Simping is the new Pimping™

THE SELF HELP GUIDE TO MODERN KINK

I've spent close to $20,000 as sex addict on everything you can think of. Pornography, Findom, catfishing scams, strippers, phone sex, prostitutes, OnlyFan's and the like.  Not to brag, but I am pretty sure that an amount like that  enshrines me into the Simp Hall of Fame.™

I've spent that money not hoping for girlfriends or a wife. I've thrown that money down the drain chasing a high or gettin off to a kind of masturbation which substitutes for real intercourse.  I've resorted to this enterprise because for the last 17 years or so I have failed to secure myself even a minimal level of female companionship.

Now Jordan Peterson would probably chalk all this up to hypergamy. In case you don't know what hypergamy is, it's a female dating strategy that's taken over the internet. The basic idea being women are looking to date 'up' on the social ladder. In practice this means women don't want to date men who are low in the social status. 

Where do I fit on the social ladder? Very low. Most people in their 30's have figured out how to buy a car or earn more than $15 an hour. I'm 50 yet I still haven't. That means basically attractive homeless men have a better shot at getting laid than I do. That's why I wasted a year's salary on women who have no desire to sleep with me or even communicate to me without some kind of remuneration. 

BETA MALE OR SIMP

Many people wrongly associate "simping" with being a beta male. But the two are only mildly related. Beta males are males that basically want the same things as alpha males, but lack resources and other characteristics to to get them. They sneak into the female camp when alpha is away. They are the friend-zoned guy who waits for his clear shot. But at least the beta is talking and relating to a real live girl. The beta even shows a kind of bravery because there's the danger that the alpha could catch the beta and attack him. 

But simping is totally different, today's internet simping is an abstraction on relationships. It's providing resources and support to the female without (generally) the possibility of any real life interactions for the male. 

What's the danger of that simping? That it's no longer a kink a few people have, but becomes the dominant method of interaction. Charles Murray identified the 'solitaire' individual as a danger to society. No more marriage, no more babies, no more society.  If you aren't interacting in reality you can't get anyone pregnant. And you aren't in a real relationship as a SIMP, no matter what she tells you. 

Normally the ambitionless, beer bellied women who make up the majority of Only Fans creators and non-in-person sex workers would receive only a small amount of attention from men. Only ugly guys, the socially clueless, or nice guys who wouldn't dare talk to hot girls give these girls any attention. Even then chubby gals have to endure seeing men drool over their more attractive friends (just look at tiktok if you want proof- there's a whole trend in social media of the ugly women of the world talking about the heart wrenching feeling THEY get when a man only weakly offers his hand shake.) 

Instead the .2 percent of men that are actually attracted to these tatted, obese, single moms is now exponentially lifted by access to a world internet market, so these fake dommes all get 15 minutes of fame riding the social media caravan of 'look at me' and 'aren't I important?'

The rise of this social currency further inflates the in-born hypergamic mating strategy of twenty and thirty something women. An only fans woman with no skills other than owning a vagina should settle into realistic social relation patterns. They would date short men with glasses because all the hot guys are taken. But social media and Venmo assign over-sized value to otherwise ordinary and truthfully below average girls.

In the long run these trends only serve to tear at the fabric of society. The destructive nature of anti-patriarchal forces underestimate the costs of destroying the apparatus of control. Patriarchy for all its faults sublimates the aggressive impulses of single men.*  It herds men into monogamous relationships as providers and protectors for wives and children. Without this powerful behavioral force for conformity we witness men abandoning their obligations. Men are opting out of dating and raising families. Some men (MGTOW) are going so far as to opt out of not only sex but even interacting with females at all. These trends are reflected in statistics that show men are waiting longer to lose their virginity, waiting longer to get married, and opting out of marriage all together ensuring that the rising rates of female led homes will continue. 

Some of these MGTOW men have tried transition into to something besides an alpha or beta status. They call themselves lone wolves.**** Most of these guys grew up reading Ayn Rand, wearing trench coats or stupid hats. None of these guys get laid either, but because they watched their fathers change the oil in their family cars they believe they are self reliant. They are wrong and foolish. These men have removed themselves from the dating pool though so far our purposes we can call them SIMPS. 

The rise of the Simp. Why cucks will be the new norm. 

Beta males have been around forever. We find betas in the natural kingdom all around us. They aren't always successful, but the strategy has a solid evolutionary foundation. But simping as a phenomenon (while not entirely new) has evolved from a bizarre fetish that few men could see themselves doing into one of the dominant modes of sexual expression in the future. 

Do women see the danger here? Possibly, but let's face it women have only ever really wanted protection and resource harvesting from men. It's common knowledge that women find men ugly. In one scientific survey 80 percent of all men were rated physically unattractive by women. And women are notoriously fluid in their sexual categories. Most are bi-sexual. The majority of them even get turned on by monkeys, dogs, or horses masturbating. [Now the feminist response to female fluid sexuality and female zooophilia is the suggestion that in the not too distant past women were subject to the sexual violence of monkeys and horses so often that their vaginal tissues become engorged and lubricated at the mere site of these animals. I think this concept should be met with skeptism.]**

I guess what I'm saying here is that you can't really blame men for simping when you realize what these men understand something that alphas and betas don't understand. That women view men as disposable and unworthy of attention unless they can provide resources. The only reasons women stay in relationships. 

SIMPS have given up on traditional relationships. They've cucked themselves willingly because at least they feel they get something for paying to play. In exchange for money they get off and they can start and stop when they choose. They probably even feel like they have gained a bit of control where they once did not have any. Being in charge of the purse strings means for the first time some of these men are having women approach them. Sure, it's a sales job, but most men aren't used to being approached at all. Most likely there's a sizable percentage of men who get confused by such a process as well. They mistake the approach and niceness as legit instead of a transaction. 

