This Life

Gotta raise some hell, ‘fore they take you down
Gotta live this life
Gotta look this world in the eye
Gotta live this life until you die

No one said anything about life being easy unless they were trying to get something out of you. The merchants and indoctrinators and kings. They all want a piece of your minute wealth. They want to suck you dry until you are nothing, so they can move on to the next sucker.

The life you have is the only one. If you’re atheist or agnostic, its obvious. If you’re God fearing, like me, its still the only one. You’ve got one chance to tell God or whomever that “I did the best I could and never quit.” Most people can never have the courage. Most people are scared. Statues of cowardice pointing towards easy ways and easy lives, never experiencing, ever seeing the beauty of whats around them. I hate these cowards. I hate them all.

I started my old blog, HarmonicaFTW, under the banner of anarchy. I was angry and lonely and hurt. Over a year later, that little boy was right. Politics don’t matter. People don’t matter. You’re on your own.

And, if you take away all the illusions, you are. In the end, in our modern, information civilization, you’re alone. Totally. People are stuck within their own little worlds. Everyday, you’ll be ignored for a text message, a Facebook update, a tweet, or any number of things. Your politeness, or just even your want to connect with someone new, will be shut down because somebody’s old high school classmate decided to say hello. Not a word can be said that could break away the addicted from the social drug.

We who take the Red Pill are social pirates. The ones who sail outside the waters of normal discourse. When protests about rape, abortion or healthcare rear their head, we don’t care. We are pillaging the undefended leftovers of civilization’s great debates. Sailing between Left and Right, making our shore anything but the beaches of the “real” world. We have our own islands, full of truth, full of what is, unencumbered by the weights of the sheep and their sheppards.

Some of us, we try, we do what is needed, what is said, to make it, and we collapse and fail like roofs during tornadoes. When the winds pick up, our facades collapse and we crumble. It won’t work, comrades. You simply can’t fake what you think these women, these people want. You have to fight your way through every inch of bullshit, vaginal discharge and hamster thought. Its a war, never ending, for the soul of men. If it wasn’t for the power of our sex, we wouldn’t be attacked so and made to conform, or made to follow, or made to submit. If we were truly equal, feminism wouldn’t need to be. But we aren’t. Men make the world. Men are the world. We are power incarnate. Everything after that is an attempt to make you worry that’s a bad thing.

Tonight, I went in with a song in my heart, a smoke on my lips and the courage of a thousand lowly men cheering me on. A 9 sat beside me, her ugly ass mom talking to friends. She kept checking the exits, as if someone was to appear, or she wanted to leave. I opened after a few minutes, “Looking for the exit.” A statement, not a question. She smiles. Beautiful smile, and goes right to her phone. Not a peep, as her mother brags about flashing an AC/DC cover band.

This is our world. Upside down. We fight against gravity, hoping one in one thousand to fall into our waiting laps.

Its a fight. Its a war.

Its our life, and we can never quit, because its our life.

This life. War until we die.

Making sure our lives, to dust or to Heaven, mean something. That we can die happily, no matter what age. 26 or 96.

I’ve been across the US and Canada 4 times. I’ve fucked whores and been in love. I’ve lived in my dream state and been through Hell. I’ve lived. I could die right now, and despite my low notch count and my failures tonight, I’ll walk before the Gates and say, “I lived.”

Can you?

The Choice I Left Behind

We were drunk. Very drunk. I had the weekend off. Rare for my job. We usually worked six days. Always on call. Twelve hour shifts,minimum. Overtime. Always overtime. The weekend meant rest and more rest. It meant fun. Trips. Movies. Magic Mountain. Fun.

We laid on the floor, embraced, smiling, laughing. There she was. A woman I fought tooth and nail for in my heart and mind. A woman that made me giddy. Happy. Complete. Sexy, kind, funny, perfect. Freckles on her face, light red hair, soft skin, kisses, love. Her weight wasn’t a problem for me. I loved her. I loved her so much that on the floor, drunk, insane, I asked her to marry me.

In my head it was a joke. My thoughts said, “Wouldn’t it be funny to ask her?” and I answered with a resounding yes. As did she, before breaking out in tears and confessions. I said we didn’t have to say anything. It isn’t official. Its more of a promise. She said it wasn’t that. It was something bad. Something worse. Something very, very wrong.

