A place for a


On the nature of the male and the female

In a recent article, I noted that in pictures of couples, the man often seems to lose himself in the moment and is simply happy, while the girl always keeps a kind of attentiveness in her gaze that may betray a hint of contempt. This stands as a representative of a general difference between the sexes that I observe.

Today, I watched three nigger kids around the age of 8 play – two girls and a boy.

The boy had this kind of happy and innocent curiosity and a relaxed smile on his face. Once he decided to stand in the middle of the walkway and imitate a policeman on a crossing. He extended his arms and whenever somebody came by, he playfully turned 90 degrees and let that person pass. He was likable and made people smile.

The girls were a little older than him and had this same attentive – actually controlling – gaze I described earlier. They were arrogant and unabashed. Intuitively, I would say that their way to interact with the world in that moment was control and manipulation. Their main interest, if my empathy allows so much insight, was to look at people and coldly analyze them for emotional anchors they could use and then do just that – not so much for their personal benefit perhaps as for the sheer joy of having power. Once, one of the girls sat down on a chair, spread her legs very far and loudly proclaimed something in African sounding language to get attention. And again, it did not seem like she really needed the attention as much as she wanted to try out the effect her behavior would have on others. In short, they were plain annoying and even at this young age: Bitches.

I always thought they behaved like bitches because I was doing something wrong. But it is just who they are.

The female like a luring tigress and the male like a loyal joyous dog.


How can you prove the past?

Mike Cernovich once wrote something about memories not being quite accurate. That thought germinated in me for a while and I think it is very profound. Recently, I already speculated about the nature of knowledge. In short: How can you know what you know before you actually think a thought? During the time you are not thinking a thought, you are not even aware of its existence. Can you have confidence that next time you need to remember something particular, it will still be there?

But what happens to a thought while you are not aware of it? What happens to a memory? How can you know that the next time you remember something, it will still be the same thing? And when you remember it, how can you verify its veracity other than by your memory of it – that is, by itself?

So the only proof of the veracity of a memory is the memory itself. A memory that has possibly spent years in your subconscious, constantly affected by all kinds of stimuli. To trust that it will always be the same is blind faith!

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What is a delusion? Past reality or genetic memory?

The doctors think I am schizophrenic, because it seems bizarre that I would get into a fight with a cop. So, am I? Well, I think I actually am. That is, I think that the extended definition that spans three papers fits me often enough. But so do some personality disorders.

Is schizophrenia a firm thing that the definition hints at or is the definition the thing itself? For example, there are intuitive concepts like an honest smile that healthy people will recognize as a distinct thing while mentally impaired may not.

Schizophrenia is, first and foremost, a word.

Is schizophrenia like a smile? A distinguishable aura that healthy people clearly see? Or is it a rather nebulous concept used whenever something a person says or does seems bizarre? I can clearly see how my behavior seems bizarre to an outsider. And yet, from my own standpoint, it seems almost perfectly logical.

Without wasting time about the question of whether schizophrenia is a real thing, let me just ask: What are delusions?

I have two or three ideas.

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Pussy, the dangling carrot

A phallic symbol like the carrot is overly hard-pressed to represent a pussy and yet this fertile bosom, this female soul which I so desperately want to pee my semen into always seemed like that to me. The more I want it, the more intense my desire for sexual catharsis, the more absolute seems my conviction that I will never get it.

I wrote about it before, in a slightly different manner.

It is a cruel, weird and illogical mindset. Is it even a mindset? Can this conundrum overlapping complexities, of self-cancelling frequencies in my mind be called a set up? Or rather pure disorder?

Yet this deserves its own short article. I already decided that I am not further interested in boxing my way through to pussy just for meaningless notches in my own carrot and this theme of being forbidden something absolutely desirable simply for it being absolute desirable keeps coming up.

I think it can be summed up with the idea of a quasi-communistic – that is, delusional – great leap forward. The externally encouraged hope that if one keeps acting moronically, one will eventually reach that which is desired.

And what is that? What is that highest desirable thing? It is to be fully and unrestrainedly yourself and still loved and desired for or despite it.

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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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Why I do not learn game

When I see a confident and relaxed man with his girl on the street, I just know it. I know there is something wrong with me. I know that this man has something I lack. It hurts. It makes me feel lost, inferior, fallen, alone.