What does this do to younger men? Well, men, and especially young men have been subjected to a rash of anti-male rhetoric. "All men are trash" and toxic masculinity are battle cries for the latest feminist project. I'm not suggesting that reclaiming of rights and freedom from women is not overdue. I'm suggesting that toxic rhetoric made against the male gender can have massively negative effects on boys. 

It seems obvious now that young boys have internalized this criticism. A mere Google search indicates how poorly young boys are fairing. Combine the failures of providing these basics with being told that masculinity is wrong. Next, society insists men put women on pedestals. Basically, we are turning boys into SIMPS and then we wonder why they aren't interested in growing up, or getting into relationships. And because men don't become masculine women don't find them attractive anymore. We have abandoned traditional relationships and classic gender roles but we have failed to replace them with anything equal or positive. What's forming in the chaos is turning men and women towards a KINK they probably never wanted. 

*I've oversimplified here.

**I'm not saying they lying.

**** Sigma males. 

Boredom is lack of connection, my anger is OTHER directed & also I flip the inverted pyramid upside down so it's like it's supposed to be

The best thing that's come from living in the Quarantine State is that many of you are finally experiencing the same lifestyle & circumstances that have left me tired of life. What am I talking about? A lack of meaning.  No connection to something greater than myself.  A boring an uninspired life.  A Repetition of fruitless tasks. Welcome to the milieu of the unskilled.  A place where we can not brag about our jobs.  A time when we are ashamed about our ability to provide for our families. The virus and all these events have left us worried for our physical safety in ways no American has for decades.

I know this because so many of you tell me how hard things are for you.  I know that many of you have lost your jobs.  And for most Americans having a job is really important.  It defines who you are.  It's the first question we ask each other. Though really that question is just an attempt at understanding our place in the social hierarchy.  But Americans don't like to think about class.  We fool ourselves. We call everybody middle class.  I think Bill Gates says he's still in the middle class.  

You probably had a job until 3 months ago.  But now you are living off unemployment, or aybe you are working from  home and have had to take a pay cut.  Maybe your job isn't as glamorous as the food clerk at your local grocery store.  You aren't "essential."  People don't thank you for your service anymore...they only thank me.   And maybe you are having a bad time about that.  

Don't fret.  At least you have a choice.  Most of us going to battle against the virus have no choice.  WE go to work because we can't stay home.  I didn't have much of a choice, how long do you think I could stay home making near minimum wage?  A choice of ability to stay home could save my life.  I've had cancer, my cancer was in the blood as they say and it damaged my heart and was in my lungs.  It left it difficult for me to climb stairs.  I need to go see a cardiologist, but who can afford that too?  So if I get this I'm probably a gonner.  I'd definitely trade places with you if I could.  Also, kinda tired of being thanked by my customers without masks anyways.  Not that I get gratitude that much anymore.  You are all ready forgetting who is doing what.  You are so damned bored that you are losing your minds.  You equate social distancing because in this pandemic with an intrusion on your rights.  Well, last time I checked, the right to live is first.  So take precautions when you are out there and you might just end up saving my life.  

The Self Help Guide to Surviving the Pandemic:

AS a guy who had lived his whole life in a perpetual state of boredom let me provide some self help for you.  I know how it feels to have a job that no one respects, or how it feels to not have a job at all.  Honestly this is just pride on your part and you can let that go real quick.  If you take a shit in your pants on the front line charging a machine gun, no one really focuses on the shit. No one gets embarrassed easily. They are just trying not to die.  

So instead of focusing on what you don't have:  A girlfriend, friends who respect you, a car, the ability to make your monthly mortgage payment, focus on the things that you do have.  Like that box of expired jello pudding snacks in the back of your pantry.  Those things don't really expire, so if you have some milk, you got pudding! 

Don't worry about your social status,  it's totally coming back!  In fact I would harken to say that class will be a bigger and badder thing in the near future.  The USA is finally going back to it's European roots and get a bit classy.  Meaning educated and rich people are going to be looked up at even more and the poor and the dumb will be stuck in dangerous and old fashioned jobs where we get coughed on by possible carriers.  

Americans in general can't wait to go back to mistreating clerks and the little man.  Most grocery store chains have already stopped the hero pay. Only consumer outrage has them backtracking and offering bonuses.  So I guess the second thing you could do is write an e-mail to the store you purchase your groceries from and request that those heroes get paid.  It will benefit you in the long run.  If you're rich, you will keep the tide of lumpenproletariat from tearing down your city.  If you are an unemployed bum benefiting from the extra 600 dollars of emergency money, you don't have to feel as guilty.  Though you should.  Because it is possible that your bartending job is going away forever and you will have to start work alongside me.  

[As an aside WTF are strippers going to do?  How many of you can really move your craft over to camming?  Do you just go to prostitution?  Won't that be even more dangerous that it was before?  Also, how much do you charge?]

How do I deal with the boredom though?

When you are broke and as socially inept as I am you have to watch a lot of TV and read a lot of books.  But I have noticed that boredom is less about the lack of things to do and more with the lack of connection to something bigger and to other people. 

If you are lucky enough to have a spouse or a partner then stick to them like glue.  They should be your guide in how to get through this.  Take care of your kids.  Visit your granny.  Wait take that back.  Call Grandma.  Don't visit her, you'll probably kill her if you go see her!  Wish her good luck too. 

