A place for a


Switch off empathy

Look at the breast! Look at the breast! No, I don’t give a fuck if you think it’s funny! Do you think I’m joking, you fucking idiot?

My Muay Thai trainer never fails to remind everybody to never look into your opponent’s eyes. His reason is simple: You don’t want to know who your enemy is, how his day went, whether he’s happy, what his name is. You want to hurt him.

When I started training, I didn’t understand it. Back then, I was angry at the world and everybody seemed to be my enemy, especially other men. I wanted to beat people, I wanted to be hurt and I went there full of anger.

A part of the reason for training martial arts was to be among masculine men and learn to be like them. I wanted to be part of the group and was convinced that the only way was to be the best – in my current physical condition, that’s as far from the truth as can be. Always angry, I loved my first sparring and craved more. I had enemies and I was fighting them. I did want to look in their eyes and frighten them.

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Disrespect your elders – politics of fear

If you were born into a strong tribe, what is it that you would expect from your elders? What would you expect from your father? Demands, of course. Demands of virtue, of courage, of strength. Challenges and a way into manhood, following your instincts. Pure joy of life.

When I met my father, that is what I got. Adventure, exploration. It spoke to me on a deep level and immensely satisfied me. Yet I felt about it as a bit of a guilty pleasure, as if my dad and me were doing something forbidden, wrong, childish, unreasonable. These were the kind of things my mother had not fostered, had feared. No, I don’t hate her for it. These were the things that politicians and older people told me were unreasonable to do. Too dangerous, reckless, unnecessary – yet the things that make me feel alive.

Who the fuck are these people to tell me? My genes tell me that they are my elders, that they should know. I naturally want to listen to them.

Yet I am not part of a strong tribe. The people who are my elders today are weaklings and leaders of weaklings. Priests who tell me that life is miserable and that god will liberate me. Leftists who moan about the unfairness of life and can’t think about anything besides suffering. People who stand still in front of a red light despite of no imminent danger. Teachers who want me to be careful about my words because they might hurt the weak.

These are my elders? My genes tell me that they are wise. But they are fags, so fuck them.

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Goodbye, Mama

I lie around on my couch, look around my room. It’s been a mess for weeks now. I feel mory from having told some girl on Facebook that she should get rid of her piercing. First time I have ever been called a bully. Once more baffled by the intense emotions that social pressure can generate, I let the moment sink in and listen to the sound of dust settling among the other dirt.

The door to my flat is open to let the air stream wipe through my little room and pass right out into the corridor. Outside, steps approach. I put my fingers into my ears, anticipating the ringing bell, but it doesn’t ring.

The people outside my room behave quietly. Who is this?

I unwillingly stand up and open the door. My mother and grandmother stand before me. I forbade them to come, but they came anyway.

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Poem of home

Sun hides from my view, 
find truths that aren’t new. 
Feel like a child, cold, 
seeking for comfort. 
But the sun’s gone, 
different country. 
Feel the memory of pain, 
of craving love I could not gain. 
The wish is old and rude, 
not my loss is others’ loan. 
Every freedom time’s so frail, 
this is it, the purest mood: 
I just want to be alone. 

Don’t pretend you could’ve saved me, 
I am scared down to my bones.

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Fat kid, I am your sweet chocolate, women, I’m your nice guy

Words hurt me because school taught me that those words hurt others. If people say something is dangerous and very damaging, you tend to believe. Especially when they are so fucking grown up and should know, right.

Grown ups. Hey, you fucking grown ups. I am big now and I’m no better. Will you not tell me how to grow up, finally. But you don’t know it yourselves, do you. No one told you how to be grown up, but somebody gave you the right to educate me.

Now I am to be self-responsible for a life full of your mistakes.

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Why SJWs hate beauty

This was originally meant to become an article about why a narcissist finds it hard to enjoy the company of confident men or, as he would call them, assholes. I grew up without a father, with a mother who would give me anything I wanted, and more. I score very high on covert narcissism tests and I exhibited a lot of SJW traits a few years ago, so I can tell you from experience rather than from observation, what makes someone like that tick.

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Andreas Lubitz, I love you

I walk past the newspaper stand. Big letters say “He”. Wait, where did I hear that? Oh right, I myself called him the he. The devil. Seems stupid, I only see the picture of a guy at the beach. I laugh out loud. Yeah, he. Uh-huh.

The devil is scary, sure. But there’s some excitement involved in fighting him, undeniably. He is the absolute evil. He is exempt from morals. Or is he?

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How to stop hating girls and douche bags

New title: Guilt for imperfection & envy

I hated girls, successful people, douche bags. Envy was eating me up. These people made me feel inadequate. I shunned perfectionism – why would anyone torture himself? But did I really want to hate them? Or did I have to hate them?

Is hatred not irrational? Woo, wait a second – what is irrationality? It means I didn’t make a conscious choice to hate. Such, it is subconscious, therefore it can’t be rational. But it’s explainable. With hatred, you distance yourself from something you don’t want to feel.

Is it your fear of rejection that you don’t want to feel?

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Growing up without a father – Part 1: Childhood, early school

I never missed my father, not until recently.

Was brought up by my mother and grandmother; my grandfather died when I was two years old, as did my uncle, both from the mother side of the family. Not any male was left to help bring me up. My father had left to Hawaii before my birth; too cold here.

Still before I was born, my mother must have suffered from some form of psychosis. She would have been young in the 70s, so maybe she had a bad trip that triggered a genetic disorder. Blam, just like that. Or maybe she was just crazy. Just like that. Who knows; I never learned the truth, even when I asked. Maybe she didn’t want to tell, maybe she didn’t know it herself. Writing this, I am beginning to question the truth of everything she ever told me; are you really that good and innocent a person, ma?

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