, I wasn’t sure why she was looking, but I hoped it was because she knew of me, and it would help get into her pants as in the fashion of American celebrity culture. Very early on I get a big surprise—girls who knew of me and my writing played some of the hardest, most lethal game I’ve seen in my life. One girl stood me up. Another was testing me to the point of frustration, as kind as I was to her. Another tried to put words in my mouth, serving up challenges when I wasn’t doing the same. And then I would meet a girl who did not know me, often in the same venue, and she would be the nicest girl in the world, not unlike my first experience in Poland. I have no doubt that the girls who acted bitchy to me would be sweet to the next guy that came along afterwards, suggesting there was a sort of switch that women could flick depending on the circumstance they found themselves in and the man they were meeting.

Water takes the shape of the container it fills.

Women are not born wearing heels. They are not born with the knowledge to take care of long hair or how to put on makeup. They are not born ready to honor their commitments. Such women are made, but even after that making, both macro environments and micro triggers will release what you do not want to be released, because within every woman on this planet, regardless of her education or background, is a bitch, a cunt, a slut, a golddigger, a flake, a cheater, a backstabber, a narcissist, and an attention whore that is dying to get out and that, if certain conditions arise and she is placed in a certain container at a certain temperature, will thrust her worst upon you, and this, I’m afraid, is the true nature of women. This is the true nature that will come forth if society doesn’t put constraints or limitations on a woman’s behavior and choice.

There is no other conclusion that I can arrive at when I’ve witnessed how easily women degrade into this negative condition, and—more importantly—how much they love it. How with just a little bit of practice, women love being a bitch, love attention whoring, and love exerting any bit of power they have over men to validate themselves and feed their starving self-esteem, to see men not as men but items in a supermarket that they can shop through at their leisure. If they happen to be in a sour mood, they wouldn’t hesitate to abandon a full cart of groceries and walk out, letting the stock boy put everything back on the shelves, not at all concerned about the increased headache she created for him.

Free from the shackles of acting within traditional sex roles, all women of the world would much rather act like a lazy sailor than a prim and proper lady as long as male attention continues to flow—even women who have been a lady for most of their lives, because acting like a lady is hard work that involves effort, while failing to examine the mirror before stepping out of the house or failing to exert control over an f-bomb filter does not. If a newborn baby girl is placed in the wrong container from birth, she will never get out, or even have the knowledge of what it takes to be a lady. In a modern world where even the most repulsive woman still gets affection from men, inertia causes her to remain in this deplorable condition while she has no desire to change and no thought in her mind to act with class or character.

Water takes the shape of the container it fills.

A girl who has known only one container her whole life—a good container—can instantly change containers upon meeting me if my reputation happened to proceed me, and give me the worst of who she is in instant time. I have seen this too many times to discount, and I didn’t have to be a scientist for six years to conclude that if men can not keep women in the right container at the right temperature by force, through application of law or shaming, and if men can’t manage the environment in their favor, but instead allow women to have unbridled freedom and choice, their women will fall so fast that they will notice the change not in years but in months.

This change is not a metamorphosis that brings upon a new state never known, like a caterpillar turning into a butterfly, but a reversion to the woman’s natural, primordial state, the true order of her being. American men can tell you of this reversion with much detail, and how because of it they have given up on enjoying their leisure time with the opposite sex, resigned to watching Youtube videos on the internet instead of trying to mate. In the near future more men of the world will be able to describe it in colors as vivid as I see it today. As the women of this era find their basic needs being increasingly met, and the direction of societies moves towards one of automatic reverence to women instead of bemused skepticism of their childlike decision-making and behavior, reversions will occur across all economically rising countries of the world, much to the shock of those local men who can’t imagine women acting in any other state than feminine and kind.

Water takes the shape of the container it fills.

When the true nature of women became clear in my mind, I was deeply pained, because I realized that no matter where I go and what apparent girl I fall in love with, a certain environment or trigger will uncover the excrement hiding within my angel and she will then give me her worst without a second of hesitation or moral doubt. I came to understand that a woman’s true nature, regardless of how strong the curtain is that shields her darkness, will erupt like a volcano that everyone thought was dormant and incapable of harm, and that I must accept the natural order that I did not create, with no choice but to use my knowledge and experience to find a girl who is currently in the right container at the right temperature, and enjoy her while she is temporarily in that state, and not lament when those conditions change and she happily and eagerly fills the container that she truly desires to be in.

Read Next: The Decline Of American Women

P.S. My newest book is called 30 Bangs. It's about 30 of my bangs. Click here to learn more about the book.

Now let’s say you did a different routine. You lifted weights in the morning, setting a personal record on the bench. At lunch time, you went to Barnes & Noble and picked up a magazine with bikini babes, giving you a 25% boner. You then did two approaches that went okay but didn’t result in a number. Once back at work, you had a five minute chat with the slutty HR gal, catching glimpses of her cleavage. At your desk you took breaks every 30 minutes to explore deep fantasies of sex. Then as soon as you got off work, you called a friend and talked about the approaches you did at lunch.

If you were to hit that happy hour now, do you think things would be different?

In Lublin, Poland there was a club with a ladies night on Wednesday. This is how I prepared for it:

• I nurtured my morning boner by thinking of girls I’ve had sex with in the past, but I didn’t masturbate.
• I forced myself to do my one approach of the day.
• I went to the coffee shop in the mall that is right next to a popular clothing store for teenage girls. I got a seat where I had a clear view of all the female clientele.
• I stared, lustfully, at the pretty girls coming and going.
• I did an additional approach after coffee shop time.
• I hit the gym and leered at girls wearing tight aerobic clothing.

When I went to the ladies night club after doing all this, my balls were ready to explode, even when rolling solo. My dick was my wingman. Sometimes my very first approach hit.

Consider an approach session to be a symphony that starts when you wake. The warmup gets you ready, the actual approaches are the climax of the movement, and finally your results (number, kiss, or bang) bring you back down to a hopefully satisfied mood. If the game starts with your first approach, then your warmup is garbage. You’ll be rusty with weak desire.

You know you’re doing it right when there is almost no anxiety when you start with the actual approaches. In fact, the approach is just a drop in the bucket within the entire process. It’s what you did before that first approach that will determine the bulk of your success.

Read Next: Going Out Alone

P.S. My newest book is called 30 Bangs. It's about 30 of my bangs. Click here to learn more about the book.

From a far distance, with the sun in my face, you looked quite pretty, but now that we are talking only three feet apart, I’ve noticed some troublesome flaws.

Your eyebrows are overly groomed. They are thin with hairs so short that I can see the skin behind them. You have also sculpted an arch that makes you seem in a state of sudden surprise.

Your eyelashes are fake. They look like thin fish netting that has been dipped in cheap acrylic paint. The attachment goes beyond your eyelids, making me wonder if you want everyone to know that they are not of human origin.

You have so much makeup on that I imagine it would be dangerous for you to give a hearty laugh. Like fissures that appear on the ground after a large earthquake, I can see breaks around your mouth when you gave a slight smile to my joke about needing to find a supermarket as big as a soccer field. If I put a plaster cast on your face, I doubt it would feel different compared to what you have on right now.

You lipstick is bright red, yet your teeth are discolored and crooked. I can’t complain much since my teeth aren’t perfect either, but the contrast of blood red and tea brown is jarring. It’s best not to force attention to one of your weaknesses.

Your nails are fake. I can tell since the nail surface rises far above the level of your cuticle. Fake nails aren’t so bad, but it sure is awkward when they come off in bed, as if you are coming apart.

Your hair color is not that blonde. I can easily see it in your dark roots. It looks like you haven’t colored in twelve days.

I commend you for taking your appearance seriously. You deserve an award for turning your 5 rating into what many guys with less experience than me would give an 8. I can only imagine how perfect your photos on VK are, especially after asking Ivan your beta orbiter to touch them up a bit with his pirated copy of Photoshop. But you just don’t do it for me, because your aesthetic is fake, with no anchor to truth and reality. You’re a billboard advertising for a product that doesn’t live up to its stated benefits, and I know I will be asking for my money back after my mind sees through your cosmetic mask.

Your false aesthetic should be enough to please some man out there, but not me. I insist on real beauty. Beauty for beauty’s sake. I’ve learned that a girl who is wearing a lot of makeup surely can not be beautiful, because why would she spend hours covering her beauty? Makeup precludes beauty. In sparing amounts it can only compliment it like a snug t-shirt does on the body of an athletic man, yet the t-shirt alone, regardless of what it costs or what design is on it, can not elevate the aesthetic of a frail man.

Consider the grotesqueness if we put a New York skyscraper in the city of Siena:

The beauty of the skyscraper depends on its environment, on what lies beside it. Your fake eyelashes, nails, and eyebrows are like constructing skyscrapers in a pleasant village that is dotted with apple trees and spacious pastures for grazing sheep. Your natural beauty is not New York City, so please don’t take on its artifacts.

I know you don’t care about what I think of you, because next month I’ll see you holding hands with a man who doesn’t mind the special effects that is your appearance, but as a connoisseur of the aesthetic, I seek the real thing. I believe all men should.

Read Next: American Girls vs Ukrainian Girls

P.S. My newest book is called 30 Bangs. It's about 30 of my bangs. Click here to learn more about the book.

The result is a comical avoidance of generalizing, giving strong opinions, or attributing personal success to hard work instead of good fortune or being raised by the “village.” No one is stupid, just disadvantaged. No one is lazy, just lacking in educational opportunities. Running game is a delicate concern because you have to show value without showing value while simultaneously not offending the girl and her pro-equality and ultra-liberal views

The Jante Law virus—when applied in the realm of gender equality—is increasingly infecting America as women consolidate their power over men. Things I saw in Denmark a couple years ago are more noticeable in the States, and I predict that in ten years we’ll develop a ‘roided Jante Law that is even too extreme for Scandinavians, mostly due to the militant and aggressive nature of our empowered females.

