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Ill Get Married When I Find A Woman That Can Stand Me












Ill Get Married When I Find A Woman That Can Stand Me



Multiple weddings are looming on the horizon of my social life.

Family by blood and salt water are imploring me to attend their betrothals, and I'm eager to follow.

These occasions are always joyous, representative of the birth of fresh beginnings and requited love.

Unfortunately, questions often bloom like weeds, stubborn and resilient, durable and recalcitrant.

Chief among them is the dreaded, "When do you plan on getting married, Gino?".

I always respond with solid sarcasm, assuring the inquirer that they will recieve an invitation to my theoretical wedding before I turn 50.

This is usually enough to dissuade the prying escapades, but the otherwise serene pond of my mind is still left rippling and torrential.

"When will I get married?", I hound myself, wondering aloud and musing self-indulgently.

The honest truth is that I could go my entire life without shacking up.

Though I've been told my admissions often come across as annoying humblebragging, that was never my intention.

The fact is that I've been with more than my allotted amount of women, both in casual flings and serious, binding romance.

In enjoying, embracing and enduring these myriad sirens, I've learned that, above all, I value my alone time more than any carved out couple's retreat.

Save for the intense, painful love known only to the innocent and unjaded, their hearts unmolested by cruel life, I doubt my ability to open my heart up again.

Monogamy, beautiful ideal that it is, just doesn't seem compatible with my nature.

I am a vagabond, floating on the tradewinds and drifting across the aimless waters, a writer enslaved by both his random whims and concrete plans.

Definitely not corporate America material, castrated, subdued and emasculated by either an increasingly tyrannical and intrusive government or the whip of gynocentric, feminazi slavery.









      Me on the day of my wedding. Circa 2062.




Over the past few weeks, the shyness, indecision and timidity that blanketed my social acumen has risen, usurped by my natural charisma and charm.

It's ironic that I should be afflicted with these ailments, since historically I've been the outspoken, extroverted one.

My introversion has grown steadily over the last several years, its ascension fueled chiefly by the horrendously low caliber of people I was forced to be around.

How someone could boast about not having read a book in years is indecipherable to me, so carrying on a friendship, let alone a basic conversation, with such filth disgusts me down to the rawest portion of my core.

The people here, however, are refreshingly warm, inviting and receptive to social advances.

Even when I was a virtual recluse, holed up immovably in my literary and athletic shell, dead to the world and a ghost to those around me, I still approached women.

Any PUA past the absolute beginner stage knows intuitively that your attempt is only as successful as the energy you convey, and since mine was understated to the point of fatigue, my success rate, while not plummeting, was personally embarrassing for awhile.

But I soldiered on.

I pen this because I've never grasped how my fellow men could possibly witness the intoxicating beauty of a gorgeous woman and not be compelled to approach.

Shackled by insecurity and imprisoned by doubt, I still ran game.

With the upheaval of my previous angst, I've become deadly once more.

A poignant reminder that the spoils of life go to the daring.

If all else fails, just squeeze your balls to remind yourself that they're there.

Don't squander the blessing of manhood.











     Don't ever allow Approach Anxiety to win,                 or you may end up like this guy, the.                      male equivalent of Lindy West. As.                                      always, fuck incels.





Social Dynamics and the varied disciplines they encompass are a magnificent art form.

A woman's light, airy giggle, gliding hypnotizingly between large, luscious lips framed entrancingly by a deep auburn lipstick, is an enrapturing melody worthy of ovation.

It will justify a lifetime of suffering, solely because your sadistic path led you to that singular, bucolic moment.

Eliciting that reaction through a virtuosic mix of evolutionary biology, psychology and humor imbues you with a confidence bordering on invincibility. 

To captivate a group of friends that 10 minutes prior were unknown strangers with nothing but your voice and force of personality is a superpower that skirts the limits of the asinine.

Mastering, or at the very least becoming proficient, in the Venusian Arts will grant you complete freedom from the trepidations that annihilate the excitement and desire of normal men.

Direct or indirect, day or night, cold approach or social circle, routine based or natural.

Select, experiment, eschew, build, weld and wield.

As a fledgling PUA, I would search forums and message boards tirelessly, ravenous for the perfect stack of material that would catapult me to the vaulted, lofty heights of Mystery, Gambler, Style, and my personal guru, Zan Perrion.

Through ongoing experimentation and research, I eventually whittled away the non-essentials, using the Jeet Kune Do philosophy to craft my current seduction discipline.

Direct and deadly, with perpetual escalation and an ever present sexual vibe, an underlying current of sensually charged subcommunication.

Roosh V, the king of daygame in my opinion, though some of you will invariably mention the London scene, made a point of going out to get rejected.

He wouldn't leave the field until he was lambasted by 10 beautiful women.

Oddly enough, when this destination was firmly fixed in his mind, he always got laid.

Go figure, and go fail.









They will fuck you up harder than Tyson in his                      prime. And that's the point.







An inside joke among those deluded enough to be my close friends is the concept of Gino Luck.

According to its tenets, I'm able to approach a random girl on the street, in a bookstore, coffeeshop, bar or gas station (twice), and collect her number.

What follows may be a night of disappointing, cringeworthy sex, or the beginning of a whirlwind romance.

Regardless, while I may enjoy the ride, I will hold no great sentiment towards her.

She will be replaceable and interchangable, a breathing mannequin with a barely perceptible heartbeat.

Meanwhile, any woman I feel a deeper connection with, a binding that resonates roundly within me, will remain unreachable, taunting me, dancing just centimeters from my grasp.

She may be married, engaged, entangled, or otherwise unavailable.

Long hopelessly as I may, I will never possess her.

In Fight Club, the Narrator disdains the contents of his refrigerator.

"A house full of condiments and no food."

It's a genius observation, a critique of modernity. 

We possess all of the trappings of fulfillment and success, yet ring hollow, lacking true substance, depth and meaning.

I can relate, fearing that I may be damned to halfheartedly and begrudgingly enjoy/endure an eternal string of hookups, one night stands, and booty calls.

All the while, my unicorn, whether she be Spanish, English, Hawaiian or Swedish, will wave at me from atop a tower made of my busted hopes, rendered unscalable by a cascading waterfall of my tears.

If this is my divinely authorized punishment for a past consisting of an ignorant lack of awareness of the value of the girls Id been blessed with and lecherous, unrepentant promiscuity, so be it.

Being a lifelong bachelor appeals to me in a way, and I prefer solitude to socialization 9 times out of 10.

Just let one of them appreciate poetry, for in doing so, her inner world will prove to be a labyrinth, thick with blooming roses and striking violets, foliage as abundant as her glowing feminity.


I beg this of you humbly, oh life. 

Besides, I've been lucky before. 









    An adequate visual summation of Gino Luck.







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