“What is it?” I asked. The answer I did not expect. If I was the man that I am now, I would of saw it. I wouldn’t have been on that floor with her, singing lovely praises between shots, blind to the words that came next. The words that haunted me for months, years. Something I never got over. Something I kept secret for her and, sadly, for myself.

In April of that year I went down to meet her for the first time. Months of talking over the phone. Years of talking over the internet. It was time. She was overjoyed. The first days were blissful. Then things rolled away. She became distant. She was cold. She said I was different. I couldn’t figure out why. I was nervous, yes, but what I was to learn later was that I was cocky on the phone. I performed a Beta Switch. That, in her mind, led her to sleep with her ex, in the back of his van, while I sat in her bedroom, waiting, freaking out, anxiety bursting through my pores.

The next moment was long. It hit me, but I went cold. Very cold. I held her in my arms and screaming CUNT through my bones. WHORE! SLUT! I had forgiven her for backing out of our plans, forcing me to make a trip 3000 miles in a state of intense depression, only to change her mind again not long after. That was nothing compared to this. This was something that was meant to be unforgivable. Death was passed on crimes such as these for thousand of years. We weren’t even married, but it was the deep, boiling betrayal she knew she committed. She knew what she did. She knew the enormity of the pain. She waited until now to tell me. I thought and thought and thought, yet the answer came as quickly as her confession.

“Its okay,” I said, teeth clenched. Arms around her sobbing, wobbling figure. Her body shaking. My body numb.

What else was there to do? Smack her around? I wished. I wished always. I wished I had sent her packing and returned the fling with my bigger breasted roommate. I wish I had left her at the airport. I wished so many things, but I had it in my head that I put this much effort in, that I still loved her, that I’d get over it.

That was my mistake. Trying to get over it. Trying to rationalize it. Impossible. The best reaction is the natural reaction, otherwise you’re fighting something stronger than civilization. You’re fighting yourself. There’s a reason we feel these things. They help us survive.

I made the wrong choice that night. I made the wrong choice from then until she left. After she left, after months of work, I did something I said I do that night on the floor.

I got over it. By getting over her. By getting over the lies of society. By embracing what is real, my instincts.

Change (In The House of Flies), Part 4: The Resurrection, Part 5

The first full day there was rest. Organization and rest. I repacked my bags so to make it easier for the long drives. Electronics here, clothes there, food there, and so on. It took me most of the day. I wrote, I read, I kept busy, but not too busy. It was relaxation after all. I had contacted Becky, a friend and former co-worker, and we set up a time to meet. I hadn’t seen her in three years. Her husband, Rick, was a good friend too, even our time working together was cut short by his unjustified firing. Such is the business of entertainment. She wanted to meet in West Hollywood. Left around eleven, missing the traffic from the Inland Empire streaming into LA.

I arrived early and had a smoke sitting on the edge of one of the flowerbeds, remembering all the times I had driven or walked to this place to pick up the Ex. She worked at the Best Buy. Sometimes I’d get mixed up and walk to it when I was supposed to be at the Bed, Bath and Beyond Store far down Sunset. I was fine with it. I liked walking. I began to miss Los Angeles.

It took them a while, but they arrived with their dog Debbie. I was surprised when both Becky and Rick both gave me hugs. I hadn’t known them that closely, or so I had thought. They looked excited, like I was a long lost friend. I felt close, like I felt with Adrian and Lana. I told them the story. I explained the money problems and even went into my changes from the two days previous. “I changed between ten pm and meeting a drunk girl,” I said, smiling. Becky smiled and slightly jolted in her seat. They knew me as timid and clingy. As a hard working kid, not as an adult. We talked for nearly two hours, grabbing drinks at Jamba Juice. They told me of their freelancing in television and film. Rick getting enough work for them to stay solvent. Becky pursuing writing and acting. They both had been part of the machine I was a cog in. When I got tired, when my kid brain had enough, I went to a new machine. They broke the cycle. I admired them greatly.

