This Life

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Gotta raise some hell, ‘fore they take you down
Gotta live this life
Gotta look this world in the eye
Gotta live this life until you die
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No one said anything about life being easy unless they were trying to get something out of you. The merchants and indoctrinators and kings. They all want a piece of your minute wealth. They want to suck you dry until you are nothing, so they can move on to the next sucker.

The life you have is the only one. If you’re atheist or agnostic, its obvious. If you’re God fearing, like me, its still the only one. You’ve got one chance to tell God or whomever that “I did the best I could and never quit.” Most people can never have the courage. Most people are scared. Statues of cowardice pointing towards easy ways and easy lives, never experiencing, ever seeing the beauty of whats around them. I hate these cowards. I hate them all.

I started my old blog, HarmonicaFTW, under the banner of anarchy. I was angry and lonely and hurt. Over a year later, that little boy was right. Politics don’t matter. People don’t matter. You’re on your own.

And, if you take away all the illusions, you are. In the end, in our modern, information civilization, you’re alone. Totally. People are stuck within their own little worlds. Everyday, you’ll be ignored for a text message, a Facebook update, a tweet, or any number of things. Your politeness, or just even your want to connect with someone new, will be shut down because somebody’s old high school classmate decided to say hello. Not a word can be said that could break away the addicted from the social drug.

We who take the Red Pill are social pirates. The ones who sail outside the waters of normal discourse. When protests about rape, abortion or healthcare rear their head, we don’t care. We are pillaging the undefended leftovers of civilization’s great debates. Sailing between Left and Right, making our shore anything but the beaches of the “real” world. We have our own islands, full of truth, full of what is, unencumbered by the weights of the sheep and their sheppards.

Some of us, we try, we do what is needed, what is said, to make it, and we collapse and fail like roofs during tornadoes. When the winds pick up, our facades collapse and we crumble. It won’t work, comrades. You simply can’t fake what you think these women, these people want. You have to fight your way through every inch of bullshit, vaginal discharge and hamster thought. Its a war, never ending, for the soul of men. If it wasn’t for the power of our sex, we wouldn’t be attacked so and made to conform, or made to follow, or made to submit. If we were truly equal, feminism wouldn’t need to be. But we aren’t. Men make the world. Men are the world. We are power incarnate. Everything after that is an attempt to make you worry that’s a bad thing.

Tonight, I went in with a song in my heart, a smoke on my lips and the courage of a thousand lowly men cheering me on. A 9 sat beside me, her ugly ass mom talking to friends. She kept checking the exits, as if someone was to appear, or she wanted to leave. I opened after a few minutes, “Looking for the exit.” A statement, not a question. She smiles. Beautiful smile, and goes right to her phone. Not a peep, as her mother brags about flashing an AC/DC cover band.

This is our world. Upside down. We fight against gravity, hoping one in one thousand to fall into our waiting laps.

Its a fight. Its a war.

Its our life, and we can never quit, because its our life.

This life. War until we die.

Making sure our lives, to dust or to Heaven, mean something. That we can die happily, no matter what age. 26 or 96.

I’ve been across the US and Canada 4 times. I’ve fucked whores and been in love. I’ve lived in my dream state and been through Hell. I’ve lived. I could die right now, and despite my low notch count and my failures tonight, I’ll walk before the Gates and say, “I lived.”

Can you?

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
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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.