Thus Spake ExaWifea


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The Ex has finally gotten around to getting a lawyer. My poor ass hasn’t been able to afford one. For the first time in probably near a year, we’re talking, by email, in the most careful and professional way. Today alone has been a back and forth of looking over the papers she sent, pointing out typos and asking for more paperwork. Things were never this organized when we were together… which probably explains how I (“we” until she bolted) got in a lot of debt. I’ll update as the process goes on.

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On a separate note, I’ve started to up my workouts. Now that I’ve etched exercise into my habit, the goal is to push and push and push. Yesterday, I used a boxing clock. 3 minutes hard working (shadowboxing with and without weights, lifting, crunches, etc), one minute rest and repeat. Today, I’ve done about 200 body squats with a 10 lbs medicine ball. Alternate through the week, rest on Sunday. As I do this, I work on cutting bad foods from my diet.

I’m looking forward to the six month check-in.

“Be good.”

I didn’t usually send her flowers, but that day I did. On the card was “Be good.” A private message between us.

The Ex told me time and again she wanted to be a slave. A lifestyle submissive. Her life owned by me. As I was then it was a foreign concept, but I adapted over time. To a boy raised on feminism, controlling a woman like that is not easy. It didn’t help that my wife would swing back and forth in her fidelity to the idea. Sometimes she would be on her knees when I got home. Other times she would physically push me away and tell me angrily she did not want it. I wasn’t socially mature enough to realize what was going on. I was just trying to be a good husband.

When I sent the flowers little did I know it was already falling apart. I was telling her to be a good slave, but in her mind she had already broken free from chains that were never holding her back. I was blind to all of this. Intoxicated by the idea of having a woman be submissive to me. Me, Jordan, the kid who use to shake and sweat near any girl he liked. The kid who had a 4 year dry spell. The kid who was lucky enough to marry a bisexual. I was high on all the possibilities, ignorant to the reality.

Even after being betrayed, I was the one following that message. “Be good.” Don’t fault her. You did something wrong. Keep in touch. These are the things a good man does.

Good. Good is a moral concept relative to the society you are in. Good is abstract, floating across our minds, chaining us to certain behaviors. The gatekeepers of morality shame on us into being as they want us to be. The church has given way to feminism. What was immortal then is moral now. What was betrayal then is freedom now. What was natural to human being is now considered a hate crime. Good is a political tool used to control the masses, leading us by our noses to their false paradise.

I am part of a generation sedated by constant stimuli. We were born into information, raised on the first instances of Internet pornography, and now hunt in a sexual field littered with land mines while being told that there are no mines and everything is safe. Awakened to this fact, reality sets in like a punch to the face. I must take steps with purpose or I step on another mine and lose more then just some money and a mentally ill wife.

Good is a leash. Defined by self appointed betters, they will drag you to your demise. Define yourself and define your own actions. Feel what is you and be it. Give none to those who want to control you. This is what it means to be a man in the 21st century. With help from my brothers, I’ve been slowly turned on to this fact. With perseverance, I’ve been able to define myself. With a strong will, the next gatekeepers will never break me.

The Yamaha Mentor

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Its one thing to read and teach yourself the lessons we all have learned. Its another thing to hear it espoused by a guy you just met in a bar or at a party. But, watching it happen before your eyes: its like the slap across the wrist. The pain echoing through your body. You’ve been living in books, my friend. Its the big leagues now.

I had gone to Grand Central to watch the UFC fights. The place was packed at 10pm and just grew and grew until the main event. I was going in for drinks and coming out to the patio to breathe air. Only when Griffin vs Ortiz and Silva vs Sonnen came on did I venture into the TAPOUT shirts and their hanger-ons. None of the fights were that exciting, thought it was joy to see Ortiz lose his last fight. Guy is a talent, but too much of a primadonna to make him anything but hated.

Going in and out, one guy I shall call The Mentor stood by at one table with a pint and a pack of smokes. About my height, not exactly a cover model, but not someone who needs a Ferrari to get attention. He talked to some guys he met about his divorce. Debt is not separated, but assets are. So, he went out and got a motorcycle with whatever credit he had left. A Yamaha. Apparently, that counts as debt, or his ex-wife would now be giving it to whatever boyfriend-of-the-week she saw fit.

He, two other dudes and I talked UFC and other things until the fights were over. The time was barely past 12:30, so I said I was going to head off to another bar until last call. I had Double Ds in mind. A dive across from Mints, the worst of the strip clubs in the Falls. Cheap local pints. My mind was as far from game as possible. I wanted to drink more and go home, but he had other things in mind. He told all of us about Big Texas, a country bar on Lundy’s Lane at the edge of the tourism area. “Chicks in daisy dukes.”

