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


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.


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.




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


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.

Send in the Clowns


So, by the end of today, I’ll have finally contacted a lawyer to get the divorce proceedings on track. This is a bit of irony considering The Ex was the one who wanted out and left. But, its closing on a year since she made her true feelings known and I’m making money, so it needs to get done and quick. Plus, the debt she may have racked up could be on me and I have enough shit from her already.

She’s gone incommunicado, even as far as deleting her Facebook account. Her apparently former close friend says they haven’t been talking in a while. From social return to hermit, it seems. I’ll have to give the lawyer her last known address and phone number, which is stuck on my American iPhone. Not a problem, just hope she’s still there to get the papers.

Its really a sad story. A post-modern love broken by the same society that fostered it.

C’est la vie.

Meet The Ex

Since my last post recounted probably one of the worst parts of my manhood, I thought I may as well show her considering I still have a shitload of pictures of her, mostly taken by herself. Eyes censored for usual reasons. Click to enlarge, though that won’t make it it any more flattering.



That’s after she dropped 50 pounds. Here’s when I married her.


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.

Good Habits

Its time for them.

I’ve always been a messy guy. Losing things in a pile of crap. As of this writing, I’ve lost my passport. I kind of need it to quickly cross the border. Its not THAT bad, but I’ve had it and lost it twice since I moved back. Shit’s got to end considering my next job pipeline will require constant cross border trips.

Step one, a go-bag. All the things I’d need for a job or border crossing in one, easy grab-able bag. Notebook, pens, passport, flash drive, etc. My last gig was on the 3rd and I was so dead tired I forgot to bring a bag, which left me hauling batteries and everything else with just my hands. Not a big deal when it was a short shoot, but not a mistake I want to make if the day was longer and more labor intensive.

Step two, cut down smoking. I like to smoke, but I’ve gotten to a point where its bringing me more problems than pleasure. I can feel my body slowly getting weaker, which probably has to do with a lack of constant exercise as well. I bought a pack today at noon and I’ve already had seven. Tomorrow, I’m going to cut myself down to four. Slowly ween myself down. I probably won’t stop anytime soon, but I can’t keep going at this rate.

Step three, organize. With the go-bag, I’m going to have to find spots for all the shit I have. I’m in a single room with a 3-bedroom apartment worth of shit, but its doable. Keep it clean, keep it tidy and things will be easier to find. That includes a ton of shit that’s still in my car I keep having to shift around every time I get the First in the backseat.

Step four, eat better. I’ve been living on shit food since leaving Utah. On and off, I’ve tried to eat better, but its just easier, as designed, to eat shitty foods. Pay a peon, get food. Like a hamster. No longer.

Step five, exercise regularly. I was on a pretty good exercise streak before the shit hit the fan. Time to get back on that. I was walking at least 7 miles a day at work. I was doing push ups and other upper body exercises as well. I was filling up on protein, greens and fruit. My highest back then was 170 (I was 155 for a long-ass time). Now, I’m nearly 200 for the first time in my life. I’ve got a gut and the whole bit. It hasn’t slowed my confidence down one bit, but it won’t help my health. Though, on a funny note, I’m now heavier than a lot of my past girls, including the bi-polar about her weight Ex.

Step six, PROFIT!