I’ll go full red pill on the first date. To her credit, she listened carefully to what I had to say. When it came time for her response, she answered with the kind of pride one would have in beating Ganon at the end of “Legend of Zelda”- accomplishment and triumph; her victory moment. You see, everything I said was “just my narrative,” and it was as if these words unified the triforce and slayed the dragon- my argument lay defeated.
“Narrative” has become a pseudo-intellectual weasel word. If you don’t like the slant someone puts on something, it’s “just narrative.” If the narrative sounds appealing, it’s only due to the carefully constructed internal logic; a well-made narrative will closely adhere to this logic. At its core a narrative is constructed upon assumptions, which makes it narrative rather than reality- a good narrative will carefully hide these assumptions.
In a world increasingly torn apart by the oppositional forces of the political left and right, the term “narrative” has become a jab to the other side’s version of things; an attack on the strength of their reality.
If the months between high school and college represent a budding sunrise of emerging freedom, the summer between graduate school and real life becomes your last chance at tasting it; time to get sick on Halloween candy because tomorrow is the start of winter. I spent these months on a friend’s couch playing “Mario Baseball” (2005)- I regret nothing.
Video games are meant to be played socially. The long extinct shopping mall arcades of the 1980s were social hotspots buzzing with life as teenagers would crowd around machines watching the cool kids do their thing amongst the flashing lights and buzzing sounds of games like Q*Bert and Centipede, telling their own kind big fish tales of forgotten high scores; “…if only they’d left the Frogger machine plugged in, then you’d see…”
Consoles were originally packaged with two controllers for this very reason- video games were meant to be played together. In fact, a two-player mode was so important to the programmer who ported “Pac-Man” (1982) to the Atari 2600 that he mistakenly sacrificed game quality and playability to accommodate the game’s social aspect, producing an atrocious home-version and ultimately killing the market until the rise of the Nintendo Entertainment System in 1985- a console which also came packed with two controllers.
In a flash Fake Winehouse was able to transform our hetero-normative experience back into something she was more comfortable with, her own safe space of gender neutrality, with the magic words: “get this shit off me.” Tossing her the tissue box, I chastised her for breaking the narrative, something usually reserved for slightly longer than fifteen seconds after sex.
Winehouse may have rolled her eyes, but the fact of the matter remains: sex is the narrative of attraction. For the red-hot 20 minutes I spent with Amy, she behaved like the ideal submissive, gleefully allowing my control. This was what she wanted in the moment, appealing to her own female nature. After, when her big girl brain came back, the feminist became disgusted with herself, and, “get this shit off me,” was her way of re-framing the mess she’d made by treating me like an alpha male.
Sex is like editing together a documentary film. Everything is based in reality, but it’s up to you to put together the story. Initial attraction may be there, but if you don’t string things together the right way, you’re not getting laid.
Sexual strategy is like that scene at the end of Wargames where Joshua the computer tries to launch nuclear weapons and start World War 3; the computer cycles-through launch codes quickly while keeping the bits of code that are a positive match. Most people unconsciously allow their brain to do this work, matching behaviors with their positive outcomes, and bookmarking those behaviors while discarding the ineffective.
The conversation almost always goes like this when you tell someone that everything a person does stems from a foundation of sexual strategy: they listen patiently, provide the socially customary nods of understanding, and then say something like, “well, okay, but not everything…”
This certainly seems like it could be the case; it almost feels reductionist on some level to think that men and women are constantly being guided through their choices and actions by some invisible force emanating from their genitalia, silently screaming at them to just get it the fuck in like a pack of dogs in heat. That there must be a special designation, or a degree of intellectual sophistication , which separates the human animal from his more primitive underlings.
And this is certainly true; the human animal is civilized. We are conscious of a wider-span of potential emotions, and are gifted with the ability to fulfill more significant goals than simply eating and fucking. We can shape our consciousness with language, and vocabulary, and with language comes access to higher level thinking.
It’s a lot like when you were a kid in kindergarten, at the beginning of the school year, with all your little school supplies. You mom could have gotten you the boring eight pack of Crayolas, but you wanted the big box of sixty-four; you know, the kind that comes with the crayon sharpener. So instead of just “red” and “blue,” you had a whole variety of different shades of the same color to pick from, and lucky you, right?
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?
Modern black magic is understanding human nature. In a world of unreality where people are unconscious to the invisible currents that guide them, having the ability to identify these forces can allow you to tell a tremendous amount about someone from a few scant details. Street hustlers and psychics have exploited this idea for years, because it works; we are not unique snow-flakes, we are predictable animals.
Take a family where the mother is much prettier than her daughters- what does that tell you? The mother traded her beauty to marry a genetically-inferior beta-male with money and ended up with snaggled halfie daughters. The woman does not respect her husband-she resents him- and this unhappiness manifests itself in perpetual anger and passive-aggression where she subtly attempts to destroy all those around her.
Beta-dad entered the relationship with the best intentions, unconscious to the fact that he was defeated from the outset. After years of his confidence being eroded through his demon-wife’s poison drip of emasculation, he fluctuates between anger and shame, and thinking that maybe giving more, listeningmore, and being more empathetic may turn it all around and fix the relationship… All while his wife longs for the memory of the last big-dicked real man who made her tingle.
There was never another time historically where having a conversation about the basic nature of reality- what we encounter in our lived experiences- would have made much sense. Rather, it would have come off as insanity, but here we are in our horrifying alternate-1985 wasteland engaged in a perpetual argument over what should be the prologue of the story.
Reality should be our starting point, the toolkit and blueprint for human greatness, not a prolonged debate.
But what the fuck is reality? Tough to know in a world of misinformation and unreality, served by people raised on the same deliberate bullshit. Modernity is a nice sounding hypothesis playing out in real time, but without an end-date to honestly access the damn thing. The people who drew it up are long dead, and what’s left are loudmouth idiots and unreality profiteers.
Someone working deep inside the Clinton campaign must really fucking hate her guts. Old Hillary is gearing up for an appearance on the Ellen show alongside the entire cast of the smelly-like-farts “Ghostbusters” (2016) re-make. I am praying to Jesus that she comes out with the stupid uniform on, personalized with CLINTON across the left breast; she can have her own proton pack, maybe some impromptu CG will be employed. Please God, make her the honorary fifth Ghostbuster.
Don’t just finger me, God; I want it all the way in.
This stupid movie has the stink of death, and for Clinton to attach herself to it almost certainly means that someone working for her is either certifiably retarded or absolutely insane… but why is this movie so particularly hated?
After all, “Ghostbusters” is a movie and movies are bad.
It was really just a joke, I swear. I think of something that makes me laugh, and I want to share. Mrs. Larcey was right all along, standing in our empty Bio lab deep in 1994, it’s true- I do think I’m funny. But this was meant to be harmless! My god! Just a little bit of joking around after having my car broken into.
First time in my life too. I got in my car Sunday morning, ready to go to the gym, thinking “gee, I don’t remember throwing all my stuff around like a crazy person,” before it hit me:
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.