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…


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.

A Much Needed Rest

Its been almost two months since my last post. I just couldn’t think of anything to say, which in some cases is a good thing. Sometimes, you just need to break from things for a while, step back and readjust. See things from farther out.

Aside from side jobs here and there, the hiatus has been great. The career path is slowing being built, one brick at a time, making other things easier to deal with.  Like the fact I crossed my six month deadline from The Before and while my strength is up, the fat is still there. I didn’t hold to any workout for long. What got me stronger was working movies. Lifting heavy cases everyday, 5 days a week and eating fresh food during lunch had me looking better. It was afterwards. It was staying at home and not doing much, and the beer drinking, that got me back up to my starting weight six months ago. Things happen.

Speaking of, I am getting more work calls than ever. My name is finally spreading around and reputation increasing. The hours and the shit someone has to go through to finally get a bit higher than before can be depressing, but you just have to stay strong. Stay with it. Take every hit and get back up. If you’re going to quit, realize that means its over. You tried, you failed, you can’t go back. Not the way you’re thinking now. That was my problem when I first started years ago and when I returned in 2011. I wasn’t prepared. I wasn’t thinking ahead. There were so many things on my mind I felt totally overwhelmed and defeated. Now, after struggling, and a much needed rest, the world isn’t so heavy. My mind isn’t so fogged up with a million things that don’t matter. Focus and drive are in. Good things await.

Lose Yourself


You can hang on to dreams. You can bring up the past, the future or the what ifs of times gone wrong. You can sign up to an ideology, pray and protest for a better world that your lizard mind knows won’t happen. You can cry and wait and wait and wait for the saving grace of charity or just freeze yourself in place until the world goes dark.

Or you can move and make it happen.

I’m still living with my parents. I used to be on my own. I was on my own for a long time. No government help, no money sent through desperate phone calls to ma and pa. I held my own. Then my world was torn apart. My pride was destroyed. My ego broken. The very deep darkness exploded and coated my every action. I had debt and I added to it constantly with binge drinking, fast food and impulse buying. Layer upon layer of security and self-medication. Still, now and again, I slip into that dark world. Angry, lost and happy to break the bank for a night’s worth of numbness.

But that won’t get me where I want to be.

I use my skills. I can talk and attract women. Does it always go right? No. It never will. Sometimes I forget that. I hate when I miss things I think I deserve. A girl that caught my fancy who’s got a boyfriend. A “good job” when I just get more work piled on. Its what makes people snap.

99% of the time no one gets what they want.

Yet, at the darkest times, the flicker of light is there. The dream you can reach. It won’t be easy, it won’t be pretty, but the struggle will take you there. I recently bought myself a camera that shoots HD video. I haven’t owned camera nor shot my own stuff since 2007. I’ve been floating for years, now landing on solid ground, ready to put myself back out there, be creative and show my work to the world.

There is no happy, magic ending to your desires, whatever they may be. Once you get them, you will have to keep moving, fighting, being. But this is our way of living beyond what we’re told to be. I am still living with my parents, a kind, caring cage of the soul, and it can depress even the best excitement. It is only a step among many, and soon, those steps will take me out the door and back on my own, as I am meant to be.

Gan Eagla


What’s the point?

Wake up. Get up. Bathe. Brush. Eat. Ignition. Drive. Work. Lunch. Work. Ingition. Drive. Open door. Sit. Watch. Eat. Sleep. Repeat.

What’s the point?

What’s the point of taking up weights? What’s the point of going out for a drink and a night of pretty women rejecting you? What’s the point of socializing? What’s the point of suffering? Why do any of it?

There are plenty of people who get along just fine doing the minimum. They glide across life like a dog on ice, going and going and going until they hit the end, and that’s it. Its over. They’ve made it to the end with little effort and smile their stupid canine smile, content.

Why bother pushing yourself? Why bother trying? What’s the point? No tales will be written of you. No songs. History will forget you as it does every name that doesn’t change the world or try to conquer it through evil. You’ll never be Achilles or Leonidas or Perseus or Spartacus or Vercingetorix. Even the great heroes of the war that ushered in the atomic age, Richard Winters or John Basilone, fall in comparison to the names of the famous, the socially smart or the politically correct. Without an army, a party, a massacre or a sex tape, you are nothing but wind to history’s mountians.

