How often must I remain here? I must have died unexpectedly, and my wandering spirit, aura thick with malevolence and anguish, refuses to acknowledge my own death. Indeed, I have become a ghost, cursed to haunt diners, coffeeshops, bars and beaches, pen brandished and book unsheathed. I've grown so distant from others that Im more statue than Man, yet where this separation once stung painfully, it now soothes reassuringly. Lumped in with a generation of "men" with testosterone levels lower than a woman's would be 30 years ago, and forced to make due with "women" that proudly proclaim themselves sluts and will actually attempt to fistfight men if they are ignored and eschewed, as they should be, my sentiment is clear. I want no part of this generation. It's filthy and degraded.
You could say I'm living a daydream right now, a fantasy granted the breath of life by divine providence. How many shifts at work have I frittered away contemplating the perfection of a night like this, the freedom it embodies and the possibility it radiates. Black shirt, snug in all the right spots, willowing down to a loose fit around my taut waist, simple, unadorned, and complimenting, befitting the body Ive spent years crafting. These Levi's 513 jeans have travelled the world with me, understated and immortal, the same brand worn by my Father and Uncles, the original rebels I base my ideal persona on. The newest addition, Nike Air Force One Max 90's, hug my feet like the wings of Hermes, add an urban flair to my outfit, while remaining quintessentially iconic. They're all black, of course, readily deployable to both a rooftop club and a spontaneous hike. Style can never trump utility, only accentuate it, at least, that's how it is for me.
This bartender is gorgeous, late 20's, tight, dark uniform caressing her athletically slender frame. We've engaged in small talk, fluff in community parlance, and I've gleaned gems from her amidst the sexually charged atmosphere. Her name is Amelia, originally from Minnesota, a transplant currently renting on the ridiculously affluent shores of Waikiki Beach. The goal is to accompany her back to her apartment at the conclusion of her shift, but I won't hold my breath. The Game has changed in my absence, an extended furlough born of bitter remorse, hopeful nostalgia and the excruciating sting of a burgeoning love left stillborn and unrequited. I am no longer that naive 19 year old armed with a memorized routine stack and a cheat sheet of DHV lead ups. To evoke a quote attributed to the spectacular mPUA Juggler, my game has become streamlined, compact, and efficient. As I've grown, my appearance tends to do most of my speaking, allowing me to proceed with direct intention and deadly accuracy. A number was collected tonight at a restaurant in Mililani from a So-Cal student here as a part of some scholarly program, much to the ire of the damnsel's coworkers. Needless to say, it was a hilarious moment. My tea is nearly finished, and, contrary to my checkered past, I couldn't care less if I snag Amelia the Minnesota Bartender's digits. After such a lengthy respite from the Field, I stumbled into a hole commonly reserved for amateurs: Being outcome dependent. Regrettably, I tied my self worth and confidence up with my results, forgetting that, unless you belonged to Project Hollywood, there would be nights you returned home sans women and sobriety, pride eviscerated with social buckshot. Here's to a return to the School of Hard Knocks. Class is in session.
If certain portions of my abilities have atrophied, than other parts have grown like weeds. Dealing with the fallout of a catastrophic breakup, I spent every interaction with a potential mate feebly attempting to recreate and resuscitate what I had with my ex. I longed for the familiarity of intimacy while neglecting to build the requisite comfort, another rookie mistake. Treating bar trash with undeserved compassion was another repeated error. It seemed that my heart, beating ferociously yet starved of the love it had grown accustomed to, revolted against me, attempting to usurp me at every stage in the process. I had, however, evolved into a deadly sniper with precision aim. With a nearly telepathic sense of insight, I was able to pinpoint exactly when to be forthcoming and blunt regarding my motives. The result was a drastically improved notch count. The environment I existed in was not one that nurtured and rewarded connection and excessive pair bonding. Instead, the order of the day was promiscuity and rapidity of motion. I recall unabashedly the time I pulled a girl from a coffeehouse in Virginia to my hotel room in less than 20 minutes. I was gaining remarkably in affairs of the flesh, while diluting my pain and hollowness with arrogant, narcissistic displays. It was a remarkable era.
For the sake of class and modesty, no names will be given, and no absolute number will be written regarding my exploits. The only reason these roguish thoughts have found sentience on my page is that they've plagued me recently. Echoing a line Ive repeated to innumerable women, sex is legion, but intimacy is rare. I crave the latter, along with its accompanying stability and love. Many writers have admonished Men for claiming they deserve Scarlett Johannson when their SMV places the likes of even a middle aged truck stop lot lizard squarely out of their league. In this instance they are as despicable and irredeemable as the obese Feminists we all loathe sporting rainbow hued hair, horn rimmed glasses and a contemptible scowl. I, however, am exempt. My physique is in peak condition, I read 2-3 books a week, make decent money, and am a masterful conversationalist when Im bit with the desire to be talkative. My weaknesses are an acute case of misanthropy and impatience. All pitfalls and potholes to be weathered and navigated. My dreamgirl is hidden from me somewhere in this raucous world, awaiting my discovery of her. Until then, however, there's Ms. Right Now to ease my loneliness.
