Random Thoughts on Women, Men and my Firesale Value


When you’re a boy, women love your baby face, but when it stays that way they despise you. You’re less than human. Avoided like a train vagrant with box cutters. Its why child stars become raging heroin addicts and has-beens by sexual maturity. You have to get rid of that milk and cookie physique and angularize your features or you’re gonna be a cherub faced incel who shoots up fat girl gyms.

A good  mother can never prepare you for her kind.  Joan Crawford would prepare you for women. Like prep school before the Ivy league. Better to be a hated whipping boy turned Fabio than a teddy bear that follows the golden rule. His soul to be mutilated and made an example on trite solipsistic girl memes warning the tribe of the dangers of the ” nice guy”.

Mom will love you no matter what. Women will hate you for asking how they’re feeling. Fuck your boss. Turn you against your soul. Age you like a labor camp.

It makes sense to tell someone to just be themselves when they are perfect to you. Its not her fault that nature doesn’t want me. Women  select for tatted flat brim hat wearing skater bros,  grant funded hipster art welders and herpes infected basketball players with the functional IQs of dwarf hamsters. I’m anachronistic, waiting a genetic death. My soulmate is tube porn. it’s the age of mammals now. I’m that slow, fading spiky headed velaso raptor scavenging for carcasses left by Aegean cruise line tennis coaches and sleeved up indie bands.

Mom did her best. But she lead me to believe in myself. She should have  guarded me like the Sloth. Chained me in a basement away from the mockery of the normies and Fed me snickers bars. Heinous but far more merciful than the ill fated expressions of encouragement. It would’ve spared me the agony of believing that people would love me.


I’m a lot happier now that I’ve come to some grim conclusions regarding my value to others. If you’re Jared Leto, just be whatever you feel like. Freedom to breathe as a fully realized human is yours. Any weaknesses you have will be vastly outweighed by your looks, talent  and fame. Just don’t get married like Johnny Depp. Then all that goes out the window. Your welcome for that insightful advice, Jared.

A ways down the totem pole where I live is where it gets juicy.
Here it’s better to scrap yourself and scour gay flex magazines for arm day routines and internet sub reddits to rebuild. If you’re a man, you’re not allowed to be human. Its the future already.  It’s Mad Max dressed up like Mad Men. That’s what fools people. The costumes and set design. You’re the only one who wants to be you. Everyone else demands you to be a character, an archetype.

To succeed with women you must become a bionic personality. Cut out your weaknesses, toss the fleshy remnants of your natural persona into a rotting pile of remains like a  civil war field surgeon. Consider it casualties of the dating field. Out here your weaknesses could turn gangrenous…make other parts of you feel again.

Just don’t fucking be yourself at all costs. Be an interloper. An emotional cyborg, a piecemeal ransom note of a person assembled from a variety of superior men.

You’re either a Frank Milller character or a despondent incel addicted to midget porn and rampage fantasies. No other options. Its all they’ll allow.
Not allowed to be as you are. You’re a pet project car on bricks all week being tweaked so you’ll be flashy and loud enough to lure teen pussy on the weekend cruise.


Girls can be themselves because vaginas are always accepted no matter what type of person they are a part of. Men have to be created. If a patrilineage of capital class horse breeders and chiseled  Mediterranean  cocksmith genetics didn’t do it for you, you’ll have to yourself. That’s why there’s a manosphere.


There are three types of value a person has. Innate human value, sexual value and economic value.

In a world where people are mapping The genome for upgrades and uploading human minds onto google cloud, I still sell my labor to physically move things around in a building. The world demands my crass chorework for flickering cutaway shots of Cisco systems commercials but won’t reward me with access to vagina. I’m in the wrong century. Utility in today’s world is good looks, earning power and lifestyle. Those are ultimately derived from aestetics, ingenuity or psychopathy. Usually all three.


I have a body for the mountains, not the beach. A face that sells self defense mace.  My market value  is a bad episode of time bandits where the stone smashing dark age henchman gives chase only to be left behind in the antiseptic future of bio domes and unisex iridescent jumpsuits. They never show you the after. What do they actually do with that guy? Well I know now.


