Ramble On / Battle Cry


___

I was signing in to Soundcloud from my phone to listen to The Christian McQueen Show (props to Christian and Dagonet, its funny as fuck and has great content). I pressed on the profile button, not thinking much of it, and up came this. My old music from the aftermath of my marriage. About a dozen tracks of mediocrity and/or down right bad beats, but all an expression of the pain, loss and loneliness of a blue-pill beta world being ripped from his hands and turned to ash.

Where has the time gone?

I was three years ago last week I crossed the Canadian border with $36 in my bank account, a shit-ton of debt from my ex, my drinking and my irresponsibility and no hope other than a familiar bed and familiar place. I moved my entire life in a single Dodge Stratus, having trimmed a lifelong partnership down to what I felt was the most important. Grasping to the things I felt that made me.

Three years is a long time.

Last week, I was adventuring in the wilds of British Columbia, my last week there. My instinct about this exchange being spot on. Soon after that post, I was notified I had two weeks left due to budget constraints. I don’t blame anyone, the bosses or the newbie or the culprit. When the anger past and I looked at it all clearly, this woman in a position of power had no idea what she was doing, or how it fucked me over. It wasn’t a conspiracy, it wasn’t a vendetta, it was something so much simpler. It was just selfishness. Selfish actions, narcissism and an utter lack of self-awareness. Everything that we know about the typical Western woman. Instead of showing me that she was worthy of her title, this woman showed me all she was no different than the leopard print legging, frayed UGG wearing zombies I see at Wal-Mart.

It did not deter me. When my adventure was over, I told my parents (my ride) that I walked on an ancient glacier, I climbed kilometers of forest, I flew in helicopters to the top of the world and drank pristine water. I did my job right and I did it well. And, when they brought me back to their house, my old house, I recouped for no more than an hour from my long flight. Soon after, I grabbed what packages I had ordered, my car and headed back out. By the end of the night, I had not gone to my own home, but to that of a girl, who happily greeted my return. I finally unlocked my own door at around noon the next day.

Since then, I’ve been on a spree of gear buying, organizing and planning. My room is no longer a pigsty of work, clothes and plain laziness, but a thought out collection. My fridge is full of the right food, not pizza boxes and pop as it was when I cleaned it out before leaving. Hooks and shelves. Roughneck tubs and tape labels. A rucksack being build up to tackle the great big world that lives outside the streets of a city.

001

Three years ago, if I hadn’t put myself on a path to accept the harsh realities of women, and people in general, what happened to me would of destroyed me just as bad as the end of my marriage had. I had done right, worked hard, played on the team and done my part beyond what I was told it would be and, like the end of my marriage, it was the selfish needs of a woman and her missing self-awareness that ended a good thing way too soon. But, because of people like Christian and Dagonet, like Rollo, Dalrock and the long-departed Solomon II, and the countless others I’ve been inspired by, I was able to push myself to become a better me, and through that a better man.

___

Walk the Line

___

The veins begin to grow on my neck, blood pumping through every tube at high speed. My skin burns and your eyes widen. Everything comes to a slow crawl, there is nothing left inside but the fire of the animal. Go for the kill, it says. DO IT!

I twitch, no one sees. So close. GO! GO GO GO! But, I rest, time speeds up to normal. And there is her long, horse-like face, sans makeup, sans any redeeming quality. A person again, nothing more than a person. And her words.

Cunt, the human says as she turns away. Whorecunt.

My boss, out of nowhere, for no other reason to wave her non-existent dick in front of the new blood, insulted me. Told me I was awful for camera and that I should be doing lighting instead. With her new, nubile, inexperienced assistant at her side, she told me to “Get out of the way. Woymn are here!”

Could I have said something? Of course. I was within my right to. I could of lit the fire under her feet and let the whole place burn with my words. It could of cost me my job, this train of money into my account and work with this company, but it would of been justice on a woman who has made everyone’s life out here beyond difficult on top of our normal duties.

But I withheld. I eyed the boss of bosses talking to the moneylenders, trying to keep the chaos in check. I eyed the other camera head talking shop with one of the producers. I had no back up. I had no exit strategy. My fire would be put out quickly, the arsonist blamed and strung up, and wounds treated and pampered (more than she’s been already). The net benefit would be a second of personal satisfaction and six weeks of punishment, at best. Home and poor again, back to square one, at worst.

