Masculinity Isn’t Political

The personal is political.

Its the basis of feminism from those who want true legal equality to the buzzed cut butches stomping around calling for the culling of anything with a penis.

The personal is political. It means “that women are in bad situations because they experience gendered oppression”.

In response to this theory, we now have more laws trying to remove “oppression” than we do laws protecting our basic rights in the West. Its more likely you’ll get re-educated in sexual politics at your job than be educated in actual politics through the public school system. Divorce courts are biased. Criminal courts are biased. The purported oppression swung the other way, but not one major leader in the West has ever done anything about it.

And guess what, guys?

Tough shit. Its how life is.

My first step on the Red Pill path was through Men’s Rights groups. I started to parrot the lines. I sounded like a feminist, but with a better taste in clothes. After the marriage ended, I blamed feminism. I blamed laws that I thought prevented me from making her stay, her paying the debt I had to carry. I couldn’t hit her when she went apeshit because I could be blacklisted from future careers with a conviction like that. It was all THEIR fault.

And I still didn’t feel right. I wasn’t happy. I went out. I dated. I got laid. I still wasn’t happy.

Take a wild guess what was the problem?

My negativity.

We can blame who we want. We can act on that belief of blame. But what does it gain us to have it forever? When you’ve fixed your life, gotten to know better people than the cunt ex or gotten a better body or gotten a better job, what’s the point on still whining about how men, as a class, are being oppressed now. That commie talk right dur!

You can still believe, as I do. You can work with MRAs. Do whatever you want, but don’t take these politics personally like the fembots do. You’ll end up like them. Bitterness and cats. Lots of cats.

Playing The Villain

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People want to think the best of others. Its how a polite society works. A door opens, an elevator is kept an extra few seconds, a thank you and your welcome and good-day. Charity giving, food drives, the overall people aiding others. We all believe, or are supposed to believe, in the great giving world. That’s why laws are passed so you are forced to give money for being alive, for your labor, for your home, your water, your power, your air. That’s why our parking, our speed, our cell phones, our smokes, our words and our opinions are regulated. Oh, we are free, within the confines of the law, the confines of the opinions of others.

I sat through a conversation today that pushed every one of my buttons. I’m naturally honed in on politics, I can’t help it. I try my best to avoid large political debates because its not worth my time or my energy to argue simple points over and over. If someone wants to talk to be about details and nuances, sure, but if I say “strict gun laws” and I hear “ban all guns”. Fuck you, next subject. How can I have a stimulating conversation when your point is to have a blanket hate.

This conversation I refer to I was not a part of. I sat in the dark, listening for interruptions and writing in a small book, passing the time. The words were words people use all the time, “fairness”, “justice”, “democracy”, but they are thrust forward with a self-righteous force. I hear “unity”, I hear “Trayvon”, I hear “endangered species”, but all I do is hide a smirk and the roll of the eye. I’m tired of this talk. I’m surrounded by it everyday, with the crew and home. I can’t get in my own words. My own beliefs, without having the world come down, as if racism, death and war will explode from the ground if some of my spittle hits the carpet.

I play the villain. I am the far-right, anarcho-conservative, pro-war, pro-gun, anti-tax, anti-everything, pro-everything guy. When talking about guns, as above, guns are wrong, ban them. When talking about hockey, “hockey’s so violent” or “my son is in a non-contact league” (fucking pussy). About UFC? “People who watch that are sick. SICK!” About some soon-to-be-gangsta who got shot? “Poor Trayvon.” About jail? “Racism.” About war? “Give peace a chance.” About government? “More.” For fuck’s sake, God, allow me the wisdom… And you know the greatest irony? Its these very types of people and their opinions that have driven me to find other outlets, other opinions that I now find myself seeing as right, feeling as right and knowing as right.

I’ve been made fun of for my changing opinions (my mother being the most vocal during talk of news). As if staying stone on a subject means you’re smart. It doesn’t. It means your loyal to an ideal. It means you’re stuck and can’t move away from first impressions. In politics, its called flip-flopping. In life, it could change your lifestyle, your wealth, your dating life; everything, depending what you adopt, how you adopt it, etc. It doesn’t matter if its liberal, conservative, anarchist, fascist. Its all about what it is, what time in your life your adopting it and how much you truly believe it.

