I read a lot of “man-o-sphere” blogs. Roosh and Chateau Heartiste and stuff like that. It’s part of the reason why I write about getting laid so much, or failing to get laid– because I like these blogs. You read shit like that and you want to write about it yourself. Screeds about internet fatties and so on. Yelling at women for not having a sense of humor.
You read enough of this stuff and you pick up an adversarial tone toward women. Or rather, it brings out the natural hatred and resentment of women in a guy who thinks he doesn’t get laid enough. A guy who thinks other guys are getting laid more than him. Who thinks this relates to his own deeper worthiness, the judgment of some drunk chick. Your failure to get her to act on some base impulse when another guy was successful at it. It means you are a loser. It affirms your own deeper self hatred. And you get pissed off.
The weird thing is, I get laid plenty, and I still feel like this. I get more ass than a toilet seat despite my self-loathing being pretty dead-on in a lot of respects. I am an underachieving mean-spirited layabout and chicks still like me. Why on Earth do I get so mad at them– they like me a lot. Most of them end up fucking me, and they call me, and I don’t call them back. Why am I so resentful of women who are supposedly not wanting to sleep with me, when they are in fact sleeping with me. I’m the one blowing them off. You have to create more and more elaborate standards to keep considering yourself the victim. You become angry that nineteen year old girls under one hundred twenty pounds with small noses and perfect facial symmetry want to sleep with some famous guy in a band rather than you. You become angry that guys with so-called “game” are getting laid more than you, when in fact game is completely accessible to everybody and if it were such a big deal, why didn’t you just learn it. You become angry that guys with small noses and perfect facial symmetry have an easier time getting laid than you. Not that they get laid more than you, but that they have an easier time of it. Like being rich by your own hand and getting pissed at people with inherited wealth.
Well shit. Am I a loser, or am I not a loser? Am I the alpha, or the omega? I was out last weekend at a pool party; I noticed a hot girl in line; I resentfully thought “see, that type of girl would never even talk to me, that fucking cunt,” and then two hours later she was grinding her labia all over my pool boner and making out with me so sloppy that we almost got tossed by security. I was out on the 4th of July, talking up some classically good looking drunkard from Alabama who had fucking approached me; we got briefly separated and I saw some other dude talking to her using aggro Tyler Durden style game where you can’t pry the dude off. I got pissed off; I stewed about it all afternoon. Until night fell and I ended up at another party where some baby faced 22 year old came home with me. And I woke up with a bunch of text messages from girls I had talked to wanting to hang out with me, and I didn’t remember any of them because I was blackout drunk.
Everywhere I go I get laid constantly with decent looking girls who were born when I was in high school. Then I come home to sit down at my computer and complain about how I can’t get laid. But I get distracted by OKCupid messages from attractive local women that I don’t bother to answer. Jesus Christ.
And it’s not even because people who talk about how much they get laid with hot young ass are boring and gross. They are, or I guess we are: self-aggrandizement is dull and creepy, and self-deprecation is honest and hilarious. But that’s not why so much of this blog material is about what a loser I feel like. It’s not trying not to be the horrible creepy and gross guy; I actually feel this way. Like I’m a hideous unfuckable sewer mutant. What’s it gonna take for things to be different.
delicioustacos 
I wish I could like this a million times.
You really need real change.
You know what your problem is? You probably know and have been told this a thousand times already, but I’s gwinna tell ya anyway, cause I sho do like shitting up the comment section of your blog. Your problem is that you have a hole in you. I got it too, in NA/AA they call it the void. This hole has always been there in me: a dark, confused swirling that never stops down in the middle of me. I’ve never been quite able to make my peace with what I had, you know what I mean?
For instance, in one of your last blog posts you mentioned that you should have done something different as a career. Something that you could look at and say, “That’s me. I did that.” When I got out of high school I went straight to work in construction, because… well, that’s what my family did. Anyway, that hole has a voice, and that voice has an answer for everything, and at times it doesn’t seem to matter that most of the answers are irrational. That hole, that voice, spoke to me for the first time on my first day of work in construction, although at the time I could only dimly comprehend what it was.
I was on a 26 story renovation in Center City, Philly. I remember my foreman leading me over to a pile of boxes full of material next to one of the windows. “sort these out and stack em up until I find something else for you to do” he said, and got on the elevator to check on some guys working in another part of the building. The floor I was on was empty – there was nobody on it except for me, and I felt empty, too. It took me about five minutes to stack the stuff, and then I stood there and stared out of the window at the clock on City Hall across the street. A strong feeling of dreadful finality shot through me. This is it, the voice said. This is the rest of your life: stacking boxes and pulling on wires that you couldn’t give a fuck where they go or what they do. Howdya like it, pal? And it bugged me the fuck out. At the time I just so happened to be “chipping” as they say in dopehead lingo, fucking around with oxys and dope, just sort of dipping my feet in the water to test it. But if I needed an excuse to dive head first into the sucking whirlpool of heroin addiction, that was it. And I did. Heroin filled that hole perfectly – for me, at least.