There are ten rules of Jante Law immortalized by a popular Danish author. It’s not hard to share examples of how it’s being applied to American men, with arguments you can easily find on women sites…

1. Don’t think you’re anything special.

“Men are essentially sperm donors. Soon, technology will make them superfluous.  Society doesn’t need them, and limiting their masculinity through new laws so they can’t hurt people would eradicate all crime and mass shootings. The world may very well be a better place without men.”

2. Don’t think you’re as good as us.

“Women excel in clerical office jobs while men flounder. It’s obvious women can communicate clearer and make for better team players. They are also very skilled at managing men to make sure they stay on task with whatever engineering or programming tasks they have to finish.”

3. Don’t think you’re smarter than us.

“Men have become intellectually lazy. They don’t even have the focus and commitment to attend universities anymore. The proof is in high enrollment rates for women. Their brain is becoming increasingly facile and better suited for the virtual world of video games.”

4. Don’t convince yourself that you’re better than us.

“Besides being physically stronger than women, you hold no advantage. Evolution has stopped at the neck and given female brains all of your strengths and none of the weaknesses. It is therefore a tragedy that more women are not CEOs when they’re obviously qualified. Quotas should be enacted to correct this.”

5. Don’t think you know more than us.

“In the past we used to allow our brains to atrophy at home by cooking and cleaning like a common slave, but now we read a lot of books. Eat Pray Love, 50 Shades Of Gray, and whatever that wonderful black superwoman Oprah tells us to read are enriching our minds and filling our souls. We don’t need to major in psychology to understand the human condition better than you to be more successful in life.”

6. Don’t think you are more important than us.

“You’ve been important for long enough. To squash the artificial superiority that has for some reason existed since the dawn of time, policies and laws must keep you down so the natural order of your inferiority and unimportance are allowed to freely flourish in society. Women must be given a head start to handle the patriarchal influence you’ve polluted our world with.”

7. Don’t think you are good at anything.

“You’ve failed to become a man who earns high wages, and now women are stepping up to fill that role. Important cultural commentators have predicted The End Of Men thanks to your inaction and laziness. The fact that women can so easily out-earn you is testament to your failure, and now these accomplished women have no choice but to entertain themselves with a string of bad boy lovers to experience the excitement that you utterly fail to provide.”

8. Don’t laugh at us.

“We are not fat—we have healthy body weight. We don’t have attitude—we are independent with strong and passionate opinions. We are not slutty—we are exploring our sexuality. Our tattoos are not trashy—they’re unique and a reflection of our individuality. We are not spinsters or cougars—we are confident women who know what we want and can easily get it while you have to travel to poor countries to sleep with dirty sluts who have herpes.”

9. Don’t think anyone cares about you.

“It doesn’t matter if little boys are floundering in public schools, if men are committing suicide at high rates, if men are being locked up for one of a thousand crimes, or if Middle East war veterans are coming back without limbs or a sound mind. It doesn’t matter if you can’t find work and are pushed to the margins of society. As long as homosexuals can marry in wonderful ceremonies with beautiful flowers and single mothers get money from the state to help them be independent, society is functioning as it should, and you better open your wallet and pay taxes to ensure this progress continues.”

10. Don’t think you can teach us anything.

“There’s nothing you know that we don’t. Just because you built civilization and all the gadgets we use, absolutely nothing you say will make a difference in our thought. By the way, even if you agree to everything we say, we still won’t put out for you, but we appreciate the support. Maybe you can also tell all the misogynists to man up and see the error of their ways and accept that equality is the true way to societal happiness.”

There exists some hypocrisies with Jante Law in that it’s applied more strictly with males, but the Danes seem almost genuine with their aim of gender equality, no matter the grotesque creation of an androgynous society where it can be hard to tell the difference between men and woman and straights and gays. In America, however, the borrowed ideas of Jante Law will only have one purpose: to put men down and give justification for programs, laws, and re-education that make men second-class citizens in a country that they built. It’s happening as we speak.

Read Next: What Manning Up Really Means

P.S. My newest book is called 30 Bangs. It's about 30 of my bangs. Click here to learn more about the book.

She didn’t want to eat a large breakfast since she knew she would be having a fattening lunch later in the day with Madison at the new restaurant that was the buzz of all the local blogs—blogs she was now catching up on after preparing a small meal of two toaster pastries, banana, probiotic yogurt, and three pieces of artisanal dark chocolate. There on the center of her kitchen table was the biography of Steve Jobs, and if you look closely you can see a fine layer of dust on the cover. She received it as a gift, and though she read the first 16 pages with enthusiasm, she got distracted with something else and never picked it up again. She felt no loss for failing to read the book because her extensive blog reading and magazine browsing must surely surpass the depth and wisdom contained in the autobiography of only one man. A book, unlike her favorite blogs, also didn’t allow her to leave witty comments that other people could give her recognition for in the form of upvotes.

She arrived on time to lunch and greeted her friend Madison with “You look amazing!” The two other standard greetings she uses are “You look great!” and “Oh my god where did you get that—it’s so cute!” where the that would usually be an article of clothing or piece of cosmetic jewelry. There were two seatings that took place; first their bodies, on a square table besides the open kitchen that draws attention from patrons whenever a little fireball erupts from the grill area, and the other seating was for their phones, which they both placed to the right of their appetizer plate and silver utensils.

Their menu browsing was interrupted with snippets of their Friday night, each girl teasing with small details that would be explained more fully after ordering. Every minute one would ask the other, “What are you getting?” and the other would invariably respond, “I don’t know, what are you getting?” followed by a detail such as, “Did you see Josh recently? He lost a lot of weight!” The girl who did not see Josh pulled out her phone to find a recent photo of him on Facebook that confirmed his improved appearance.

Madison noticed there was a typo in the menu. She followed her gut instinct, which was to take a picture and then tweet it to her two favorite foodie blogs and the restaurant’s Twitter account with the text “Still working out the kinks?” She expected her discovery to get many responses but three minutes later, after their meals were ordered, there were no retweets or replies and she was surprised, because the typo was obvious and this was supposed to be a serious restaurant, opened by a chef of a famous food truck that sold Mexican cupcakes with avocado sprinkles that were locally sourced. It wasn’t uncommon to hear people using their entire lunch hour just to wait in line and buy a few cupcakes as part of the combo special that came with a bag of nachos and pumpkin salsa.

It’s around this time that the full recap of the Friday night would be expected, two continuous stories with a start and end, but it resembled more a staccato, bits and pieces that I was hard-pressed to connect to the whole. Madison was more enamored with the place settings than the story of Patricia getting into an argument with a guy at the bar who asked her for a “female opinion” on something fashion related. Madison took two photos of the table layout, selected the one she liked most, applied a retro filter to make it look more distinguished, added seven different hashtags that were various spellings of the restaurant, and then uploaded it to Instagram. It took a little longer than she liked to upload and she said “Come on” twice while Patricia browsed through her phone so she wouldn’t appear to have nothing to do while waiting for her friend to finish with her art hobby.

Patricia didn’t feel like taking photos at the moment. Instead she launched an app that would blast a status update to all her social networks. She sent the following: “Having an awesome time with Madison at the new place!” Indeed, they were having an awesome time, mostly because they could share it in real time with the entire world.

The food arrived, presented beautifully on large plates with squigglies of unknown sauce going outward like heat rays a child would leave on a drawing of the sun. Both phones were out now, taking pictures from different angles. It took a few minutes for each of them to get their shots just right since the lighting was less than optimal, but post-production app filters were up to the task and produced beautiful photos that they girls couldn’t upload fast enough.

Patricia uploaded just two photos of her dish, a Cobb salad, with the colorful ingredients arrayed beside each other like bags of spices in the Indian market she buys naan bread from. Madison, coming to the realization that this day would be special, created an album with the date and uploaded four photos of her Angus burger on brioche bun that was topped so high a horse wouldn’t be able to take a bite. She ate it not unlike Patricia’s salad, picking at the vegetable ingredients until she decreased its height enough where she could replace the top bun and finish it off in the normal style of eating a burger, exclaiming “This is so good” a total of six times.

Dessert was shared between them, a large piece of chocolate cake, and Patricia got the creative idea of taking a picture of Madison when a spoonful of cake was approaching her mouth. It would have been a better photo, in my opinion, if Madison removed her oversized sunglasses, but she partied hard the night before and didn’t want people to see her sagging eyes, which would suggest she’s upset or not having fun, when the truth is that she was having—like I already mentioned—an awesome time. After the cake was finished, there was a full seven minutes of conversation when neither operated their phones, but glances were stolen at their respective devices, and with no new notifications in such a prolonged period of time, Patricia thought that she lost signal and compulsively turned on the screen. The signal was full strength. Three more minutes went by before she got a like on the status update she sent earlier, but it was from Cody, who was really creepy the other month when he displayed skepticism that free birth control should be a basic human right for women.

The most passionate part of their lunch date was when the check came and they debated how much tip should be left. The service was acceptable, but at one point Madison had no water and she had to flag the waiter to come, going so far as twisting her torso in an unnatural position to locate where the waiter could possibly be. It seemed unnecessarily difficult, she argued, and convinced Patricia to levy a 5% tip penalty from the standard 20%. (Later that night, Madison went on Yelp and left a 3 out of 5 star review, citing the poor water service and menu error as reasons that the restaurant “still had a ways to go.” She added a joke, hoping it would get “Funny” likes, but she only got two “Useful” likes instead.)

They left the restaurant and—I don’t know who came up with the idea first—agreed to take a picture in front of the main entrance. It was their luck that the name of the restaurant could easily be seen. Patricia asked a male passerby to snap the photo. He was more than happy to do so, but Madison began to get anxious because what if Patricia forgets to upload the photo? She didn’t want the opportunity to pass because she may never come back to this restaurant again after the poor service, so she asked the man to take the same photo with her phone. The man happily obliged. He hung around an extra twenty seconds longer than necessary and then thankfully went away without bothering the girls. He wasn’t good-looking.