“I’m in.”

An hour later, we had all trickled in and ran across each other. The Mentor had already caught a few eyes, while the other two just hung around and I, so out of the mindset, just had beers and smokes and sat. The urge to go home was nasty. I had no drive.

“I can read people.” said the Mentor. “I’ve always been good at it. Can I try you?”

“Sure,”

He nailed it. I’m enjoying the single life, but still not good on approaches. I’m confident, but not THAT confident because of what happened. I want to get the chicks, but there’s something keeping me back. It was like a kick to the head.

Moments after, two decently cute girls, blonde and brunette, walked behind us and chatted to each other. A dude in a full sleeve stripped shirt chatted them up.

“Watch this,” He moved about two inches and the dude recognized him from their work. We all introduced each other. He leaned in to me, “The brunette is a runner or something. Look at the legs.” Then, as quickly as he told me, he asked her if she ran or figure skated.

“I used to figure skate,” she said.

The stripe dude said, “Do a triple sow cow right now!” She got about as far as lifting her leg up before laughing.

The blonde kept looking at me, but it was the brunette who put out her hand, “Have we been introduced?”

“Yeah, I’m Jordan. I think you forgot.”

“No, I didn’t” she said defensively with a smile. “What’s on your shirt?”

I had worn my new “Why Does This Look Like Shit?” t-shirt under a cheap button up one. I told her I worked in TV.

“I have a lot of ideas.” she said, but the blonde started to tug on her. “Aw, man. We have to go.”

The Mentor saved my ass. “You still need to tell him your ideas.”

“Alright, here’s my number,”

And just like that, there it was. Something new. Out of the rut and into the road. Before we parted ways, he told me that the most important things for guys like us: divorcing/divorced, is to just lay low. Basically, go our own way. Live, but don’t tax yourself. Bank money. Relax. Enjoy.

Yesterday’s night out was needed more than any chick I could of gotten from POF or OKC. Low-bangers. Rotten fruit. This man broke me and put me back together in seconds. Something I couldn’t do myself. Something no one can ever do themselves. All the blogs and books can teach you theory, but when its put into action in front of your eyes, it clicks. It becomes real and you have no excuses now to stand back and watch.

On the Way Across the Border

You will always hit low points in your life. There is no question about that. Even the most perfect lives have bad days. It is how you handle them that will define you to yourself and to others.

I had a dream about the Ex last night. Not one where I could revel in a revenge fuck or some equal joy, but a reminder of the shit she pulled before we got married. Coupled with a lack of sleep and now, as I write this, driving to a family gathering in Western New York, this could be a shitty day.

But, I got up and soldiered on. I have shit to do. I have shit to do tomorrow and the day after. Everyday is about getting shit done, no matter pain or mood or lecherous cunts.

A Quick Post on Pride

A buddy of mine is still dealing with his ex majorly fucking him over. He said its hard to think of this other guy she was seeing having sex with her. He was deep in it with this chick, obviously.

I know the feeling, I told him. I still have a wife, legally, and some dude that shook my hand and welcomed me into his house as guest is now fucking her. He could of known all along, before we even visited him, that we was getting her. These are grounds for major violence in my code book. Yet, it doesn’t matter now. Its over. I have no recourse being so far away.

But what I told my friend is this:

men should be proud beings. angry or tame. violent or intelligent or both. whatever their personalities, pride is one thing a man should have and never have taken from him

And, in my case, despite not taking my revenge upon the two miscreants, I am still proud. I am free. I have grown into a true man. I take on my challenges and defeat them. I am building my life as I see fit. No one wants to cross me.

He has that to look forward to. His time in the sun, as all men should have, all men that have taken the Red Pill and broke from the chains of cunt and conformity. The pride of getting back up, brushing yourself off and charging back into the war that is life.

Ides of March (One Year Anniversary/Celebrate Suffering Day)

Last year, around this day, the Ex left me. She asked me what I’d do if she stayed in Arkansas. How would we split things. What would happen. I was tired, I was angry. We texted and that was that, we were broken up. It was the day that broke me. My wife has left me, to never return.

Today is the day to celebrate the last year of suffering and growth I’ve gone through. Today is the day to raise a glass to the past.