Now – a decade and all kinds of trials and tribulations later, two years sober – I’ve come to find that pride and joy in what I do. I can drive down the Schuylkill at night, point to the skyline lit up and say “That’s me. I did that.” I could never have done that shit before. I just didn’t care. Fuck, I had a chance to work on Citizens Bank Park when it was being built and I turned it down so I could be on a jobsite a couple blocks closer to the corner where I copped my dope at so I could get there five minutes quicker after work. How fucking cool would it be if whenever I turned on a Phillies game, I could point to the Liberty Bell homerun spectacular lit up and say, “That’s me. I did that.” I mean, I probably wouldn’t have been able to go near that thing at the time seeing as how I was only a first year apprentice, but still, the notion is nice. And if I did work on it – at the time – I probably would’ve just been complaining about how fucking cold and windy it was out there. I had no perspective. You work in fucking Hollywood with movie stars and Jew agents and all that “Entourage” type shit. How many people can say they’re a part of that?
Go back a couple years – I’m somewhat off of drugs, on methadone, just starting to substitute a little with alcohol, not an alcoholic yet. Things aren’t going all that bad for me considering the predicament I had gotten myself into, they could be a lot worse. I get in a relationship with the perfect girl. A girl who I had always had a crush on but never had a chance with for one reason or another. This girl’s got it all, right – perfectly gorgeous in a demure kind of way (not the histrionic, provacative type of hot girl where I gotta constantly worry about dudes trying to fuck her), really cool, really smart, moderately funny, college educated, six-figure salary – she just had it all. Certainly not the type of girl who goes for a guy like me – someone who had to stand in line at the fucking methadone clinic every morning – that’s for sure. Long story short, she thought she could fix me. It lasted about 5 years (I give her credit for hanging around that long) but eventually I blew it because I was not able to make my peace with what I had. She was not enough to fill that hole. Ultimately, the drugs/drinking won out. She left me and I have regretted pushing her away every day since.
So, the moral of the story is that a.) drugs give you an unparalleled sense of well-being. and b.) you need to take up fly fishing or some shit. Quit your job that you hate and go work on a commercial fishing boat in Alaska – I don’t fucking know. Go to an AA or NA meeting, there’s tons and tons of hot, young, emotionally vulnerable girls there for you to prey on, and you’ll also get to work on your deeper issues. See, your problem isn’t pussy or the lack therof, and you admit it, you talk all this shit about just wanting a relationship and companionship and blah blah blah – yet you go for these really young girls who you know there is no chance of that ever happening with. So it’s not that. You need to find the root cause of the void in your soul if you haven’t already, and find another way to fill it – cause pussy don’t seem to be working too well. Figure out how to appreciate things. I still haven’t figured it out, but I get a little closer everyday. And if I could, I would gladly go back and put up with all the pumpkin patches and antique shops and fucking looking at paint samples at Home Depot – all the bullshit that I blew off to get shitfaced at the corner bar with my buddies, or eat xanax on top of my methadone dose and nod off while out fishing on the lake, or whatever else it was I was doing that seemed like a much better idea at the time.
Like…and all your fake girlfriends probably aren’t helping either.
He only has one fake girlfriend, but I agree that she isn’t helping.
Your commentt on todays post is pretty much where I meant to go with this.
Never change, pal.
Yeah, you’re good enough, dude. And you know it.
For me, Im never unhappy while playing my guitar, reading or writing, or making art. (Or appreciating really good art, including music and books.)
Its sort of my religion.
I think the reason so many people today get into weirdly strict (or just weird) religions is because their life lacks meaning.
And men need to create; women have babies and kids. (This is why few women are good artists or scientists.)
Therapy.
If I wanted to torture myself, I’d read Roosh V.’s blog too. The guy’s a sociopathic charletan, and who’s he “banging” anyway? Eastern bloc chicks who assume that because he’s got a U.S. passport, he’s gonna be their way out of the shitty circumstances they were born into. When he scores, he’s playing on vulnerable women’s economic desperation. Exerting such an unfair advantage hardly makes womanizing a sport — more like bagging trophies on a wildlife farm. If the girls he preys on knew he was scraping by cadging drinks and teaching ESL (while not living in his mother’s basement) they’d run for the hills.
You, on the other hand, clearly have wit, looks, and other personal qualities including, it appears, a real job (which you loathe, but hey, join the club). You don’t have to “game” women in order to get them to have sex with you. Yet the random sex makes you feel more isolated and less validated. You won’t find the answer to that dilemma in the manosphere. That’s why you’re not interested in gaming girls: you don’t need to, and you know it would make the sex even less satisfying.
I suspect poster “Pffff…” is on target when he talks about “the void.” Many of have one, which we try to fill it with all kinds of self-defeating behavior. At some point, some of us get tired of making ourselves miserable, so we start to make different choices and consciously shape our attitudes. This is a process, not an overnight epiphiny.
You have a high degree of self-awareness. I suspect you use your blog and your audience as a vehicle to take the first steps in identifying why your life has gone off the rails. I suspect that in the next few years, you’re going to find yourself in quite a different direction, one that leads — if not to happiness — at least to some measure of contentment and acceptance.
Equanimity and MBCBT.