I Dare You


No, you can tell ’em all now
I don’t back up, I don’t back down
I don’t fold up, and I don’t bow
I don’t roll over, don’t know how
I don’t care where the enemies are
Can’t be stopped, all I know; go hard
Won’t forget how I got this far


There’s a whole world out there that tells you you aren’t good enough.

It tells you that who you are is wrong. A moral stain on the goodness of a thousand bloody empires stacked on each other, bleeding down to the thirsty, meandering zombies asking for one more chance.

The voice of these priests of chivalry come in many costumes. They walk among you, pointing fingers, digging nails deep into you from the furthest stranger to current lover. You can feel it. The shadows crawl into your skin, under your muscles and into your very spirit. The smile you give is false. Beneath the teeth is shaking anxiety.

Am I good? Am I good enough? Why are these people looking at me? Did I say something wrong?

Who are these voices?

They are the universe showing you what not to do. Paths of folly, quantum physics made physical and given consciousness.

I had my voice. Ariel was that voice. A screeching, pathetic, ill speaker broken on delusion. Aside from the holidays and being sick, my last month has been wrought with dealing with what this stalker was saying to me. I let it in and it dug deep.

And it failed.

She called me names. Rapist. Abuser. Unwanted. Harassed me with text messages. Attacked my self-image and self-worth. The things I told her when I thought she was worthy of my life’s story were bullets in her manic depressive volley. Tired and weak, she struck, and I felt so angry, so lost, that this busted cunt was in my head. And she could get away with it. Already arrested and released. Already put away, let go and given no help by the grand mental health apparatus of Ontario. If I walked into a police station and show them text messages, what would they do they hadn’t already done?

“Change your number,” someone said to me when I told them the story. “Ignore her and she’ll go away.”

don’t come to Taps or youll get beat up lol, she sent to me last night.

Ignorance is not bliss, at least not to those still stuck in reality. The delusional ill… well…

The only thing left was to give up.

Give up caring. Give up doubting. Give up the very last vestiges of every stupid, childish, weak thought that stopped me from doing what I want. What is left after rock bottom? Nothing, but up. Every step until you see yourself in the oasis’s pond, drinking up sun.

This lost female soul in the crack of a modern nation dared me to change.

Much to her chagrin, I changed. And when her obsessive eyes reads this… who cares? Fuck her. Fuck any woman who thinks she can “make you better”, to put it simply

I dare you to change. I waited for a manic depressive stalker to force me in to the corner. Bad idea. I let myself destroy my gains. Don’t let that happen to you.

Don’t wait. Don’t stop. Aim for perfection. There isn’t any other choice.


On a side note, I’ll be making several improvements to the blog over the next few weeks. Look out for them.

The Hurricane Date

The wind was howling. The rain was sideways. Everyone was inside except for me. I was in my car waiting for Ariel. We were both costumed up. I dressed as a biker: leather jacket, gloves, black boots, the works. She came out of her front door as a Spanish madien. Decked in red, a hat with those tassles cocked on an angle. For a 34 year old wall victim, she looked good. Niagara Falls only has so much to offer a poor white boy.

The plan was to visit a bar neither of us had been to before. I chose Longshots OTB. A horse race betting bar in my neighborhood. As the rain killed visibility, we hydroplaned our way to the gravel driveway. She was nervous. She’s always nervous. We talked for a bit. I was getting IOIs left and right. More than the first time we met, minus the slut shield. Tonight would be a interesting night.

The second we walked through the door I was.transported into a sitcom. The room was intimidatingly tiny and yet 20 fat old dudes fit in it, several of them playing pool. The moment seemed to pass like hours. Every eye was on us, espically Ariel. The only chick in the room. I was freaking out in my head.

“Hello!” she said in her bad Spanish accent. The room returned the greeting.

I noticed there was another door and began to inch ourselves to it. In full character, she acted the part of a snob Spainard visiting “the natives”, as she called the group. They ate up every word.

The larger back area was deserted. Most tracks were closed due to Sandy’s wrath, but the old folks kept on hoping their pensions would double on a lucky number. We grabbed drinks and tried to find a spot that wasn’t being watched by a disapproving eye.

