Welcome to the Suck

Anthony: I just ran through incoming to get a dead fucking battery.
Troy: Welcome to the Suck.

___

Everyday, from the day you were born to now, you’ve fought to stay alive. Right now, your body fights invaders and disease, your heart pumps over and over to push blood and keep you going. Your brain makes a million decisions on its own that make your body ready for whatever shit you’ll encounter, be it a tiger or an on-coming car. You’re alive today because you have fought for every minute of life.

Life’s a war and we are all warriors.

When you think on that, think about how you act in social situations. The time you let someone push you aside or the way that chick took your seat when you went to take a piss. Did you bow your head and let it pass? When your girl gets mad, did you “yes dear” your way out? Did she get what she wanted despite it being the absolute wrong decision? Did she test you and win?

It may be the way our society works today, but that’s not how to win a war.

“I’m sorry, honey.”

Don’t think because you haven’t been a strong person means you can’t be one. Everyone can fight. Every man born has a God-given ability to rise. I started my current job in film with a fear of making mistakes. I felt small and useless among those who have worked in it much longer than I. I got angry at myself a lot. Yet, it did not take long for my natural ability and my vast confidence to come out. Now, my boss looks to me for answers and his boss compliments me on my way of thinking. What was indecision last month is purpose now. I walk into work, no matter the situation, knowing I can win.

Fearless at Exceed and Lead posted this gem last month, and it fits with how I currently run:

A man’s potential is unlimited, the reasoning goes. A man can reach any heights in life in any sphere of activity. But in order to defeat his opponents a man must first overcome himself, combat his own fears, his lack of confidence and laziness. The path upwards is one of continual battle with oneself. A man must force himself to rise sooner than the others and go to bed later. He must exclude from his life everything that prevents him from achieving his objective. He must subordinate the whole of his existence to the strictest regime. He must give up taking days off. He must use his time to the best possible advantage and fit in even more than was thought possible. A man aiming for a particular target can succeed only if he uses every minute of his life to the maximum advantage for carrying out his plan. A man should find four hours’ sleep quite sufficient, and the rest of his time can be used for concentrating on the achievement of his objective.

Work to improve. Work to survive. Work to live.

Work to win.

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Amused Mastery and Queen Street Corner

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There’s a mess of men waiting down Queen Street. Saturday fight night celebrations. Bartenders scrambling between pitchers and dispensers and the screams of young ladies in the mode. The young waitresses snaking through fat bellies and high heels, drinks and food held high between the drunks and the tokers. The old men slapping each other’s backs and the young ones giving fist bumps or handshakes too complicated for their clothing.

I find the last stool left and hop up to the bar. The man behind the bar offer’s me a pint of Blue, drink of choice during cheap pint nights. I nod and look up to the screen. The Prelims are over. Two beat ugly chicks stand in the middle of the Octogon. Glad I missed that. To my left, a group of four of Niagara Falls finest common women chat up a storm with a giant plate of cheese drowned nachos before them, already half eaten. None of them particularly attractive, but cute enough, except for the obligatory fat friend with a string of melted marble hanging from the corner of her lips. Reminds me of bad porno.

The night could swing that way. Talking to what’s available, getting in to trouble with some psycho cunt like the last one I picked up from here. I could drink too much, lose sense, and go for what I can instead of what I want. Nodding to long, bitchy stories, hoping for a little pussy after taking their verbal beating. I could be the man at the end of the bar with the dog faced woman swinging her hands in anger at some slight long forgotten by the man hoping to sleep with her. I could be the stumbling man and the manjaw with spiked hair “female” slipping hands between legs in a booth, shot glasses scattered on the table. I could be the hipster puking in the bathroom, drink still in hand, alone holding his leaking pride.

I watch the fights instead. I drink a pint, I eat and I yell at the TV. Watching tough men with no killer instinct “fight”. The old man next to me agrees. We talk and laugh. We pick winners and end up right.

A tiny, strong-faced chick with a tad too much makeup, but an excellent body walks up directly between my senior friend and myself. High on the crowd or already drunk, she tries a smile at me. The old man, born years beyond the taint of modern femininity, offers up his food to the lucky lady. Her friend, a nerdy type, shy as a nun, grabs some as well. He offers his seat up. Another time, another way of manners.

Roy Nelson knocks out Chieck Kongo. Sonnen gets his ass beat. I order my last beer, the tiny chick basically laying in to me, drunk as fuck. No talking, just looks. She leeches off the old man while getting her attention from me. I slide out of my stool, making sure she feels my departure and go outside. I sit at the newly bought plastic patio chairs. The entertainment is about to begin.

