As with many drawn into self-improvement, I come from an analytical background. Over the last year, my focus has been on social improvement and as a result my schoolwork suffered. In the past month, hardened determination helped me rekindle my aggression in developing my trade, my one true academic pursuit. Meanwhile, the Lothario of the summer faded, and I put aside all thought of game.
It hurt.
My friends with benefits dried into shrivels as grapes tend to raisins.
I had not forgotten the basics--dress well and go out. Every week day at noon, I went out and met a new girl on campus. Yet inside, I could feel the monster; I knew I was a beta again. I could keep a flirty conversation and scintillating eye contact. But my inside started asking questions. "You had four girls this summer and now you have nothing. How can you congruently try to convince this girl you are a gift to her desire? What if others start overhearing this and you become notorious on campus?"
The grue of external validation lurks around nothing but an ephemeral corner of the psyche. I had stamped it out of existence, or so I thought. A masculine core once united, beaming with gilded shield and cocksure of its status as pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, was sliced. I understood (quite frankly, very well) the only way to feeling amazing and loving women and feeling their love in return was a bootstrap; an axiom. I project my reality onto others, and they accept it. I am the man who laughs and commands as the public gathers to share in my joy.
But keeping this shit on a back-burner is fucking hard.
I thought I had internalized all inner game once and for all, and put it to the test with a month of abstinence. I don't want to be thinking about these things multiple hours a day, or even a week.
Alas, without resistance, our society and our self pushes us back to the status quo. I'm not supposed to stop that girl and tell her I think she's cute and flirt with her and want to fuck her without a relationship. Actually, wrong. That's bullshit. Somehow, shards of this lens cut me, when I thought I had fused with armor. Time and time again, it appears we can't escape our primitive nature. Indeed, what else is seduction?
Well fuck you, brain. I'm going back to studying; I'm going to be a world-class mathematician. And a lot of women will be lucky enough to get their most trembling orgasm while I'm at it.
Friday, September 9, 2011
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Fuck Around
You have to fuck around.
To gain the confidence and unencumbered demeanor of the charming individual, ignore the filter your mind has for stupid shit. The subconscious effects on your personality will be stunning. You will be an unshakeable force, a sainthood to all around you.
I was on the subway with a mixed posse of friends a few months ago. We are standing and chatting like a gaggle of schoolgirls, as the passengers watch in amusement (or bemusement) either the passing landscape or our shenanigans. The compartment is nearly packed. My brain, in its sophomoric state, whispers an idea into my mind's ear. What if I ran up and down the train waving my arms and screaming "WHEEEE"? I know the idea only materialized because it made my gut feel queasy. So I have to do it. I turn to my friend and tell her "I'm going to do something crazy, but then you owe me one crazy." The onlookers respond with puzzlement, then break out the grins like kernels popping. Encouraged, I do it twice more. Miraculously, the world did not explode.
Over the summer, while visiting my family in San Diego, we went to a free outdoor classical concert. The scene is hundreds of mostly elder citizens in proto-formal dress and millinery. I want to dance. I am clueless, but I grab my cousin, a classically trained ballet dancer, and we jig to the concerto with the crowd on our flanks. Fun. A little later, after we sit, a jovial three-year-old girl starts shaking her butt to the music and a few giggles ensue. Almost unconsciously, my legs take me to her side and I mimic her hilarious buffoonery. Ass sway left, ass sway right, turn 360, repeat. As we leave shortly after, I can feel the audience stare; I soak it into my soul. More amusingly, my cousin tells me "you're so much fun..." with DDB eyes. Shit.
An old group of high school friends and I are gathered at Buffalo Wild Wings. We jest and jerk around, but a group of about fifteen high school students catches my attention--the three girls in attendance give butterflies to the stomach. Two blondes, one brunette. Once again, my brain indulges in its characteristic folly, and I can feel my heart pounding as the idea hatches in my head and breaks out of its shell, covered in extroverted yolky goo. I have no purpose but self-amusement. I tell my friends, who are unaccustomed to my recent transition into a retarded deity, I will meet them for their smoke break in a moment.
Like Optimus Prime assembling, my heart rate calms instantly and my posture expands, as I get up slowly and walk to the group. I silently wait until they acknowledge my presence. "Hey, guys." That comma is there for a reason. Think of this as two sentences. It is important to speak slowly, deeply, confidently, and give ample seconds pause between statements in situations like this. I make strong eye contact with the more beautiful blonde, the leader of the group, and continue. "I just lot a bet." Their curiosity is peaked. "And in order to fulfill that bet, I have to do a dare." Typical adolescent "oooooh"s as they prepare for me to presumably embarrass myself. I decided to make the brunette's day, she must not get as much attention in this social circle. Our eyes connect, and I say "I have to tell you... what I first said... when I walked in and saw you." They go wild with more stupid noises. (She's blushing.) "I said..."
They are all leaning in at this point. "Oh my god, she is beautiful" with a nearly flat inflection. And they erupt. After a few seconds of settling, one inane kid says "dude, that's my sister." I say "cool." He then asks "are you going to talk about my sister like that?" What an idiot. My esprit de l'escalier tells me I should have said "you don't think your sister is beautiful?" My mouth uttered something unremarkable but confident, "it's a bet, and what's done is done." The head diva shouts to her friend, "give him a hug!" They chime in, "yeah, give him a hug!" She got up and got a hug.
I leave you with a video of me turning the cafeteria crowd into an instrument, a la Bobby McFerrin.
To gain the confidence and unencumbered demeanor of the charming individual, ignore the filter your mind has for stupid shit. The subconscious effects on your personality will be stunning. You will be an unshakeable force, a sainthood to all around you.