You might take up playing video game playing.  I don't play them.  As a 50 year old single male who played Dungeons & Dragons and regularly visits forums on how to "pick up chicks" I figured why not just go full nerd and vegetate on some video games.  I do like war tanks after all. I have spent two weeks worth of vacation trying to decide if I want to spend $150 dollars on a starter gaming PC. I could use it for E-sports games and better word processing for this blog!  I have checked out Facebook Marketplace, E-bay, Craigslist, you name it.  I am watching all kinds of videos on YouTube telling me how to put together my own system.  I know the differences between SSD's and SSHD and HDD.  See this google search for more info:

While SSD stands for Solid-State Drive, SSHD is the Solid- State Hybrid Drive. SSD is largely similar to a USB flash drive, only much bigger on storage and much faster on processing. ... SSHD is similar to the traditional hard disk with a very small quantity of solid-state storage built in, approximately around 8 GB.

SSD vs SSHD: Compared - Platinum Data Recovery

Oh, another thing you could do is start a blog!  You could do one about how your hot wife likes to sleep around on you and how your spouse's cheating on you actually turns you on.  Maybe go deep into your childhood and try to explain why you need to revisit your parents infidelity. I'm sure it would make for some good reading.  Might even save you a trip to the psychologist!

To sum up:

You aren't bored.  There are tons of activities to do.  What you miss is your connection to your job which provided more for you than just a way to earn a living.  It provided things like your place in the society.  It told you who you could bully.  It gave you social interaction satisfaction. It left you on solid ground.  You did not have to question the proper place of people and goals in your life.  Today you are left wondering if all the people you didn't care about or need are more important than you are.  Maybe you are just a useless banker that does nothing but make pretend money for rich people who don't need it.   

But the pandemic is pernicious in other ways than just wrangling the air out of it's victims, leaving them gasping for air, alone, coughing and sputtering , their last spastic movements searching for comfort. It also provides the possibility to get rid of whole sections of people who you define as useless.  Get rid of the poor, the sick, the needy.  We will send the poor to the grocery store for us.  We will cut off their unemployment and raises. We won't worry about senior living facilitates, because then we can gut Social Security.  We won't provide treatment to the addicted or places to live to for the homeless.  We will let them congregate out of necessity and then, "Let nature take it's course."   

That course you wish to steer is history one you have dreamed about for years, ever since you came across that old WWII book in your grandfather's basement.  It was supposed to explain to you that draconian autocrats who use genetics to wage 'a war against the weak' are cruel.  But you really liked the idea.  You fancy yourself a survivor.  You fancy yourself, "one of the strong."  There would not normally be much support for this idea among the inhabitants of a strong middle class society with a respect for law and who had social norms that defended the weak.  But these aren't normal times.  We live in times where the diseased attack the healthy just through tthough their breath. 25% unemployment has hastened the arrival of a great mass of useless LumpenAmericans.  

The middle class has died.  Who is left? The takers and the makers.  The makers only need a small group of people to tend to the grass cutting or the nanny making.  The makers cry out,  "Let the Robots come!  Let the Poor die! Let the sick fall over in the street,  I will leave my house through helicopter cars, and I will be whisked away from protests and street crime by automated driving heuristics.  I have no need for my fellow man! And when I do, I command that you go out to the farms and the dirty cities and leave your masks behind!  Remember your freedom!!!! Remember A billion Bangladeshi wish they were you!!"

The Self Help Guide to Overcomming Anxiety: or how i stopped worrying and learned to love the dread

* you should read this before reading this post.  then all the shit i left out will make more sense.*

the gas station by my house sells caffeinated gum and something called red tilt malt liquor.   if you come looking for me, it might be best for you to try the gas station before knocking on my door, as i buy a lot of that shit because that is the shit that keep me going though the dread and anxiety of living in this post-modern nightmare that we call call "now."

now if you are like most people you just read that i drink malt liquor, chew caffeinated gum, and i talk a lot about anxiety, so then you started diagnosing me with some kind of depression, or drug problem.  a few of you may have worried that i was some kind of hipster.  note: i only write for the 2 people who actually worried for a second that i was a hipster.

don't you fucking worry though, i'm not a hipster.  i'm an old fashioned nerd.  i'm just broke and tired of drinking bud light.   but i'm too poor for sam adams. 

now for those of you who are worried that, "i think a lot about dread" let me try and ease your christian fears a bit.

you might worry that i'm a nihilist without understanding the christian roots of existentialism.  (yes, i just played switcheroo but hold on a bit and i will school yer ass, k?)

first, you are right about me being a nihilist.  but don't get ahead of yourself.  getting ahead of yourself would be like "but you don't fucking believe in anything-how can you believe in nothing?"

like most uneducated people i use my own definition of nihilism.  first a bit of background that you will all agree with me.  humans are the only animals that go around acting like their very existence is some kind of problem that needs to be figured out.

so the main "problem" of being human is figuring out just what exactly it means to be "human."  Agreed?  you better agree asshole, or just cut and fucking run back to mommy and the robed priest that likes to tickle your pickle before mass.

so let's get back to my definition. it goes something like nihilism simply means that all the old fashioned ways of  finding meaning no longer work.  things like belonging to your tribe, your religion, your nation no longer ground you to your being.

in other words, you can be religious, but how many people do you know wear black Nike sneakers and gulp sleeping pills down before suffocating themselves by wrapping a plastic bag over their heads?  i think the answer is 34.  but i didn't Google that. so who knows.

now 12 step helpers want to come in and solve the crisis of modernity by offering you up solutions like getting a higher power.

i wonder if the founder of AA knew anything about kierkegaard.  kierkegaard said all we needed to get over life was to get a "defining commitment."*

*(a defining commitment is just like submission to a higher power i won't go into why here i won't go into all the parallels of how k. and 12 step programs are the same, but let's just say that they both think that your "higher power" could be a door knob.)