The next 10 minutes was quiet conversation about how creepy the entire place was. The whistles of angry wind in the backround added to the atmosphere. There was simply no way to redeem our chosen bar. If we stayed any longer we’d probably run out screaming.

Back into the fray, in our way to the (Carrion) Croft, she slid her hand over mine. After our shared experience her comfort level skyrocketed. I remained loose and calm through the storm.

The Croft was dead. We ordered drinks and she fit neatly onto my lap. Getting drunker, we talked. The more we told histories, the closer she got. Soon, my hand was between her legs, her voice inviting me home.

I left her place near 1am with a freshly blown dick and a large light of pride inside. Within a week, I had number 8. Today, she begs for my attention. Her hands tear at me. The hamster runs like a beast, but with all my practice I have this self-delusional hippy professing control one minute only to submit under me the next. And, most importantly, I’m having a lot of fun.

It won’t last. Her insecure hamster will eventually drive me off, as most do, but in the meantime I can declare that I’ve leveled up. No longer slump busting or barrel scraping, after a year and half of hard work, I’m picking and choosing. A place all men should aim for.

Bonfire Day Update

Happy 5th of November to all the people who think Guy Fawkes was a hero and not a religious terrorist.

Other than working my ass off, I’ve been busy upping my game. The October 26 weekend started with a visit to Destiable Friend. The last visit for a while. Being a poor single mom doesn’t pay the rent, so she’s moving and it doesn’t leave any privacy. Backburner for her. The next day I was with The First, who’s back on wanting me over as much as possible. She’s gotten to a hyper level of horny and it pays off to make her wait. The Monday was the new girl, dubbed Ariel due to her mermaid obessesion. This one is straight hippie crazy, but its a good crazy. I’m greeted with a kiss, not a list of complaints about other people. The tail aint bad either.

I’ll get to all the stories I’ve missed: the Redneck Acheviement, meeting Ariel and more, in the next week.

Max Body and Gaming Hiatus

For those who follow my twitter feed, I was out last night watching Frank Mir get his ass kicked by Junior Dos Santos. I went out to Grand Central, the same bar where I got wasted months back and had a great time. I had another good time. Wing and beer. A lot of ladies. And I did my best, but my best wasn’t as nearly as good as it should of been. I could blame the cold Canadian women, but that’d be a large excuse covered in a small truth. I just wasn’t close to the peak of my talent. Not by miles. I believe its because I’m too lax with my life right now. I’m improving, I’m doing great, but I’m not doing everything I want to, that I can do. I’m taking it way too easy and still expecting to have ladies fall in the lap. A bad mindset to have.

So, in light of this, I’m going to officially call off going out to game for a while and focus on the one thing I want to improve severely: my body. I’ve gotten into a good habit of working out as often as I can: lifting, using the medicine ball, ab work outs, etc. Its shown results in my arms and back, but its not good enough. My going out lifestyle and my drunk self don’t aid in the results I want. The Geographer posted great advice today on how to get jacked and I’m going to follow it. I’m going to reach my goals.

Without sacrifice, there is no victory. With victory, there is peace.

Shame the Beta Month: Raising Jordan

I’ve written about my folks before, but since Shame the Beta Month took over University of Man, its inspired me to get into the finer details about my mom and dad, and how my upbringing wasn’t alpha or beta. It was a weird hybrid that confused me to no end.

My father was born Alpha. That isn’t in doubt. I have some idea of his upbringing. Large family, middle sibling (and a twin to boot), parents strict Eastern Orthodox; old school through and through. But, from the stories I’ve heard of him and those he has told himself, from the age he could talk he was a leader, a troublemaker and a no shit kind of guy. He works from when he gets in ‘till he leaves. Usually 10 hour days, not including the commute. When I worked for him, he’s a slave driver, and it gets shit done. When he got home, though, he didn’t bring the work personality home, not in the overt way. His parenting personality was a lot more mild. I rarely remember getting yelled at. I think he seriously hit me once, on the back of the head when I mouthed off to my mom. Otherwise, it would be stern words that would come out of nowhere if none of us would shut up, usually when he was trying to relax. It was a more laid back personality at home.

