The Serpentine Offering

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Where is the center of these decisions women make? Where the world around them seems to fit just perfectly and they find the opportunity to jump ship and defect in front of you, in spite of you. Meanwhile, you have done nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing wrong.

A friend of mine had his own version of my Ex, though on a shorter timespan. She came, she smiled, she betrayed and he was hurt badly. A good man turned to ashes by a woman who couldn’t wait a month to check out the next cock that wagged her way. He defend her, slightly, but in the end he followed most of my advice and did his best to play on her jealousy and attention whoring. He won’t get her back, the odds aren’t good, but at least he’s standing up for himself and proud of his new skills.

This gave me thought as we talked. What if the Ex came back? This would be round three. The first time, I visited her under the assumption we were together. She booted me out right before my plane was going to leave (we had planned that I stay past the date and drive up to get my shit before Cali) and later admitted to cheating while I was there. The second time, you know the story, abandonment. How dumb would I be to go for a third go around?

A ginger Eve, freckled and coy. An apple in her hand; happiness, godliness returned. Someone in my bed each night. Soft skin. Soft moans. The goals back on track. The good memories made true again. Offered the kingdom of the Earth, if only I renounced the Word. Nothing would have to change, just go back.

There are times where I’d give a testicle, or both, to get back to living on my own, with a girl, with a steady job in the state I wanted to live in. Where I had my own times, my own things, my own rooms, car, neighborhood, friends. My own country I could walk and explore as I wished. Every time I took to the valleys and rocky back country I’d feel like I could just dig a hole, eat rabbit and live soundly. Every time I got in bed with her, I felt the light and the heat and the love. Everything I was told. Why not go back?

Because its all a lie. Day one to the final hour, with her, it was lies. Lies upon lies. Lies into hate. Hate into resentment. Resentment into dumbfounded ignorance. Ignorance into oblivion. To return would be the suicide of dignity and the return to the chains of female irrationality. She wasn’t the only woman to sleep with me, or want to do more than just fuck. She won’t be the last.

The same advice goes to my friend and all the other broken hearted men. The offering seems like a miracle. Something too good, because it is. If you’ve been cheated on, abandoned so she can jump in with someone else or any small or large slight that ended your relationship, it’ll happen again without a major personality shift by her. She must adhere. She must submit. She must realize you are the man and she is the woman. Her hindbrain must realize you are the alpha and she is the nothing. No beta, no other alpha, no flight of feminine imagination may pass without your nod of approval.

These are the rules.

 

Break Stuff

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I won’t go into the details more than I already have in the comment section, but today’s been one of those days. I haven’t felt anger like this in a very long time. And its not because I want her back. Its not because I thought there was hope.

Its because this cunt attacked my character.

Many years ago, while my sister and I were still pretty damn immature, I’d tease her constantly. She’s say something absolutely stupid and I’d smack her lightly on the head or something of that sort. Yeah, she’s a girl, but she had (still has) no filter for her mouth. What was annoying then is endearing now, and she’s gotten really good at comebacks. Its what our family is all about. After having two daughters after me, my parents became very adamant about no hitting. So I always got in trouble. I had to be 20 and she 15. Another light smack and my dad went into a rage. Long work days and other stresses must of broke him. He told me I was an abuser. That I’d hurt her bad. Things he has never said. I was beyond control when he said that.

I know the truth about me, the good and the bad, and that wasn’t even close to me. It attacked me on a false level. I exploded back. “Fuck you, dad.” I had never said that to him, ever. I went off, accusing him of lying. I was ready to sock him and nearly did, but held my arm back. First time I’d ever gotten close to. First time I’d ever wanted to without doubt.

No one EVER attacks my character like that. No one. I’ll fucking kill you.

Applying it to the bigger picture of men and the West, you get a picture of shame. There are men, millions, letting women and men walk all over them. Even some alpha are dealt hands of character assassination they can’t shake. Women can walk on stage, yell rape, point and have a crowd full of white knights take the guy to the mattresses. Betas and omegas can spread rumor, cockblock, destroy good things with jealously and hate.

They used to behead rumor mongers.

Men should not justify their character being attacked. Honor is not a lost cause. We can be as enoyably debauched as Gmac or as noble and stoic as Dalrock, either way, lies are lies and liars deserve to get punished.

Never doubt the effectiveness of a fight over honor.

Send in the Clowns

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So, by the end of today, I’ll have finally contacted a lawyer to get the divorce proceedings on track. This is a bit of irony considering The Ex was the one who wanted out and left. But, its closing on a year since she made her true feelings known and I’m making money, so it needs to get done and quick. Plus, the debt she may have racked up could be on me and I have enough shit from her already.

She’s gone incommunicado, even as far as deleting her Facebook account. Her apparently former close friend says they haven’t been talking in a while. From social return to hermit, it seems. I’ll have to give the lawyer her last known address and phone number, which is stuck on my American iPhone. Not a problem, just hope she’s still there to get the papers.

Its really a sad story. A post-modern love broken by the same society that fostered it.

C’est la vie.

Meet The Ex

Since my last post recounted probably one of the worst parts of my manhood, I thought I may as well show her considering I still have a shitload of pictures of her, mostly taken by herself. Eyes censored for usual reasons. Click to enlarge, though that won’t make it it any more flattering.

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That’s after she dropped 50 pounds. Here’s when I married her.

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The Choice I Left Behind

We were drunk. Very drunk. I had the weekend off. Rare for my job. We usually worked six days. Always on call. Twelve hour shifts,minimum. Overtime. Always overtime. The weekend meant rest and more rest. It meant fun. Trips. Movies. Magic Mountain. Fun.

