I didn’t need this life lesson. That I’m old and I’m gonna die. And before that the best part of me will get clipped off. Joy wit creativity and energy will leave me. I knew already. I knew since I was born. The reminder was not needed. I don’t want wisdom. I want to remain an idiot. Always thinking better days are around the corner. I’ll get well soon. My ship’s about to come in. Xochitl breaking up with her boyfriend means she’ll date me. I can bulk up my arms again. Stocks will go back up, et cetera. It’s not over.
I want to be an idiot. Tired of God teaching me. I want to be tempted by carnal pleasures. A hairsbreadth away from bailing on my job to get teenage Austronesian monkey pussy, eat coconuts and disappear.
delicioustacos 
I have a friend of the same age and (broadly) general circumstances as you. Like you, he declares outwardly that he wants a good woman and to father and raise children, etc.; you know, the whole “life is worth propagating but I just haven’t achieved the right match/salary/horoscope yet” schtick. I don’t believe him, though. Revealed preference is a bitch.
you gotta get boosted, kiddo. and after the first boostah you gotta get the second one 6 weeks latah. trust us, we’re the experts.
You and Roosh. How come all these “game” dudes are actually such painful bores?
Who needs a gay second hand Toyota and some 9-5 desk drone job? Has nobody explained this to you at all, ever?
LIFE IS ABOUT HAVING FUN, LIVING IN MONKEY PUSSY LAND.
God, you eternal tragic NEWB.
Treatment is simple:
1. rub ivermectin on your nipples so they are glossy.
2. take shirtless pic. make sure the lighting is harsh so you look like brad pitt from fight club. poast pic to twitter.
3. check booksales and see a +$5000 bump. not that you needed it, but use this to book next flight to panama.
4. wake up to sound of door bell. it’s a fedex overnight delivery. some women who follow you on twitter sent you their fresh moist panties. you inhale the cunt musk and feel invigorated. you wear the panties as a mask at the airport and they allow it because they think you’re john mcafee.
5. arrive in panama city. go to the stem cell clinic featured in the JRE podcast, the one with mel gibson.
6. walk into the clinic, the front desk asks if you have appointment, say no, and that you want to talk to the owner/main doctor. he appears and recognizes your voice immediately. he’s a fan of FSGN and listened to your interview with BAP.
6. the good doc injects you with ethically-sourced umbillical cord stemcells. you feel invigorated with the strength of 600 baby inca warriors.
7. you start de-aging like brad pitt in benjamin button. you gaze at the mirror and you look and feel 30 again. head full of thick hair styled in a mullet. the covid is gone.
8. you thank the doctor and leave after paying him only $10k, half the usual rate since he gave you a discount.
9. you relax for the weekend in panama. enjoy the sun, the tropical food, the local snatch.
10. on the flight back, you write 3 chapters effortlessly. you chat up the stewardess, a hot nineteen year old latina, and you get her number.
11. you arrive back home and finish the remaining 2 chapters to True Love. you hit “publish” inside the amazon dashboard.
12. within hours, True Love becomes the #1 top seller in its category. you hear the doorbell and check your Ring app. it’s the stewardess, she waves at the camera and blows a kiss. you open the door.
And then he wakes up and is still a glorified male secretary in a concrete hell hole filled with aging narcissist and ‘executive’ pedophiles.
The blog should be providing more satisfaction than it seems to be doing.
Just ficking move to indonesia. Nothing holds you back except your online persona.
easier said than done. lots of logistics involved. family still in usa. the cat. insecurity about whether current finances will be enough for long-term expat life. stocks down, crypto down. need solid plan to become a *digital nomad*. if we were all millionaires we’d already have houses in SE asia. harem of four or five gfs who clean cook suck fuck massage. see the sun set every day. zero problems.
oof, it is June 21st and still no new poast for the month.
graphene nanoparticles have rewired deltaco’s brain.
he cannot write more than a few sentences, just enough to use twatter
He can’t write good no more. Too sober…Too cucked by self-censorship. Best he can do is tweet excerpts from books he wrote several years ago. $3 and a link to amazon. Still too expensive. Aside from that, a screenshot from Fidelity with sad or happy mike bloomberg pic. If you pressure him to post he’ll just hate his readership more, assuming that’s even possible. He hates most of us, despite having spiritually supported him for a decade. “Just shut up and buy the books”.
He wants to be featured in The New Yorker. Mainstream success, meaning: popular with blue state intelligencia who stick objects up their orifices. Wants to be big enough to get a mention on Joe Rogan Experience. Something to boost his confidence to lock-in that 36 year old poetess Philippino-American woman with 3 grey hairs. Finally gets her naked and doesn’t like the way her pussy smells. Not fragrant like the other ones. Stale. Unkempt bush. Stretch marks.
Anyway. It is weird how we change over time. Tacos used to want questionably legal teens from jungle villages without indoor plumbing. We cheered him on and said FUCK YEAH BRO! Now he wants a post-wall careerist roastie, born in america but with an ethnic background. Quite possibly the most insufferable type of woman. He sounds like a different man. Perhaps the timelines really have shifted. They did fire up CERN recently. No wonder my cock is noticeably smaller.