I was riding a high from the night at Area 51. I was riding high from being in the sun, the clear blue sky, the swagger in my walk and the confidence of my talk. I felt the third eye scan the world around me, judging, watching and targeting. I tingled all over, underneath, vibrations so slight I had to stop to feel them. Everything had gone right. Everything was good. What felt right was right and what felt wrong was wrong. There was no questioning. No choices. No debating. There was just what I wanted and that was it. I called my dad and told him I’d be staying in California, not coming back to Canada. I’d be staying with my uncle. I’d get work, pay off my debts and make my life, alone but not lonely, out West, as I always said I would. I was home and I was being told it was by the little motions of the universe. I imagined real cowboys, gunfights, world saving and honor and nations for years. Politics and history and morality. It was all bullshit. The West called me out to do this, to write, to have fun, to be big and be bigger. I called my mom that evening and I cried to her. I cried simple tears. Real tears. No anxiety. No shaking or fear or Hell. These were the tears of five months of suppression crashing down around me. The realization I’d spent half a year dealing with the end of my marriage. The midway of 2011. The peak of the hill is coming up. I was scared shitless of what I had done, but I was also supremely excited. Deep down, I felt as I feel right now, like the certainty my uncle and his family have of God’s will in their lives, I have the certainty my life will blossom here. That alone, with each step taken and without looking back, I can walk down the street, the pier or into a room and I am the motherfucking man. No bitch, no boy, no chav, no cunt… no one can tell me any different.

God likes playing tricks. He found me the perfect woman and made her fat, stubborn and impulsive. He made her barren. He made her annoying. He made her mine and then he made her leave. He made me cry. He made me timid. He made me question myself and bring me to edge a dozen times. He made a sure thing into a throwback. He taunted me with rabbits, pussy and the loving arms of family thousands of miles away. No more. No rules. No ways. No fear.

God’s not going to like what I have in store.

My sins are just the beginning…



I was never really in charge. I was never the dom that I thought I was. I was the slave holding the leash. I was the dog walking itself. Things happened because she wanted it. She got the best side of the beta and then walked away.

Five months of hell I walked. Five months of hard work and emotional breakdown and hate and love and pining and attempts to change and no change and friends, good friends. Five months of temptation and control and loss and loss of control and shit shit shit shit shit. Five months of months going by like bullet trains. Months lost to monthless moments. Months gone, never to return.

One night. One day. One kiss. One reason. One godless world run by godless heresies. Her ass in my crotch. Her intoxication. Her disposable body. Her sad face. Her smell. Her taste. Her eyes. My realm.

That was me in those eyes.
That was me in control.
That was me focused and on fire.
That was me in charge.
That was me on her tits.
That was me with her hips.
That was me.
No one can take that away.

“You’re your own man now,” said my uncle, smiling at me.

“My own man, for once,” I corrected.

I had told him I wasn’t going to leave his California home that he welcomed me in to for as long as I wanted. I had told him that I decided to cut my trip short and stay. I wanted to stay. My friends, my old co-workers, told me of the gold of being your own boss. He fired, she quit. On their own. Making what they could, together, free. I wanted to feel the sun and the breeze and see the peaks and the palm trees and drink up the dystopian paradise that is California. I couldn’t help myself. My being had given its ultimatum. It wanted the gifts of human delusion. It wanted the juice of self-deception. It wanted the command of the unaware and the unprepared. It wanted it all, and I decided to give it what it wanted.

For the first time, even while the tears streamed down my eyes, staring out at the blue-orange-red sky above me, sitting on the swing bench, I did something truly, fully and inexcusably for myself. The hate and the time and the worthlessness came out.

I no longer had to hate her.

She no longer mattered.

She was the dust blowing above me.

She was gone. Disappeared. Dissolved.




The landlord greeted us at the front stoop. He looked like a replica of Ian Raymond from High Fidelity. Grey hair in a long ponytail. Old. Hipster suit and sans tie before hispters became mainstream. He spoke in monotone, but you could tell he despised us, his paying tenants. He went on about many, many things, none of it relevant. The parking space we’d get to unpack wasn’t the space we’d get afterward. We’d have to pay for a parking pass that allowed us in the parking structure across the street. The remote was extra. Welcome to L.A., pay on your way in, pay on your way out.

The anxiety was already full blown, but I worked through it. Heavy boxes of books, movies, games; all the things I took with me from Niagara Falls. It was more work than it was worth, but I was finally on my own, minus the boycut girl I was rooming as well as trying to fuck. Things felt free, but so constrained at the same time. It didn’t matter. I was out from under my parents, my parents who loved me unconditionally. I was lucky with them. I was less lucky with the simmering slut I chose as my partner in crime.

