Monday, April 27, 2015

Some answers are too easy

I was reading this artricle, The mystery of billionaires’ long marriages, and all I could think was . . . how the fuck do we not discuss the obvious answer?

Women objectify male status and success. Yes, that status and success can be contextual, as anyone familiar with the idea of a chick being into a drug dealer will tell you, but the important thing is that women will stick through almost anything to be with a successful guy.

Even the article's discussion of the divorces among billionaires, such as Elon Musk leaving his wife for an actress, fit nicely into the Red Pill view of relationships.

A billionaire man who isn't inclined to cheat is unlikely to have a cheating wife, because he fulfills all the criteria that women seek in men. He'd have to be an astonishingly unaggressive, ugly and unfuckable pussy of a man, and even then I'm not sold there'd be a lot of fears of infidelity. Women lerv success, and if you have piles of success just sittin around, your wife is not going to leave you, especially if it's clear that your success is permanent, and not some weird one-off thing (for example, athletes' wives will cheat on them).

I don't feel inclined to condemn the female attraction to success. In part, that's because I think people tend to tag the "gold digger" thing as the source of trouble when in fact it's a more basic attraction to success. In the absence of a monetary economy, women would find another measuring stick for success, I promise.

I do, however, shake my head at the failure of people to comprehend the idea of success objectification.

Sunday, April 26, 2015

Game has penetrated too far into the public conscience

I never offer much in the way of field reports anymore, but this Friday had a sequence of interesting events that are worthy of discussion in the world of aloofness and social-sexual game.

I had been out much of the day because I was helping a friend with some wacky fun drilling holes into the floors of his place and running cabling. (I got skillz . . . and 18-inch-long drill bits . . . but mostly skillz.) It was a full day of guy time, including partaking of the local sports team losing. He had to boot me out early due to work / sleep commitments, so I took myself to a bar in the next town over (college town, BTW).

It's important to remember that I went there to watch sports. (Yes, I paid a cover charge to watch sports.) FTR, if you can quantify anything in this world, it's a fair bet that I'm trying to angle my way into making a buck from it. Imaginably, that means that gamble on anything and everything that hasn't been nailed down. And when I'm trying out something new, I do not distract easily. The new gambling enterprise, BTW, is baseball, and the math is working out to be very consistently profitable.

That informs this next part . . . the bar I went to keeps it's sports-watching section right next to the dance floor, allowing people to go to the sports bar section for drinks and permitting the bar to not have to operate a third bar area (the first is for a larger social area at the front that resembles a large college rec room) in order to service the dancers and the sports watchers. This is actually one of the least scummy bars I know (if you follow the blog much, you know I prefer bars where the drugs and violence flow), and the crowd here is a little different than my usual suspects -- this is not a place I go to run game.

So, that's the setup. Clean bar, watching sports, tracking in my head how successful my math work is.

If you ever want proof that disinterest is the flame that lights the pussy fire, this is the story for you. I'm standing way off to the side, near the bathrooms in fact, watching my sports and minding my own business. A group of college chicks who were in full dance mode kept creeping closer. I didn't make much of them because drunk dancing college chicks are just par for the course in this place -- it's the definitive place for white girls to get white girl wasted and dance like monkeys being electrocuted (again, not my kinda bar at all). Eventually the monkey herd starts getting too close, but I stick to the same game plan that I always use in every situation: ignore everyone in the whole fucking world.

Again . . . disinterest is the pussy ignition button. (It dovetails nicely with the concept of devalidation. Apologies for the link to Chateau Heartiste, but even right-wing racists fucks can be correct about some facts, and this is one of those times.)

The shortest girl in the group takes the first shot, dancing epileptically in front of me. Dancing doesn't draw me out, so she tries dancing and asking my why I'm not dancing. I blow her off with some variant of "I'm not required to." She tries the usual pull on the arm thing, but I resisted. Eventually she just resorts to leaving her drink at my table as a pretense for coming back. Whatever.

By this point, other guys are gathering around, and they slowly start slicing off portions of the herd. I'm thinking I have a fighting chance of getting on with my greater concerns for gambling money.


Instead, the short girl and her taller, skinnier friend circle around and run the "come dance" routine again. I'm still not buying it.

And then the proof that game is too fucking ingrained in our culture hits: the tall girl snatches the knit cap off of my head (it's been a cold spring in the Northeast, and I was rocking the knit cap plus car coat look). Yes . . . this chick actually did the steal the hat game technique. She walked off with it and hid behind the DJ booth with her friend, so I had to walk across the dance floor to recover it. The DJ saw the look on my face, grabbed the cap from her, giving it to me, and told her, "This guy wants hit hat back."

I went back to my spot for a few minutes, but eventually decided to relocate away from the dancing herd. This bought me about two innings of baseball watching before the tall girl decided to really properly crawl up my ass this time. To say that I was getting everything including the kitchen sink thrown at me would be an understatement.

Of course, she starts with the arm pull and "come dance" sales pitch. No sale, so she tries chatting my up. I'm largely ignoring everything she says, but the bitch is physically blocking my view of the TV screens. She starts asking what I'm doing there. "Watching baseball." Are you from around here. "No." Then where are you from. "Not here, that's where."

What's funny is that the whole time I can see that none of this is registering with her. Young women who see themselves as desirable have no context for rejection. She's working under the assumption that I'm just gaming her because game has reached a level of social penetration such that it has become the default explanation in young women's heads for why a man would act the way I do. Ugh.

It is interesting, however, to watch how quickly women degenerate into beta male game. Her next sales pitch was, "You seem like a really sarcastic and cool guy." I respond, "The sarcastic part is right."

She goes through the guessing my age game through so many iterations that out of pity I just eventually tell her that she got it right like two tries back. That elicits something in the form of "That's really cool."