What’s the point?

The point is you. The point is the effort. The point is your cause. Being the best without laurels or fame or throngs of screaming harpies and parasitic men leeching your aura, trying to taste your life through presence.

The great names of history became history to due to circumstance more than anything. Right place, right time, right choice. Not too long ago, a poor man with the right words and a strong will could usurp an empire. Men with vision could have entire islands or countries named after them. Wars fought in their name. Monuments of valor. Now, men trod along, living like kings, but feeling like slaves. Greatness comes at the behest of a dollar or the backing of a shadow government. Now, if you are not their man, you are no man, if you hold to what the world believes a man is.

What’s the point?

The point is reclaiming. The point is adventure. The point is glory and honor and pounding your chest on top of the world even if no one hears you. The point is to touch God through your blood, sweat and tears. Loosing the fat of life and leaving only the harden muscle of living.

The point is being without fear. Now, and forever.



Its been a long time coming, but its here. The day friends and family have been waiting for.

As of an hour ago, I quit smoking. Whole and full. No half assed slow down. No gradual ending. Its over.

What’s going to be different from all the other dozens of times I’ve tried?

First, I’m not working. My closest end to the habit was last month. I had gone several days without smoking while still going 12 hour days and stress out the ass, but as the season wound down, so did my willpower. We raced to the finish and I ended up with a pack in my pocket and frozen hands.

Second, I have a coach. A long time friend and ex-smoker is keeping me on track. There are rules, charts, reports and cruel retribution for lighting up. When I started smoking, I told my new slavedriver that my ass could be kicked if I hadn’t quit within a year. Its been nearly two. Promise fulfilled.

Third and finally, with all my progress personally, socially, emotionally, etc, the only thing left is my body. I’ve got good clothes in my closet, I’ve got a few girls in my orbit, aside from the financial roller coaster of my industry, I’m set. There’s a small hill of fat left behind from what was. I wouldn’t be surprised that the Ex left me with some portion of her ass along with all the debt she racked up.

Time to suffer for the most important thing… me.

I Dare You


No, you can tell ‘em all now
I don’t back up, I don’t back down
I don’t fold up, and I don’t bow
I don’t roll over, don’t know how
I don’t care where the enemies are
Can’t be stopped, all I know; go hard
Won’t forget how I got this far


There’s a whole world out there that tells you you aren’t good enough.

It tells you that who you are is wrong. A moral stain on the goodness of a thousand bloody empires stacked on each other, bleeding down to the thirsty, meandering zombies asking for one more chance.

The voice of these priests of chivalry come in many costumes. They walk among you, pointing fingers, digging nails deep into you from the furthest stranger to current lover. You can feel it. The shadows crawl into your skin, under your muscles and into your very spirit. The smile you give is false. Beneath the teeth is shaking anxiety.

Am I good? Am I good enough? Why are these people looking at me? Did I say something wrong?

Who are these voices?

They are the universe showing you what not to do. Paths of folly, quantum physics made physical and given consciousness.

I had my voice. Ariel was that voice. A screeching, pathetic, ill speaker broken on delusion. Aside from the holidays and being sick, my last month has been wrought with dealing with what this stalker was saying to me. I let it in and it dug deep.

And it failed.

She called me names. Rapist. Abuser. Unwanted. Harassed me with text messages. Attacked my self-image and self-worth. The things I told her when I thought she was worthy of my life’s story were bullets in her manic depressive volley. Tired and weak, she struck, and I felt so angry, so lost, that this busted cunt was in my head. And she could get away with it. Already arrested and released. Already put away, let go and given no help by the grand mental health apparatus of Ontario. If I walked into a police station and show them text messages, what would they do they hadn’t already done?

“Change your number,” someone said to me when I told them the story. “Ignore her and she’ll go away.”

don’t come to Taps or youll get beat up lol, she sent to me last night.

Ignorance is not bliss, at least not to those still stuck in reality. The delusional ill… well…

The only thing left was to give up.