Status and respect do not go hand in hand. To those not in the tyrannical cross hairs of a mentally ill feminist, her title comes with all the respect I give to the others who’ve earned it. The others have recognized my hard work, my skills and my loyalty, and given the respect I deserve. She dismisses it all, because I have a penis, a penis that gets in the way of her political and mentally deformed ambitions that we all must suffer through.

Could I have said something? Only if I wanted to be like her and sabotage the job for personal gain.

I held my place, shut my mouth and walked away. Saving my words for another day. A day when the system is not at her back. A day when the line can be crossed, happily and with purpose.

Never Stop Trying to Be A Better Man…

…because you’ll eventually make it to place few have been before.

20140911_155342

It takes time, its takes money, it takes scars and hate and the worst parts of you, but then you shed it all in an instant and find the world is a different scent from what it was before. There is nothing left but the reality of you, and if you’re lucky enough, you’re the big dog. You, despite your status, your age and the people around you, are the alpha. You see all. You are all. They can say what they want. You made it.

You’re All Cunts

To my ex wife
To my ex girlfriends
To my current girl

You’re all cunts.

To the 2nd AC who spent the afternoon watching the World Cup
To the 1st AC who let him do it
To the perks of rank

You’re all cunts.

To my landlord
To the government
To cops and nurses and barsluts

You’re all cunts.

To my sisters
To my parents
To Ariel
To myself

You’re. All. Cunts.

Most people are cunts. They’re heinous and horrific people unable to process that they are animals in a illusion of civilized society. They will betray their friends, fuck their kids and kill strangers based on nothing more than sexual access or monetary gain. Their ideas are blips of consciousnesses pinned to the infinity of natural chaos. Human rights, computers, God; all just whispers of words lost to the cacophony of screaming mating calls of every beast. We all are victims of our vicious human nature. We have all been fucked over or destroyed by the electrical spark of our synapses telling our loved ones to run off, drive drunk, fuck your neighbor, take a 9mm to the head.

Its all simple, and it ruins us all.

To the bloggers who see us as customers
To the forum posters who live off their keyboard
To the liars of their conquests

You’re all cunts.

I can write as much as I want. I can say whatever I want. I can tell you I quit smoking, quit drinking, banged a 10 in front of the Vatican. You may believe it or not. It won’t matter, because I know it didn’t happen. I can say my anxiety is cured. That I didn’t have an attack at work this Monday that crippled me. That I quit my job and decided to walk the earth searching for the perfect moment of serenity. I can say whatever I want, but I will always know that it wasn’t true.

I am a mess of mental scar tissue born of generations of breeding that should have never been. Somehow, the blood pumping through my heart survived and passed on the great power to collapse in a heap of fear at any given moment. My vices are my crutches, my go tos when I feel the pressure of reality crush down on me, no matter how lame or typical it may seem. My drinking and my smoking cannot be solved by simple means. I rush to them for comfort. I use them to get what sex I can. I reach out through my mental illness and hope to find someone not as fucked up as me.

And all I’ve found has been like-minded defects.

The extremes I feel I need to go to so I can solve my issues are also the extremes I feel I can’t take because of the “real” world. The things I feel, deep beyond the lizard brain, would land me in jail or get me killed, but I always think of them. I always see them as the solution to an everlasting aura of uselessness and ghost persona. Would they solve my problems? Don’t know. But when the brain says something, like cry like a bitch at work, I jump. We all jump. We all follow.

I can pretend things will change after this. I can say, like I have before, it’ll get better, but I can’t promise. I can’t lie. I don’t know right now if I can, not without a drastic and dramatic change. In the meantime, I’ll still work and feel worthless. I’ll still drink and smoke and get laid from human trash. I’ll still slog, but at least I’ll try.

I’m a pathetic cunt. But I am an honest one.

 

Believe Beyond the Pattern

 

Its never strange how life goes. Not when you look at your past, or the past of others, and find the patterns of why the same things happen over and over.

Why can’t I find the right girl?
Why do I feel bad about myself?
Why can’t I get ripped?
What’s wrong with me?

Its because you aren’t changing. Your actions are the same. There may be different words, different people, different places, but you are still pussing out from talking to the hottie next to you. You’re still refusing to even do a set of push-ups every few days. You’re still not sleeping enough, drinking too much, trolling your ex’s Facebook.