You could say I'm living a daydream right now, a fantasy granted the breath of life by divine providence. How many shifts at work have I frittered away contemplating the perfection of a night like this, the freedom it embodies and the possibility it radiates. Black shirt, snug in all the right spots, willowing down to a loose fit around my taut waist, simple, unadorned, and complimenting, befitting the body Ive spent years crafting. These Levi's 513 jeans have travelled the world with me, understated and immortal, the same brand worn by my Father and Uncles, the original rebels I base my ideal persona on. The newest addition, Nike Air Force One Max 90's, hug my feet like the wings of Hermes, add an urban flair to my outfit, while remaining quintessentially iconic. They're all black, of course, readily deployable to both a rooftop club and a spontaneous hike. Style can never trump utility, only accentuate it, at least, that's how it is for me.
This bartender is gorgeous, late 20's, tight, dark uniform caressing her athletically slender frame. We've engaged in small talk, fluff in community parlance, and I've gleaned gems from her amidst the sexually charged atmosphere. Her name is Amelia, originally from Minnesota, a transplant currently renting on the ridiculously affluent shores of Waikiki Beach. The goal is to accompany her back to her apartment at the conclusion of her shift, but I won't hold my breath. The Game has changed in my absence, an extended furlough born of bitter remorse, hopeful nostalgia and the excruciating sting of a burgeoning love left stillborn and unrequited. I am no longer that naive 19 year old armed with a memorized routine stack and a cheat sheet of DHV lead ups. To evoke a quote attributed to the spectacular mPUA Juggler, my game has become streamlined, compact, and efficient. As I've grown, my appearance tends to do most of my speaking, allowing me to proceed with direct intention and deadly accuracy. A number was collected tonight at a restaurant in Mililani from a So-Cal student here as a part of some scholarly program, much to the ire of the damnsel's coworkers. Needless to say, it was a hilarious moment. My tea is nearly finished, and, contrary to my checkered past, I couldn't care less if I snag Amelia the Minnesota Bartender's digits. After such a lengthy respite from the Field, I stumbled into a hole commonly reserved for amateurs: Being outcome dependent. Regrettably, I tied my self worth and confidence up with my results, forgetting that, unless you belonged to Project Hollywood, there would be nights you returned home sans women and sobriety, pride eviscerated with social buckshot. Here's to a return to the School of Hard Knocks. Class is in session.
If certain portions of my abilities have atrophied, than other parts have grown like weeds. Dealing with the fallout of a catastrophic breakup, I spent every interaction with a potential mate feebly attempting to recreate and resuscitate what I had with my ex. I longed for the familiarity of intimacy while neglecting to build the requisite comfort, another rookie mistake. Treating bar trash with undeserved compassion was another repeated error. It seemed that my heart, beating ferociously yet starved of the love it had grown accustomed to, revolted against me, attempting to usurp me at every stage in the process. I had, however, evolved into a deadly sniper with precision aim. With a nearly telepathic sense of insight, I was able to pinpoint exactly when to be forthcoming and blunt regarding my motives. The result was a drastically improved notch count. The environment I existed in was not one that nurtured and rewarded connection and excessive pair bonding. Instead, the order of the day was promiscuity and rapidity of motion. I recall unabashedly the time I pulled a girl from a coffeehouse in Virginia to my hotel room in less than 20 minutes. I was gaining remarkably in affairs of the flesh, while diluting my pain and hollowness with arrogant, narcissistic displays. It was a remarkable era.
For the sake of class and modesty, no names will be given, and no absolute number will be written regarding my exploits. The only reason these roguish thoughts have found sentience on my page is that they've plagued me recently. Echoing a line Ive repeated to innumerable women, sex is legion, but intimacy is rare. I crave the latter, along with its accompanying stability and love. Many writers have admonished Men for claiming they deserve Scarlett Johannson when their SMV places the likes of even a middle aged truck stop lot lizard squarely out of their league. In this instance they are as despicable and irredeemable as the obese Feminists we all loathe sporting rainbow hued hair, horn rimmed glasses and a contemptible scowl. I, however, am exempt. My physique is in peak condition, I read 2-3 books a week, make decent money, and am a masterful conversationalist when Im bit with the desire to be talkative. My weaknesses are an acute case of misanthropy and impatience. All pitfalls and potholes to be weathered and navigated. My dreamgirl is hidden from me somewhere in this raucous world, awaiting my discovery of her. Until then, however, there's Ms. Right Now to ease my loneliness.