My mom was born, well, my mom. She is of strong opinions and she lets my dad know it more often than the rest of us. She doesn’t hold back which pissed me off to no end as a kid. I think it comes from the fact she is a brilliant woman who chose to have a family instead of go the career path of singledom and cats. She, like my dad, deal with the money side of entertainment production and usually end up keeping companies afloat when the creative side sinks it. I don’t know if she resents it now that she’s turning 50 or what. That’s the strange part. Her opinions are out there, her emotions aren’t, not often. She cried at my wedding. She nearly cried when I made a surprise visit last June. But most of the time, it seems like indifference. If I wasn’t so damn smart, I’d think she didn’t have any emotions, but she just doesn’t like to be openly emotional and the anxiety disorder doesn’t help that (makes her more frustrated). Neither of my parents like to be emotional, really. Laugh, complain, smile? Sure! But I’ve never seen my dad cry, ever.

With those two parents I should have mimicked some hard people, yes? No. When I was 5, a sister arrive. At 7, another. The games I played with dad, the boy games that would usually end up getting me bruised or smash something, disappeared. I had baby sisters. My usual all out boy self couldn’t be indulged as much. I did my best though. I believe we still have a video of my 2 year old sister jumping around and I jumping with her, and then just shoving her down for shits and giggles. She cried. I got scolded. When school came, my violence got me in trouble. I regressed. I dove in to politics eventually, having it replace social interaction and social learning. I’d quote things no one cared for. Read books no one else read. When confronted with women, I’d either run or think I was in love.

I don’t blame anyone for my beta history. I love my family, faults and all. When I did blame them years ago, it got me nowhere. I was still a beta sloth crossing the road one disgusting step at a time. I was so introverted and emotional that I thought I knew better than everyone, my head up my ass. So when I first came across Roissy in 09, I thought it was all bullshit. I have a wife, a good woman, no need for his shit ideas.

Then I was contacted by an MRA online mag for a political piece I wrote. They wanted my permission to publish it. No pay, of course. Sure, I said, and I tried to write more for them, but only my first piece, an attack on liberals for denying Male Studies, got through. I couldn’t write like they did, against women, talk if hypergamy and other strange words. I started to read Roissy again, then Roosh, then the RookieDC, then VK’s Empire, then Quest for 50, and so on. My mind exploded and resisted at the same time. All these things were new and strange and weird. But, I’ll just dip in, my marriage is fine…

…and then I was spending hours reading through their blog archives. As things tilted towards oblivion, I got more desperate. I read Athol Kay’s blog and everything he linked to, hoping for a miracle, trying all he taught. But, in my case, it was like offering a glass of water to a parched skeleton. Whatever her real reason, she had chose to end it way before I knew it was even in trouble.

And yet, the break up was the best thing to ever happen to me. After months of grief, going in holes I’d rather not speak of, I’m now hardened, experienced, mature and, most importantly, confident. That was my Shakespearean flaw. A lack of confidence. I was always told by friends and strangers I could do anything after they witnessed me, and yet I never stood up and did a goddamn thing I wanted without pawing over the implications. Now, I simply don’t give a fuck. And it does wonders for everything in my life.

I knew I had crossed the line last fall when after fucking my old high school girlfriend, who was with a guy at the time, she asked so very softly, “How many sluts have you had?”

I turned my eyes to her, smiled and said without hesitation, “Including you? 6.”

Still fucking her and she still hasn’t asked for commitment yet.

I knew I held the line when within 10 minutes of meeting a drunk chick in a Florida bar, I was offering my cock, and kept offering until her drunk beta orbiter ex-husband left, and she had to take her girlfriend home.

Alpha forever, brothers.

Just Don’t Give A Fuck


You had to give it to him: he had a plan.
And it started to make sense, in a Tyler sort of way.
No fear.
No distractions.
The ability to let that which does not matter truly slide.

Narrator, Fight Club

I don’t know where, I don’t know when, but sometime last week I crossed into JDGF territory.

Maybe it was because of my night out, hammered and puking. Maybe it was the horrible sleeping patterns I’ve had. Bad dreams, night terrors really, shocking me awake one night, tossing me into many long nights of insomnia and game playing. Maybe its been the hands of the First clawing at me each time she sees me, lips pressing against me, begging for more, a position of true dominance over her and her body happily accepting that role.

Who knows.
Who cares.