Its all the same pattern.

Somewhere down that line that runs into all your past actions, there was something that said, “Do this and feel better.” You had a bad day, a break-up, some kind of trauma and you fixed it with fast food, drugs, alcohol, games, or any other of the millions of things we have now to avoid having to feel pain.

Want to break this pattern? Want to start, slowly, but surely, changing yourself and eventually get to your goals?

Start with your most treasured vice. The thing you go to anytime the world drops a bit of rain on your parade, and THROW IT AWAY.

End it. Kill it. Stop doing it with extreme prejudice. And replace it with something you want to improve: social skills, muscles, tech skills. Anything, anything, but what you used to do.

This is how we change. We recognize our faults, we eat our pride and we move beyond the destructive pattern we’ve held on to for comfort for years.

This is how we live.

 

If I Had A Heart (The Itch)

___
This will never end
‘Cause I want more
More, give me more
Give me more
___

You feel that itch. It can start on the skin, or just under, and it spreads. Arms, legs, hands, feet, fingers, nails; all up and all down until its consumed you. You’ve got to do something. You can’t just sit there, you’ve got to get up. Clean something, make something, do push ups, eat, drink, fuck. Something! The itch is overwhelming. Sitting at home, at your desk, listening to your girlfriend drone on and on with her friends at a “party”. God-fucking-dammit, you’ve got to disappear. Nothing feels right until you’re out in the real air, on a mission, to do ANYTHING, but what you were just doing.

I used to think there was something wrong with me. I would get bored easily of something, move on to something else of interest, get bored of that, move, move, move. I must be sick in the head, I must be lazy or unmotivated. I got told that this or that is out of place, that I must keep up with everyone else (“keep up” being used as a term for “same”), I can be so much more.

What is “more”? What is this goal I’m supposed to attain? The grand endgame of the life of a decently fit, white, western male…

This?

Or this?

Been there, done that.

None of that interests me.

You know why people get bored, sad and depressed when they get these things? Because they think life is over. Those who drilled themselves into deep, underground bunkers of forced lifestyles, no matter their clique, end up suffering under their own self-doubt and hatred. They hate their mortgage, their family, their legally bound fuck buddy they knocked up. They become mental cripples, complaining of the life they built for themselves, if only they did more before succumbing to weakness.

The itch is not a mental illness. Its not ADHD, ADD, bipolar disorder, anxiety, psychosis or white privilege. The itch is your natural male urge to go out and be. To build empires and to burn villages (or at least fuck some dude’s girlfriend). Its that ever-present, ever burning, ever enjoyable instinct that brought us from the death traps our evolutionary ancestors ran from and spread us across the planet to every corner, killing, eating and creating as we went.

Its not easy today, with the world so easy for us first-world folk. We live in the cultural empire of McDonalds, Starbucks and the ever-present wagging finger. I’ve climbed the stones of Death Valley, nearly been shot by idiots, seen the sunrise from the top of a mountain, sat with my feet dangling over some of the most dangerous rapids. Sometimes you need money, sometimes you just need to get off your ass. Either way, do it. Tell the voices in your head, or in your home, to fuck off while you go fulfill one of the oldest and most important urges in human history.

Make a name for yourself in your circle, or even better, try to make yourself a name in your town. Do something incredible, or infamous. Be part of a story. Be the reason for a story. Take the time to be remembered when you pass, or just be another faded name on your future kin’s family tree.

Return

Guess I needed a longer rest than I thought.

Sometimes, you just need to step back and look at everything, one piece at a time. Sometimes, you need to just be a lazy fuck and let the world vanish to see the reality of it all. Sometimes, bitches be crazy.

Its been both eventful and event-less since August. Been out and around. Had interesting, even violent encounters with some really fucked up women who take the pussy pass to extremes, but inbetween that… nothing really. Work dried up in November, now picking back up again. And, with that, comes renewed ideas for posts. Things about male mentality, mental health, family dynamics and the like. Not women. Writing about women all the time gets boring, because most women are the same. The most interesting things about women we already know, so why repeat? Unless I find that good girl with a bad side who likes the dark edge of sexual exploration, I’ll be typing away advice, not battle reports.

To another year of remaining red pill!