When I was young, I believed in the Word of Feminism, Socialism and Marx. When I got married, I was a conservative, switching one false freedom ideal for another. When the Ex bolted, I was slowly adopting the Red Pill, dose by bitter dose. Climbing from the ashes of a dream world put to flame by the gina tingles and the false hope of whatever feminist drivel she was reading.

Today, looking back on my previous works, I can’t, won’t and don’t want to define myself. I tell them libertarian, sometimes anarchist, depending on what the subject is, depending on their mood and the amount of yelling required for them to get their point across. When I think seriously about what I believe, what I do, what my urges want and my body wants and what my emotions want… about how I react to the world around me. I am simply a young white male dealing with what is served to him and what is taken. I’m not trying to stop change, I’m trying to deal with it, as often as these motherfuckers twist and break the rules, only to make more against my interests. I’m just trying to get by.

Apparently, that makes me the villain of progress.

A Quick Post on Pride

A buddy of mine is still dealing with his ex majorly fucking him over. He said its hard to think of this other guy she was seeing having sex with her. He was deep in it with this chick, obviously.

I know the feeling, I told him. I still have a wife, legally, and some dude that shook my hand and welcomed me into his house as guest is now fucking her. He could of known all along, before we even visited him, that we was getting her. These are grounds for major violence in my code book. Yet, it doesn’t matter now. Its over. I have no recourse being so far away.

But what I told my friend is this:

men should be proud beings. angry or tame. violent or intelligent or both. whatever their personalities, pride is one thing a man should have and never have taken from him

And, in my case, despite not taking my revenge upon the two miscreants, I am still proud. I am free. I have grown into a true man. I take on my challenges and defeat them. I am building my life as I see fit. No one wants to cross me.

He has that to look forward to. His time in the sun, as all men should have, all men that have taken the Red Pill and broke from the chains of cunt and conformity. The pride of getting back up, brushing yourself off and charging back into the war that is life.

Hermods Ride to Hel

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Her voice is like the cawing of crows breaking through the wailing of mourning women. The anger boils over, constantly, into rages against all she sees. Her enemy is her fortune and her sex, she cannot be who she isn’t, and who she is is pathetic. A sorry sort of human far past the years of glory and knowing as much. A believer, a fighter, a follower, yet none of that comes close to what she wants, for that is the impossible. Utopia. Perfection. The opposite of every movement of her fingers and the vibration of her throat.

I stand it because it benefits my wallet. I “go with the flow”, as my father advised. The winds of her words and her commands, folly as they may be, pull me west when she requires east. South, when north. She wants arrows, but demands steel swords. Nothing works, nothing ever works, and its never her fault. Never.

This is a woman lost. Forgotten. Her name mud and ash, yet pride goeth beyond all reason. She works with me, and I am a peasant in the industry. I am not of the clan that exiled her. I have never, nor ever want to, work with that lot. The Beggar Queen, to paraphrase the books I’m reading now. The Cart Royal. Her feet fail her. Her face fades and fades. Her children, wounded, both overt and below the skin to the essences of their lives. One broken, the other smothered with regret of the first. The psychology would make a great paper.

I raised my words with her. I took her on. I had no more patience. I had no more reason. I was a day’s ride past the walls and the comfort of civilized debate. She barked, I growled. She equipped worn teeth, I moved not an inch. The fight was hopeless, to be forgotten with a smile and a false motherly tone so the work could go on, but it needed to be done. Weeks of contact, proximity and talk, I had taken my last glancing blow and return with controlled fury.

The waters are calm now, the river under the banks, but I know she won’t forget. I won’t yield to the ways of the sore female’s feelings, nor her politics, nor her wisps of perceived intelligence or pragmatism. She ranks above me, but I am the skilled one. I am the back her litter rests upon, and I can, and have, tipped it at will, when the fat pride rolls off and graces me with touch. My honor and my pride in my job do not take kindly to the ribbon whips of a lost cause.

Ides of March (One Year Anniversary/Celebrate Suffering Day)

Last year, around this day, the Ex left me. She asked me what I’d do if she stayed in Arkansas. How would we split things. What would happen. I was tired, I was angry. We texted and that was that, we were broken up. It was the day that broke me. My wife has left me, to never return.