My cloud atlas was off a half click. Could’ve been a trapper in the badlands when there were still nubile squaws to be wrought.  You don’t need all of your teeth when captive breeder women don’t have an instagram to look up your smiling travel pics.


I’m an improvement over pug faced bushmen and most Appalachians but an absolute failure for the modern market.
My entire human value amounts to what entertainment or social benefits I can provide for twit valley girl descendants.

I don’t feel alone I’m that regard. A lot of men are the middle homo erectus on a snarky evolutionary chain t shirt some hipster girl wears that ends with the archetype male she wants to fuck. Always skaters,  indie guitarists, or oddly, guy with Bernie Sanders glasses.

I’m not a troll but set one foot in a yuppie bar and it becomes clear that I am gods shitty mr potato head sent to earth. A tangible connection between the people and the sadism their tortuous and  creator. A God without remorse or compunction. I’m not even a creation born from his image. Just a living first generational prototype for the horrors of faceswap.

I should’ve bought a pressure cleaner. Homesteaded in the new economy by blasting grime off strip mall parking lots. It would’ve made the world a cleaner and better place than baring my soul in self expression. It also would make wearing a surgical mask publicly less suspect. I should move to Beijing.


Things are Great and Everybody’s Miserable


I’m sitting in a 2016 Rustbelt Starbucks: Its a Huff Post center spread. A Bi-racial gangster girl is listening to a loud cacophony of home video Facebook posts and Chief Keef. Her phone must have fucking Bose car speakers. Fatherless broods of hood rat pranksters now make more movies than Kevin Bacon. A 600 dollar phone without 2 dollar headphones. Its the new ghetto chic.

A head scarved Middle Eastern girl sitting on the laps of three gay guys taking selfies. They are a coexist bumper sticker come to life. Black Hipster couples perfecting their own brand of detached smugness and passive aggressive banter.

This is what the mountain top looks like.

The cultural left is fueled by constant outrages. Whether you give credence to any of it is up to you. But what should be abundantly clear is that if you have to be a victim of oppression, modern America is the fucking triple cherries of history.

No one gives a fuck about abandoned mill towns, white meth dens, or every lower middle class asshole  with a pulse working in indentured servitude. Average joes working for the tax farm. Laboring in a soulless corporate utopia to finance shoddily made Ikea furniture. If it’s diverse than it’s all good. The left has given up on The meta narrative. Its sole focus are the micros. Literally they are obsessed with micro aggressions.

Class is off limits unless it intersects with underpaid labia or as an additional crutch for the underwhelming human indicators of feral ghetto children. Bernie Sanders hinted at it but he is wedded to the cathedral. Sure I’ll vote for Bernie, but Id just as soon vote for Genghis Khan or Visigoth marauders. I’m an idealist I guess.

We’re left with fine points. Bathroom signage and inclusive language on HR forms. For the millennial identity politics milleu,
this is as good as it gets. And most people are fucking miserable. We live a lie. False pseudo utopian gender and social constructs divorced from our natures. How could we not be miserable? I’m on the left economically. But even in my analysis of economic ills, there is a sense that it could be so much worse. Not into doomsday shit.

The reason there’s so much dissatisfaction is that the cultural left dominates mass culture today and they are people utterly devoid of any understanding of human nature or human history. To recount the latter:

Barbarity on a scale that would be considered bad dystopian sci fi on late night WGN. Most of humans sordid history includes repeated and sustained genocides, child sacrifice, human spit ceremonies, pyramid slavery, cannibalism, armies of eunuchs, inbred hereditary rule, dwarf emperors, snake pits, spiked Manacles.

Pre-Magna Carta torture devices, progommes, witch hunting, vats of hot tar,  live boilings, drawing and quartering, castrations, iron maidens, stoning, the press, water torture, disembowelment, inquisitions,  castratti choirs, blood leeching, live burials, crucification, cage starving, human rat traps and village raids. Foot binding, neck stretching subcutaneous glass grafting, Viking conquests and bubonic plagues. All much more “problematic” if you ask me.

A thousand generations of Apocalypto.  Mass beheadings, impalement, amputations,  public skinning, stake burnings. Yet in 2016 we’re driven to a frenzy over police dash videos and rob Lowe tweets.