It took about an hour and a half to haul everything. Despite all my books, her shit was the heaviest. Her neo-pagan chest of scents, cards and other shit was the heaviest. God knows what mixture of religions she had chosen. When I attempted Wicca, I at least kept to Celtic. Not that I gave fuck then. I was an “atheist”, the religion of pompous annoyance. The only faith I had was love, and I’d be crucified with that belief further on in my future.

I could feel the shivers of the genetic defect in the 90 degree heat. No one has ever shivered so much in during California summer as I did. I was scared. Deep inside, everything was wrong. The lifting, the swaying ass of the roomie I would fuck within three days. The hell I’d put myself through for people who would later fuck me over.

I missed L.A., to be honest. Born and partly raised there, I missed the city. I missed the beach. The ocean. The giant world that was Los Angeles. As my dad said, it was like someone took New York City and took a sledgehammer to it. It was big as God was big, to steal from Fight Club. I still miss it.

As the months past, with the future ex-wife, with the roomie who got cuter as her male haircut got longer and more feminine, I came to despise the city. That could have been because my job tore my soul, but I was also still extremely political and I just made California out to be what the radio said: a hellhole of liberals, socialists and the unproductive. I’ve come to hate politics.

It was different. It was important. It was sunny and warm and always alive. It had things to do. Things to see. Places and people. Seeing a actor you loved walk down the street, or have to find another route because of some big awards show. Things happened in Los Angeles. Things happen to happen in Salt Lake City. A hero cop stopping a massacre or a musician overdosing. Salt Lake City is lucky to be important. Los Angeles made itself important. So what if it was full of cunts. It was and is alpha.

The roomie, Sammie, would look out our windows to the Hollywood sign sitting tall on the hills. She said it reminded her of why she came from the east coast to the west. Her dreams. Her wants. It reminded her to stay strong. I thought it was silly bullshit. Now, I think at least she had a dream. I had many dreams. Many different, conflicting dreams. Things so mixed up they never matched. No focus, just four limbs being pulled in many directions.

I would look at her, even when I hated her, as someone I fucked. Someone I had good times with. Even while she gained weight or went crazy, I’d want to get back in bed with her. She was the memory of a time without anything but what I wanted. To purse that again would be a death sentence, but it didn’t mean I couldn’t imagine. I should of know if my girlfriend future wife couldn’t give me that, I should of sent her packing.

Los Angeles still calls to me. It could die in a hail of gang gunfire and debt and war, but I’d love it still the same. And hate it still the same. Its dreams and the death of fantasy. Its hedonism with a political price. Its the beauty of urban decay and human tolerance of the worst vices. Its corruption in its most lovely form. One could die homeless and raped, and it would still be more of a life than what most people ever live.

I looked to the city as I drove away, future wife in the car in front of me. I thought I was escaping the downfall. I didn’t realize I was following it. I didn’t realize that home could be the worst parts of me. That my evils were my salvation. I tried to be good. I tried to be a citizen.

I couldn’t do it. I lost trying to win. I left me behind and found myself at the bottom of a grave.

I climbed out. I saw the gray clouds and the peak of sunlight.

What the world wants is people like me. What is says it wants is the dregs that walk lifelessly to sate imaginary ideals.

A friend just told me to give up the smoking. As I blew out some smoke, I didn’t give a shit. He hasn’t seen his penis since 1990.

I am Los Angeles. I am exactly what is.

I am.

Float On


She wasn’t really pretty. Her face was girlish if you surrounded it with decent bangs and longer locks, but she didn’t get it cut like that. She cut it like a boy. She was a boy, with big tits, and a notch count four times mine.

I had known her for a while. Known meaning talked over the electronic social space of the internet. Years of interactions floating out there like radiation. Nothing truly remembered because it was never impactful enough by keyboard and text. That was my way of being with the world, from the comfort of my parent’s house, away from the bonds humans make. It worked for me. It worked filling the hole that had no idea how to fill itself.

I had known her by a screen name for months. FreeUsAll. Revolutionary words from a middle class Virginian. No real loyalty to the cause, just a tingle for bad boys and bad politics. One day, we finally talked one on one. Just me and her. She showed me her tits on webcam. She showed me her snatch. She let me watch her get off. I became enamored.