It was time to walk off the meal by checking out the Old Town shopping center a half-mile away. Only three pictures were taken along the way and they considered buying a cupcake at a classic bakeshop but the line was too long and cupcakes are no longer in with the important foodie crowd that they considered themselves a part of. The Old Town was capably designed, they agreed, with a second level patio that oversaw a small fountain in the center of the complex. There wasn’t much else that I saw, but Patricia and Madison must’ve been moved because they excitedly took out their phones and got ready for picture taking on the patio that oversaw the little fountain. They believed that this moment must be captured with a camera sensor to not only be appreciated by their friends and beta orbiters, but also so they would never forget this special day for as long as they lived.

Patricia stood on the edge of the patio so Madison could take several shots (with Patricia’s phone, of course). Patricia examined each resulting image as soon as they were taken and grimaced each time, as if she was expecting a photo with an entirely different person than herself. After eight photos, she was finally pleased with one and then the process repeated with Madison, and then repeated again with both of them together thanks to the help of another male passerby, who was even more eager than the first. An extra “Thank you so much” was said to get him to buzz off. Not long after, in front of a Chinese restaurant, they stumbled on a display of an oversized Coca-Cola bottle, the classic bottle that can no longer be found in stores, and a handful of more pictures were taken beside it with exaggerated facial expressions.

From the beginning of their lunch date until the end, a total of 52 photos were taken. Sixteen of those photos would be uploaded to various sites to garner a total of 48 likes, comments, and retweets, including a comment from the restaurant, apologizing for the menu typo. Not a bad haul for a Saturday afternoon, Madison thought proudly. She realized that through her effort and ingenuity hundreds of people—no, thousands—would not have to endure an unprofessional typo in a restaurant menu.

Patricia had a date that evening to prepare for. It was a casual date with a man she met on OK Cupid, and though she was reluctant to go since she wasn’t horny (she was getting serviced twice a week by Brody, her ex-boyfriend), she had nothing else to do. She arrived 17 minutes late to be greeted by a man who seemed slightly less attractive than his rock climbing photos suggested. She felt cheated that he uploaded the best version of himself, and while he may be able to say the same of her, since it was obvious her photos were from a younger time when the stress of her studies didn’t allow for the dining experiences she has become a connoisseur of, he was just proud to get a date out of messaging god knows how many women.

He ordered a gimlet while she ordered a mojito that came in a unique glass. She took a picture of her drink and then left her phone on the table while her date put his away. The sun was starting to fade from its peak intensity, signifying the arrival of evening, and so the texts began pouring into her phone. She was polite, only catching a quick glimpse of who was contacting her when her phone’s screen would light for three seconds before fading back to black. Her date soldiered on with his life story, talking about his recent experience in the Peurvian mountains where he took ayahuasca and achieved spiritual enlightenment. He also remarked how he accumulated a vocabulary of 1,000 words in Quechua to learn important Andean wisdom from wise elders that has never been published in English. His story, however, could not compete with her phone. She responded to his prattle with a series of uh huhs while becoming more curious about the contents of her six unread text messages.

The anticipation reached a boiling point, not unlike when she was a young girl on her birthday and wrapped presents were shoved in front of her upon the ceremonial blowing out of the candles. Look, another pretty doll that she could play with for hours without worrying about anything else in the world, quieting her for such long periods that her parents would periodically get a feeling of panic that she wasn’t in the house. “I just have to check something real quick, sorry,” she said, then turned on her screen and scanned through the text messages that were waiting for her. One was from Brody, which was a pleasant surprise, since he didn’t usually contact her until Sunday evening. She decided to only answer the most important text message, the one sent by Madison, who asked how the date was going. She replied: “He’s so boring.. what time are we going to the club tonight? I want to wear my slutty dress.” She smiled as she typed this out with her thumbs, a smile that her date could not elicit from her no matter how hard he tried.

He suggested another round of drinks but she said she was tired and that she needed to get some rest from a hard week of work at the office. He was disappointed but not surprised, and when the check came he was pleased that she made a sincere offer to pay, but she actually had no money in her purse. He paid the bill and got a pleasant hug with Patricia’s breasts pressing slightly against him, completely unaware that his Monday evening “How was the rest of your weekend?” text would go unanswered. I could easily argue that the date was a waste of time for both, but Patricia didn’t see it that way. She got a free cocktail, a cool photo, and a fleeting string of conversation for her friends that would last at least 15 seconds and display how valued she was in the dating game, immediately followed by a comment about how there are no exciting men anymore, only boring ones who think doing hippie drugs, learning dying languages, or climbing mountains make them interesting.

Back at home, Patricia put on her favorite Nicki Minaj party mix and began getting ready for the club. She dressed in her Vegas outfit, the skimpy black top and skirt paired with heavy makeup and heels so high and uncomfortable that a full half-hour of the night would be spent complaining about them to anyone who would listen. While she didn’t look as good as two years ago, you couldn’t tell by increased amount of attention she was getting from men, even when she went out in sweatpants.

She stood in front of her bathroom’s mirror to take some self shots. This took a while to get right. The secret to a good self shot, she understood, was making it look completely natural as if the act of taking a photo next to the toilet bowl was a spontaneous event that came in a rare moment of artistic inspiration, when in actuality she has done this over a thousand times. I was impressed at how skilled she was at striking a pose that was the prettiest she could possibly look in spaces that rarely exceeded 84 square feet, with fluorescent lighting that would have easily highlighted her developing second chin had it not been for a precise 20 degree up-tilt of her head that didn’t decrease the brilliance of her blue eyes like a 25 degree tilt would. After fifteen minutes in the bathroom getting it just right, she raced out the door and mentally braced herself for all the idiots who would make unwanted sexual comments about her body, thinking she dressed that way to get attention instead of to feel confident about herself and who she was as a woman.

She and her crew, four strong, assembled at a lounge. There was such a flurry of ensuing activity that I had trouble keeping up with them. Guys were coming out from behind bushes, it seemed, to put in their attempt, and even Patricia began to feel threatened by the street harassment as she raced with her girls from one club to another, easily skipping the line for peasants and straight into the VIP where rich men with bottles of vodka and sometimes whiskey were waiting to pour whatever they wanted. Numbers were given to the cute and confident men and a couple of them were able to get up close to Patricia and sneak in brief kisses on her glossy lips. During all this the girls maintained death grips on their phones, usually in their left hands so they could party with their right. It would have been too risky to put their phones in their purse because the bass from the speakers would make it impossible to feel the little vibration of a “Where are you?!” text from a friend or a booty call text that would almost always start with the sentence “You out tonight?”

The fact that the girls were dancing with their phone didn’t reduce the fluidity of their gyrations or the rhythmic grinding on men’s crotches, and when a screen lit up from a new notification, even a minor one like an acquaintance not heard of in months being tagged in a photo, the dancing would stop for ten seconds and then commence again as if the interruption didn’t happen. The night wasn’t all joy, sadly, because Patricia forgot to recharge her phone midday, and now her battery level had sunk down to a perilous 14%. She couldn’t take any more photos with flash, which in the dark club essentially meant no more photography. Her night was on the verge of being ruined because her friends could record the exciting moments happening while she could only spectate.

In spite of the battery problem, which killed her phone not long after because of the irresistible urge to take just a few more group shots, the night was a raging success. Between the four girls, 266 photos were taken. Sixty-two would be uploaded, garnering 1,158 likes, comments, and so on, mostly from men. The girls gave out their number a total of 13 times, and 6 men were kissed. Patricia stumbled home alone and the first thing she did was plug in her dead phone into its charger. She patiently waited beside it to boot and then enjoyed the explosion of backlogged messages and notifications that came in all at once. They soothed her soul and validated her self-image as a popular girl in a big city.

She put her phone on silent then fell asleep, waking seven hours later. The first thing she did when she opened her eyes was reach for her phone, which lay beside her like it does every night, and already there was a text from one of the guys she met the night before. Who was it? She didn’t remember, and it didn’t much matter, because the photos, the texts, the likes, and the pleasant notification chime gave her more happiness than these men could provide for her. If you asked Patricia to forever give up her smartphone in order to meet the love of her life, the one in a billion man who would satisfy her both physically and emotionally for as long as she lived, and who would serve her like a queen until his last days, it wouldn’t take her even ten seconds to respond with a decision.

Three days later, the best self shot she uploaded had amassed 102 likes. It was a new record.

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P.S. My newest book is called 30 Bangs. It's about 30 of my bangs. Click here to learn more about the book.

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

Please tell me how to go back to when my standards were lower, when I was not a machine for detecting aesthetic flaws in women, of spotting misshapen thighs, an extra dollop of adipose tissue over the stomach, eyebrows that weren’t properly groomed or even a voice one half octave too deep. When I look in the mirror, I see a physically flawed specimen, so why have I come to seek perfection? My brain demands it, and it is defeating my boner, putting me on the path of one day seeing sex as a biological nuisance instead of a pleasurable necessity.

Almost all women I’ve had sex with in the past I would have sex with today, but only on one condition: I wouldn’t have to put in a stroke of work. They would have come to me, touch me, disrobe, and then let me play with their bodies as I see fit. I would not put 10% of the original effort that allowed me to have sex with them in the first place. This must be the end of the player, when the development of his brain defeats the evolutionary demands of his penis, or is it the natural order of man, with the hyper-sexed player and his demands of neverending variety being the anomaly, the freak of nature?

The club is horrible and I want to leave. I pick the most beautiful girl in the venue, one who my brain liked, but she rejects me, not so softly. I can’t leave after having done just one approach—I can leave after two. I go through the motions on the girl next to me, cute but not extraordinary, just slightly above the mean of what I’ve had in the past. She likes me. She’s touching me, complimenting me. She is ready to do the work that I don’t want to do and so my brain allows me to proceed and I will have sex with her three days from now. Unless it’s easy or unless the girl in the top 0.01% of women I’ve seen in 25 countries and counting, I can’t seem to be bothered.

