The Gift That Keeps On Giving

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I can’t go back, can I?

No. But if you could, would you really want to?

-The Matrix

The red pill really is the gift that keeps on giving. Knowledge of how the world really works is something I revere. I define it as an of understanding of the true nature of humanity—an observation from new context—and the application of that knowledge through game, or learned charisma. I’ve thought of five ways in which this knowledge has enriched my life.

Before I get into that, however, I would like to address my semi-sober Solstice satire post from Saturday. I wrote it in an effort to increase my traffic and to get a reaction out of people with a puerile yet forthright piece. I was successful in both counts. My traffic has never been better (20% of my all-time visit count has come the past three days), and the reactions amused me, though they could have been a bit more clever. Hear-hear to commenter cheesynougats, who lamented:

For one, I am disappointed. The quality of snark in the comments is just subpar. Someone certainly can do better, and this _50 Shades of Grey_ knock-off failure deserves better.

For the record, yes, the post was intended to be stupid and haphazardly written. And no, I’m not that depraved of a human being. It’s not a true story, nor is it based on a true story (though it’s still more realistic than some of the kitsch Hollywood passes of these days).

So anyway, thank you for indulging me in my 50 Shades knockoff–that goes doubly for the haters.

FIVE WAYS THE RED PILL HAS IMPROVED MY LIFE:

It allows me to truly “be myself” around women.

The most common argument against a man learning game is that by doing so, he isn’t “being himself.” That all the scripts, canned lines, and learned actions are somehow disingenuous or even manipulative. Wrong. Game is nothing less than the way a man presents himself to the world. We all practice game in some sense—from engaging in polite conversation with someone who repulses us to dressing up for an interview. There are times that “being ourselves” just doesn’t cut it. So don’t fault the man who, for whatever reason, has failed in his previous relationships and decides to make conscious changes to ensure he doesn’t repeat those mistakes. If it requires a canned line to approach a woman, when just “being himself” would lead him to say nothing, then by all means, he should use the canned line. Any time a man steps out of his comfort zone, whether in his beliefs or his actions, it means he is doing something contrary to his natural self. I consider myself a completely different person than I was five years ago—my beliefs, my behaviors, my perspectives have all changed considerably. In five more years, they may change even more. And that’s okay. A static life is a boring life.

It has improved friendships and work relationships.

Talking with friends about game and having them as a support system has been an immense help to my ability to attract women and live a fulfilling life. It’s been amazing to note how viewing the world with others through the lens of truth, rather than what we wish was the truth, can solidify bonds and increase the desire to help each other achieve competence in our social skills (and I include fellow bloggers in this). This knowledge has also helped me in my career. I am working where I want to work, on my terms, and a major reason I was able to secure the position was because of what I’ve learned about how to present myself to others. Again, it’s not about being fake; it’s about being confident in my abilities and sell myself in a way that shows that.

I don’t take myself so seriously anymore.

I would have never dreamed of publishing an idiotic post like “Story Time” a few years ago, but I did because it amused me. If people have an issue with it, then that’s their problem, not mine. If they liked it (or any of my other posts), then great; it’s my intention to provide entertainment and valuable insights into the blogosphere, but I don’t lose sleep if I fail. The same attitude goes toward my social relationships. I’ve learned that a man who doesn’t take himself too seriously can approach women and get blown out time and again and remain positive, because he’s in it for a better reason than just getting laid. I don’t interact with women socially simply to “score pussy,” I do it because I genuinely enjoy it. And if relationships develop or sex comes as a result, fantastic. I’m never in desperation mode—I’m just having fun with it—and women pick up on that.

I can no longer play the victim card as an excuse.

When I was younger, and I struggled a great deal with attracting women, the first thing that ran through my mind was, “I just don’t have any luck.” It was the woe-is-me approach, and it only made things worse. Blaming outside forces for one’s own misery will do nothing but cause a negative feedback loop that will ultimately cause even more misery. The victim card is dangerous because it allows us to transfer our faults from ourselves to others. When that occurs, personal responsibility goes out the window. The idea of improving one’s self is a mere afterthought. It’s one of the reasons why feminism is a destructive ideology. Everything is based on getting society to improve rather than the individual. Meanwhile, the individual becomes an insufferable lump of stagnation. Neil Strauss, author of The Game, has long advocated the pick-up principle that no women are bitches. Now, that doesn’t really mean there are no bitches; the fields are plentiful and the harvest is ripe with them. What it does mean is that if we view pick-up opportunities from the mindset that no women are bitches, then our rejections are met with self-reflection (and ultimately, self-improvement), not blame or malice towards external foes. You can probably guess which philosophy works better.