Today is the day to celebrate the last year of suffering and growth I’ve gone through. Today is the day to raise a glass to the past.

People dwell too much on the past. They pine and worry and cling to the vestiges of what no longer exists. Past loves, past wounds, they claw at their own eyes hoping to go back to the “better days”. Days that are no longer and never will be.

Reading old history and fiction, I’ve taken upon myself, for myself to create a day where one can finally, and with purpose, release the pains of the year. Being dumped. Being fired. Debt. Anything. Get a drink, toast to the cunts, whore, thieves and miscreants that have wronged you in the past year. Any closure not had can be had over your favorite stiff drink and with your friends. No better way to get over things than by celebration. New Year’s Eve and its optimism be damned.

Even though I’m working still, for at least another week if not more, tonight I will make sure the evening is well lived. I’ll drink, approach, sing and hog the jukebox. I will lose my limits. I will break the last chains that hold me down. I will free myself from her, them and the sad events this blog has chronicled the past year. Its the only thing I can do, otherwise the past will creep up again, like a poisonous spider, and strike me down unawares. Crippling me once again and forcing me to crawl up the same cliff, again.

I encourage you all to pick a day and drink up to your pains and let them all go. A celebration of what God or gods or just simply human nature has done to you. Like warriors of old, celebrate the victories, the losses, the living and the dead. Remove all worry and grudges. A man cannot waste time on such things. He has much greater things to do.

Just Don’t Give A Fuck

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You had to give it to him: he had a plan.
And it started to make sense, in a Tyler sort of way.
No fear.
No distractions.
The ability to let that which does not matter truly slide.

-Narrator, Fight Club
___

I don’t know where, I don’t know when, but sometime last week I crossed into JDGF territory.

Maybe it was because of my night out, hammered and puking. Maybe it was the horrible sleeping patterns I’ve had. Bad dreams, night terrors really, shocking me awake one night, tossing me into many long nights of insomnia and game playing. Maybe its been the hands of the First clawing at me each time she sees me, lips pressing against me, begging for more, a position of true dominance over her and her body happily accepting that role.

Who knows.
Who cares.

It no longer matters. The things that don’t matter have vanished. The things that could matter are on the peripheral. The things that truly matter, the meaningful swarms of talent, soul and love coming together to create what you really are, what makes a person worthy beyond their placement in the machine, those have come forward and presented themselves. Along with writing, and writing well, I have taken up learning guitar, something I’ve wanted to do for a very long time, but never had the motivation nor the courage to do. I’m not letting the moods of my family, the Ex, or anyone else bother me. The best way I can describe it is that I’m floating amongst them and their emotions, unable to empathize, but able to lend assistance.

I said a long time ago that my anxiety hit in this pattern: care → worry → obsesses → panic → anxiety attack. What this change has done is remove the care that everyone tends to have. The “care” that makes you feel what they feel. Emotional selfishness, where you are supposed to be as mad as others or as sad as others to properly be human with them. This new care is above that, like clouds above mountains, while they are beyond the reach, they still give shade and water. A step above, but not withdrawn.

Its a very good feeling. Another step onward from my past of anxiety and misery and towards the greater goal of all of us: true manhood.

Fuck King Kong

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A friend of mine who reads the blog introduced a fellow writer to my humble scribblings. Since my friend is a big fan of my style, the assumption was this guy would like it as well. Apparently not. Observe his response:

He has a blog about game? Are you serious? So – he’s been hurt and that justifies him being full of shit? I’m sorry, but Alpha v Beta male, how to pick up women, mysogyny? It’s all spoiled-little-boy, self-centred crap. Even from the little you’ve said about him it appears quite obvious that somewhere deep down you know that.

Oh, oh, oh. This is not the day to be doing this, hombre. Been up way too long. No. Day? Fuck it. Not the year.

Continued, after some lengthy talk:

On the other hand we have Jordan – a self-centred mysogynist, a sociopath who likes to blame others for all his woes. Across his path strolls [friend], they fit together like hand in glove ie. it suits him perfectly to indulge her honourable desire to be given attention by submitting to his very dishonourable desire to get laid.