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P.S. My newest book is called 30 Bangs. It's about 30 of my bangs. Click here to learn more about the book.

Those who can’t find pleasure today, will not find it tomorrow
Those who ignore their dreams, always need clocks to borrow,
Those who think an eternity will help, are not using time smart
Those who want to become old, let fear tear them apart.

Those who are scared of risks, can’t face their own gaze
Those who wait for New Year’s to change, will never change their ways,
Those who blame others for bad luck, will always face a wall
Those who are afraid to make the leap, will be out-leaped by all.

Those with the most banal of lives, always want to keep it going
Those who place their life over living, have lives not worth knowing,
Those who dread the common end, won’t be ready when they succumb
Those who live for today, care not if tomorrow comes.

P.S. My newest book is called 30 Bangs. It's about 30 of my bangs. Click here to learn more about the book.

But how about for game? Is there a keystone habit for those guys who want to focus on getting laid more? Is there a habit that has a positive ripple effect? To answer that question, I’ll first portray two different scenarios.

I.

For many years I had a habit of doing ten approaches when entering a club. It had two benefits. First, the warm-up was built-in. I don’t know any man who wasn’t mentally ready to approach girls within ten attempts. Second, it gives you enough opportunity to allow for success. If you want to get laid, and don’t hit upon a solid interaction within ten approaches, you’re either in the wrong place or using the wrong game. This habit does have a couple downsides: you tend to drink a lot of alcohol and the following day will be a write-off. It’s a decent habit, but not a keystone habit.

II.

In my second Polish trip, I decided on a new “habit”: no day approaches. I would only focus on writing during the day and not be distracted by the flesh. Instead, I went out only one night a week along with seeing two fuckbuddies on the weekend. My productivity skyrocketed—I never got so much work done before in my life, but my game went to total shit. My lone night out a week had me painfully rusty.

As much as I valued being productive, I want to be a player as much as a writer. At the same time, I didn’t want to return to a 10 approach per night habit. I needed a new habit.

One important feature of the keystone habit I forgot to tell you is that it should bring out the natural competitor within you. You should want to self-improve and set ever higher goals just by executing the habit. When you lift weights, for example, it’s only natural that you want to lift more weight and set personal records. You don’t need a trainer or coach to push you to lift more.

After some experimentation, I stumbled on a keystone habit for game: one approach a day. Sounds easy, right? It’s not. Imagine what it would take for you to approach one attractive girl every day:

• You’d have to put yourself in a public place where there is a selection of girls, possibly altering your daily routine in a drastic way.
• You’d have to maintain your appearance at top levels (can’t skip days shaving) and also regulate your mood to be social and positive.
• You’d have to get comfortable with day approaching.

I have taken on this habit and, by the time you are reading this, I have approached most days for the past four months, including one streak of 40 continuous days with at least one approach, in three different countries. To make sure I stick to the habit, I’ve taken on two enablers:

• I have an account with Don’t Break The Chain. Every day I experience a reward of clicking the calendar to add another day to my streak.
• I deny myself a trip to my beloved coffee shop unless I do the approach first. No approach, no cappuccino.

Understand that there are absolutely no exceptions if you decide to take on this habit. It doesn’t matter if you’re sick, if you have a date, just got laid, or are traveling. You must approach a girl who acknowledged your existence (blow outs are fine), or else it doesn’t count.

What will happen is that you wake up with a bit of weight on your shoulders that doesn’t get lifted until you do your first approach. When you combine it with some sort of pleasure withdrawal (e.g., no cappuccinos), you’ll want to do your approach early to “get it out of the way.” Sometimes it’s just a throwaway approach on a girl you’re not even that attracted to, or an approach you end prematurely because you simply don’t want to talk. But something interesting happens. After your first approach, which will probably not go well, you get in the mood. You’ll want to redeem yourself. The natural competitor in you comes alive and wants to succeed, to do better than an approach that didn’t even last 30 seconds.

If my first approach bombs, I often think, “Nah, I ain’t going out like that.” Then I do another, without much mental effort. Approaching begets approaching, and the biggest barrier is simply the first approach of the day. What is originally designed to make you approach 7 girls a week will turn to 20 without any extra strain on your part.

An additional side benefit to this habit is that it will positively change your lifestyle. If you live in the suburbs right now, you’ll have to go to a mall to get your approach in. It may take you an hour for transport alone, but this gives you a taste of how important location is to have a lifestyle where you are around women. I wouldn’t be surprised if after a while you start thinking of outright moving to a location where it’s easy to do your daily approach. If you live in a city where you can’t even do one approach a day, then you have much bigger problems than meeting women.

My favorite benefit, however, is that I’m always on. One approach a day is just enough so that if I see a girl I like, anywhere at any time, there is no mental fight to do the approach. There is no barrier I have to overcome, no self-doubt that tells me to wuss out, and no “alright let’s get ready to approach!” psych-up talk. I’ve forgotten how it’s like to be rusty.

Take a look at this list:

• Increased testosterone
• Bigger muscles
• Higher confidence
• Better eating
• Sharper focus
• Better sleep
• Less approach anxiety and hesitation
• Tighter game
• Less dependency on alcohol for talking to women
• More interactions with women

If you told me that the benefits in this list could be achieved from two habits: lifting three times a week and one approach a day, I’d say you were lying. But it’s the truth. Tomorrow when you wake up, I want you to figure out how you’re going to do one approach. Just one. Then the day after that, I want you to do another approach. And then keep going. If one day you have a horrible fever, you’ll have to do your approach on the way to the pharmacy. If you got a date, you’ll have to arrive earlier and do it on the street. There are no exceptions. It’s a tough habit, but you’ll be more than pleased at the results.

I forgot to mention one of the best benefits of approaching once a day: you get laid more. On the eighth day of starting this habit, I met a  20-year-old Polish girl at the coffee shop that I had sex with a few days later. She was the first approach of the day, and the funny thing is, I wasn’t even in the mood.

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P.S. My newest book is called 30 Bangs. It's about 30 of my bangs. Click here to learn more about the book.

I believe there are three main components to being a great man, that when possessed even in small quantities, will lead to a rewarding life. Here they are:

1. Game. This is the ability and know-how to interact with women in a way that leads to sex. For most men, it will involve studying game theory and approaching a large sample size of women.

2. Lifestyle. This is all the value you build as a man, helping you work less to get more of what you want. With women, it makes you an interesting, desirable man before you even spit your opening line. A good lifestyle, which will involve some type of career, also stimulates your brain with valuable experiences and learning.

3. Testosterone Management. This is the fuel that feeds the fire. Without testosterone, you will be less motivated and productive in your game and lifestyle efforts.

Note that all three must be present to some degree to put you on the road to greatness. Game only would make you an approach monkey. Lifestyle only would make you a mere interesting beta who spends a bit too much time in the friends zone. Testosterone only and you’re the meathead who has to get drunk just to do a basic approach. When you’ve gained competency in all three components, you’re a man who has women, money, an interesting life, a fruitful social and professional network, and respect from your fellow man. You have it all.

The model I’ve presented to you is dependent on factors that make up Western society today. Sixty years ago, the model would look something like this:

Your father was a great man in his time, but for today’s woman he would have almost no value. He would have trouble just getting laid.

Now let’s predict the model for sixty years into the future:

We’re already experiencing some degree of it today. You’ll have to put in obscene amounts of work and be a masculine caricature to get basic sex. Competition will be insane. This is the inevitable result of worsening demographics, giving women choice, and eliminating gender roles.

The requirements for being a great man in Eastern Europe, South America, and Southeast Asia would be a combination of the first two charts, meaning that merely having a stable job will help you much more than in America, where you have to be the most interesting man in the world with tight game to bang a 7. In Eastern Europe all I need to be is a chatty dude with balls who doesn’t live with his parents, though of course this will change in time.

The path you end up taking will partly depend on your source of income. If you’re anchored to America, you must work on game, lifestyle, and testosterone management full-time to get reasonable sex, but I believe it’s far easier to fly to another country where the bar is lower in order to gain the favor of attractive women. As you can see, being a great man is quite relative, and chances are you’re reading this from a country where women demand the most out of any female in the world. Soon, their demands will outstrip what the human male is even capable of.

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P.S. My newest book is called 30 Bangs. It's about 30 of my bangs. Click here to learn more about the book.

As my European trip progressed, I decided that rolling solo was the way to go. The proof was in the girls I was banging, often within an hour or two, from all types of clubs. I discovered that there is anxiety in standing alone at the club, and you relieve that anxiety by doing approaches (when you’re with a friend, you have a comfortable home base that actually makes you approach less). My results indisputably showed that I simply got laid much more when rolling solo. Soon, my social life soon consisted almost entirely of banging random girls with little male friendship.

My social skills remained high, because of all the game I was running, but my ability to be a friend declined and I was losing the ability to wing. I became more impatient and insular. I just wanted to get my dick wet as quickly as possible. I didn’t need friendship anymore—I transcended friendship. Not having friends freed up a lot of time: I published 9 books in less than two years, the most productive period of my life. My income rose and I was getting laid. I felt successful.

Inevitably my interest in notches declined. Not that I was becoming less horny, but I was reluctant to put in work to get something I’ve experienced so many times before. I had expected this, and decided that when it would happen, I’d double down on writing with a goal to earn more, even though I was making enough for my needs.

I launched Return Of Kings, which takes quite a bit of time. I was also working on three simultaneous books. I was excited that my productivity was going even higher. I was going to build an empire! Chasing girls too hard was a waste of time, just like friendship was. I had started developing symptoms of carpal tunnel in my right wrist. Instead of taking a step back and thinking about what was happening, I bought an ergonomic mouse so I could work even more.

When I moved to Lublin, I banged two girls in my first month and put them in rotation, not so much because I was in love with them, but because I didn’t want to have to go out much. My first trip to Poland had me going out four or more times a week. Now it was once. I was getting laid at least once a week and making cash. Life was great.