Give up caring. Give up doubting. Give up the very last vestiges of every stupid, childish, weak thought that stopped me from doing what I want. What is left after rock bottom? Nothing, but up. Every step until you see yourself in the oasis’s pond, drinking up sun.

This lost female soul in the crack of a modern nation dared me to change.

Much to her chagrin, I changed. And when her obsessive eyes reads this… who cares? Fuck her. Fuck any woman who thinks she can “make you better”, to put it simply

I dare you to change. I waited for a manic depressive stalker to force me in to the corner. Bad idea. I let myself destroy my gains. Don’t let that happen to you.

Don’t wait. Don’t stop. Aim for perfection. There isn’t any other choice.


On a side note, I’ll be making several improvements to the blog over the next few weeks. Look out for them.

That’s All You Are

The problem with opening yourself up is that you invite pain. You invite every flaw and every evil that others project. Being emotionally honest to everyone will quickly destroy your faith in humanity. You will become angry, bitter and dissolutioned. This is how feminists and militant MRAs are made. Somewhere they opened up fully and they ended up hurt. Instead of growing up, they grew out, reaching for reasons and looking for skulls to break.

It takes true emotional maturity to endure. The Intern (now paid) lost her mom recently. Two weeks ago, during an ice storm, her car hit black ice and now is totaled. Since she lives near me, we carpool in to Toronto. This is given us much time to talk. She still remains upbeat and ambitious, blaming no one for her pain.

When I first met her, I thought I was ready to pull out all the stops, but the situation changed and by choice I scuttled my attempts to game. This did not stop my feelings, and I found myself conflicted between trying to get her and knowing the slim chances.

The Intern was the first girl I had honest strong feelings for after the Ex. And the longer we’ve worked together, its more apparent how well of a match it is.

But the impressions have been made. The lines drawn. I am a friend and I know it. That’s all I am.

Unlike Ariel (see QuickTips comments), I am NOT lashing out because my feelings are not returned. I do not think that I am so perfect for this girl that I will destroy everything to make it happen.

I have been humbled by this experience. This is a girl I should be falling over backwards for. A broken man still in the throes of divorce finding someone like him, but not able to hold or kiss or enjoy. But I won’t. I can stand tall, without a word of selfish attention, and be a man outside of a woman’s feelings.

My emotions are not the center of me. My purpose is not to bow before romantic fantasies. Through every bit of pain, bad luck and personal poverty, I grow and endure and hold stronger to what I believe.

Ariel learned this when she came to my house uninvited. She would learn much more if she decided to become violent. I did not budge. Later she ended up getting arrested at her kids school (according to her), looking for different outlet for her anger at her powerlessness. Because that’s all she is and she’s unable to cope.

So, my friends, do not falter when things don’t go your way. Recognize reality. Every ounce of endurance builds stoic muscle. Hold to the code that we all have, and you will personally prevail sooner or later

“Be good.”

I didn’t usually send her flowers, but that day I did. On the card was “Be good.” A private message between us.

The Ex told me time and again she wanted to be a slave. A lifestyle submissive. Her life owned by me. As I was then it was a foreign concept, but I adapted over time. To a boy raised on feminism, controlling a woman like that is not easy. It didn’t help that my wife would swing back and forth in her fidelity to the idea. Sometimes she would be on her knees when I got home. Other times she would physically push me away and tell me angrily she did not want it. I wasn’t socially mature enough to realize what was going on. I was just trying to be a good husband.

When I sent the flowers little did I know it was already falling apart. I was telling her to be a good slave, but in her mind she had already broken free from chains that were never holding her back. I was blind to all of this. Intoxicated by the idea of having a woman be submissive to me. Me, Jordan, the kid who use to shake and sweat near any girl he liked. The kid who had a 4 year dry spell. The kid who was lucky enough to marry a bisexual. I was high on all the possibilities, ignorant to the reality.

Even after being betrayed, I was the one following that message. “Be good.” Don’t fault her. You did something wrong. Keep in touch. These are the things a good man does.