It no longer matters. The things that don’t matter have vanished. The things that could matter are on the peripheral. The things that truly matter, the meaningful swarms of talent, soul and love coming together to create what you really are, what makes a person worthy beyond their placement in the machine, those have come forward and presented themselves. Along with writing, and writing well, I have taken up learning guitar, something I’ve wanted to do for a very long time, but never had the motivation nor the courage to do. I’m not letting the moods of my family, the Ex, or anyone else bother me. The best way I can describe it is that I’m floating amongst them and their emotions, unable to empathize, but able to lend assistance.

I said a long time ago that my anxiety hit in this pattern: care → worry → obsesses → panic → anxiety attack. What this change has done is remove the care that everyone tends to have. The “care” that makes you feel what they feel. Emotional selfishness, where you are supposed to be as mad as others or as sad as others to properly be human with them. This new care is above that, like clouds above mountains, while they are beyond the reach, they still give shade and water. A step above, but not withdrawn.

Its a very good feeling. Another step onward from my past of anxiety and misery and towards the greater goal of all of us: true manhood.

New Year’s Eve, Part 1

I left the house at 8:30pm. Burlington is about a 45 minute drive and the traffic was clear from the border all the way into Toronto. Strange. I expected something, but I guess the cold and the way people prepare for this arbitrary night of festivities allows those with plans further away an easy ride. I quickly stopped in at the Big Bee convenience store, picking up a couple bags of chips, smokes and lighter. The patch had been working, but a night a party is a night of enjoying tobacco.

I lit up and hit the QEW. I tired to blast Alexisonfire, but it wasn’t very loud, even at maximum volume. Fucking iTunes. I bought it off the store, straight download. I kept it playing anyway. Ten minutes in, cigarette finished, a melancholy washed over me. I remembered the last New Year’s Eve. I worked, I think. I couldn’t remember. I remembered the one before that. Hanging with close friends, drinking, playing Apples to Apples, general drunkenness and an 3am IHOP breakfast to soak up the alcohol. A good night. It may have been the hunger feeling, I’d been staying strict paleo all day and my body hadn’t fully adjusted. It may have been the cold or even the smoke, but I couldn’t shake it. All the way up, kilometer by kilometer, I felt like turning around and burying myself in my room. Useless and happy to be that way.

I arrived at Aldershot Station, one of the two choices given to me by my sister for where to be picked up. The party was to be big enough that parking would be non-existent, so her boyfriend cleverly chose the regional train stations as his rally points. I parked near the entrance and texted him my location. Quickly, he responded with what car would pick me up. I lit up my third smoke of the night, waiting in my idling vehicle, keeping warm. I quickly finished it. Time seemed to go like molasses in winter. I got out of the car and lit up again. Waiting. Lit up again. Watching every car go by and not seeing my ride. Fuck, it was cold. -7C. Cold for me, anyway. Years of the Southwest spoiled me. Finally, the gray pickup arrived and I got in the back seat.

The driver was a large guy with a boyish face. It fit the group of gamers and fellow travelers that my sister and her boyfriend run with. In the passenger seat was a blonde with a decent voice. We quickly all started talking. Joking about seeing my sister drunk. Ideas about hitting up the host for stripper money was seriously considered. I quickly began to get into game mode. The blonde was chipper and receptive. This night will take off, I thought to myself. We arrived and we all got out. I changed my mind. She was chubby, and not in the cute way. Her face was not cute nor did the weight put anything of value on her body. Even skinny, I doubt she would have been worthy of my dark magic. I didn’t flinch or change my flow. Good night, I told myself. No matter what.

As soon as we walked in, my sister was drunk as fuck, bellowing “That’s my brother!” Pointing and waving her arms. The entire room looked over and I waved. I need a drink, I thought and tossed down the chips on a nearby table. The selection of alcohol was massive. A six foot long table, six feet high with cubbyholes, completely covered in everything from vodka to rum to whiskey and rye. I took my time, finally just going for a basic rum and coke. I filled the cup over a third with rum, then found a can and topped it off. My sister found me and gasped, “That’s a lot of alcohol.” I replied with a dead “Yup.”

At the dining table was a skinny, fair skined, raven haired cutie. I walked over and struck up a conversation, sister in tow. She, again, mentioned that I was her brother. She smiled a lot. Quickly, the alcohol kicked in. Empty stomach. This may be a good night, I thought.