I released Bang Ukraine in January and the launch was my biggest yet. My entire life was going according to plan. At the end of that month I did my usual accounting and was pleased at all the sales I made. It was time to blow a couple hundred and celebrate.

I went through my phone. There was only one male friend in it, but he was in Warsaw, three hours away. All my friends were in random European, American, or South American cities. No problem—I got the two girls to hang with. I texted both. One was sick and the other didn’t reply. No problem—I’ll go to the club and find a new girl to celebrate with. I’ll get some new pussy.

In the first club I got hit with four blowouts in a row. Rustiness alone couldn’t explain that result so I went to another club that was packed with girls. It barely got better. I got out-gamed by teams of guys who could occupy cockblockers when I couldn’t. I used to love rolling solo because it was easy to get laid, but now I wished I had a wing.

Even if I did succeed that night and get laid, which I didn’t, I wondered who would I share the story with. If a man bangs a pretty girl in an Eastern European shithole and has no one to tell, did the bang make a sound?

I thought back to my previous decade of game and how the reward of it wasn’t necessarily in the sex act but in the bonding with men who were either there to witness it or help me. I got more satisfaction banging an average girl with a friend working by my side than banging a hottie alone with nothing but raw effort. I won’t deny that I have a strong biological desire to get laid, but that desire alone doesn’t justify the amount of work I’ve put into game. It was the male camaraderie that made it worth pursuing more than I would have.

I went home that night and logged onto the forum. Lots of activity, like usual. I checked my blog and there were many new comments to sift through. I had several new emails and Twitter replies. Usually this would provide me with some social validation, but not tonight. It felt abstract, almost fake. The money I made the previous month was abstract, too. It was just numbers on a screen that I couldn’t even spend because I had no one to spend it with. I might as well be living my life on the internet in the form of page views, comments, forum posts, and book sales.

I turned off my computer. I thought back to Brazil, when I lived in a favela. I was broke but chased more girls with my Danish roommate than while in Lublin, where I made a far more superior income. I remember how I told myself that I wanted to live in a nice apartment within a city of beautiful women and not have to take buses at night. I accomplished that task, but I was less content than I thought I would be.

I imagined how things would be in ten years if I continued. I would have a lot of money, probably. I would publish 30 books and get 10 million page views a month. But I saw myself alone, in a remote castle in some strange part of the world, with no social interaction besides a rotating door of women who I didn’t care much for and internet friends who would give me e-props via funny reaction gifs. It’s possible to have women, friendship, and money, but it seemed like I was running the common American program of just trying to stack paper because I didn’t know what else to do.

I went to bed that night satisfied. I was satisfied because I caught myself before it was too late to make a change. I knew that my priority wasn’t to make more money. My income was already sufficient. It wasn’t to mindlessly bang more girls in some shithole city, either. It was something that I used to have in the past, but gradually lost. I wanted to get it back, yet at the same time I knew that it wouldn’t be easy to turn back the clock to a time when I had different habits and needs. I wasn’t sure if it was worth fighting a wave that was taking me in a new direction.

P.S. My newest book is called 30 Bangs. It's about 30 of my bangs. Click here to learn more about the book.

“You can’t make money self-publishing. It’s for amateur writers only.”

While one man spends five years getting rejected by agents and publishers, wasting money attending writing conferences, another man breaks the rules by producing books on his own, getting them on top-selling lists on Amazon. One sought to be approved by the gatekeepers while the other took the plunge on his own dime.

“It’s too hard to live abroad. I will continue living in this expensive American city and hopefully travel when I retire early at 45.”

While one man wastes the prime of his life in a job he hates for a future that may never come, another man is making a fraction of his income in internet marketing or English teaching, but still able to travel modestly, have extra time for leisure, and sleep with women who weigh less than himself.

“Game doesn’t work. Only rich guys who are good looking get to experience sex with attractive women. No one is really having sex anymore.”

While one man masturbates on game denialist forums, another man who is short and average-looking with minimal means is approaching girls in the coffee shop, the mall, and the bar to get a varied sex life than men of a generation before him did not.

You can’t approach a girl in a women’s store. You can’t borrow a friend’s dog to use as a prop to approach women. You’re too young to make a lot of money or travel. You’re not experienced enough to start an authority blog. One man lets these doubts prevent him from action while another man uses them to challenge himself into being successful.

No one is giving you homework. No one is forcing you to create something, do approaches, or take risks. No one will punish you if you decide to do nothing, or simply do just enough to have an average existence where you vicariously live through men who are no more skilled or intelligent than you are.

At the same time, no one is telling you what you can’t do. There are some laws that can limit how to make money, but it can’t stop you from going to places where laws either don’t exist or can be lubricated with bribery. Even if you want to start a cocaine empire, there are places in the world where you can apply your intellect and balls to get away with it. The only limitation is what you imagine.

Man has never lived in a time where there are so many countries that give him more freedom of behavior than at any other time in the world. Right now you can start an internet business without need for a permit. You can approach 100 women and get laid, today, not tomorrow, not next year, but right now. Even in the police states of American and England, you’ve never had more mobility and more information to create your own lifestyle, as if you were at an all-you-can-eat buffet. A spoon of sex with Latinas combined with a hunk of internet money and a dash of waking up at noon. Don’t forget the dessert of having big muscles. Whatever you dream can be yours, and all it requires is for you to take the risk and work at it.

It pains me to see men apply self-imposed limits on their own behavior, limits that even their own governments haven’t placed. Instead of breaking the rules in an era where rule breaking is greatly rewarded, they’ve voluntarily walked into a jail of their own making to be shackled and constrained.

I spit on your decision to protect yourself from failure. I spit on your imaginary limitations. Let the market decide if your risk is worth value. Let a woman decide upon your approach if you’re worth having intimacy with her. All you should think about is how to get what you want and how to begin working. Take the risk and begin to work. Break the rules that your mind tries to set upon you and then reap the rewards.

Read Next: Everyone Is Hoping That You’ll Fail

P.S. My newest book is called 30 Bangs. It's about 30 of my bangs. Click here to learn more about the book.

As a young student in public schools, government programs pushed me into math and science. Even when I did poorly, I got decent grades that indicated I was more intelligent than my work revealed, enabling me to enroll in advanced classes. I even received extra encouragement from my female teachers while the boys were punished for not sitting still. They were put on drugs so my learning was not disturbed.

As a high school senior, ready to apply for college, I appreciated the fact that my male competition was discouraged and shamed into a life of video games, porn, or even suicide. Being favored by an educational system that was ruled by female administrators made it easy to get into college. To outcompete the boys, all I had to do was show up.

As a failing student in organic chemistry, I was thankful that I could avoid receiving a D by turning on the water works to my male professor, who was so creepy and pathetic that I doubt he has ever been laid by a beautiful woman like me in his life. I’m glad he understood my bad grade was a result of not my own lack of effort or personal failings, since I was told since kindergarten that I could be an astronaut if I wanted to, but because the organic chemists of the past didn’t bother to explain the principles of science in a way that women can understand. I ended up getting a B in the class.

As a freshly minted communications major (science ended up being too boring for me), I liked how so many corporations were willing to hire me as an HR or marketing associate. These corporations can only advance through strong communication skills, which men simply don’t have. Not only was I always on time for meetings, but I gave really good ideas while the male engineers and programmers were shy and quiet and sometimes a little rapey with how they looked at me. Even though I was only making $35,000 as an entry-level HR clerk, I loved the power I had in googling all the male applicants and tossing out their resumes if I found out they were weird or displayed a value that went against the corporate culture that women are an important part of (like being ugly). I tried my best to give preferential treatment to female applicants because we have been held down for so long.

As a party girl who has only been with 46 guys (I’m not counting the guys I made love to when I traveled), I enjoyed how I could change my mind about having sex with a guy after I had sex with him. On one morning I looked to the guy on my bed and he seemed a lot more beta than I had remembered when I was enjoying the martinis he was buying me the night before. I was no longer turned on, so it was obvious that I was raped. I called the police and made his life a living hell for violating my body without having been granted 100% full consent. He didn’t get jail time but is on a sex offender list, and had trouble getting a job last time I checked. What’s really interesting is that if I had the same quantity of drinks and drove a car, I would be held responsible for my actions and go to jail if caught, but if I decide to have sex with a guy after meeting him in a bar, I’m not held responsible at all. This is how things should be.

As an empowered woman who achieves spiritual enlightenment by opening my legs to only the sexiest and hottest men, I was very happy that the government paid for my birth control, gonorrhea antibiotics, and later, abortions. You have no idea how expensive it is to be a woman, with the cost of tampons and make-up and such. I wrote many letters to my representative in Congress to ask for my hair coloring and nail polish to be paid, since it’s a cost borne on women and not men, but shockingly I didn’t get a response. It’s true that women now make more than men, but I still think money—from somewhere—should pay for women’s health care and not that of men’s, even if our life expectancy is longer than theirs. No one can seriously think that it’s a woman’s fault that men are stupid and ride dangerous motorcycles and shoot each other. Did I tell you about the drummer I’m dating right now? He’s so hot. I let him come inside me, but he stopped responding to my texts and I’m going crazy trying to figure out why.

As a 35-year-old newly married woman, I’m a little disappointed that things didn’t work out with the drummer. I’m resentful that I had to marry a geek, the only man I could find who was willing to man up. He takes all my shit without complaint, and while you think that that would increase my love for him, the opposite occurred. I hated him more every day. The power of science and in vitro fertilization allowed us to have a child (my womb was made infertile through multiple STDs, in case you’re wondering). This was great for me because due to fem-centric American law, my husband was put in a bit of a pickle. I could have left him at any time, for any reason, while keeping the kids and most of his money—money that I helped him earn by pushing him to go to work every day in his lame job. You can almost say that he was my little hostage, and I loved watching him jump to meet my escalating set of demands.