People dwell too much on the past. They pine and worry and cling to the vestiges of what no longer exists. Past loves, past wounds, they claw at their own eyes hoping to go back to the “better days”. Days that are no longer and never will be.

Reading old history and fiction, I’ve taken upon myself, for myself to create a day where one can finally, and with purpose, release the pains of the year. Being dumped. Being fired. Debt. Anything. Get a drink, toast to the cunts, whore, thieves and miscreants that have wronged you in the past year. Any closure not had can be had over your favorite stiff drink and with your friends. No better way to get over things than by celebration. New Year’s Eve and its optimism be damned.

Even though I’m working still, for at least another week if not more, tonight I will make sure the evening is well lived. I’ll drink, approach, sing and hog the jukebox. I will lose my limits. I will break the last chains that hold me down. I will free myself from her, them and the sad events this blog has chronicled the past year. Its the only thing I can do, otherwise the past will creep up again, like a poisonous spider, and strike me down unawares. Crippling me once again and forcing me to crawl up the same cliff, again.

I encourage you all to pick a day and drink up to your pains and let them all go. A celebration of what God or gods or just simply human nature has done to you. Like warriors of old, celebrate the victories, the losses, the living and the dead. Remove all worry and grudges. A man cannot waste time on such things. He has much greater things to do.

Just Don’t Give A Fuck

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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
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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.

Vanishing Point

When the Ex got off of Facebook, the tagged pictures of me went down by around 200. Says a lot, eh? All the pictures of the trips, the normal days, the captured moments during odd times, all gone.

Good riddance.

I went back and checked the ones I had left. My confidence and my personality came across so blatantly.

Have a look.

Hey, baby.

Nothing says "wanna fuck" than the slouched held tilt.

This picture was taken from inside my ex's pussy.

Yeah, they’re all from the same place (Los Padres National Park), but its all there. No posture, no concept of image or style, love of cutesy framing. Yay…

My next few posts will cover how I dress. Picking, buying, why I think it works. It ain’t no G-style, but its what works for me. And its a helluva lot better than what’s above.

Fuck King Kong

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A friend of mine who reads the blog introduced a fellow writer to my humble scribblings. Since my friend is a big fan of my style, the assumption was this guy would like it as well. Apparently not. Observe his response:

He has a blog about game? Are you serious? So – he’s been hurt and that justifies him being full of shit? I’m sorry, but Alpha v Beta male, how to pick up women, mysogyny? It’s all spoiled-little-boy, self-centred crap. Even from the little you’ve said about him it appears quite obvious that somewhere deep down you know that.

Oh, oh, oh. This is not the day to be doing this, hombre. Been up way too long. No. Day? Fuck it. Not the year.

Continued, after some lengthy talk:

On the other hand we have Jordan – a self-centred mysogynist, a sociopath who likes to blame others for all his woes. Across his path strolls [friend], they fit together like hand in glove ie. it suits him perfectly to indulge her honourable desire to be given attention by submitting to his very dishonourable desire to get laid.

My friend lives across the pond in Europe. She is happily married. She loves my writing as I love hers. We both write dark and gritty and real. We’ve known each other for a very long time and know the ins and outs of each other’s minds. You couldn’t ask for better friends. You also couldn’t as for worst logistics.

Enter, the white knight. A much older, well polished white knight who thinks my writings, not to mention my playful flirts with my long time friend, are somehow damaging her and her relationship with her man. That her love of my detailed indiscretions or my advice on women or my recent fiction will blow her mind back and turn her into a quivering victim of domestic abuse.

I will admit he’s accurate. I am self-centered. But what man who has any balls or any self-worth isn’t? Even the greatest father and husband in the world still pulls his wife aside during house parties and gets a blowjob while his guests play Jenga. You can’t be confident without being self-centered. Jesus was a self-centered prick like me. I blame The Ex for what happened to the marriage. I blame myself for not slamming my foot down more often. Making sure she knew who’s boss. But you’ve seen the pictures. I’m much better off. As is my food budget.

As for misogynist and sociopath. He’s way off base. I support a woman’s right to vote. Their constant mind changing and backstabbing is probably way the incumbency rate is at the low ass percentage it is. Otherwise, you’d have stoic party loyalists keeping everyone in at 100%.

Men, meet a full blown beta white knight. Men, meet a single man in his 60s messaging at married woman in her young 20s over a writer’s website.

Last known photograph

What does this guy write? Poems. What’s his topic? Domination.

C’mon! REALLY? I call bullshit.

Bullshit on that he really does it. Bullshit on his lifestyle. Bullshit on his attitude. Bullshit on him from soul to scalp.