Months passed, talk of moving to Los Angeles. I was going there for an internship and hopeful employment with the Dr. Phil Show. She wanted to start a writing career. I had read her writing. It was awful. It induced headaches. So much plot, so little character development, descriptions of nothing lasting but a few words. It would leave pustules on blind men’s fingertips if translated to Braille.

Things went up and down. A third roommate joined, and later left. A pretty Swede. Tall, long black hair, catching smile. In her thirties, she saw the drama down the road with a two twentysomethings. I, the romantic who’s dick didn’t discriminate, and the emotionally damaged whore totally unable to detach from her mother’s mistakes. The Swede was smart. We remained friends. I stuck around with the girl. After all, she had Ds.

I went to meet the girl who would be my future wife in April. Things didn’t go so well. She asked me to go home when planned by the ticket, not the much later date as we planned. An irony not lost 4 years later when she stayed in the same city she told me to vacate, leaving me behind at our home confused and angry. Heartbroken then in 2007, I walked like the dead. She was there, the roommate with the boyish cut. When we hit the road, at that first hotel in Ohio only a few hours after she had picked me up expecting me to drive all night, I was making moves only reserved for the desperate. I was able to get myself in her bed, even though the room had two. I cuddled up against her, and as she slept I remained awake, taking in the feel of a woman’s body against mine. Clothed, yet warm. This continued. I pushed lamely to get her to relent. I gave up easily. I wanted the contact. Anything, even if I wouldn’t admit the heartbreak was pushing my every move.

She broke days later in a tiny Wyoming motel. She turned and kissed. Victory for the lame. We played with each other’s places, but no sex came of it. A game began though, one of teasing the other. As I drove, she rubbed me. As she drove, I’d rub her. If my balls were bigger, better things would of happened, but it wasn’t the time for that. That would come later with someone else.

Eventually, we made it to Los Angeles. The eight hour trip from Vegas to our new apartment was cold. Cold, shaking. Cold, anxiety… things we’re going to shit fast. I tried to sleep. I had yawned all day. Yawning, along with the cold, the shaking and the dark thoughts involving the windows in front of me. I had to tell her. I needed someone. She held me as I cried. As I talked to my folks. As they all calmed me down. For once, she seemed like a grown up, not just some chick who liked rock and roll, Che and thought the FBI was after her.

By L.A. day three, I fucked her. I got her naked. I saw those massive breasts for more than a few seconds. I saw them for a few hours. We touched and kissed and did things. And, for the very smallest of moments, I lost all cares and worries and hurt. The move from one side of the land to the other. The homesickness. The heartbreak. The new problems. It all went away as I went inside her and thrust. I came and laid beside her. But it only lasted as long as she was silent. I spoke, saying that this is what I needed. Then she spoke, and I heard it. The opinions and the ideas. I could hear the lies of knowing this wasn’t serious. She was always serious. Every sober lay is a new boyfriend. Every drunk one a potential backup.

I liked fucking her for that week and a half. I still get off to it. I had sex with her so many times that week I bought a second box of condoms. I remember it as sex without worry, though that’s just erasing the storm on the horizon at the time. Things came crashing down over and over. The girl who told me to leave arrived. I was still in love and accepted her. The freedom sex ended. Friendships started, then strained, then turned to war. An attempt at making us all one ending with jealously, confusion and anger. Dreams thwarted. Expectations ruined. But, everyone trudged on. Sometimes together, but mostly against. Even when I was with the woman I had fought, lied and cried for thoughts came over me that it was a mistake. More so after her confession. But, I kept going, unable to stop because that meant admitting I was wrong about her, wrong about them all. And I couldn’t do that. You can’t feel bad about a mistake you never made. I carried the mistake until she, that redheaded storm, forced me to let it go.

But I remember that moment of total loss with the boycut. Not painful, not dark, but that pure sex-induced explosion that cast off all the weights of the world for those few moments. A moment I never experienced with my ex-wife. A moment the much hated roommate never knew she held over her nemesis. She was crazy, she still owes me money, I wanted to kill her, but that moment of nothingness and those many days of fucking were something the ex could never recreate. I look forward to all of it again.

There isn’t any reason that a man cannot turn to a woman he wants, take a deep breathe, and fucking forget his problems. There isn’t any reason a woman cannot realize that’s he wants and shut up, being his comfort and his light for that little moment they crossed paths in a bed, or on the floor, or in the backseat of a car.