As a divorcee of a deadbeat father, a piece of shit man, I’m satisfied that he was put in jail. My amazing lawyer, recommended to me by my divorced friend, got an alimony and child support payment that was 70% of his income. He couldn’t pay it and is now learning his lesson behind bars. The high payment is fair if you consider the years I wasted on him when he utterly failed to attend to my emotional needs as a vibrant, dynamic, and empowered woman. I made sure to remind his little brat of a son every day what a loser his father is. I even had to put the little one on medication so his unexplained anger didn’t rattle my nerves and interfere with my pilates training. Thankfully, the government gave me more money in the form of food, housing, and child care. The divorce put me in such a depressive state that I now qualify for disability payments until I die. No more office for me! And finally, after many years, the drummer has realized my worth and moved in. He’s broke right now so he can’t help with the expenses, but I have faith that one day he’ll become the man I know he’s capable of being.

As a recent breast cancer survivor, I was thankful that the disease got more research funding than just about all other diseases combined, preventing deaths of so many beautiful mothers and grandmothers. I’m also thankful to the NFL for making its male athletes wear pink in support of breast cancer and not prostate cancer, which I read only affects really old men who are going to die soon anyway. Anyone who questions breast cancer funding is obviously a sexist, misogynist, bigot, racist, right-wing conservative, and a possibly a neo-Nazi. With my free time I sent angry emails to the employers of such horrible men when I read their evil thoughts on the internet. To my knowledge, no woman has ever lost her job due to proper and just feminist views. This pleases me.

As a dead woman buried six feet under the ground, I’m appreciative of all the privilege I’ve had to live a life where women were cherished and valued above men, who finally understand their role as sperm donors and tax payers and nothing more. But even more can be done, and I pass the torch to young women today and tell them to keep up the fight for gender equality, girl power, and female happiness at all costs. Thank god I was born an American girl.

Read Next: It’s The Patriarchy’s Fault

P.S. My newest book is called 30 Bangs. It's about 30 of my bangs. Click here to learn more about the book.

Problem:

The best type of game to run leans on the aloof side. Girls want a challenge, no matter where you are in the world, but how distant and aloof can you be until you start to lose her? How much effort is she willing to put in before finally giving up and moving on?

My Initial Take:

When I was in Argentina, I quickly learned that a girl will release you back into the wild much easier than an American girl. She will not spring back at you when you withdraw attention. I remember one night I was in a Buenos Aires club, flirting with an Australian girl, when I got annoyed at her and walked away. Not one hour later, she sought me out, something than an Argentine girl would never do.

American girls put in the most amount of work for a guy they like, to the point of desperation. They will send repeated texts or just ask the guy on a date outright. You can be extremely aloof—even disrespectful and insulting—and the girl will still come into you. In Eastern Europe, this is not the case. The aloof line of demarcation is closer to Argentina than America. Not responding to one of their texts can be a grievous error that you may not be able to recover from. Even though her attraction for you is high, and she has no other cock in her lineup, she will be much more reluctant to chase you if she feels you are withdrawing from her.

Future Work:

I need to experiment with girls I have had sex with via dating (not one-night stands). This means that her attraction for me is relatively solid. With these girls I will need to play around with my text reply times or not be in a hurry to ask them out, just to see if they will make moves to gain my favor. My instinct tells me that in Eastern Europe, I have to continually lead the interaction.

2. Receiving advice from other men

Problem:

For men who get laid with 5s and 6s, how applicable is their game advice for men who want to bang 9s? If I’m in Romania, studying Romanian women, and I meet a man who bangs a new 6 every night, should I listen to his advice?

My Initial Take:

I respect the man who has banged a hundred 4′s. The sheer act of sealing the deal on a woman of any attractiveness takes salesmanship and commitment. This chubby chaser can have advice that helps men who want to bang higher talent. For example, his logistics game could help when trying to bang your 9. Nonetheless, it would be a mistake to duplicate his game. As I’ve gone up in quality over the years, I’ve had to adjust my game in all areas. The fact that average girls use their sexuality to attract men in ways that 9′s don’t immediately tells you that’s a different ballgame. Sometimes it feels like a different sport entirely.

I wrote Bang to get with an American 7. The book has done well because in America, a 7 is close to the high average. But banging model or actress quality requires a different set of tools that very few men in the world have, especially men in America who don’t even see 9′s thanks to the aesthetic de-evolution ravaging the country. For this reason, I mostly ignore all game advice from all men, unless I know that that man specifically goes after girls I want. Otherwise, I’m in my workshop with no choice but to re-invent the wheel for the environment I’m in.

Future Work:

The men who are banging 9′s are not pick-up artists who use copy/paste material—they are men of status who have coveted access to these women. It would be ideal to befriend such a man and dissect his life to see what could be modeled. The problem is that this is more of a structural and lifestyle game than verbal game, and would likely take years to iron out. For you to have this issue, I imagine you would have been in the game for several years and a notch count well over 100. I consider it an “International Player Problem.”

3. When conversations end

Problem:

You’re in a night venue and approach a girl. You get into a conversation that lasts five minutes and suddenly she leaves with an excuse to dance with her friends. Did you do something wrong? Why would a girl end a conversation that she seemed initially interested in?

My Initial Take:

This issue has perplexed me for years because it brings up a lot of difficult questions related to attraction and how it is perceived by the girl. If you approach a girl and get rejected off the bat, it’s because she didn’t like your look, vibe, or opening line. But if you approach and she talks to you with open body language, that means those three components are agreeable to her. In other words, she is actively considering you for sex, and is now going to see if this positive first impression is matched by your personality, background, and value.

I’ve recently decided to adopt the firm view that if a girl exits a conversation after five minutes, I completely blew it (unless she had a boyfriend). I lost out on a notch, displaying a quality that she didn’t like or a game that is not what she wanted. In other words, I’m interpreting her exit from an established conversation the same as a blow out. This is tough on the ego, because essentially you’re expanding the definition of rejection, but on the other hand it’s needed for me to achieve the next level of game wisdom. Accepting this view is allowing me to test a lot of assumptions I’ve made about game and what it takes to hook a girl and keep her hooked.

Future Work:

When a girl exits an established conversation, I meditate on what just occurred, especially the last minute—to examine the content of my speech and my body language. How did I respond (or not respond) to what she was giving me? Did I show too much interest? Did I miss a cue that she gave me? Every girl is different so what one girl would have banged you for is what another girl would reject you for.

This issue forces me to mentally pull up an idealized blueprint of the path to a girl’s panties within the first minute of a conversation. I have to draw upon all my experiences to very quickly identify the game she wants and then smoothly deliver it without making mistakes. This is no easy task, obviously, but once accomplished, I don’t know what further game mountain is left to climb.

Read Next: The 3 Principal Types Of Game

P.S. My newest book is called 30 Bangs. It's about 30 of my bangs. Click here to learn more about the book.

This doesn’t mean you shouldn’t set goals and achieve, but trying to catch an emotion and then hold that emotion in a capsule as if frozen in time is an impossible task. When you account for the adaption to your happiness level, whatever you do catch will escape from you not long after you grab it.

Let me give you a contrary indicator why chasing happiness is a poor idea: American women are obsessed with it. Everything in their life, which may include trampling on your happiness, is done so they are happy at all times. To them, happiness should be a permanent condition that never wanes. The doors of happiness should have steel locks. You want to have the same goal as these women, where surveys consistently show they are less happy than a generation ago? I’m starting to believe the mere goal of chasing happiness is a guarantee of unhappiness, especially when your prediction of what you think will make you happy oftentimes doesn’t match the result, as I’ve learned in life.

So what do you do? What can guide you in life to help you make the right decisions on what direction to take? I ask myself two questions:

1. What type of man do I want to be?

Regardless of how happy I’ll be when I get to a destination, I need to be able to look in the mirror and feel dignity, pride, and accomplishment, that regardless if I’m going through a tough time or an easy time, I am who I want to be and can live or die as is.

I want to be an intelligent man, a cultured man, a man who sleeps with beautiful women, and a man who helps his fellow man. I can’t tell you for certain that being an intelligent man will make me happy, but that’s what I want to see when I look in the mirror. Every day through my work, my studies, my leisure, and my actions, I become the man who I want to be.

2. What experience do I want to have first?

Life often throws two options at you that seem to have equal payoffs. Even when you do a cost-benefit analysis, you still can’t identify the superior option. When this happens, simply ask yourself which experience you rather have. You will then pick the option that may give less obvious and immediate happiness, but one which will make you look forward to each day, ready to give your best.

I’m often faced with many options on which country to hit next, made more difficult with the online noise of stories and data sheets. The benefits and weaknesses of one country over another seem to cancel themselves out perfectly. So how do I pick? I pick the country that, if I were to die soon, I would want to experience first before my end arrives. It may not make me happy, and it probably isn’t the easier option, but I’ll more eager to wake every day when I’m there.

I will not fault you if your life strategy is chasing happiness. It’s better than chasing pain or having no strategy at all. But as a man who has been chasing happiness for most of his adult life, I can assure you that there will be no treasure at the end of your rainbow, no matter how many continents you explore and how much pussy you slay. Look at your reflection instead. Study it and ask yourself what type of man you want to see staring back at you. Ask yourself which experiences are urgent for you to have in case of a premature death. These two questions will guide you and make you the best man you can be.

Read Next: Is It Foolhardy To Pursue Happiness?

P.S. My newest book is called 30 Bangs. It's about 30 of my bangs. Click here to learn more about the book.

A few months ago I wrote an article on traditional conservativism. Here’s an excerpt:

Traditional conservatives can be boiled down into believing that not all change is good. They look to the past for what was lost and how to recapture it while liberals look to the future for what more can be gained in the form of expanded rights, new privileges, birth control subsidies, and dole money. Both offer a counterbalance to society, with one side hitting the brakes while the other hits the gas.

I think it can be argued that in the past 30 years all we’ve done is hit the gas, with very little thought of how that progress impacts human behavior. The pedal is now to the metal while we all race down the highway in the dark of night without wearing out seatbelts. Traditional conservatives highlight the deadly accidents and say, “Look at this, we need to slow down!” while the left yells, “Fuck it, we need to keep going!”