We could have been tethered to fire ant mounds or stuffed into gas chambers.

College campuses filled with triggered bubble children. Histrionics over culturally appropriated buffet items.

Billions of university dollars never pose them this thought: that they could have been illiterate and muted prepubescent breeders. Sent to feed at agricultural waste troughs, their dysentery weary assholes offered as carnal trophies and hunted like sick caribou by horny warrior monks and feral scavengers.

We will never be happy. We live in an Eden of unimaginable luxury compared to any point in history. Compared to most places in the world, even.  But it’s never good enough. Baby always needs shoes.

Nature’s Way: Feel the Pain and Die


I haven’t been off work in 4 months. I’ve given up all hope of a meaningful and fulfilling life where my thoughts and needs matter. They don’t. The idea of leisure and the life of the mind for a working person  are a recent abberation. A wrinkle in the otherwise uninterrupted cycle of human civilization. Wake, work, die.
I have to rebuild my credit. I need to have more than 12 dollars left before my next paycheck. It’s not for me, I could brew a pot of Family dollar coffee and try to play Whitesnake songs all day. I don’t need the money. It’s because I’m worthless to anyone without it.

At this point, to escape the meat grinder I  could take out 80k student loans and pay them back until I’m a senile, drooling shell of my former self. Eventually my usefulness in a chosen field would expire, and I could only work at TJ Maxx, my quaky old man voice unable to tell kids to stop doping and giving handjobs in the dressing rooms. I would have my hours cut, then become forgetful and not show up for my 4 hour shift every other Tuesday and be fired by a merciless assistant manager, drift into anonymity unloved. My social security cut by 90 percent to fund debt payments to Chinese bankers and tax cuts for Connecticut blue bloods. My advanced Parkinson’s making it impossible to hold a beggars cup, I fall into a coma, my remaining days are only spastic moments of consciousness, spent in seizure, begging an indifferent God to please, please let me fucking die. Careerism is a charade. We sell our life  to be worthy of medical care, love, attention and food.

I already feel like a cripple. The posture of a fucking 85 year old rice farmer. Only the Mike Cernovich abundance poses have saved me from becoming a fetus again. Its 5:45 am. My body hurts all over. My hip flexors feel like they were booby trapped by pajama pants jungle fighters. I move to quickly and am ambushed by shooting pain and I crumple trying to put my pants on. I’m considering shitty Velcro WalMart sneakers for work. I’m 36. This is nature’s plan. In the wild it would be pumas and wild packs. Under the awning of western civilization it’s everything else. Its slower, they want to rip out more than your innards. They want decades of your labor, souls, dreams and toil. Blood is not enough. Death by work and rudderless pointless servitude. A wolverine attack seems merciful by comparison. I’m no misty eyes romantic about the natural order.

Every artistic depiction shows her as a paganist woman with a glowing wind gown and birch crown. This is because she’s a Wiccan lesbian. A fucking psychotic cunt that tortures you for fun.
I used to believe nature was simply indifferent to our plight. I was wrong. God is real and desperately wants to punish you.

When it comes to love God hates us, not fags. Every gay is an extended weekend away from triple digit notches.  Heterosexual men were made to need love through Darwinian mating strategies that  wont allow it. We couldn’t evolve with hit and run mating because women are tarts and can’t do shit by themselves. They have to have a social civilization.

Building forts and hunting till you die of old age at 31 is mostly a shit deal. Nature had to sugar coat it. Addicted us to the lure of pussy. Drugged with chemical lust that forces us to give a fuck about outcomes and help with resources. Have to be deceived into civilizing ourselves to propagate our species.

When you love you invest everything. That dumb fucking voice in your head making you do the right things isn’t just conditioning. Its the sequential genetic whispers of that dread locked hippy cunt that programmed you for sacrificial love. You invest because you want reciprocation. You will never get it. You will give more and get less. If you care at all you will fucking lose.

The return on investment with people in general is bad. Emotional capital is best spent on your pets. That’s why we domesticated them. Made them need us. Altered their genes for co Dependant owner worship.

