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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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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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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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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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Final letter to my mother

In the course of trying to become more honest, I figured I would send messages to all people I ever knew, telling them what I really thought of them. Guilt and shame overwhelmed me during the course of that endeavor. I insulted girls who had hurt me, making the bill even. I told my false friends that I despised them. I got into trouble for it. It was freeing.

And yet I could not stop. The satisfaction was temporary. And that made one thing obvious to me: It was not those girls I really had a beef with. It was the one woman I saw in all those girls, the one woman I was fighting through the proxy of other girls. The one woman to whom I was really pretending. The one woman whom I really feared to know me.

I showed my true self to all the women who had hurt me. But I realized that there is only one woman who has to know me. Realized that all the other women do not matter. Realized that there is one woman to whom I never dared to show my true self. Never dared to speak up to earnestly. That woman is my mother.

The thought of writing all these important and disgusting things filled me with shame and guilt and fear. It took me three weeks to finally sit down and write this letter. Now, the letter is on its way. Now, my mother must know me, whether she wants to or not.

Now that my mother will know who I am, there is no one I must ever feel ashamed of myself towards again. The next time somebody accuses me of being an asshole, pathetic, not nice or impolite, my mother will not be watching over my shoulder.

I will say: Yes, that is me. And shrug.

The voices in my head always and mercilessly competed, because I had not yet spoken up to the one big source of voices in my head. Had assigned mystical powers to it. To her. My failure to speak my mind robbed me of the courage to think my thoughts. Now I have spoken my mind.

Next time, the mother in my mind will have been put in her place, her looming expectations of me finally fought off with the courage to put myself first, no matter how miserable that self.

Maybe this is too optimistic. Who knows. But I know one thing: I hope to never see her again.

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Why I hate my mother

For a long time, I had wondered about the difference between me and more confident boys and now men. From somewhere, maybe it was intuition, I had the feeling that I could be just like them if I – how to say – find a way to let go and be myself.

But there is no letting go. There is a past of adventure, conflict and childhood struggle that shaped them. There were tests of fire that burned away their fears and insecurities. They had fathers that hardened them and friends and enemies who fought them. Men who guided them early through stages of life in which I am stuck. And it was the time that did it.

What can I do today? I can learn to imitate. I can walk straight, hold eye contact, bump into people in the streets so that everybody fears me. That feels good. But it is mechanic, there is no play to it. I can grin at another man and it will look like we have something in common. But while he thinks back of times of raising hell, it is an empty gesture for me, there to be exposed for the lie it is.

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Ayahuasca: The devil called me to Peru – Part 4: Scream

I know the devil’s name. It’s Wurxlkwarxl. Really, wow. Do you want to know why? Yes, tell me. It is chaos in the guise of humour. This house here, it is structure. It is proof that god exists. Do you think this place is bad? Yes.

I would be talking to the Viking. I would be telling him about god, about hell. I would be telling the Viking that the shaman was the devil, without flinching.

But that would be later, hours in the future. The seconds are long in the jungle.

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Ayahuasca: The devil called me to Peru – Part 3: Hell

I leave the damned Maloka in the morning. Only people inside beside me were the German guy and the girl, asked for the time. Mh, something around 6 a.m., time to go back to my own wooden housy. Some people of the tribe sit around.

The way to my hut leads past the hut of the black chick. God, I want to fuck her. What will you do about it, Son? Don’t know, God, nothing?

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Ayahuasca: The devil called me to Peru – Part 1: Iquitos

Iquitos. The air is wet but doesn’t smell like fireworks, as Lima’s does. I like the weight of the humidity that challenges my breath while I relish the burning sun. Have I just fled from cold Germany? Have I fled from a life I saw no more point in living, in the hope to find meaning through yet unexplored, mystical means, am I such a pathetic coward? Yes, I did. Yes, I am.

Ten taxi drivers rush toward me, like lemmings. I feel the excitement of entrepreneurship and imagine the satisfaction they get from their hard and unrelenting work, the push of confidence each time they outplay the competition. I know what I want and ignore them.

This world is real. This world is aggressive. This is more home than anywhere else. I shout: Motortaxi!

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