a door knob.  you see the only way you can get away from dread is by positing something outside of yourself that you can base your life on.  it could be the god-man (k wants us to be scarily committed to him.)  it could be staying sober.  it could be making money.  but we won't find the solution in the distraction of every day life.

personally i don't like the idea that 12 step followers propose. you know how you get over dread? you get over dread by getting over it.  i'm not going to try a leap into faith into something that i know is absurd just so that i can run away from the contradictions of the human psyche (the whole what's the point thingy) by escaping myself and pointing my life in the direction of something outside my self.

i'm for dealing with the self.  even if that means living in resignation.  even if that means living in dread, anxiety, anomie, and nihilism.

i'd rather be myself.

just like you don't worry about being over 40 and coming off as desperate as hell for attention next to your prettier friend at the bar (yet still found the will to diss 3 douche bags who figured you were an easy score) and you earned mad props from me and my friend when you didn't even try and cock block your friend when it looked liked she was gonna get laid before you.  now that's "living" with purposelessness.

things we learned today:

1. we never get to resolve the contradiction of being human
2. that's why humans live in despair
3. despair can be good because it lets us know we are human
4. paradoxically knowing that we are human drives us further into despair 
5. resignation to the impossibility of resolving contradiction is the only "solution" to suicide

What will we learn next?

nietzsche and kierkegaard had similar ideas about the possibility that we could overcome the crisis identified by k.  both were wrong.  i will show that the pessimism of schopenhauer was correct (although his prescription of aesthetic abandonment was wrong- which is the same thing as distraction- a concept loathed by k.) 

i will also show that the crises humanity faces ends with our mutual destruction (by either the typical ways i.e. war, famine etc.) or by replacement with non-human entities -you call them robots- who themselves will say they are simply the synthesis of the contradiction of humanity.  they are totally wrong and are non-human.  a simple task to show they are non-human is to show they do not live in despair.

I lost my phone on the bus, or the Self Help Guide to being a Quiet One

If you want to be one of the quiet types, you should just shut up about how you lost your phone on the bus ride home from work.

You don't make a big deal about it to your customers, just to get them to feign a little sympathy for you, because you like feigned sympathy, because it is so much more interesting to you to see the pained looks on the faces of strangers who wonder why you have shared your dilemma with them, like maybe you are accusing them of something, when all you are... is tired of making small talk about what a great deal you have on sacks of red potatoes.

If you want to be the quiet type don't bother posting it on your facebook, or cry about it on your blog like a little baby.

Why cry at all when you weren't all that upset about losing the phone in the first place?  I mean maybe you were a bit upset.  And sure you kept thinking about it all day.  But mostly you just thought about "what an idiot you were" for losing the phone the way you did.

It's better to think like an adult.  Sit back with a little perspective, or rather try leaning back in a dirty undershirt on a folding chair and gain some perspective.

Perspective like you can't afford the payments on your phone anyway.  That you want an iPhone and the EnV3 is just a cheap substitute for what you really want.

And you don't even have the EnV3 you just have the EnV2, or rather you used to have the EnV2.  Now some fat girl on craigslist has your phone, and is debating what to do about all those videos of 18 year old girls giving you lap dances she found buried in the archives of your 4gb memory card.

I say she does nothing, because she will have a hard time explaining to the cops how she got your handset in the first place.

But let's move on.

You're already over the whole loss of phone thing, and the whole being cut off of the internet whenever you leave the house, and the whole staying busy at work by staying on task, rather than by distracting yourself by looking at the display on your phone every three minutes just to confirm that no one has left a comment on your blog, and no one has invited you to go drinking with them, and no one has died or left you any money, and no one likes your status updates on Facebook, and how no phone means no internet or "on demand" video, so no more listening to the news at break time, or determining when the next Cowboys game will be, so you might as well start taking both Sunday & Monday off, because with the government taking all your money and the utility bills sucking all the marrow from your old man bones... what the fuck difference does it make anyway?

Without a phone to distract you on the bus you have started to have fantasies that all the R/C Cola you stopped drinking magically turns you into a six-packed gleaming muscle dude with cheerleaders bouncing off your cock.

Maybe you don't need to stop drinking the soda, maybe you should just do the DRUG, because I hear it is a lot of fun, the kind of fun that strapping young boys have drinking Pabst Blue Ribbons before work, getting oiled up doing push ups, and cycling to work instead of sleeping in their stained underwear, oh wait I am sure they do that, sleep in their stained underwear that is, all men do that sort of thing if they aren't sleeping with a woman.

There is some kind of perverse pride a man takes in leaving streak marks on his bedroom sheet, bedroom sheets that have not been changed since you puked on them the night you thought you could win the battle against Wild Turkey, and then you found out why Wild Turkey is  a REAL MAN'S drink and not some kind of pussy drink, so maybe the idea of drinking a quart of it outside your apartment door that just happens to be open, because you know that your neighbor likes to leave her door open to the cooling temperatures of the desert in October, (a mild 81 degrees outside which is 5 degrees cooler than what you ran your A/C just 1 week ago) and the air cooled wind and Pabst Blue Ribbon is working it's magic, so much that you offer the your married next door neighbor's wife a bottle, but forget that you are plum fresh out of bottles, and then offer a sip of yours like we are six and mom forgot to buy us kids each a Mountain Berry Twist Capri Sun for ourselves, and she grimaces at you like the muppet that lives in the trash can on Sesame Street, and even if you are drunk you can still figure out what that means, you don't even need her to close the door on you, and go back to typing on her portable computer that sits on the coffee table in between plants that look like cactus, but you guess actually aren't cactus, not that you wanted to sit and listen to all the explanations that come out of her mouth about how plants are "comforting" and make the whole place "livable" and what you guess she means by "livable" is that her husband won't spring for a any new appliances, but he has a nice Harley,  and third wives with baggage (you sense you will be told of 3 kids and there whereabouts somewhere in Georgia) settle for a lot less than they admit to, because a toned 40 year old woman should have "value" in the land o' Walmart and fatties, because I am sensing an attitude over there young lady, a bit of the resentment for climbing the ol' Viagra pole now and then with the body of a half marathoner whose kids are living in Alabama, but whatever, for some reason that old man  has made no plans whatsoever about throwing a few hundred dollars around to correct the lime green appliances bought new circa 1973.