I was on the subway with a mixed posse of friends a few months ago. We are standing and chatting like a gaggle of schoolgirls, as the passengers watch in amusement (or bemusement) either the passing landscape or our shenanigans. The compartment is nearly packed. My brain, in its sophomoric state, whispers an idea into my mind's ear. What if I ran up and down the train waving my arms and screaming "WHEEEE"? I know the idea only materialized because it made my gut feel queasy. So I have to do it. I turn to my friend and tell her "I'm going to do something crazy, but then you owe me one crazy." The onlookers respond with puzzlement, then break out the grins like kernels popping. Encouraged, I do it twice more. Miraculously, the world did not explode.
Over the summer, while visiting my family in San Diego, we went to a free outdoor classical concert. The scene is hundreds of mostly elder citizens in proto-formal dress and millinery. I want to dance. I am clueless, but I grab my cousin, a classically trained ballet dancer, and we jig to the concerto with the crowd on our flanks. Fun. A little later, after we sit, a jovial three-year-old girl starts shaking her butt to the music and a few giggles ensue. Almost unconsciously, my legs take me to her side and I mimic her hilarious buffoonery. Ass sway left, ass sway right, turn 360, repeat. As we leave shortly after, I can feel the audience stare; I soak it into my soul. More amusingly, my cousin tells me "you're so much fun..." with DDB eyes. Shit.
An old group of high school friends and I are gathered at Buffalo Wild Wings. We jest and jerk around, but a group of about fifteen high school students catches my attention--the three girls in attendance give butterflies to the stomach. Two blondes, one brunette. Once again, my brain indulges in its characteristic folly, and I can feel my heart pounding as the idea hatches in my head and breaks out of its shell, covered in extroverted yolky goo. I have no purpose but self-amusement. I tell my friends, who are unaccustomed to my recent transition into a retarded deity, I will meet them for their smoke break in a moment.
Like Optimus Prime assembling, my heart rate calms instantly and my posture expands, as I get up slowly and walk to the group. I silently wait until they acknowledge my presence. "Hey, guys." That comma is there for a reason. Think of this as two sentences. It is important to speak slowly, deeply, confidently, and give ample seconds pause between statements in situations like this. I make strong eye contact with the more beautiful blonde, the leader of the group, and continue. "I just lot a bet." Their curiosity is peaked. "And in order to fulfill that bet, I have to do a dare." Typical adolescent "oooooh"s as they prepare for me to presumably embarrass myself. I decided to make the brunette's day, she must not get as much attention in this social circle. Our eyes connect, and I say "I have to tell you... what I first said... when I walked in and saw you." They go wild with more stupid noises. (She's blushing.) "I said..."
They are all leaning in at this point. "Oh my god, she is beautiful" with a nearly flat inflection. And they erupt. After a few seconds of settling, one inane kid says "dude, that's my sister." I say "cool." He then asks "are you going to talk about my sister like that?" What an idiot. My esprit de l'escalier tells me I should have said "you don't think your sister is beautiful?" My mouth uttered something unremarkable but confident, "it's a bet, and what's done is done." The head diva shouts to her friend, "give him a hug!" They chime in, "yeah, give him a hug!" She got up and got a hug.
I leave you with a video of me turning the cafeteria crowd into an instrument, a la Bobby McFerrin.
You have to gain an omnipresent, omnipotent, unhumanly uncharacteristic inner strength. To know the world's opinion about you is of zero consequence. You can do that by fucking around. Be in this mode, always, and all the time.
Monday, January 3, 2011
Value is Relative
One of the reasons I have yet to rate a woman higher than a 7 is because I know the importance of psychological value differences. Attractiveness is a social phenomenon grounded in relative variables.
This is pristinely illustrated by one redditor, who is awarded a freshly-minted genuine Wesno Certificate of Nefarious Ingenuity, summa cum laude.
A few months ago two friends and I decided to do something interesting. We live in a relatively small town. Not tiny, but small. On OkCupid we saw about 30 women from here, but they would not respond often. So we decided to create 50 fake accounts, all of them beautiful women that would divert attention. We meticulously constructed the profiles to look authentic. Then came the day to set everything in motion. My two friends operated the 50 accounts while I found the prettiest (real)woman I could and after a while decided to hit on her.
It worked. With everyone, particularly the hunks, occupied with fake women I secured a date with a woman who was most certainly out of my league. Two dates. Sex. Still seeing her, but wouldn't want her or anyone else to know about how I got her.
I'm planning on automating this with some coding in the future so it will scale for when I'm in a small city or something.
The neg, qualification, and the above deliciously serpentine exploit are all concrete realizations of the more abstract concept of value equalization. Temper the woman's posturings, her imagined self-importance, and her legs will part like the Red Sea.
This is pristinely illustrated by one redditor, who is awarded a freshly-minted genuine Wesno Certificate of Nefarious Ingenuity, summa cum laude.
A few months ago two friends and I decided to do something interesting. We live in a relatively small town. Not tiny, but small. On OkCupid we saw about 30 women from here, but they would not respond often. So we decided to create 50 fake accounts, all of them beautiful women that would divert attention. We meticulously constructed the profiles to look authentic. Then came the day to set everything in motion. My two friends operated the 50 accounts while I found the prettiest (real)woman I could and after a while decided to hit on her.
It worked. With everyone, particularly the hunks, occupied with fake women I secured a date with a woman who was most certainly out of my league. Two dates. Sex. Still seeing her, but wouldn't want her or anyone else to know about how I got her.
I'm planning on automating this with some coding in the future so it will scale for when I'm in a small city or something.
The neg, qualification, and the above deliciously serpentine exploit are all concrete realizations of the more abstract concept of value equalization. Temper the woman's posturings, her imagined self-importance, and her legs will part like the Red Sea.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)