But how much of the tradcon ideology really matches what you and I believe today? Last time I checked, most of us are not ready to marry a virgin or forgo playing the game. We’re not in a hurry to raise a family. Instead, we seek periods of hedonism to be slightly balanced with more traditional viewpoints that accept reality and human biology.

I thought of what are the most common beliefs in the manosphere. Here they are:

1. Men and women are genetically different, not only physically but mentally. Sex roles evolved in all animals. They did not exempt humans.

2. Free-market capitalism is the most efficient means of economic growth.

3. Libertarianism could be an effective means to prevent government overreach into the lives of citizens.

4. Women are sluts if they sleep around, but men are not. This fact is due to the biological differences in gender.

5. Socialism, feminism, and cultural Marxism will bring down society because it eliminates the family unit and decreases the fertility rate. Entitlements soon outstrip the diminishing tax base.

6. Men drop out of the reproductive game if there is no incentive for them to reproduce.

7. Past traditions and rituals had purposes that benefited family and, in turn, society.

8. Elimination of traditional gender roles and the promotion of unlimited mating choice will unleash hypergamy in females, preventing family formation.

9. A woman’s worth coincides with her fertility and her beauty. A man’s worth coincides with his resources.

10. The most stable family is a man providing the bread while the wife stays home to feed it to offspring.

11. Democracies devolve into welfare states as citizens vote for the candidate who gives them the most money.

12. Testosterone is the biological cause for masculinity. Environmental changes that reduce the hormone’s concentration in men will cause them to be weaker and more feminine.

It’s possible for you not to agree with all twelve beliefs, but chances are you believe at least half if you’re a regular reader of mine. If I were to pull a random feminist off the street and show her this list, she would believe absolutely none of them. In fact, if one of your more liberal friends finds out that these are your beliefs, she will think about ways to start a whisper campaign, either online or off, to deal with your thought crime that goes so strongly against what she believes to be truth.

I’m not a fan of inventing terms or names, and if you read my game literature you’ll notice how I find normal language to be quite capable in describing ways to seduce a woman, but we need a name to describe the world that we think best reflects our shared beliefs. “Red pill” is one, but it often refers to a way of thinking, not the content. I believe the phrase “masculine conservatism” fits better for these specific beliefs.

Now imagine if it was acceptable to discuss these ideas on a university level. Imagine if a men’s rights speaker could participate in a campus lecture without getting harassed. Imagine the volume of data that would be published if we had educational backing. Imagine if you could post your own thoughts under your full name and solicit public feedback without jeopardizing your future employment. Feminism is so strong not because their ideas are strong, but because they’ve accumulated power that limits the development and publication of our thoughts. We’ve been reduced to posting mostly anonymous essays on the internet, disorganized with no guiding mission.

But even in this disorganization is rising new ideas that are challenging the status quo. It’s up to each of us to decide how much farther we want to take these ideas, or if we want to hide them and let only our opponents enjoy free speech while we remain marginalized. The feminists were the underdog once, and look how far they’ve come. I have no doubts that we can do the same.

P.S. My newest book is called 30 Bangs. It's about 30 of my bangs. Click here to learn more about the book.

On a Thursday night I went to a club alone. In order to recapture the glory days where I was the approach machine, I decided to do ten solid approaches.

My first approach was on my ideal type of girl, but ten minutes in her friend dragged her to dance. I did more approaches, not because I wanted to get laid, but because I was supposed to hit ten. The alcohol wasn’t loosening me up and I was getting more withdrawn as the night went on. My opening line felt stiff. My mouth was actively moving but my brain had left the building and was waiting outside. I made it to eight approaches, kissed a girl I only got a half boner for, and left.

There’s no physical reason why I couldn’t do something that I’ve done dozens of times before, but the desire wasn’t there, even though I would have happily banged 50% of the girls present. I’m now only willing to work for a certain type of girl who I know can give me immense pleasure with minimal investment. Otherwise I have to be especially horny, something that may happen one or two nights a month.

—

I met Kamal once again at the lounge and he told me that the random girl who messaged him on Facebook the other night was coming with three other friends. They eventually arrived and his girl was the cutest. The second cutest wasn’t bad, but she didn’t want to chat and went with the other two to dance.

Kamal and his girl talked next to me and I could tell that he would get far based on how she was smiling and giggling at most things he said. I remembered when she took out her phone to text someone and he said, “Why are you texting me, I’m right here!” He never put out an arrogant vibe or displayed anger. He was a gentleman with style, something that plays very well in a country that lacks such men. He built the foundation with his logistics, personal attributes, and social circle investment, and could now cash it in for years to come. All he needs to do is show up. While he was talking to the girl, I was thinking about which parts of him I wanted to implement into my own game.

I did a handful of approaches but it was tough. In one of the snobbiest bars in Warsaw, the cold approach was getting me less mileage than even industrial Ukraine.

Kamal came up to me and said, “We’re going to a new club. I took a girl there yesterday and bought a bottle but she didn’t drink so they saved it for us tonight. We have to kill it.”

“But how about your girl?”

“She’s going to meet me later. She wants to spend time with her friends.”

“Are you sure it’s a good idea to leave her? It’s okay if you need to stay with her, I can find something to do.”

“No, it’s better I leave. I want to play around a bit and then meet her later.”

We went to the club and got to work on the vodka bottle. In the VIP section there were many guys older than me dressed in suits and smoking cigars. Opposing them were women in their late 20s who seemed like they would accept cash for sex. A couple of them had bobblehead body language, physically present but not mentally. The main crowd had average talent of somewhat older people.

I started talking to one of the club’s dancers, a privilege that the VIP access gave. She was surprisingly receptive, asking me questions and deflecting cockblocks from her fellow dancer friends. She went to dance and actually came back. I offered her a drink from Kamal’s bottle and she accepted, later inviting me to dance. I tried to touch, a suitable move after our 30 minute conversation, but she pulled back and said, “I need space.” I replied, “I’ll give you space” then walked away.

She came back to me later, a huge sign of interest, but there would be no extraction on this night. My need to stay in one city was now stronger than ever. The optimum strategy of scoring top talent was being painted in my head with three colors: game, residency, and local value. As long as I only had one, I would always have to work.

After killing the bottle, we stumbled out of the club and walked to another. Kamal eventually got the text from his girl and left. I went home not long after, alone.

—

The next afternoon we met at a café to review the night. I said, “Now before you tell me what happened, I’m going to guess that you came close to banging but didn’t get quite there. It seemed like it would take one more date.”

“When I went to the club she was at, she was dancing with another guy.”

“Uh oh.”

“But then when she saw me, she immediately stopped dancing and came to me. She didn’t look at the guy again. We danced for a little while and I asked her if she wanted to come over for a drink. She said she wanted to but that her friend was drunk and needed to come with us. I said, ‘I wouldn’t mind hanging out with your friend, but I just had the maid clean my apartment and I don’t want her puking in it. I can tell she doesn’t look well.’ She asked what she could do. ‘Let’s put her in a cab. It’s the best thing for her.’ The three of us went outside and we shoved her in there.”

“Cockblock disabled, nice.”

“Yes. Then we went to my place. I made drinks but on the couch she was playing really hard to get, like she didn’t want to kiss me.”

“Did you kiss before?”

“Not much, just short kisses.”

“That’s not good.”

“Yeah, so I told her, ‘Look you need to open up, you’re being cold and I don’t like that.’ And then finally she kissed me. After a while she asked me if I wanted to have sex. I said, ‘No, of course not, I’m not that easy.’ So we’re playing this dance, back and forth, until finally I suggested we go to my room. She said yes and then we banged.”

“Boom!” I gave him a high five. “It was nice to be there for most of it to see it go down. She seemed a little aloof but I guess her plan was to get banged all along.”

“She had really sexy underwear, like she knew she was going to get laid. She just broke up with her boyfriend and was ready to be bad.”

“That’s inspiring, man. What you got is what I want. I just need to find my city.”

“You’ll find it.”

“I hope so, but I will say that you were the right person to meet at the right time in the right country. It’s like god put you in front of me, giving me the answer of what I have to do next. It’s like he said, ‘Roosh, I know you’re having problems right now figuring out what you want to do. I want you to meet this guy named Kamal.’”

He laughed, not minding my melodrama.

“What you’ve done here,” I went on, “such as being a regular at a couple good spots and getting in with the staff, I’ve done a bit of in other cities, but it was mostly accidental. Just like how I’m conscious with game, I need to be conscious with being king of a city. I don’t see why it can’t be done.”

“It can be done.”

For the previous two years I was searching hard for poosy paradise. I believed that within the first week a city should slap me across the face and announce if it was paradise or not, but Kamal did the opposite. He went to a city that wasn’t poosy paradise and made it so. He created paradise from something mediocre by putting in his blood and sweat, while I was living the life of a wandering gypsy, expecting paradise to be handed to me merely from my ability to hop on an airplane. I saw the flaw in my approach, and on the bus ride to my next city, I was ready to change the game that I’ve been running for all of my adult life.

Read Next: 13 Personality Traits Of Polish Women

P.S. My newest book is called 30 Bangs. It's about 30 of my bangs. Click here to learn more about the book.

By the time I arrived in Warsaw to continue my exploration of Poland, I was ready to pick a city and stay for an extended period of time. By hopping from city to city, I was not leveraging the value I’ve built up over the years. I became so dependent on the cold approach to get laid that the minute I stopped approaching was the minute all my prospects dried up. I knew that the only way I’d get “passive” sex is if I build up some local status and have girls seek me out based on what they have heard or seen. I was ready for Warsaw to be the place that I stay and work on this new game.

I wasn’t in the same state as my last trip to Poland, when I had very little European women experience and was hungry for notches and flags. Now I was looking for stability and something that resembled a more normal life. Even if I was thirsty for more bangs, Warsaw would have stymied me. The quality was below the Polish average but the male competition was intense. I had written off Polish guys as being duds, but in the first few clubs I went to, they were out in force, approaching like maniacs. There was no room to build up a bit of a mysterious vibe and play it slow like I did in Poznan. It was a race to approach the fastest, spin the girl around, dance, and so on. I didn’t have the will for it.