It gives me the hope that true love does exist.

Wow, the tone of this article is awfully sanguine (not common in the Manosphere, I must say). Maybe I’m just in the Christmas spirit. Now, to clear things up, by “true love,” I mean true love, as opposed to false, manufactured, or settled-for love. Being socially adept and possessing an understanding of the female nature is exactly what women want from their men, and anything less than this will cause doubt in their love for them. So much of the “love” beta males receive in today’s society is based on rationalization (“this is the guy my mom always wanted me to marry, he must be right for me”) and the drop of standards (“well, we’re both 39 and have never been in a long-term relationship—if we don’t get married, we’ll end up alone”). Their women don’t truly love them. Now, I don’t claim to be an expert on what love really is. Whether it’s intense neuron activity or something more spiritual, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that it exists. As Heartiste boldly declared, “Love is the only thing in this world that isn’t bullshit.” But for it to be true, it must be founded on truth. By knowing the truth, and acting on it, men will indeed find more love in their lives. That’s why women’s love for the alpha male has never been stronger.

Merry Christmas to you all. Hope it is filled with joy and merriment! (That goes doubly for the haters.)

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Story Time

So I’m in bed with a dime and she says to me, “Willis, what are your goals in life?”

“Simple, Adime,” I respond with my larynx. “To explore the caverns of dimes throughout the world.”

“Not just me? Ain’t I special?”

(backhand slap given to her) “Whad I tell you about talkin in slang woman?! Show some gawddamn class ho!” (another backhand slap given, with a subtle emphasis on turning her back on (she recently orgasmed whilst my canteen of a dick wast roaming her cavern, and I was in a generous mood))

“I am sorry General. It shall never happen again.”

“See that it doesn’t. See……..(pause for effect)…. that it doesn’t.”

“Indeed. And wow just wow. Your pause truly affected me.”

“What else has affected you tonight?”

“O that’s right, Mein Fuhrer, your penis in my vagina.”

“And how did it affect you?”

“With orgasmic pleasure, Sir. You induced cummage upon my quakering body 5.5 times.”

“Let’s make it 7.”

I take her. By this I mean sexual intercourse was had again.

“Goddamn, Professor! I think I might explode!” she says inbetween fits of ecstatic ecstasy.

“Then do it already!”

She does, as if by command.

After the time in which I have no interest in her as a human being passes and my johnson starts boning back up, I turn to her. She says, “You never answered my question. Aren’t I special?”

“You’re more special than that land whale of a sister of yours, Bertha. Because, you see, that land whale of a sister of yours, Bertha, is fat. You’re more special than your friend Marie, because your friend Marie looks like an ugly stick firing squad took aim at her face and left breast. But you’re not more special than your dime-and-a-penny friend Natalie. Natalie’s symmetry pleases me.”

“Cannot we look past such shallow things, Master?”

“No, Adime. For do you not like me for my charm, wit, intelligence, looks, penis size, and extensive Scandinavian stamp collection? Is that not ‘shallow’?”

“I suppose it is. I suppose I simply like to view the world in another way.”

“The false way?”

“What’s false about romanticism, Lord?”

I remind her of her last gentleman suitor. Average height, median weight. Put the schlub in the word schlub. “Do you remember when he strapped on his kneepads and proposed marriage to you?”

“Unfortunately I do.”

“And do you have any recollection of how the beaver felt in that moment?”

“Dry.”

“Dry as the Gobi,” I say, alluding to a desert in Asia that is known for not being sexually attracted to beta males.

“Dry as the Gobi,” she echoes.

“Yet he was a romantic, was he not?”

“Aye, Captain.”

“And he was begging you to allow him the privilege to get the State involved in your relationship, for the express purpose of making sure you obtained half of his fortune in the inevitable offchance of divorce.”

A grin formed upon her semen-encrusted lips. “That’s why I said yes.”

“And that’s why you are a whore.”

She gives me the o-face for the 8.5th time of the evening.

“And that’s why,” I continue, “I’ll never marry you.”

“I love you, King,” she swoons.

“Make me a sammich.”