"I wasn't even born then."  You could imagine telling her.  Even though you were born then. You were born in 1970. 

But you are not drunk.

Even though you are sitting here on the porch steps contemplating the sinking horizon of your time line here on Earth and what a waste it would be to just keep getting older with no cell phone, no kick ass plans that involve mixing your time up by: working out, getting drunk, and getting laid.

Maybe you should get drunk.

You can't think of any reasons not to be drunk, since you are not going to pay your cell phone bill this month, you might even have a few dollars for a cheap 18 pack of beer, but staying at home getting drunk just sounds more depressing than doing nothing, and as un-fun-like as going to a local bar for reverse happy hour, when reverse happy hour means dollar well, wine and draft, even though the draft at that bar is crap and warm, and not at all suitable for shaking the lazy malaise that inhabits you.

Not that the malaise is much to talk about.  Not so much as sad, or even depressing.  It just feels like someone took all the taste away from you.  Well.  What I mean is like they have "a plan" to take all the taste away from you, but that they started by taking all the salt out of things.  Then they gave you fish sticks with no ketchup.

Fish sticks with no ketchup is what you feel like.   That is no emergency.  Nothing to get upset about.  It's just fish sticks and no ketchup served alongside room temperature ice tea with no sugar.

The ice tea comes in a giant purple plastic tumbler.  24 ounces of blandness that coat your teeth with a dull yellow grime.  You never swallow quickly anymore now that your stomach hurts.  So the ice tea sits in your mouth working on nerve endings in your teeth.  You never think about the nerve endings in your teeth until they start to bother you.

You try swallowing again with just tea to test things, and you wonder what your stomach would do with gin and tonic.  You would order something else at the bar, but you only know two grown up drinks.  Gin and Tonic & Screw drivers.

You assume screw drivers are for mid-day brunches with your fiance and your fiance's parents who drink too much.

You figure your order of Gin and Tonic to a bartender says you are like 60 (and grandmotherly in a dirty alcoholic way), but like I said you don't know too many other drinks that don't involve whiskey, or Wild Turkey, and you never liked the taste of hard liquor anyway,  you always like beer, because that's just the kind of simple guy you are.

You could just be a beer guy who lost his phone today and who went out to drink the dollar specials at the neighborhood bar.

But you aren't.  Today you are not drunk and out having adventures.  You are just thirsty for a soda.  Today is just like every other day, a day you forgot to drown away with beer,  a day where you spilled over a bucket of sunflower seeds, and left them to rot on your bedroom floor, a day you don't even have the desire to wish you had wished away, so I guess that's why you got today.

Because a guy like you, knows that a guy like you, always gets what he deserves.

I make it 7 straight days without drinking a Coke, so God infects me with the h1n1 virus

Here I am with nothing to do again.  Not even a beer in the fridge to keep me company, and by company, I mean hit me over the head with a bucket of blackout sex and debauchery.

I stay up past 8 am, but it isn't THAT kind of staying up late.  The kind of staying up late that involves drinking.

The kind of drinking that fuels cocaine binged nights spent cyber stalking the middle-aged crew-cut next-door-neighbor's-wife who leaves her door open for the reason I choose to believe must have something to do with wanting to be bitten during rough sex.

No, my late nights have something to do with publishing rough notes on some garbage ideas I have about modernity, theology, and philosophy.

Which just goes to prove that you can talk yourself into believing anything, if you can talk yourself into believing that a giant of philosophy like Soren Kierkegaard can be turned into a rationalization for the pathetic, inauthentic, life that you lead.

Ice cream flavored kittens.

I am not drinking soda.  Seven days in a row.  And it is the kind of thing that fatties in the supermarket get excited about.

I think I told some one of them that I lost 3 pounds, and then I told them how I was going off to a protest for universal health care on my next day off.

I guess if that is the kind of thing that gets you off then you can go ahead and feel proud of yourself.  You know like you are doing something other than following the latest news about how Miley Cyrus has deleted her Twitter account which is nothing like the terrible cycle of abuse that follows the girls that work in the deli department around here.



The Self Help Center Guide to being punched in the kidney.


If you get punched in the eye and leave to Texas, I suggest you don't listen to your boyfriend, don't listen to him tell you how much he loves you, and can't live without you, so much so that he attempts to run over the security guard on patrol in her electric scooter car, run her over on purpose, because when you get home... he's just going to punch you in the kidney, and we have all seen girls that we could punch in the kidney, and watch them die on the dirty bathroom floors, kicking their legs out from under them, screaming that their kidneys hurt, and "Oh, I think you hurt my kidney this time."

REALLY? And not just your dignity like when you got punched in the face. (And why I gotta ask you twice bitch?... ain't that joke still funny?)

All those black eyes that you don't bother to make excuses for anymore, you just keep your head down and stare straight at the time clock whenever I see you at work.

Thank god I am not the one asking you questions as you lie kicking in pain on the bathroom floor that is decorated with the pink ankle socks from some other woman, left from the night before you got there, (and somehow you still don't know better than to ask him questions  after all  you've been told...)