We laid on the floor, embraced, smiling, laughing. There she was. A woman I fought tooth and nail for in my heart and mind. A woman that made me giddy. Happy. Complete. Sexy, kind, funny, perfect. Freckles on her face, light red hair, soft skin, kisses, love. Her weight wasn’t a problem for me. I loved her. I loved her so much that on the floor, drunk, insane, I asked her to marry me.

In my head it was a joke. My thoughts said, “Wouldn’t it be funny to ask her?” and I answered with a resounding yes. As did she, before breaking out in tears and confessions. I said we didn’t have to say anything. It isn’t official. Its more of a promise. She said it wasn’t that. It was something bad. Something worse. Something very, very wrong.

“What is it?” I asked. The answer I did not expect. If I was the man that I am now, I would of saw it. I wouldn’t have been on that floor with her, singing lovely praises between shots, blind to the words that came next. The words that haunted me for months, years. Something I never got over. Something I kept secret for her and, sadly, for myself.

In April of that year I went down to meet her for the first time. Months of talking over the phone. Years of talking over the internet. It was time. She was overjoyed. The first days were blissful. Then things rolled away. She became distant. She was cold. She said I was different. I couldn’t figure out why. I was nervous, yes, but what I was to learn later was that I was cocky on the phone. I performed a Beta Switch. That, in her mind, led her to sleep with her ex, in the back of his van, while I sat in her bedroom, waiting, freaking out, anxiety bursting through my pores.

The next moment was long. It hit me, but I went cold. Very cold. I held her in my arms and screaming CUNT through my bones. WHORE! SLUT! I had forgiven her for backing out of our plans, forcing me to make a trip 3000 miles in a state of intense depression, only to change her mind again not long after. That was nothing compared to this. This was something that was meant to be unforgivable. Death was passed on crimes such as these for thousand of years. We weren’t even married, but it was the deep, boiling betrayal she knew she committed. She knew what she did. She knew the enormity of the pain. She waited until now to tell me. I thought and thought and thought, yet the answer came as quickly as her confession.

“Its okay,” I said, teeth clenched. Arms around her sobbing, wobbling figure. Her body shaking. My body numb.

What else was there to do? Smack her around? I wished. I wished always. I wished I had sent her packing and returned the fling with my bigger breasted roommate. I wish I had left her at the airport. I wished so many things, but I had it in my head that I put this much effort in, that I still loved her, that I’d get over it.

That was my mistake. Trying to get over it. Trying to rationalize it. Impossible. The best reaction is the natural reaction, otherwise you’re fighting something stronger than civilization. You’re fighting yourself. There’s a reason we feel these things. They help us survive.

I made the wrong choice that night. I made the wrong choice from then until she left. After she left, after months of work, I did something I said I do that night on the floor.

I got over it. By getting over her. By getting over the lies of society. By embracing what is real, my instincts.

Glow of the Moment

Her head was on my chest, my arm around her. Her raven hair spread and messy. The TV was on, some singing reality show hosted by failed male Nick Leshay. We had finished, finally, after hours. Both too tired to continue. She had fallen asleep. I smiled.

In the books and movies, in what I had believed, this was a moment where I, as the man, fall in love with the girl I just ravished. I take in our moments. I loosen my heart because she’s found comfort and protection in my embrace. I start to think of a future. I begin to release feelings that will make my life a flowery dream of rose petals and lavender air freshener. I’ve done it before with my first few girls. We fuck, we hold, I fall, I fail. Fuck, wash, repeat.

But, I wasn’t smiling because I was falling in love. I already had decent feelings for this girl, a girl I’d known for over a decade. As a child, I loved her. She was everything. Then we broke up, and I hated her. Then we got back together, and all was right. Cycle. Cycle. Smash. A lost year. Mixed feelings. Odd conversations.

I wasn’t smiling because I followed the book. I was smiling because I hadn’t.

I never had the textbook romantic bullshit moments I was told would come. I ended up with half-truths of female attachments. I never fell asleep wrapping my lover in my arms. I turned over because The Ex insisted having the side of the bed I couldn’t lay on (chronic leg pains). The Roommate would push the arms away, though she had feelings. Even early with the First, the afterglow wasn’t so much of a block of time more than it was the few moments before having to get the fuck out before her mom showed up and took her down to the ground like only a ugly-ass cunt could to their own flesh and blood.

But this time, she was there, sleeping soundly, and I was drifting.

I looked at her and felt. Not because of the angelic looks of a sleeping lady. Not because of the chances this could be a relationship. Just the glow of being a man with a savagely fucked woman passed out on his chest. Her need to be around me. Her need to me on top of me. Her need to make me happy.

Slowly, it comes to all of us who walk the path to true manhood. We hit these moments in the most unexpected ways where the steps we’ve taken, the troubles and the pain of bursting from the depths of the feminist false god, find congruence and give us moments of true clarity. It may be with a single lay, a hated cunt or someone you actually care for. And this allows us to move to the next step of self-improvement through the impeccable art of battling, besting and bedding the women we want.

You Know You Need Game When…

…you approach a girl, she looks at you and you turn around and walk away.

…you refuse a girl grinding on you because you don’t know the steps.

…you buy a girl a drink.

…you buy a girl’s friends drinks.

…you buy a girl’s boyfriend a drink.

…you only message older women on dating sites because you think it’ll be easier.

…you get jealous when a girl says she hasn’t had sex in X number of month to you (true story).

…you watch porn, on your phone, in a bar.

…you hit on your middle-aged mom neighbor.

…you hit on your middle-aged mom neighbor’s mother.

…you message every girl you knew in high school hoping one will say “I always wanted to ask you out!”

…you seriously contemplate an escort service.

…you call up your favorite female high school teacher hoping she got divorced.

And you really know when you need game when…

…you make out with a guy’s girlfriend, then kiss him so he doesn’t feel left out (true story, but not mine).