Whenever you hear tired cliches about aloof men etc from jaded girls this is who they’re talking about. Since you don’t exist to them, this is all men.
At some point long long ago, you were  just supposed to pump them in a Bush and run to the sanctity of your tree fortress. Defect to the hills, return annually to rob your bastard progeny. But then some fucking asshole built a house. A garden. Became a green thumb. The expectations rose. Armies assembled to capture homes filled with traitorous wives and daughters. Civilization. Suffrage. Tinder. We can never go back, but we don’t have to poetic about it anymore either.

Wal-Mart Is Tomorrowland


That Walmart is everywhere is standard pablum for observers of all stripes. Of course I hate it. The problem is I can’t just avoid it like a sensible person. The reason is every store is just like them now. Nearly every cog in the assembly line of society has been “Taylored” to replicate their scheme. Outsource, lowball, dumb down and destroy alternatives.

It’s not just a place we buy things. Nothing is that simple in post everything America. The largest employer in North America is a signifier,  a shorthand reference to the rotten underbelly of cultural ruin and  class stratification. An underbelly in full view now that America is on it’s back.  The fumes of cheap Chinese plastic and even cheaper mouth breathing shoppers contribute to the putrid stench of the Great Decline. Wal Mart is the town center of a new dystopian Norman Rockwell reality. A vulgar crossroads of convenience and the disposable fruits of human industrial slavery.

I’m not peddling nostalgia.
People in all eras have mostly been shitty. Human fodder for the arching aims of their superiors.
But what we used to hide with shame in pursuit of our aspirations, we now bare without reservation. We let it all hang out. A people without hope and without shame.

Every store is filled with an unsavory coterie of new American archetypes: Surly stroller pushers, ghetto chic cultural armageddonists, teen girls singing Beyonce a Crapella in dollhouse scale clothing littered in bedazzle bling and vulgar colloquialisms. Prematurely old fat fuck waddlers, gout stricken wheelchair mamas. Moonshiner families that run woodshed hillbilly brothels. Dimentia sufferers,  illiterate amateur rappers. Prepubescent girls the size of wrestlers. Refugees from decency all of them.  Fuck the Syrians, who will take our disgusting redundant hordes?

The decline is real. You can bubble yourself in with fruitopian yoga experts, organic craft beer and androgynous info tech wonderboys who explain the latest dazzles of human agency in reassuring, modernist upspeak. But the decline is the future. Women who look like Bilbo Baggins pushing cart fulls of kids that have the cognitive capacities of gremlins. Disneyland had it backwards. Tomorrowland is the optimism of the past. The future would be a circusy mix of Main Street and Pirates of the Carribean.  With lots of meth.

Colorado: A Review


I visited a few times, the last about 10 years ago. I hiked with a friend, mountain biked, rented a pontoon boat, then a speedboat. I really enjoyed nature. I thought about what it would be like to live there. I began to formulate a plan in my head. Then I started to venture around the small towns around Lake Dillon. I discovered the harsh truth that it may be the worst place in the world for my sexual market value. I’m tall, mid 30s now. White to boot. I was younger then, but even then I knew I was fucked.

My mind goes to those dreams from time to time and I have to remind myself to always, always give up hope.

Efforts to conquer the mountain west are futile. If you harbor false hope that you too, could start a life in the new Mecca of savvy millenial homesteaders, then I offer this:  I actually went there. Its like going to a party filled with popular people that didn’t invite you and wonder why you’re there. Everyone is young and fit. There is soul crushing beauty. You’ll curse beloved forebears. Learn that God hates you. Even older people are younger and fitter than you. Its a space time warp of devastating proportions. The rematerializing of Logan’s run terminations. 25 forever and born to run in the mountain air.

You’ll be the least attractive person till the Wyoming border. I wasn’t a troll. From a distance I could be a Keanu Reeves stunt double. I started hunting 4’s. I don’t mean  day gaming, but full on Max Cady Cape Fear hunting. “Where the fuck are the 4s?!!” I would scream in my head after talking to nubile college beauty queens. I would seek out the weak and sick to no avail.