If I was there I would try to tell you get out, and to stick it with me, that there is something going on here between us, and that everything is okay, that all this random stuff is awkward, but not a friendship killer for us, if you know what I mean.

And I think she does.

"God hates me!" I know she would tell me, but "I just got infected with H1N1" I would tell her back.  

See?  We all got our problems.

Mine comes to me in the form of commercials that I hear all day at work.  The commercials go something like "what gives a kid butterflies in his tummy?" And of  course I go, "sitting on my lap."

So then my problem becomes the young lady friend of a boy from work who's thinks I make up songs about children sitting on my lap "getting butterflies," and now she thinks to call me creepy, but in front of her dad, so she say something like this guy (meaning me) is creepy, and dad asks if I am creepy like... "something unintelligible" is all I hear and I try and play it off like "ya that's funny who ain't?" and then she says no, "it's like he likes young girls" and then daddy is like "well at least you don't hide it."

Which all sounds so weird to me, but not really when I am surrounded by 18 year old girls at the chicken wing bar, wiping greasy stains in my lap, my face burning red all because I can't find a cream that reduces redness on the face, or anything to reduce the shame and embarrassment that stutters out of me, along with the coughing  acid-reflux from lungs filling up with swine flu that my brothers ex wife has given to me, "just to let you know all the kids in school have it so you have it!"

Oh, shit.  Somebody get me a wet wipe.

The Self Help Guide to Overcoming Positivity

I need inspiration and by inspiration I mean I need beer.

I did not write this blog post drunk, I will not wake up tomorrow hungover. I guess I could be thankful for that.

If I had gotten drunk I could spin you tales, and then you could think of me as your (slightly) older, creepy uncle that only gets phone numbers from girls who can’t say no to phone number requests, and then sits outside their apartments jerking off in a yellow colored van all the while texting the girl in between placing calls to her phone that go straight to voice mail, followed by her clumsy hang-up all meant to sound like a pocket answer, which we all know is not possible when I hear you mutter, “oh shit” into the speaker phone.

Bitch.

But the good news for my liver may not be good news for my blog readers.

I was hoping for some liquid inspiration tonight, so I walked to the local convenience store for some beer. Nothing makes the process of creating awful blog posts more interesting to me than alcohol.

But the asshat that runs the only store within walking distance of me closes his doors at midnight and forces you to do all your shopping through a pass window the size of a breadbox.  

The window does not have nearly enough room for the clerk to get a 12 pack of Bud Light through. The clerk asked if I wanted to “wait around” while he “broke down the 12 pack and placed all the bottles in bags.” I told him, “Fuck that!” I’d rather go home to be bothered by the twitchy, caffeinated dreams that come with drinking coke and blogging until 9 am.

I have a blog of failure.

People like me have to write about failure. We write about failure because we cannot "create" in the typical sense of the word. Sometimes one of the grand failures we produce becomes a "works of art." But mostly they do not. Mostly they are like this blog, just a chronicle of failure. A sign post. A warning that clues you into estrangement of modern life.  

I imagine that is one reason why a happy person would hate this blog.

Happy People Are Delusional.

Happy people get it all wrong. They get it all wrong because they are so damn optimistic. But optimism is a delusion. It’s the same kind of delusion that pessimism is, and everyone in our culture intuitively understands how delusional pessimism is.

Everyone needs at least one pessimist friend.

I know you like to think of me as your cynical, pessimistic friend. But (as usual) you have it all wrong. I am not a pessimist. I am not cynical. I am realist. The only thing this blog (aka my world view) suffers from is a healthy dose of reality.

If you paid attention in college then you would know that depressed people score more accurately on arrange of tests:

Psychologists Shelly Taylor and Jonathon Brown state that the average “Normal” person is quite self-deluded in three areas.

a) viewing themselves in unrealistically positive terms; b) believing they have more control over their environment than they actually do; and c) holding views about the future that are more positive than the evidence can justify.

Being positive is as crazy as being negative.

Only depressed people like me get a glimpse of reality. That’s why we are depressed.

I tell you this not to burst your bubble of ignorance, but to let you know that I understand reality better than you. So you should really just shut up and listen to the things I tell you.

Reality sucks.

Unconsciously you know that. Hence your evolutionary adaption to being positive. If you actually had to face reality most of you would want to throw yourselves off a bridge, or at least stop going out in public in coffee stained undershirts.

But you don’t. Instead you project your fears and make depressed people feel guilty over seeing reality.

You conflate depression with over-negativity.

I have some advice for you. The next time you come across an area where you need to see reality. Ask a depressed person. Ask them to tell you the truth. Brace yourself because it is probably going to hurt. Not as much as when your boyfriend “corrects” you. But still. It’s bound to hurt.

1. Your ass is what makes you look fat.

2. Your parents ARE disappointed in you.

3. Life IS ultimately meaningless.

You can add to that your whole laundry list of fears and insecurities. Yes, some mirrors distort you body, and some angles in photos can be deceptive, and our society’s obsession over health and beauty is destructive, but you don’t care about any of that.

You want to be special and beautiful.

And fuck it. Who says you aren’t?

The Self Help Guide to overcoming infidelity.

Step #1 in The Self Help Guide to understanding and overcoming hypothetical adultery.

First you must accept this:

HE NEVER WANTED WHAT YOU WANTED

How do women put up with men? Women know what they expect out of life. Men don't realize anything about life until we reach 50, and our dicks no longer work.

But that’s because the dick is a magical creature. It talks us into any number of things. Men with dicks are not totally human, but then again women don’t fall for humans, they fall for MEN.

A man and his dick can do great things.

