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I can not have you because I desire you, and letting go, and the hidden monster, and madness

I pass a red haired beauty on the street. She has a slim face, a joyful smile and the red hair that I love. She is the most beautiful and happy girl I have seen in days. I want her, terribly. And immediately, my stomach contracts. I know I can not have her. Normally, I would push the emotion down and read about game to convince myself that this is not true, but I instead decide to study that conviction. Why do I believe I can not have her?

And the answer is really simple. I can not have her because I desire her. My desire is shameful. I suppress it as automatically as I breathe. It does not even feel like real desire. It is more the pain of suppressing it that makes me know I desire her. It is the shadow of my desire that I feel: Shame. And like orbiting planets are used to deduce the existence of a dark star in their midst, my shame lets me deduce that I desire her.

If I desire her, surely someone else desires her, too. It would be cruel of me to rob that person of her. Who am I to deserve her? She does not need me, because she is desirable. And if she does not need me, she will just use me. It is like a law of the universe in my head: When you desire something, you can not have it. Precisely because you desire it. Some weird divinity decided to make it that way, to mock people.

So the only time I felt secure enough to fuck a girl was when she was an ugly bitch. I felt nothing towards her, which is why that relationship could be. She fell asleep on my breast afterwards and that was nice, but I think she felt something was missing, because she never asked to do it again.

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Discrimination is good: Treat stupid women stupid

Indiana Jones in The Temple of Doom treats his female companion like an idiot. Does Indie treat her like an idiot because she is a woman? Or because she is an idiot?

And if most women are idiots, does that not justify treating them that way?

But let us not take women. Let us take idiots per se. Let us define Idiocy as an official personality trait and let us imagine that Idiots now demand not to be treated like idiots. How silly would that be?

Now let us imagine that people without arms form the Armless group and say they do not want to be treated as if they had no arm.

In other words: The only complaint you can have about a group is if you are seen as a part of it despite being fundamentally different, e.g. if you are a woman and seen as woman, but lack fundamental female traits like stupidity. Then it would anger you that you are seen that way. But if you are a typical female, the typical female stereotype should actually harm you the very least.

Now, an idiot can become less idiotic.

And a woman probably can become smart if she is very dedicated to it.

And yet if she is not, and if she decides to stay stupid through inability or unwillingness, there is no reason to not treat her like she is stupid.

Likewise, most women are weak. Therefore, it is appropriate to treat them like weaklings. Not because they are women, but because they are weak.

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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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I do want to live

Two years ago I almost died in the mountains. Yet I was too estranged from myself to learn the real lesson behind it. I was keen on going through pain to be a man. The more it hurt, the better. I felt ashamed, when my body almost collapsed under the stress, when my limbs jittered and my soul cried out.

I thought my body’s outcry was a sign of inadequacy. A real man would not even grunt in the face of death.

All the while I missed the real lesson of pain and why it makes men. It is not the abyss that is a man’s home. It is the abyss that a man crosses to reach home.

Otherwise, all pain is just a prelude to even more pain and the body shuts down in protest. It righteously asks: What for? Why are you torturing me? What have I done? What will I gain?

It is not a man who is not challenged or terrified by anything. It is a man who learned that some things deserve being terrified of. The lesson of pain is not a heightened sense of pride. It is humility, for you know the pain could have crushed you and all you love, if not for a coincidence. If not for god’s will, so to speak.

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Stoic idiot

Ten ways to pass a shit test. Agree and amplify. Smile and approve of her.

Right. Because if you get angry, you lose your frame. If you defend yourself, you already know she is right. If you fear something, you are already beaten. Blah blah.

If you show anger, you reveal pain. And a real man does not feel pain. No, especially not from a woman.

You think you are being condescending, but in reality you are just letting your enemies wreak havoc to your soul while pretending that everything is okay. You are inviting and rewarding disrespect.

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What is pity? And a mother’s cruelty

I hate pity. Men say self-pity is bad. So what, suppress it? Judge myself for it? Pretend not to feel it? But shaming does not work that well. And even if I do not express it or if I dissociate from it, I do not become more efficient.

And in all the time I pitied myself and suppressed my self-pity and protested against victimhood while feeling like one, I lacked the simple critical thinking skill of wondering what pity and victimhood actually are.

If they are there, they must serve a purpose, right? But I did not know of it.

Until the fateful day I took a look at the Wikipedia entry.

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My mother’s psycho games

I know I whine a lot about my mother. Well, I like whining. I wanted to call this article Momma’s psycho games originally. It is catchier, but who would actually Google that? Sure, people Google weird things. But  anyway.

The picture in the top of this article is a symbol for, fuck no. It is just an ugly bitch and a bit of Photoshop. And yet the more I have my distance from women, the more I see a certain wickedness about them that scares me. Like the light of the angler fish, women project a perfect lovely surface that at all times manages to hide the undertow.

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Mother will leave me alone

I wrote my mother a letter, asking nothing but one thing: To live a life without her, without her madness. Today, I found a letter in my post. Just the way I had asked for it. After all these years, I get the one thing I wanted from my mother. The closest thing to respect I could hope for.

I open the letter. It is written with a computer, no handwriting. It says: ‘Okay. You never have to see me again.’

For a second, I contemplate the shock such a formal message from one’s own mother may bring upon most people. Me, it fills with joy. She showed me respect and gave me the thing I asked for, once in my life. Nothing extra, nothing special. Nothing she thought I needed, nothing she needed to give. Just what I asked her for.

I cry out in joy and happiness.

Maybe one day, I can forgive.

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You are perfect, just the way you are

Why is it that I almost have to puke when I hear that song? Yes, I admit it, the melody does resonate with me and I catch myself whistling it when I hear the song in the mall. And why would it not – it is meant and engineered to do just that. To take you on a joyride and leave you feeling empty to come back for more.

Nevertheless, I have always been a sucker for lyrics and I hate the guts out of this song. The world stands still when she smiles? What the fuck. What a fag. Or maybe it is a song about one of those sacred moments when a girl displays a truly feminine and submissive smile. But only a fag or disgusting nice guy like me would feel quite so ravished by a female smile, maybe because it is such a seldom joy in the life of a loser. Which, of course, makes it even the more amusing and easy for girls to manipulate us with it to get what they want. Oh, the marvelous lightness of being when all you have to give for a lifetime of a man’s (mangina’s) devotion is a stupid smile.

Although it is likely that the singer did not even write the text. He just sang it because he was a good singer. Then he laughed at it, together with the sound engineer at the mixer. And the sound guy would say: God, man, you looked so fucking gay when you sang that. And the singer would feel mildly ashamed, shrug, laugh and drown the idea with alcohol and checkless sex.

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