This man has trust in himself.

I have been running from this feeling my whole life. I thought if I could just imitate that man, do whatever he does, act like he acts, move like he moves, speak like he speaks; if I could convince everybody that I am in fact that man, I could start believing it myself.

I wanted to believe that everybody is just faking it, because I was. I wanted the world to be a show, so that I could run from that deeply seated, but vague notion I call inner emptiness for lack of a better word. Run from my overwhelming shame for not being who I should be, shame for that leaking wound in my soul that surely was my own fault, a wound that was an abomination and an insult to they eyes of everybody I dared to show it to.

When a girl I desired told me that I was not confident enough to be attractive, I knew she was right. But I did not even have enough confidence to acknowledge this. I did not even have enough trust in my own judgment to acknowledge the obvious truth. Instead, I hated her. I still hate her. I hate all the people who pry open my soul and expose it to my eyes, to my eyes that want to look away in terror, look away from the monstrosity I carry inside myself, that steaming graveyard of emotions.

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Manipulation can not exist without ignorance

Everybody is alone in this life. Common sense does not exist, neither does a collective database of knowledge everybody can access. Thus, everybody’s expectations of and predictions about the world reflect their personal set of knowledge or beliefs.

It is only due to the fact that an individual’s knowledge and inherent insight is limited that he can be manipulated in the way I mean.

I always thought: Hell, manipulation is pointless and dishonest. If we are going to do something, we can just as well be open about it. But it is a naive assumption. It presumes just that which does not exist: Omniscience.

If everybody knew everything or could get magic insight out of thin air, lies would be a ridiculous endeavor. Just as much as theories; if the truth was apparent, there would be no point in having debates.

But why do I believe in absolute truth? Because that is the language my elders used when I grew up. They did not propose ideas, instead they proclaimed truth. So I figured there must  be a magic pool of wisdom everyone else knows about. Likewise, if someone told me something, there was no room for doubt. Because in a world of absolute truth, lies can logically not exist. There would be no use for them.

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Shy girls are not a safe bet – Part 2: Coy kind grown wild

Although I pride myself for the crisp title of this article, she was not really coy; rather reserved. When I told her that I found her a positive and sympathetic person once, she said that she regarded herself as phlegmatic.

Back then, I thought that the word meant something like uptight, but a quick look in the dictionary reveals that it just describes a somewhat calm temperament. No idea whether she shared my misconception; I reckon she did. Nonetheless, I loved her temperament that I believe to be somewhat typical for French girls.

Born a secretary, she decided to rebel against genetics and study in a different field in her mid-thirties, which led her right into my tender tutoring arms, only in metaphorical sense unfortunately. But this isn’t a story about me. This article is of the same nature as it’s first part: An observation.

In case you wonder – the title picture is not her; it is a microstock image.

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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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The majestic beauty ideal and the perfect 10

A commenter wrote that I do not even know what kind of woman I like. He was right. I thought I wanted girls that most consider 10s. But I just wanted to be the guy who gets them. The truth is that I do not find them attractive at all. Today’s 10 is a majestically cut, meager face with an arrogant indifferent expression. A face to be worshipped, a face made to command, the face of a female sovereign. But not a face to fall in love with, not the face of a woman for a man.

Men discuss truths about 10s. But look at these 10s. They are not girls. They are queens and rulers. They have neither the face nor the character of a girl. They do not look attractive as much as they look dangerous.

I wanted them because getting them would make me a man who has them. It was a mimetic desire; not a desire to have, but a desire to be. A desire to be complete.

Now that I feel more complete, the unsatiable urge to be is gone. With it gone is the wish to have what everybody wants.

All that remains is the appetite for a girl. For a girl with a kind and welcoming face and personality and a soft body I can cum on. One that has not dissociated from her inherent femininity and desire to be appreciated as a girl just like I had dissociated from my desire to be appreciated as a man.

I want her to be cute and I want her to be sweet. Not always, of course, not forced. I want her sweetness to be the free expression of herself, not the result of her own wish to be approved of. I want her kindness to be an expression of confidence, not one of shyness. I want her submission to be a expression of her wish to gift herself to me and be bestially dominated, not one of guilt and obligation. I want femininity, not a caricature of femininity.

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