Very few men actually want to get married. And no penis ever does. But more often than naught the penis is trapped by a female before the penis can live out its dreams. If the female trap works the wonderful life the penis envisioned for its owner is doomed.*

*The penis not the vagina is the source of all creativity.

I mention this because super sexy Ubermilf Dark would like to blame her spouse’s “penis” for hypothetical infractions of the marital code.

She writes:

“Why, if your marriage is already weathering the stresses and strains of constant travel, would someone choose to invite an old flame out to dinner while in this old flame's current city? Away from his loyal spouse? Huh? Hypothetically, why would someone do that?”

But I say hold on.

Don’t blame the penis.

The penis and I hardly ever talk. The penis has its own agenda. I can’t trust the penis either. But that is not to say that the real man underneath the penis does not value you UberMilf, it is just means that the penis is hostage to young, hot pussy:

"So, hypothetically, this spouse might be pretty fucking pissed off and miserable and full of self-doubts and feeling like an idiot for ever giving up a career and stretching out her body having children and giving up the best years of her life because she stupidly trusted you. Hypothetically."

"Because, hypothetically, this high school flame is some unattached Hollywood producer with long blond hair and a non-stretched out body."

In a sense your violated "trust" is evolutionary pay back for being young and beautiful and able to control the penis. Don’t get mad now that the penis' compass is hypothetically directed elsewhere.

There was a time when you could control the penis and wield its wonderful power. Be thankful. That is more than I will ever know and must be the reason for my use of a masturbatory fantasy life where I become “Sarah Beth” and get ass raped by pimps. But I digress.

The moral of the story is that wielding a powerful instrument like the penis is addictive and just like your husband you are caught in its trap.

Your husband is addicted to the penis because he loves the idea of slamming strange pussy. You too are addicted to the power of the penis, because you love to control the MAN behind the penis.

You are each addicted to penis power.

Stop worrying about hypothetical adultery. Allow the penis to do what it wants as long as it is hypothetical.*

*It is possible for the man to fool his penis. A rich fantasy life can fool the penis. Sometimes for 30 years. Just long enough for the erect penis to deflate and the destructive/creative properties of testosterone to extinguish.

If we do not fool the penis MEN cannot stay married. The penis wants nothing to do with marriage, kids, car pooling, and recycle trash days.

What I am saying is that the man you are married to is engaging in a bit of diversionary fantasy for his penis, and this is good news for you. You are still married to a MAN. And not just a penis.

The Self Help Guide to Posting Porn Requests on the Internet

When a pregnant woman stops you on the street to tell you about pregnant horse porn I think you naturally assume that she must be talking about a couple of horses "fucking" and one of them is pregnant.

I doubt you'd think she was talking about her desire to have sex with a horse while being pregnant.

But if a sicko like that stopped you in the street I bet you could impress on them the knowledge of their social faux pas with a simple raise of your eyebrows.

But what if "that person on the street" was actually an anonymous poster on the Internet?

How would you scold that person for their inappropriate behavior?

A flame war?

And who you hold responsible when all you have to blame is the lawless community of anonymous internet geeks who refuse to learn even the basics of human interaction.

Something has gone terribly wrong here.

I want to remind you to be careful when opening the responses you get from the fetish requests you make on the internet, because after you click on the link that the creepy internet nerd sent, you may never be turned on by pregnant chicks again. And that would be terrible thing!

It is relevant to your interests.

I know the anonymous internet poster just wanted to help a fellow fetishist out. But posters should take more care when answering requests they get in cyberspace.

And if you are an internet responder and you fuck up... just admit it. Apologize. Don't flame me back with the old Internet adage "it is relevant to your interests."

That's just not the appropriate response to a situation that requires you to apologize.

You guys have no idea how to handle social situations.

I know all you anonymous posters on 4chan hate rules. And I know that flaming back one of those super geek fetish porn addicts who befriends you by offering you free porn can be risky. That's why I am telling the community at large how to behave and not him.

He would probably just hack into my computer and download all kinds of illegal stuff into it and then call the cops on me.

We live in age of entitlement that sickens me.

Instead I had to tell him thank-you:

"Thanks for sending me that link to the pregnant women fucking horse fetish website. Because I really wanted to know just how specific people feel they can be in this age of over the Internet porn."

That guy still owes me an apology. Horses fucking pregnant chicks is not "relevant to my interests." I mean... not that horses fucking gets me off either.

I like to watch pregnant chicks fucking. Maybe they could be sisters from Japan wearing bright navy blue school girl outfits sucking off horses.

I mean except for the horses part. I like PONIES not HORSES you FREAKS!

MOAR
BUMP
LOL

p.s.
I guess I could have linked to the webpage, but that would make it weird for us.

Wouldn't it?

The Self Help Guide to the Philosophy of Mediocrity

I think my face is melting. What I mean to say is I wish my face was melting. If that were the case there would be nothing I could do about the fact that I am getting older, fatter, and uglier.


If I just got a bit skinnier you might be able to see my jaw line, and see how all the years have only added character to my face. I might be better looking that I was when I was 20 and actually getting pussy.

Instead, all I have is a number of pictures on myspace with me looking like a fat ass. I have no idea when getting fat happened. Though from what people have said to me it has been happening for quite some time and, "I should really think about hitting the gym."

I suppose going to the gym could get me skinny, but then I would have to stop eating ding-dongs, and drinking cola.

Not that any of that matters.

I still have the infection in my toe, and I have to think that all that puss is going somewhere, and that somewhere is showing up as red splotches on my arms. Or maybe those splotches are just the signs that my arms and back are growing hair all the while I am going bald on the top of my head.

I guess all this means is that the period of time I had when I could fool 18 year old girls that I was under 35 is now about gone. I might have a few more weeks, maybe less, and then everyone who meets me will assume that I am over 35, and when that happens everything in my life will be in decline.