This guy is 100%, Grade Z(ed), mama’s basement with poutine and gravy bowls piling up on his lap POSER.

I’m no freak in leather. I’m no whip carrying card member of the National Association for the Advancement of Kinky People. I don’t have paddles. I can’t fucking afford them.

I, like most of my brethren, like the power and know some of the upper hand moves. We know them because they work. We use them because these ladies turn into wild animals when we do.

Would I like a woman to do my bidding? Of course. What fellow mansophere blogger wouldn’t? But is that hate? Is it hate to believe in a woman’s deep inner desire to be ruled? Is it hate to prove it with every chick I come across who likes my direct game?

Its not hate. Its empowerment.

Why?

Because they choose. Like the feminists want. They choose to get down on their knees. They choose to give themselves to us. They choose to fall sway to us. Or they choose to dress up like lumberjacks or scary muffin top hookers and choose not to fall sway. Their brains tell them to or not to. Is it wrong or illegal to know someone that well? Fuck no. That’s what relationships are all about. Knowing that other person so well. That and fucking, but I digress.

This guy, seeing a pretty young thing in “distress” when an alpha comes by, beats his chest like King Kong and moves in for the save. Except that, like King Kong, when he gets to the tower and congratulates himself, he gets fucking shot down.

Observe, the response from my friend:

I am fully aware that a blog about ‘game’ or picking up woman could be seen as juvenile or un-PC – i have come across this before. He’s been called a masogynist and sexist and all the other words you described there. Do i think it’s behaviour from a cowardly little boy? No. We have literally grown up together. I have seen him go from a cowardly boy to a man with all the mistakes he’s made along the way, and become something confident. He’s proud of that confidence, and i am proud of it for him. This is a 13 year friendship, not somebody i picked up off the street last week. He’s helped me with things i’m not prepared to discuss, and i hope he’ll always be there. My friend. The one who saved me at a very difficult time in my life. One who i don’t think i could hold my head up as far as i do, without.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNEEEERRROOOOWW-RATA-TAT-TAT-TAT!

ARRRRRRGHHHHH!

SPLAT!

I love my girls, my friends and my friends of intimate knowledge, because they are loyal. They know me and I know them. Some I’ve known only a few years, some for over a decade. I am a king, THE king, because when push comes to shove, it won’t be just be strangers in the circle of on lookers. I’ll have Ghaddfi’s Amazons right there as well, rooting, not because I told them, but because they want to. And a man, 50 notches or just 6, couldn’t be prouder.

I’m Mighty Joe Young. I got the girl, I won the fight and I lived.

Fuck King Kong.

Break Stuff

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I won’t go into the details more than I already have in the comment section, but today’s been one of those days. I haven’t felt anger like this in a very long time. And its not because I want her back. Its not because I thought there was hope.

Its because this cunt attacked my character.

Many years ago, while my sister and I were still pretty damn immature, I’d tease her constantly. She’s say something absolutely stupid and I’d smack her lightly on the head or something of that sort. Yeah, she’s a girl, but she had (still has) no filter for her mouth. What was annoying then is endearing now, and she’s gotten really good at comebacks. Its what our family is all about. After having two daughters after me, my parents became very adamant about no hitting. So I always got in trouble. I had to be 20 and she 15. Another light smack and my dad went into a rage. Long work days and other stresses must of broke him. He told me I was an abuser. That I’d hurt her bad. Things he has never said. I was beyond control when he said that.

I know the truth about me, the good and the bad, and that wasn’t even close to me. It attacked me on a false level. I exploded back. “Fuck you, dad.” I had never said that to him, ever. I went off, accusing him of lying. I was ready to sock him and nearly did, but held my arm back. First time I’d ever gotten close to. First time I’d ever wanted to without doubt.

No one EVER attacks my character like that. No one. I’ll fucking kill you.

Applying it to the bigger picture of men and the West, you get a picture of shame. There are men, millions, letting women and men walk all over them. Even some alpha are dealt hands of character assassination they can’t shake. Women can walk on stage, yell rape, point and have a crowd full of white knights take the guy to the mattresses. Betas and omegas can spread rumor, cockblock, destroy good things with jealously and hate.

They used to behead rumor mongers.

Men should not justify their character being attacked. Honor is not a lost cause. We can be as enoyably debauched as Gmac or as noble and stoic as Dalrock, either way, lies are lies and liars deserve to get punished.

Never doubt the effectiveness of a fight over honor.