If you learn nothing else from me, let it be this:
Women want what they want. Period. End of story.
There is much gnashing of teeth done by men who’ve just taken the Red Pill:
“How could she leave me? I was the fastest COBOL coder in this time zone!”
“But…but…but I handed my entire paycheck over to her every week! I never so much as looked at another woman!”
“I brought her flowers and asked if she would please accompany me to a showing of The Vagina Monologues. She flaked and went drinking with Spike instead. He’s got two motorcycles and no helmet. He went to a trade school, for fuck’s sake.”
Another hard truth here, gents:
Most of you Blue Pill Guys are barking up the wrong tree. It’s a fact. You just are. Listen – women are not men. All the Women’s Studies classes in The Universe will not change that.
The things you respect about yourself and your buddies are not necessarily the things women respect about you.
Let me say that again another way:
Women do not necessarily value the same things in a man that you think are important.
One more time, below your sensitive, politically correct belt:
If you insist on treating women like men with boobs, you’re blinded by your male gaze. You’re a sexist, actually. You’re bordering on male chauvinism, especially if you burn billions of calories arguing about why things should be the way you think they are. You’re just as bad as Amanda Marcotte or that sniveling, lickspittle eunuch who runs the Manboobz site – just the flip side of the coin.
Smear your face with ash, wail piteously, and don a jockstrap of coarsest sackcloth – The Universe doesn’t give a shit, and neither do women. Women want what they want, not what you think they should want.
Me and lots of other men will argue with you, try and show you the error of your ways, even point out where you picked up this faulty bit of programming. That’s the point of this blog, as a matter of fact.
However, you need to do a little work yourself. Like an addict working a 12-step program, you need to accept that the way you did things in the past was not the best way to be happy, long term. Like a recruit in boot camp, you need to accept that most of what you “know” is bullshit. You need to use the proffered tools to rebuild yourself into a fully functional man.
Here’s a little Rudyard Kipling to ponder. Read it, and think about it’s application to your life over the next day or so:
The young recruit is ‘aughty — ‘e draf’s from Gawd knows where;
They bid ‘im show ‘is stockin’s an’ lay ‘is mattress square;
‘E calls it bloomin’ nonsense — ‘e doesn’t know, no more —
An’ then up comes ‘is Company an’kicks’im round the floor!
The young recruit is ‘ammered — ‘e takes it very hard;
‘E ‘angs ‘is ‘ead an’ mutters — ‘e sulks about the yard;
‘E talks o’ “cruel tyrants” which ‘e’ll swing for by-an’-by,
An’ the others ‘ears an’ mocks ‘im, an’ the boy goes orf to cry.
The young recruit is silly — ‘e thinks o’ suicide.
‘E’s lost ‘is gutter-devil; ‘e ‘asn’t got ‘is pride;
But day by day they kicks ‘im, which ‘elps ‘im on a bit,
Till ‘e finds ‘isself one mornin’ with a full an’ proper kit.
Gettin’ clear o’ dirtiness, gettin’ done with mess,
Gettin’ shut o’ doin’ things rather-more-or-less;
Not so fond of abby-nay, kul, nor hazar-ho,
Learns to keep ‘is ripe an “isself jus’so!
The young recruit is ‘appy — ‘e throws a chest to suit;
You see ‘im grow mustaches; you ‘ear ‘im slap’ is boot.
‘E learns to drop the “bloodies” from every word ‘e slings,
An ‘e shows an ‘ealthy brisket when ‘e strips for bars an’ rings.
The cruel-tyrant-sergeants they watch ‘im ‘arf a year;
They watch ‘im with ‘is comrades, they watch ‘im with ‘is beer;
They watch ‘im with the women at the regimental dance,
And the cruel-tyrant-sergeants send ‘is name along for “Lance.”
An’ now ‘e’s ‘arf o’ nothin’, an’ all a private yet,
‘Is room they up an’ rags ‘im to see what they will get.
They rags ‘im low an’ cunnin’, each dirty trick they can,
But ‘e learns to sweat ‘is temper an ‘e learns to sweat ‘is man.
An’, last, a Colour-Sergeant, as such to be obeyed,
‘E schools ‘is men at cricket, ‘e tells ’em on parade,
They sees ‘im quick an ‘andy, uncommon set an’ smart,
An’ so ‘e talks to orficers which ‘ave the Corps at ‘eart.
That’s a message of hope for those who choose to hear it, and a warning for those who do not.
You’re being kicked by life, day by day. You can either adjust, or get kicked to Death. You can use the kicks as teaching tools, or live as a bruised, lumpy human target. Go ahead. Maybe someone will admire your tombstone one day:
“Here lies Joe. He didn’t care about Reality. He stuck to his fantasy until the bitter, lonely end. It just made more sense to him than the real world. He was proud of his failure to adapt and overcome.”
Or, get with the program. Use your eyes. Perceive things as they are. Stop asking,”But what does it all mean!!???!” That’s the wrong question right now. It’s counter-productive. You aren’t qualified to ask, let alone hear the answer, until you understand how it works.
We’ll start getting into some nuts-and-bolts type stuff in Part Two of this ‘ere Sermon.