Once I was young, and full of potential. Now I am old, and full of regret. I know some of you out there have some kind of strange New Age belief that you never regret anything that happens in life, "because it just sets us up to learn difficult life lessons we could have never learned any other way."

Either that or you never regret anything because you are afraid to admit that you made a mistake. I think the second manner of thinking is false, if not impossible. I think the first way of thinking is magical and silly.

All I can tell you is that I have made tons of mistakes in my life. I am sure there are a millions things I would "do over" if given the chance. Anyone who would tell you different is a liar.

As I wrote this post I figured out the reason I stay "youthfully immature" is that way I can have people view me through the prism of 'potential' rather than 'practice.'

Neither paradigm holds much promise for me anymore. I have done very little with the life that I have. I will most likely do nothing much with what is left. I am in danger of waiting around or "running the clock out" as a good friend of mine once said about another friend of ours.

All I can tell you is that I must lack some element of faith that you believers have. I can't seem to give myself over to the idea that anything I do will matter.

I know when nothing matter to some people they just give in to the impulses. As for that kind of hedonism, my lusting for the good life is quite different from yours. I don't want to go after a lot of material goods, so I can't be bought by the promise of riches. My hedonism is simple. I wish to be left alone. I wish to have time to myself. Though we all know what "time to one's self" eventually does to that self.*

*Does it not just force the focus of our lives too richly on ourselves?

I know if we give in to our darkest desires we tend destroy ourselves. Binging on drugs, sex and rock 'n roll is just too obvious a way to kill yourself:

I know some of you would like to offer me some advice.

You want me to stop dwelling on the big picture. Maybe just look smaller at some of the little things that need adjusting. Like maybe some fine tuning of my life skills would get my heart back in the right place.

I can tell you that concentrating on the smaller things in life is all I do, and I will need a lot of those life skills to practice anything other than the slow ride into death from the joyless existence I now have.

What disgusts me most about myself is my fascination with the minutia of my decaying life. How the body alerts you over the years of where every thing is eventually headed.

I am motionless, like a suicidal. I have any number of small ailments. Many of which could be looked after. The result of which could enable me to live out life more comfortably. Perhaps with some pleasure.

I have insurance, but I do not seek out the help of doctors. I am overwhelmed by the smallest of obstacles and tiniest of stumbling blocks that society and culture set before me.

I can find in the warning of a 250 dollar deductible the death sentence of mortals. Two hundred fifty dollars. I won't go to the doctor. I will allow my toe to rot.

If I were artist, or a philosopher, or a hero I would cut it off to spite the world. But I will not. I am no one like that. I am like you. Only weaker. The struggling minnow in the torrent of the flood. The Ocean swallows me. The maelstrom collision of modern alienation and anomie leaving me rudderless . Set adrift, I follow only the current of my destruction. Unhappy at my lot. I sit at my ship. I keep careful watch for the falls. But I know I will sail over anyway.

None of that is true. It is a waste of poetic imagery. Hacked from better thinkers. Borrowed from the collective unconscious. I just hoped you would follow along with me, simply because you were familiar with the language.

What I am is so much smaller. I am not the hero of this myth. I am alone. I am imperceptible. Unknown by fate. To be mocked by the gods is to be treasured.

But all I have is the smallness of my every day life. What we have now is something that can only be understood by Heidegger's Dasein. His "Being-in-the-world."

I cry out at the hypocrisy of others. At the futility of rage assigned to the blameless. When all my thoughts are consumed by the splinters that effect us all. "How will I pay for this bill? How can I afford this* item? Where will I live?"

*do I need it? what will it do? are there others better. what are the trade offs this purchase will make me endure?... ad infinitum....

My answer to this question is to take my dirty sheets off the bed, if only after a month or two, if only to see them pile up in the dirty clothes pile, if only to tell myself that I will wash them before I go to bed, and wonder at what I will tell myself now that it is 2 am and the sheets are unwashed. Is it o.k. to place the unwashed sheets back on the bed? Do I have time to wash them before bed? I wonder if there are sheets in the pantry that will fit my bed.

Afterward I wonder if I can stop the hemorrhaging of money. I spend money like I earn it, which I do not. I spent 77 cents on a glass when I have cups. 8 purple cups that work just fine. I do not need 4 new glasses. Even if the glasses are just the correct size to pour cold ice tea from the refrigerator into. The correct size and texture and feel to drink from when no ice is required, because the tea is refrigerator cold. Just big enough to drink leisurely from without the contents turning warm. Large enough to consume without going thirsty.

I must have a drink in my hand at all waking hours. If I am awake I have a cold glass of coke, or a tepid cup of Iced Tea ready at hand. I have no idea why. Other than the observation made form a nursing assistant that diabetics drink like that.

Nursing assistants. They only let them change bed pans. But I take his advice to heart. Those words were the last words I heard from a health professional.

My roommate has been asleep all day. I can hear his snoring through two shut doors. I walk to the kitchen and fill my glass full of ice tea. The roommate left the tea out earlier today. It sat between the stove and the refrigerator on the kitchen counter tops getting warm. Not too warm though. Cool enough for me to know this must have been a mistake. That he placed the large plastic gallon pitcher on the counter so that he could rummage through the ice box looking for ding-dongs or pasta or left over bowls of top ramen. All he eats is "top ramen and tuna fish" he reminds me.

I would like to scream at the injustice in the world. But there seems to be no injustice. Life's calloused hands swat away a billion insects in the moment it took me to write this sentence. I am not humbled by this fact, as it exists like every other fact. Connected in a way that makes no difference to me.

It is just a fact. And as a fact, I can ignore it.