So you also can’t take your girlfriend. Its a wonderland filled with Adonis upstart gurus that triathlon and  micro brew.  The new renaissance men. They fuck like wild Broncos.  Coo like Billy Corgan. A woman you crawled over a desert of broken glass for will pair bond with him in 15 seconds. She will forget you, bear his seed, live out her days as a surrogate for the master class. Better the scraps of kings than the feasts of peasants. So if you go, you will probably learn this the hard way, that’s all.
A lot of men there are advanced degree pot plantation owners. That’s a real thing. They have man buns and laser eyes that twinkle like fine gems, teeth from dental advertisements.

I drove to a bar restaurant on the lake one evening. I had a 20 dollar a day budget. That may not have helped. I skipped beer and went to the espresso bar in the downstairs.

The Coffee bar scene looked like a granola commercial stocked with Ralph Lauren models. Organic diets of Rocky mountain super foods and coho salmon give every granite carved face the glow of a night light. Every cheek dimpled to catch the run off from the monsoons of tourist pussy drip. Probably a daily hazard for them while running simple errands.

Did you know the water is filled with minerals that give the bone structures of Roman gladiator statues. Back east it just has lead. Gives you dimentia, makes inner city kids stupid and hate you. So I’m not knocking the water at all.

But how can you compete?

There my only hope would be niche fetishism. Work at a greasy spoon down the highway, live feral and sneak into town from a deep woods bungalow.  Maybe the back page is teeming with eccentric patrician girls that want a fuck a hooded Fred Savage stand in. Wanna get tied up and fucked by a man with the facial allure of an escaped gulag prisoner. Its the only way.

A couple days after the lake we drive to Vail. Its beautiful. The rich from everywhere descend upon it in the winter. It was summer so it seemed more accessible.

You could buy a Pakistani girl off silk road for the price of a breakfast in Vail. It isn’t a real town in the sense you are used to.  Its a collection of snowglobe cabins for the international rich.

The veneer of family vacations barely conceal a network of industrial CEOS,  Chinese venture capitalists and American Apparell photographers. Knesset insiders hob knob with Hollywood producers, polo teams and French indie rockers. Pleasantries are conducted in aristocratic signage, the setting for international subterfuge, business connections, founding of world governments, etc.
The Cannes festival for top shelf gold digger pussy.
You get the feeling this is all happening because everyone is rich, foreign and everything costs more than you have.

Also, there are massive swathes of land bigger than Navajo country designed to keep you away without gauche barbed wire. A cup of hot cocoa will break the savings account of a rube. Succeed in gaining entry and the daughters of Latvian oil magnates will seduce you then hunt you for sport on the slopes. They don’t want your kind.

The daytime facade of leisure sports and nature strolls goes out at sundown. The hammer comes down. Gastropubs with baby venison steaks and Bradley Cooper’s limitless pills. Hostesses flown in nightly from Dubai bikini harems. Blinding tempest beauties at clubs with 1000 dollar organic local whiskey and retinal scans.
Smirking Swedish millionaires dispatch bands of genetically modified Rottweilers to eviscerate you in a patch of evergreens. I know, I know. That didn’t happen. But it felt plausible that that scenario could take place.

All day I only had a coffee and half a Reuben. Both were excellent.

Maybe I’ll try Portland.

What Women Want


Women love violent, psychopathic men. Only certain strains will do. The raw Sons of Anarchy type. Well worn buffalo hide leather vests, fitted henleys and a thick crop of Sun frosted model hair. Then you can pour battery acid into peoples eyes and whip shopkeepers to death with your kids bicycle chain. Still crush ass at the pool hall. Not just with sketchy Harley mamas but librarians, careerist administrators and triage nurses. All of them desperately want you to slit throats, cash checks and look like male dancers in Monaco.
Just don’t look like  a child killer. A beady eyed weirdo that stuffs her in the trunk of a shitty car at the truck stop diner. When it comes to killing, like everything else,  looks matter.
A woman fucking married Ted Bundy in prison. They’ll destroy their lives to help the best looking psychopath they can have break out of jail. Drain his sack before he buckles up in the getaway car. American Psycho can throw chainsaws around his apartment stairwell and will be swiped right everytime.  But Btk is a monster. That’s what 30 lbs and sideburns will do.
For women it’s not what you do, it’s what you are.