It begins with a shouting match. A small group of guys close, but visibly on two sides. On the edges are the females of the pack, chatting fast, growing to screaming. In response, the rivals start to scream, barking like little dogs on the wrong side of a fence. The crowd grows. The bouncer shows up. I sip at my Blue, laughing. Someone swings, the women screech and yell in fear. Shocked faces from the others on the patio as the street fills up. The most exciting moment of their week is happening. The safety of their world is smashed for a few seconds as a war seems to descend on the corner. I smile at the nearest woman, “I love UFC nights.”

I go back inside to finish my last pint. “You’re back?” the bartender asks, since I paid my bill a while ago.

“I never left. I stay for the entertainment.” He laughs.

I sit again and beside me is the two girls from before. The whole of the old man’s food order before them. The tiny one is shitfaced, head on her arms, arms on the bar. The nerdy one is keeping her eye contact isolated. No one should look at her, her darting eyes say. I play with the change I have left in my hand. Enough for another drink for the ladies beside me, enough for a drink for me as well. I finish my beer and slide the glass to the edge and place the money beside it. Life is good. Life is getting much better. My gut tells me to pay it forward to the deserving and that would be the hard workers in front of me, not the parasites beside me.

I hop off the stool once again and tip my hat to the nerdy chick who quickly looks away. I smile, amused by everyone around me. This is how it works, I realize. This is how you should feel. Not neurotic. Not insecure. Not scared. Not fearful. Not worried about what you said or what you did to scare off a girl. Not caring that a fight is a foot away from you. Not caring about anything but your own relaxation and joy.

The common way to decribe this is feeling like a king. I’m no king. Kings are authority. I feel like an outlaw. As I’m breaking the rules of the world. Maybe I am, maybe I’m not, it doesn’t matter. What matters is the smile on my face, the spring in my step and the steel blue looks I give to the ones I deem worthy of my time.

Don’t Stop

My sleep had been off almost for a week. One day that lasted too long, and I just couldn’t get back into the groove. Napping days turning into sleepless nights. Frustration set in. Its still off, but I’ve had enough.

Don’t be surprised when your rest kills the rest of your spirit. It bites into your day and what you can accomplish, even if you’re unemployed. There are 960 minutes in a 16 hour day, if you sleep for 8 hours. That’s 960 minutes to get your ass in gear. To work out, to look for work, to clean, to read, to do anything, but sit there and say “There’s nothing to do.” There is always something to do that improves your body and mind.

The biggest killer of motivation is inaction. When you slow, you falter. When you falter, you fall. I’ve worked a full 24 hours, slept for 4 and then gotten back up for another 12. I’ve come home sore and collapsed to get up and do it again. I’ve burned my body to the core before and I did it because there was something coming after. Always after.

When you’re stuck in a rut where you can’t go out, work, or whatever. Remember its just a bump. Its not a roadblock that ends the road your on. Any roadblock is a barrier YOU have put up for yourself. When you say “I can’t,” its no one else’s fault but your own. Climb, dig, tear that motherfucker down brick by brick if you have to. You can trip, get scraped up and cringe through pain, you can rest for minute, but don’t ever, ever stop going towards what you want.

___

The Redneck Achivement

Detestable Friend. The best name for a woman, a thing, that was secondary to the target. At Grand Central (of course), I came across them having a girls night out. Two girls, hammered, chatting loudly, screeching laughter. A dye job redheaded 6 and her mother hen.

I was deep in the slump buster mode. The First decided to be a big girl and she got in a relationship (that lasted about a month, more on that later). I was without a girl. And being with out a new notch since 2011, I was ready for almost anything.

I went after the 6 pretty aggressively. She was so hammered she didn’t mind it, but the walls were still up. She refused to cross any line that would upset her husband. I’ve got to give her credit for that. So being drunk I turn to the mother hen. We started making out within 20 minutes. At the end of the night cheat gave me her number. I woke up the next day and told myself I wouldn’t do that for a slump buster. There’s got to be something better.

Fast forward a few weeks. I run across them at Grand Central again. I’ve had no luck in between. Fuck it. With every disgusting intention to sleep with this person, I take the aloof route. Least amount of work for my gain. Like the last time the night ends with us making out. I text her a couple days later and its on.

After a few other meet ups at Redhead 6’s place we rounded second and third, she’s wanting to meet up but her boyfriend is always home. For 40 bucks I got a shitty motel room. Probably cheaper to do that then get to go back to the bar and not have a sure thing. She shows up and we fuck for about an hour. Pretty uneventful. We get our clothes back on. She took a cab, so I offer to driver her someplace. “Sure, can you take me to…

…Walmart?”

So what was just fucking an ugly chick in a cheap motel room turned into a surreal moment of cosmic comedy. This detestable person, oh white version of a Detroit welfare queen, fat ugly in loud, tops it all off by wanting me to drop her at fat ugly loud central. As soon as the door shut I was laughing. My mind couldn’t comprehend the pure luck. New notch. New story.

