A place for a


I saw a crazy screaming woman today – she reminded me of me

My first day as a free man in two months. I take a ride into the city to buy a cheap checkers game. On my way around the cathedral I hear a woman scream. A man is firmly holding a relatively attractive young woman’s two hands at a restaurant table. Let me go, she shouts. I wonder what it is about. I look at her hands; she has some kind of necklace wrapped around her fists.

I suspect she attacked the man and now she is getting what she asked for. Let me go, you asshole!

She looks around; a few somewhat amused people are watching. Help me! Help me, you cowards! Aah, you are hurting me! I feel mild shame, but I will not interfere in a situation I know nothing about. Besides, it is interesting to watch. In fact, it is interesting that there really seems nothing I can do without knowing what happened. Justice is a blind bitch.

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Fighting the system – Part 3: Transit

Inoccuosly, one of the cops calmly opens the metal cell door. Have they decided to treat me with respect, after all? Then two cops in heavy armor and helmets come rushing around the corner. I lie still and let it come and happen.

One of the stormtroopers jumps right onto my chest with his knee. I let my body be limp and after a few moments, I end up lying on the floor of the cell with handcuffs behind my back.

I ask them whether they intend to carry me. Drag along, rather, one remarks.

I study the floor and their shoes. The ones who stand right next to me look like a bird shat on the dominant black leather. The pair further away looks more cared after.

You could learn a lesson from your colleague there, I remark, his shoes look much cleaner than yours.

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Fighting the system – Part 2: My cell

The car arrives at the police station. I wait for one of the cops to open the door and I stand up. One of the cops authoritatively grabs my left arm. I calmly tell him that I managed to learn to walk on my own during the course of my lifetime. I slightly stutter as I say it and the cop mocks me for it.

Who cares.

We walk into the station and eyes from the many desks meet me with habituated and empty curiosity. I stare back and study them.

They bring me towards a cell and I have to put off my shoes. One of the cops pulls the cord out of my jogging pants. Classic. Am I proposed the idea of strangling myself to death with it?

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Fighting the system – Part 1: Fistfight with a cop

I walk the street towards the supermarket as I notice an elderly woman arguing with a policeman. She is pissed, because the cop’s colleague is prolonging the process by having parked the police car on a bus stop. Intrigued and amused, I approach.

I join the woman and the policeman and mockingly ask her what kind of horrible crime she has committed. She seems open about my inquiry, but the cop is not. He tells me to go away. The authoritative tone of voice triggers anger in me. I am reminded of all the occasions where I just let those fuckers walk over me.

I tell him that he has no business telling me where to go.

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Afraid of hurting women

I remember this one time that I almost had a girlfriend. After that one, I completely shut off my heart I think. Not that it was not my fault to a large extent, as I was damaged goods already, but it was enough to dishearten me enough, because subconsciously I must have known that the cause for me being rejected was one that would not fade away anytime soon.

Anyway, we were in cinema and I was holding her hand. And she said that it takes a lot of trust to put one’s tender hand into another. She was a violinist.

Sure, there were many components to the whole situation. But the most important one was that I seemed very afraid of touch. Afraid to touch her. Today, I see that a large part of that fear was the fear to hurt her. The fear to do one wrong move and with that move reveal something dark within myself. I was so overly careful that she rejected me the same evening literally for being bodyless.

Those articles about rape I wrote, that all men are rapists. I wanted to believe it is true. Wanted to believe that it is just me who is too afraid to kinda be one. But secretly, even if everybody approved of it, I think I would still have trouble with the whole rough sex thing.

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Why you should want to be a natural

A little fire burns in my chest. Earlier, I yearned to express it, was ashamed of it. Today, I am afraid I may not be able to contain it. I put on my boxer shorts, a fresh t-shirt and slightly dirty shorts I have not washed for weeks.

I am about 30 pounds overweight and there is an ugly bulge of fat protruding on each side of my breast, making my body look like an 8. I feel ashamed. The shame feels good. Useful.

I shrug. It is a remnant from a past life.

I exit the house and start walking in a fast pace. People go out of my way. Women and girls force themselves to hide their involuntary cute smiles. I involuntatily grin and start to whistle. My eyes are wide open and aware, my eyebrows wrinkled in rageful curiosity. I am tall. I am fast. I am dangerous. I am god and devil in one person. There is no difference.

I have an aggressive haircut. To impress and seduce? No. As a heartfelt expression of my self.

Some people look at me. Their look says: Who do you think you are?

I look right back, communicating: I am me.

Some grin back. Some lower their eyes. I feel proud, but not surprised. This is how it should be. This is how every man should feel. This is natural.

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My misogyny

Every Franchise makes itself look cute and personal by putting the word My before it. My McDonalds. My McFit. My McFish. My cable dashboard. My Apple. My peach. My ass. Makes it all sound like a little cherished treasure of mine. So let me see how this works with misogyny. It ought to work. My misogyny. Cute, like the title of a cute little girl’s diary in a TV spot. Something to smirk about.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I am a full blown misogynist. Or do I just hate women? Come on, stop shaming me for it. It is not that bad. It is just a stupid emotion. No tragedy, guys. If you think of it, it is kinda cute. The little monkey boy who got rejected and fed lies all his life long and, well, is a little pissed and pouty. That is me.

Besides, the manosphere offers so little place for this beautiful transitory emotion between blue pill and red pill. So little space for that unique and beautiful Limbo of I do not give a damn about anything anymore and You can just all go fucking die.

So there I was, contemplating whether I should just go out and shoot all the stupid cunts like Elliot Rodger. But then I thought, nah. Why repeat the same kind of bullshit someone else did already. Not very original, is it? Just as cute, of course, akin to a mortal temper tantrum, but not original. So I figure I write this cute little article instead.

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Soldier Jonathan McCattle

I am in a boat with soldiers. I am one, too. We hear blasts. Blam, blam, blam. We pray to god. Blah, blah, blah. I am in the first row, the front gate opens. A big fat round of some calibre shoots off my left leg. Pang.

Something explodes. Boom. I fly through the air.

I land in the sand and look around. I can not move too well and look down. My lower body is gone. Hmm, interesting problem. I start to analyze the situation. How can we fix this?

Another soldier stands before me, pale like the sand. Whoa! He wonders what to do and tries to comfort me. Boo-hoo. I shout at him: Hey, idiot! A man does not whine! A man finds solutions! Now help me collect those parts of my body!

He is confused. What a moron. I start looking around myself. Ah, there is my dick part of the body. I shout at the guy: Hey man, there are my balls. Come fetch them for me, will ya?

The guy looks at my genitals two meters away and pukes right into my open intestines. Barf! I am annoyed. These youths today simply have no grit.

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I am not a slave of old ugly bitches

I stand at the cash desk and the clerk puts a bank note on the counter for an elderly lady on my left. It falls down before my feet. I ignore it, because it does not concern me. The old lady at my right bows and picks it up.

She gives me a sinister glance. I become angry and fucking stare the bitch down.

Who do you think you are, hag?

Let me tell you.

You are old. You are ugly. You are fucking weak. I can probably kill you in a heartbeat.

Let me tell you more.

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Music for the end of the world

I sit in my little flat mired with waste and look outside the window. Dark clouds block out almost all sunlight. Demons chase through streets, devouring souls and tearing bodies apart; it happens before my eyes. The dark god of this world puts on a show for me. How does it feel to be the last living person in a dead world? It feels peaceful, inevitable. From nothingness we came and into nothingness we return. A mild sorrow fills my heart as the planet approaches a black hole in the sky. I look forward to being consumed by it. I look forward to my annihilation.

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