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A Refined Savage

At times, whether through great rage or impossible passion, I allow my temper to flare. It overrides my better judgement and catapults the reason from my perspective, forcefully seizing the helm of my consciousness, degrading my sociability and devolving me into a simple brute driven solely by instinct. Of course, this perfectly captures the essence of the moment for every Man that's undergone a horrendously stressful experience. To eschew ones faculties of higher thought and logical examination is the peak of folly. Yet, should a person, a Man in particular, consider himself above violence as a whole, he risks prancing into the ranks of the effete intellectuals populating our disgusting society in the modern age. As a great Strongman once said, any Man who can fit into skinny jeans is a Woman, which is a belittling insult inward and outward, as I know several Women who squat well over 300 pounds, and proudly own thighs that would obliterate the fragile denim encasing with one mighty flex. It seems that we are required to navigate a tenuous, quivering tightrope wavering jarringly in the midst of a hurricane. Too far to the Left, and naught awaits you but soy lattes, a dismally low testosterone count and the disconcerting evaporation of your chin. Sway too near to the Right and the promise of constant physical battles, intense altercations and infuriating arrogance from your opponents beckons, along with the complimentary First Class ticket to a prison cell. So, we stalk the vine, aching for bumpers to keep us from be blown into the gutters. But those are for fearful children dependent on others for their well being, not those like us, who eagerly seek out the natural permanence and rarified dignities of scars, tattoos and brushes with Death. The gutter may be murky, hostile and unclean. But it's home. It's real, which is alot more than you can say or claim about the mainstream.

If youre going to present a veneer of toughness and solidarity, dont shudder when a guy that is, in reality, exactly what you're masquerading as calls you on your pathetic bluffs. Several thousand miles can form a conveniently handy intoxicant for the peon lacking in true confidence to use to bolster his unearned, yet monumentous ego. You spewed nonsense from the safety of rank and social proof, belittling those who worked under you for little more than the hollow amusement of yourself and those unlucky enough to count you as a friend, lest they recognize some hideous piece of themselves in the cracked, tear stained glass of your broken soul. I tolerated you begrudgingly, silently stewing for the sake of a career I hardly cared for. When I could take it no more, unable to bear the peppering barbs and annoyingly juvenile jests, I followed you, ensuring our mutual isolation. I'll never forget how the vitality drained from your pallor when you realized we were alone, far removed from your judicious safety net. Your balls headed North from terror and shock, reverting  to their original, rightful status as ovaries. In contrast to your typical brash, loud and malevolently exuberant fashion, you retreated inward, incapable and unwilling to meet my determined glance. Hurriedly, you edited your actions to efficiently honed perfection, all with the aim of vacating our shared oblivion. In a flash, you departed, forcing a smirk to splinter my previously harsh profile. You are a pussy, a coward of the highest magnitude, proven to me any and every time you decide to avail yourself of the benefits of the distance separating us. Tonight, after witnessing my seething hatred once again, you called, attempting to backpedal, claiming it was all in fun. Shut the fuck up punk. I threw down the gauntlet, and I have an inclination towards believing it's far too heavy for you to rouse. I'll be waiting, you just say the word. I know you read this blog, so do me a favor and adopt a facade of aggression one more time, for me. Im eager to introduce you to the taste of your buckteeth as they cascade down your throat.

I don't own a TV, haven't had to for years. With the advent of smartphones and the peculiar ability of technology to make the wildest machinations of men like Asimov a tangible reality in a single generation, the necessity for that soul draining box has dissipated to nearly unrecoverable levels. Hell, most TV's are computers themselves anyway, the exterior being a shell for some complicated OS. However, with the advent of rank and the requisite bump in pay, I'm entitled to a hefty lump sum monthly to finance an apartment anywhere on this island, provided that I can afford it. In San Diego this would be no issue. I can pinpoint with alarming alacrity and accuracy the exact location, down to the number of the residence, where I would set up camp. Living as a vagabond for over half a decade has forced me to relinquish and forsake many of the basic necessities one takes for granted, such as the aforementioned TV, a full desktop computer, and that holy grail of the culinary arts, an oven, with the conjoined stove up top for good measure. Yet, on the eve of financial stability, the likes of which Ive never enjoyed on my own before, I can feel my long dormant tastes for exquisiteness and refined luxury awakening from their abhorrent hibernation. I will purchase long cuts of steak, beef, chicken, pork and fish at a premium from Costco, chilling them for an indeterminate amount of time until Im ready to feast, for Ive subsisted too long in a state of relative famine. I will construct my own hideaway, a tropical Haven, in which I will shield myself from the world at large. Recording equipment, a powerful desktop, a Marshall Stack for a Fender Stratocaster. All of these things are now floating near my web of influence, begging me to seize the moment. I believe that they can serve as motivation to curtail my old ways very splendidly for the most part. Here's to the future, one of the Gentleman Barbarian.

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