As I drove to Grand Central, going straight back on the prowl after getting laid, I looked up and whispered a thank you to the jester that apparently runs my sex life.

Rule #2: Don’t Chat Up Women You Don’t Want

She stood there, eyes glazed like a dog as he dies under the porch. I leaned on the patio’s fence, my beer in one hand, a satisfying smoke in the other. Like most of my outings, it was going miserably. Few girls to approach, fewer that were receptive. I made buddies with a 40 something hippie. He ranted on and on about moving to Victoria, British Columbia. How we were all dead in 20 years from chemicals and rising seas. I had never seen him sober. I don’t think I ever want to.

The chick looked to me and opened a paragraph of vitrol about her friends. They had left her behind, allegedly. I listened with the most uncaring eyes. I was more interested in the tits she was displaying. Chubby tits. Full of McDonalds and KFC left overs. They were tits and I was drunk. Such is. She vanished a few minutes later. When I left I saw her at a table, alone, on her phone, looking sadder than a dying Ethiopian child.

I wasn’t really attracted to her. I just wanted to take the chance to tame her home and that was my mistake. No hormonal investment. I was being lazy and my game suffered.

When it comes to women, you need to be able to draw a line. At a job, sure, talk away. In my line of work networking means employment. I talk and keep all the females happy, even the cunty one. But if you’re on the hunt, don’t go for trans-fat fruit. Aim for the things that will drive you to make an effort. Like working out, don’t do what is easy. It gains nothing. Push yourself to go that little bit farther and you will thank yourself later.

Don’t Be Tom

Tom is a friend of Kay, a girl I’ve written about here on occasion. When I met Kay last year driving back to Canada, we fucked. She’s a monster in bed. The kind of girl where starfishing means she’s dead or in a coma. She’d been pursuing Tom for a long while, so when they finally got to the business, she was elated. Then, Tom started this:

T: Hiii

K: hey

T: kisses
Come let me love on you baby

Come let me love on you baby

Tom isn’t a bad looking guy and his notch count is quite decent for having game like that (around a dozen lays in his early 20s). But, he’s never encountered someone like Kay. Tom has fallen in love with every pair of legs that opened up for him. When he rides the train through the mountains, he screams his undying amore to the tunnel before it deposits him on the other side. Whatever lets him in, he can’t help but want to stay there. And Kay’s pussy is like firewater to a Cherokee.

Kay has a boyfriend now. And, of course, Tom’s transmission goes from drive to “BE WITH MEEEEE!” This gem came after Kay was bitching that her boyfriend doesn’t talk to her much.

T: Keep trying [with him]? Its a two way street. He’s just dagling you around on strings like a puppet
You have me. That’s all that matters

They had one fucking session. One. I’ve seen remoras with less attachment than this guy.

Hey, wanna get married?

There was plenty of time before the boyfriend came along for poor little Tom to get some more. He wanted more, of course, he has a cock. But that cock doesn’t think for him. His dumbass brain does. Or, “heart”, as the romantics like to say:

T: What do you want really?
K: sex
T: Only sex?
K: what else would you have me say? I don’t have to want your friendship … I already have that

DUDE. SEX. ITS SEX. FUCKING. PUSSY. SHUT! THE! FUCK! UP!

And then, it was over before he could even unzip his pants for a second time…

T: But yea. I really do think you are beautiful
K: thank you
I don’t feel like it very often but thanks
T: Your bf is super lucky
I feel stupid I didn’t try sooner with you
K: not sure he knows that but I thank you
T: You’re special to me
K: I’m not sure what to say to that

No, please, don’t close pussy. I love you. I LOVE YOU!

When pussy comes your way, don’t be Tom. Follow this simple addge:

Fuck her hard
Fuck her sore
And when you’re done
Fuck her some more

Its what they want. Its what they always want. Give it to them and they’ll be your slave.

How to Learn Game for $20

Step 1: Go to your local bank and withdraw a crisp $20 bill.

Step 2: Next, go to a bar with some ladies. Preferably a clean bar with some fuckable woman (5s and up), unless you like meth head grannies scratching at your dick for some cough syrup.

Step 3: Order a drink, pay with your $20 bill. Receive change. Tip at least a dollar.

Step 4: Take a sip and look around the bar.

Step 5: Find someone to talk to, preferably something you can fuck and that isn’t a man. Worst case, hottest tranny is allowed.

Step 6: Go talk to them.

Repeat Step 5 and 6 until getting laid or $20 runs out or overcome with shame for making out Mr. (now Mrs.) Smith, your 9th grade English teacher.

Source:                                                            CBC’s To Catch A Dinky Dingler