If the “red pill” is to represent difficult and uncomfortable truth, understanding the truth about women, or sex realism, must be the foundation of all other knowledge, and must be mastered in order to have a genuine, authentic, and accurate understanding of the world.
It’s also the most difficult truth to swallow — but why?
While pacing an empty classroom after hours, door shut and blinds drawn, dictating a clumsy outline for why the movie “Overboard” (1987)- yes, “Overboard”- provides sufficient evidence for the success of a Trump/Sanders dream ticket, I can’t help but feel like I’m sneaking pop-rocks after brushing my teeth. I’m in too deep and I’m clapping wildly at show ponies. Dogs jumping through flaming hoops. Hot dogs and Easter candy. Junk food. Bullshit.
None of this means anything, but I can’t quit Donald Trump.
I’ve become a political junkie cheering for a puppet show. I want to see Ravishing Rick Rude with the WWF gold- taunting the fat, out of shape, low-T, liberal sweat hogs. I want the mere words “President Trump” to be a passive aggressive trigger striking rotten disdain into the hearts of all who oppose.
While I haven’t seen Christine in years, every time we catch up the conversation ends with her saying something like, “well, as long as you’re happy…” She doesn’t understand why I’ve never left the suburbs, nor have I had any real desire to do so. Even more troubling to Christine, the idea that I may be happy with this.
For a conscious man wading through the muck of modern treachery, yes, I am fairly happy. Living in the city never appealed to me; there is nothing better than a quiet summer night. Everything I need is a car ride away, and since I was never really much of a drinker, I rarely had to face the quandary of getting home from a bar.
But, like always, there was more at stake than what Christine was capable of understanding. We may as well have been playing out roles on a reality TV show- not exactly scripted, but loosely scripted. It was hardly a genuine conversation. Even if neither party felt the overt grasp of invisible puppet strings guiding our interaction- our thoughts, our feelings, our desires, our identity- they are deeply present regardless of our being conscious of them.
Understanding the presence of these puppet strings is what separates the conscious man from the unconscious man. Understanding the depth of their control dictates the level of consciousness. And understanding the true power of these influences can make a man omniscient.
Christine went to great lengths to convince someone that she wasn’t like those other girls. Her experiences had greater depth, her thoughts were more developed, her interests were more artistic, and her feelings were more genuine. Christine had esoteric qualities that made her special and unique, while those other girls were basic and shallow. Christine also had a bigger waist and fatter thighs than those other girls.
She wasn’t fat, but Christine was conscious of her limitations and adjusted accordingly. If she couldn’t compete with those other girls, Christine would attempt to hijack and redefine what it meant to win and then try to convince men that what they thought they wanted was all wrong.
“A Nightmare on Elm Street” (1984) is about suburban invasion, and Freddy Kruger is a rapist. Suburban horror was a response to the 1950s idealism of “darn good people living in darn good neighborhoods.” While normally this type of cultural critique would annoy me, Progressives attempting to deconstruct a system that works for the majority, the foundation of horror is about the inescapable.
The suburbs, on their own, will not solve the problems of a damaged culture nor will they filter out the dangers inherent in reality; the suburbs are not walled, nor are they caged. Danger can find its way, and most particularly when the foundation of the family has been turned toxic.
Freddy Kruger is the Progressive response to Dracula. While Dracula played on the beta’s anxiety of being usurped sexually by the handsome and powerful Alpha, after the Sexual Revolution this anxiety was pushed below the surface (yet is still very real). If a woman has no restrictions on her sexuality, and realizing that sexuality in terms of selective promiscuity has become what defines the fully realized woman, fearing the powerful Alpha seducing women away from the pandering beta, and in-turn, ruining these women as prospective wives and mothers, must be redefined as the vile beta rapist.
Even if the dire unavailability of parking in Jeanette’s neighborhood had made the task of meeting her at her apartment for sex seem daunting, only minimally rewarding, I always had a thing for girls who looked like the nerdy Chipette and this fact added a feeling of urgency to a situation marred with inevitable difficulty.
Parking matters; inadequate parking is as off-putting as a bridge or a toll, and I distinctly remember cursing the wind on an early August morning in 2006, drunk out of my skull, taking the parkway home because I was forced by law to relinquish my hard-fought spot, as per alternate side rules, and couldn’t find a new one anywhere.
How would I have explained this to a dutiful officer of the law? Would he have been kind enough to understand the inadequacies of parking in that god forsaken, asshole neighborhood?
There is something beautifully Fascist about the White House soaked in the gay rainbow. As a fan of Fascist imagery, and Fascism in general, I
can’t help but admire this.
Fascism is about strength and congruence; uncompromising and unapologetic. Fascism is not about voice, Fascism is about hierarchy and dominance. A dominant leader should lead to feelings of comfort and safety in those led; a well-kept pet will respect the dominance of their master, a good wife will find comfort in the leadership of her husband.
However, a productive Fascist state needs a benevolent Fascist leader. Historically this has been a real bitch to hammer down. So while I admire President Obama’s force and congruence here, I question his intent and the long-term results of such intent.
I first joined OKCupid in 2006. While I had met girls in the past from local chat rooms on AOL, this felt archaic and pre-Socratic; OKCupid was the true monolith. After creating my profile, I browsed the site carefully, thoroughly reading profiles and perusing responses to the site’s very important questions about flag burning and eugenics. That’s when I came across Nikki and decided, what the heck, why not cobble together a message? She was pretty, she lived in my town, we had mutual interests, and we both seemed to think that “kissing in a tent in the woods” was idyllic.
There was a kind of charming innocence to Sally Rapehoax and her wild tales of repeated violation. It was the mid-1990s, a decade defined by the supposedly deep and emotionally esoteric secret lives of women. Tori Amos and the Lilith Fair exemplified this tone; the female identity needed to be something markedly different and incomprehensible to men.
Sally’s claims of rape were inoffensive because there was no perpetrator named; the claim was entirely about Sally and her own identity. To believe Sally meant that she was a victim saddled with a sexuality so strong that it engendered an overwhelming animalistic lust in men who were willing to risk their lives to have her by any means necessary; to believe Sally was a liar meant she was a deeply troubled girl with a wild imagination. Either way, you’re going to feel sympathetic to Sally, so mission accomplished. This kind of rape accusation carried with it the wistful innocence of Jack Horner shooting naughty movies on film- you know it’s wrong, but it’s not really hurting anyone either.
We were somewhere around our second bottle of wine when I made the startling realization that Fake Winehouse’s unexpected British accent had faded into something typical and American. When I had picked her up that night for drinks at The Reptile Zoo, I told her I wasn’t expecting a British accent. She asked what I was expecting, and I didn’t have a good answer. You exchange a few messages with a girl on OKCupid and agree to meet for drinks; what is there to expect?
But it was when the accent disappeared entirely that I realized the true depth of the situation. I had cut right to the heart of it and was sitting on the main nerve; Fake Winehouse was a fucking lunatic. And I’m a stupid motherfucker who likes that kind of thing. Yeah… that’s me, the normal girls are boring type; I want the curve ball. I want the crazy girl; I want the hyper-emotional; I want the bizarre.
So of course the unexpected accent disappearing entirely from a girl who wonders why I think it’s funny that she’s “never been to Europe” is right up my alley. When the bill comes, I ask Winehouse how much she’s gonna throw in and she tells me that she didn’t bring any money. This was very funny to her. The accent was back. Son of a bitch. Who is this girl?