It didn’t help that the attitude of the women were more sour. I was getting dismissive responses and two girls I approached even asked me to buy them a drink, something that didn’t happen to me in the entirety of my previous stay in Poland. I could tell that the biggest and fastest growing city in the country was having a negative effect on women who I naively thought were immune to that sort of thing. My plan to stay in Warsaw, to build local status and get passive bangs, was cancelled after just a few days.

—

Kamal responded to my arrival email where I asked if he wanted to have a drink. He agreed and we met on a Friday night. He greeted me with a large smile and a handshake. Immediately I noticed he spoke with a French accent. It turned out he was from Morocco, which has a strong French influence. He led me to one of his favorite lounges where the doormen cordially greeted him. We checked our coats and I noticed that he was suited up. If I knew, I would have upgraded the H&M v-neck I was wearing.

I followed him to a table where he introduced me to four Polish women, one of whom he recently had sex with. More people joined and he always quickly introduced me as his friend. He worked the table like a raconteur, talking enough to show value but not so much that he bored his audience. All eyes were on him while I got the perfunctory “Where are you from?” but with no substantial follow-up to my answer. He made everyone feel special enough but not too special, and he tossed me a few glances that I interpreted as “You’re alright, yeah?” I noticed he would often adjust his cuff links, not because they needed to be adjusted, but perhaps to relax himself, to take the edge off of being in the social spotlight.

“This is only the warm up spot,” he told me. “There’s a club I want to take you to.” After a couple drinks and more introductions with Warsaw scenesters whose names I immediately forgot, we left to the club a few blocks away. It was a mob scene. The line was more than half a city block long. Before I objected to what would be an uncomfortably long wait, he said, “Follow me.” We walked down the line and received cold glares as we passed those waiting in the cold. At the front door the velvet rope gave way and we were whisked in.

Inside the club we went straight to the VIP room. I excused myself to the bathroom and noticed that they had real cloth towels, not paper. The club itself wasn’t bad, but the talent was lacking. Kamal apologized and said that it was usually better. He bought me a round of drinks and we stayed awhile. He showed me pictures of the model he was banging, the one that my advice helped him get, and I made no attempt to conceal that I was duly impressed with the evening, which ended at a local bar down the street with a round of Polish yellow vodka.

The next night we started in the same lounge. He brought one of his fuck buddies. I won’t lie—she was gorgeous, and so refined that I didn’t know Polish girls came in that flavor. The story he told me of how he got here had a lot of detail, with explanation into his early game and how he deflected the cockblock and so on, the type of detail that men who don’t do so well with women wouldn’t even be aware of. I wanted to dig deeper into his success.

—

On Sunday afternoon we met in a quiet café. “You’ve built up quite the empire here,” I said.

“Thank you. It took two years.”

“Two years?” I asked, surprised.

“Yes, the first year I didn’t do as well. That first time I emailed you I was actually in the middle of a slump, but I took your advice and decided to be the star. I got a beautiful flat in the center, I joined a business club that connected me with the most successful people in Warsaw, and I actively used Facebook to keep contacts warm. Like today out of the blue I got a message from a girl I kissed six months ago. She asked me if I wanted to meet for a drink. I think it’s because she saw all the other girls that comment on my profile.”

“So this wasn’t an overnight thing?”

“No, definitely not. When I first came in the city, I was working real hard. I was going out all the time and approaching girls like crazy. I was banging some but it took a lot of effort for what I got. For a while I was spending serious money on bottles and not getting much in return. I even spent time gaming the bouncers. Now over 80% of my bangs come from that club, where I can sit back and snipe. I had one streak where I approached four girls over a weekend and banged three.” I mused for a few seconds on the logic of such a streak.

“When you approach a girl now in one of your regular spots,” I said, “she has probably seen you before flirting with other girls or talking to the staff. So you’re leveraging the status without knowing it.”

“This is possible. Now random bangs come to me out of the blue. My social circle is big, money is good, and I’m about to buy an apartment here. I love the city and plan on staying.” He’s 27 years old.

“How do you make money?” I asked.

“Just like you. I sell game books but to a French audience. There are not many French ‘PUAs’ like in America, and I was one of the first.” He went on to list some of the technical specifics of his business before the conversation came back to how he created his Warsaw lifestyle.

I said, “I really like the idea of building a social network and getting messages from girls out of the blue. I’m getting tired of actively hunting every night. If I don’t approach for one month, I don’t get laid. I have to always be working. The irony is that my money is passive. We’re talking now and I’m selling a few books probably, but when it comes to getting laid, I use a different approach that’s starting to wear on me.”

“You saw me this weekend. I did maybe two or three approaches. To get this you have to invest hard in the beginning and then you can relax. You can do it very easily with what you know.”

“Yes but there is a problem: I don’t stay in the same place. You’ve been here for two years. I rarely stay in a place for two months. How can I build passive bangs in that short of a time? My travel habit guarantees I’ll have to keep grinding it out, at a time in my life where I’m least motivated to do so.”

“Well that’s a problem then.”

“It is.”

TO BE CONCLUDED

P.S. My newest book is called 30 Bangs. It's about 30 of my bangs. Click here to learn more about the book.

What are the most common feminist beliefs in America? There are three:

1. Men and women are equal, but the patriarchy still favors men in all areas of life. If a woman fares poorly in something, it is due to structural imbalances in society or outright discrimination.

2. Any criticism of American women by a man makes him sexist, misogynistic, and a sex tourist. Any mistake or wrong by a woman can be traced to the fault of men.

3. A woman does not peak with her beauty. She peaks with her intellect and experience, which means that she must spend her youth educating herself with liberal arts degrees to eventually trade her labor to capitalists. In the meantime, she will become a mature human being by having sex with with any man who excites her.

A feminist—a true feminist—takes these three beliefs to the government and tells them to do right through legislation. She also gathers her friends and makes complaints to media companies and advertisers to mold their behavior and products through threat of boycott and bad exposure. In this regard they’ve been successful. Politicians will do anything to get their votes, and corporations (including the media), will not share views that offend them. Of course, just about everything offends them, so the range of allowable thought gets narrower with each passing year.

Your average girl on the street is not an activist. She doesn’t protest, organize, or even write emails of complaint. She’s too busy distracting herself with Instagram, her iPhone, celebrity gossip, and the latest reality TV shows, but the three beliefs are still firmly entrenched in her brain. She thinks women are being held down, she thinks women are less fallible than men, and she thinks her value is not tied to her beauty.

If she’s not protesting or complaining, where and how do these beliefs reveal themselves? Where do they leak out from her brain and transmutate into the real world? On you. You are the primary recipient of these beliefs.

Feminist thoughts ferment in her brain for many years without her realizing it to eventually rain down like napalm on your senses in the form of words, actions, and outbursts when you approach her, have sex with her, or have a relationship with her. I don’t need to tell you that this will not be positive.

She will think you are privileged. She will think that any good in your life has been achieved merely because you have a penis, not because of your hard work. She will believe that power should be taken away from you and given to women. She believes that within your being is a rapist who would not hesitate to violate and beat a woman, and the only reason you aren’t raping her is thanks to the laws of the state. She believes your only true need on earth is to be a sperm donor, and that medical technology will eventually—god willing—make you superfluous  She believes that if it wasn’t for you and your gender, the world would be at peace with no death and no suffering. She will interpret any thing you say which doesn’t portray her as perfect and moral to be sexist, chauvinistic, and in urgent need of re-education. She will attribute any behavior or quirk of yours that doesn’t turn her on to be weird and creepy. She will wonder whether you’re an anorexic apologist if you criticize the foods that she loves, such as Chipotle burritos and Starbucks frappuccinos. She will wonder if your vacation to Brazil was really a sex trip where you took advantage of poor women who live in slums. She will think you’re a slaver if you ever dare hint that you’d want the future mother of your child to stay at home.

She will dissect all your stories, analyze every word of your text messages, and prowl through the internet like a private investigator to rule out the fact that you are in all likelihood a bigot who needs to man-up from a pathological inability to handle a strong women who is experienced with sex, clerical work, and fancy restaurants. It only takes these three beliefs to lead to dozens of opinions about you that make you the enemy of womankind.

Make no mistake that this is a war against heterosexual men. This is the war of our generation. This is a war against men who are presumed guilty at birth, and whose innocence is mere purgatory until a newly devised outrage sends them to hell. You are the enemy and you will be denounced in the form of “misogynist,” “creep,” and “sexist,” and this denouncement will stay with you and affect your livelihood in ways that modern technology allow. You will be prosecuted by the fattest and ugliest cunts of the land, with no hope of appeal.

The young woman who doesn’t even think she’s a feminist is nonetheless waging war on you, her attitude and denouncements the weapon, her vagina the booty that is yours if you defeat her with your sword to choke and gag her in a way that she has been taught to like in books that have been foisted upon her as if she was a mindless automaton. Every time you thrust into a feminist who doesn’t think she’s a feminist and forgo a relationship with her, you inflict a wound. Every time you ignore her existence, you inflict a wound. Every time you make love to a foreign woman, you kill her outright.

This is a defensive war. We have been attacked, shamed, and taxed by them and now there is not much of our blood left. They demand more and more yet give us less and less, to the point where some men are deciding it’s not even worth it to have sex—not worth following their biological purpose of existence. The United States is becoming a battlefield, and it’s those who don’t pick up arms and foolishly appease the enemy and believe in its benevolence that will suffer most. All we demand is a pleasant woman who can raise our seed in a pleasant home, but that has been denied us, and we have been left floundering on a confusing search for masculinity in a society that attacks us and makes us feel ashamed for being men. We didn’t start this war, but we will finish it.

P.S. My newest book is called 30 Bangs. It's about 30 of my bangs. Click here to learn more about the book.