My friend lives across the pond in Europe. She is happily married. She loves my writing as I love hers. We both write dark and gritty and real. We’ve known each other for a very long time and know the ins and outs of each other’s minds. You couldn’t ask for better friends. You also couldn’t as for worst logistics.

Enter, the white knight. A much older, well polished white knight who thinks my writings, not to mention my playful flirts with my long time friend, are somehow damaging her and her relationship with her man. That her love of my detailed indiscretions or my advice on women or my recent fiction will blow her mind back and turn her into a quivering victim of domestic abuse.

I will admit he’s accurate. I am self-centered. But what man who has any balls or any self-worth isn’t? Even the greatest father and husband in the world still pulls his wife aside during house parties and gets a blowjob while his guests play Jenga. You can’t be confident without being self-centered. Jesus was a self-centered prick like me. I blame The Ex for what happened to the marriage. I blame myself for not slamming my foot down more often. Making sure she knew who’s boss. But you’ve seen the pictures. I’m much better off. As is my food budget.

As for misogynist and sociopath. He’s way off base. I support a woman’s right to vote. Their constant mind changing and backstabbing is probably way the incumbency rate is at the low ass percentage it is. Otherwise, you’d have stoic party loyalists keeping everyone in at 100%.

Men, meet a full blown beta white knight. Men, meet a single man in his 60s messaging at married woman in her young 20s over a writer’s website.

Last known photograph

What does this guy write? Poems. What’s his topic? Domination.

C’mon! REALLY? I call bullshit.

Bullshit on that he really does it. Bullshit on his lifestyle. Bullshit on his attitude. Bullshit on him from soul to scalp.

This guy is 100%, Grade Z(ed), mama’s basement with poutine and gravy bowls piling up on his lap POSER.

I’m no freak in leather. I’m no whip carrying card member of the National Association for the Advancement of Kinky People. I don’t have paddles. I can’t fucking afford them.

I, like most of my brethren, like the power and know some of the upper hand moves. We know them because they work. We use them because these ladies turn into wild animals when we do.

Would I like a woman to do my bidding? Of course. What fellow mansophere blogger wouldn’t? But is that hate? Is it hate to believe in a woman’s deep inner desire to be ruled? Is it hate to prove it with every chick I come across who likes my direct game?

Its not hate. Its empowerment.

Why?

Because they choose. Like the feminists want. They choose to get down on their knees. They choose to give themselves to us. They choose to fall sway to us. Or they choose to dress up like lumberjacks or scary muffin top hookers and choose not to fall sway. Their brains tell them to or not to. Is it wrong or illegal to know someone that well? Fuck no. That’s what relationships are all about. Knowing that other person so well. That and fucking, but I digress.

This guy, seeing a pretty young thing in “distress” when an alpha comes by, beats his chest like King Kong and moves in for the save. Except that, like King Kong, when he gets to the tower and congratulates himself, he gets fucking shot down.

Observe, the response from my friend:

I am fully aware that a blog about ‘game’ or picking up woman could be seen as juvenile or un-PC – i have come across this before. He’s been called a masogynist and sexist and all the other words you described there. Do i think it’s behaviour from a cowardly little boy? No. We have literally grown up together. I have seen him go from a cowardly boy to a man with all the mistakes he’s made along the way, and become something confident. He’s proud of that confidence, and i am proud of it for him. This is a 13 year friendship, not somebody i picked up off the street last week. He’s helped me with things i’m not prepared to discuss, and i hope he’ll always be there. My friend. The one who saved me at a very difficult time in my life. One who i don’t think i could hold my head up as far as i do, without.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNEEEERRROOOOWW-RATA-TAT-TAT-TAT!

ARRRRRRGHHHHH!

SPLAT!

I love my girls, my friends and my friends of intimate knowledge, because they are loyal. They know me and I know them. Some I’ve known only a few years, some for over a decade. I am a king, THE king, because when push comes to shove, it won’t be just be strangers in the circle of on lookers. I’ll have Ghaddfi’s Amazons right there as well, rooting, not because I told them, but because they want to. And a man, 50 notches or just 6, couldn’t be prouder.

I’m Mighty Joe Young. I got the girl, I won the fight and I lived.

Fuck King Kong.