Good. Good is a moral concept relative to the society you are in. Good is abstract, floating across our minds, chaining us to certain behaviors. The gatekeepers of morality shame on us into being as they want us to be. The church has given way to feminism. What was immortal then is moral now. What was betrayal then is freedom now. What was natural to human being is now considered a hate crime. Good is a political tool used to control the masses, leading us by our noses to their false paradise.

I am part of a generation sedated by constant stimuli. We were born into information, raised on the first instances of Internet pornography, and now hunt in a sexual field littered with land mines while being told that there are no mines and everything is safe. Awakened to this fact, reality sets in like a punch to the face. I must take steps with purpose or I step on another mine and lose more then just some money and a mentally ill wife.

Good is a leash. Defined by self appointed betters, they will drag you to your demise. Define yourself and define your own actions. Feel what is you and be it. Give none to those who want to control you. This is what it means to be a man in the 21st century. With help from my brothers, I’ve been slowly turned on to this fact. With perseverance, I’ve been able to define myself. With a strong will, the next gatekeepers will never break me.

Don’t Fuck With A Man’s Pride


Where do women get off at the idea that they can attack a man’s pride, a man’s honor, and we’ll just let it slide?

Probably from everywhere. Its on the TV, its on the radio, its in movies and video games. Ray. Ted Mosby. Commercials for light beer and microwave dinners. Bumbling, fumbling men and their expertly trained, angelic wives who tolerate their foibles because of the Hallmark version of “love” says you gotta love what you hate.

Guess what, guys. Ray Romano would of been cheated on and divorced by the end of every season if it were reality. Ted Mosby can’t find the perfect girl through 8 seasons because he fails to realize HE is his perfect girl. No, Coors Light, Bud Light or any other of those “drink this to become manly” companies will make you attractive to women. It’ll make you pathetic. Light beer is like light cigarettes. A product made for vaginas, but since most men are vaginas, they buy it in droves. Grow some pubes and pick up a real beer, or a hard liquor.

The reality of everything comes down to this: people take advantage of the weak. Everyone. Mother Teresa survived on the tears of poor children. Every charity, every food bank, every blood drive, every single beautiful humane thing anyone has ever done including throwing themselves on a grenade is an act of personal advantage. May it be mental, physical, spiritual or financial, people use people. Its only the ones who see the light that know that being the user, or in some cases the used has, advantages.

Women, biologically, are made to be used. Weaker, panic-stricken, prone to fuck shit up, they aren’t exactly the pinnicle of human development. BUT, they have one thing men need: pussy. For the specices, women are the future. They carry and care for our DNA. So, men have protected women, their women anyway, since the dawn of time. From animals, from other tribes and other humanoid species.

Back then, pussy was worth having your dick eaten by a tiger.

Today, its much different. Women are more male than men. is it worth dying in an office, on a construction site or crossing a busy downtown street for this?

Lulz. The HTML says this is the large version.

Weak men die in urban cages for ungrateful, undisciplined women who loathe them. Soldiers die for ugly whores who fuck while they’re in country. We recovering betas wasted money, thousands of dollars, on ass that came with navigation instructions. We do this because we had no pride.

Pride is a man’s soul. Proud of what he’s done. Proud of his scarred hands or his trophy buck. Proud of the old car that still runs better than a Prius and gets better mileage. Proud of the clothes he wears and the swagger of his walk. Men are biologically driven by pride, otherwise why even roll out of the hut when feeding the bitch or yourself has no meaning?

Women fuck with our pride because they have the law behind them. They can call you a homo one minute and hide behind the nearest cop the minute you look angry. For decades, this has turned us into mice in front of their imaginary atomic bomb of disappointment. We fear it’ll go off, and we’ll have to deal with a legally sanctioned attack on our human right to happiness (UN approved!)

But we don’t have to. For those in the know, we are the reason they live. The reason they have meaning. The reason our species didn’t die out. Yeah, they carried kids and collected berries, but the swinging dicks fought off everything for 100 000 years, keeping them alive. War after war after war. From disease to beast to invading horde. Men fought them all. Every man has a warrior’s blood in him. No man ever should ever feel in danger from a woman. Ever woman should feel fear when they see a man. We are the history of human survival, and we should fucking defend it.