Then she takes the next step down the ladder to creepy guy game, telling me that I "smell too good." I made a statement to the effect of, "No old man smell. That's what I was shooting for."

She then decides to indict my rudeness. She overtly states that my behavior is rude. I blow this off and don't even respond.

She actually fucks up and goes for alpha male game next, and I probably should have given her the points for this one, but she was already pissing me off, so I didn't. She tells me that my beard makes me look like "an Amish businessman." That is a good one.

Unfortunately, she undoes that small success in the next try by asking, "Why do you keep making me yell?" (Implication being that by this point in the conversation I should have closed the gap between us. At this stage, she's overtly complaining about the fact that the social-sexual script is not being followed.) I respond, "I ain't making you do shit."

Next tack: explosive behavior game. She yells loudly directly into my ear. I don't even recall what she yelled.

Understand something about my upbringing. I come from the type of background that fosters difficulty in joining the middle class white world. This is a pretty good description of the default set of skills you learn coming from my type of background:

If you live in a place that’s unsafe, where the schools and community have broken down and families are under strain, then you might lose some of your chances to learn self control. Actually, being impatient and impulsive and being quick to anger might even be skills that keep you alive.

This is one of the reasons I stick to the scummier bars, night clubs and places full of rude boys. If I'm in a club full of armed black guys, half of whom are dealing drugs, I can function in that environment. I know the rules and customs, and I get along nicely in those environments because people from bad backgrounds recognize each other. You carry it a certain way, and people who've had to carry it the same way understand you on first sight.

To be clear, this is where I know this whole situation is just exceeding the parameters of my upbringing. The truth is that the middle class white world and my assbackwards, ain't learned nothin' redneck ass get along mostly because I follow a policy of detente. I keep the fuck out of the way -- aloof -- and the world leaves me the fuck alone. In return for this courtesy toward me, I focus my considerable intelligence on beating the system for profit instead of engineering a virus to wipe you fuckers out. Or just grabbing the next middle class drunk white college girl who pisses me off and duct taping her up and throwing out to die in the woods.

That's the deal. That's how the world and I plan to get along well enough for me to die a natural death in my 70s rather than a death by lethal injection in my 50s. (The appeals process takes forever. And fuck The Man, I'm using every appeal and exhausting the system's resources.)

I tell the chick, "I'm working very hard here to avoid just overtly telling you to fuck off, but you're really not getting the point here." I then do my best to look past her rather than at her.

In any other social context, surely she would have gotten the point. But she's a drunk white college girl who has never been rejected. The funny thing is that she's not expressing anger. She's not upset by my behavior. She's just blank because she's failing to process what's going on.

The only explanation I have for her behavior is that so many guys are now running PUA game on chicks that she's just operating under the assumption that I'm negging her or devalidating her or whatever. I get that chicks who see themselves as the cream of the crop don't understand rejection, but this chick is crossing over to a seriously Rain Man / autistic / Mr. Spock from Star Trek level of social retardation at this point. Women who see themselves as hot chicks simply don't exist in a world where rejection happens, and they sometimes behave worse than the worst aspie on the planet simply because they've never needed to learn the basic social skills needed to not be killed for saying or doing the wrong thing.

Her response to all of this was to playfully try to tap my beer bottle out of my hand when I went to take a drink. That was psychological trigger time for me. I looked at her and said, "Touch my beer again and I'll break your fuckin wrist."

If you ever want proof of how sheltered middle class, young white women are, this is it. She pulls up her shirt sleeve, exposing her little bird-boned wrist and holds in front of me.

For a moment, I thought perhaps this was finally going in a direction that I could understand. My brain was primed for the white trash outburst that fits contextually from my upbringing. I was expecting something in the form of a loud, "Go ahead motherfucker! Be a big man and break my wrist!" sort of display.

Instead, she just stood there holding her skinny wrist in front of me. No affectation. No emotional response. Just presenting it. This is just pure escalate and antagonize game, with maybe some fucking turn-on element from reading 50 Shades of Grey or some horseshit (besides The Game, 50 Shades is probably the next worst book in terms of drilling into the cultural supercontext and making life annoying for all single people).

Realizing that the context is not going to be white trash outburst -- unfortunate, because that would have brought the bouncers and solved the problem -- I realize that the overt physical threat is only rewarding her behavior. She wants attention, and the threat is attention.

So, I tell her, "Either you fuck off, or I'm going to have someone from security make you fuck off." (Whoo-hoo! I win points for de-escalating and using the wealthy white man's approach to the problem rather than going all white trash . . . which is my default mode.)

She rolls her sleeve up, steps back about a foot, but just keeps looking at me. This is like the human equivalent of the Blue Screen of Death. She doesn't do or say anything. Her expression doesn't change. This chick just stands there for at least a full minute. Not mad, not happy, not laughing, not nervous, not pissed. She's literally not processing anything, not doing anything. I guess she was trying to see how long of a stare down she could give me before I'd say something. That or I completely broke her software.

Out the corner of my eye, I see a security guy doing a walkaround of the place, and I give him a small hand gesture to come over. He comes over, I look at him and tell him, "I told this chick to fuck off, and she isn't fucking off."

The guy steps between me and her. As best I can tell, she doesn't say anything to him, but he does have to lean into her a bit to get her to move. He eventually gets her herded together with her herd on the opposite side of the dance floor. There's no gesturing or anything, so I eventually lose interest and resume watching my baseball game. By the way . . . my team won, I made money, and I made money on my full slate of bets for the day. Eventually the chick and her friends disappear entirely, although I didn't notice when it happened.

I'd like to say that's the end of the story, but if you read this blog for long, you know that I have an emotionally abusive streak and never leave well enough alone. Being an instinctive predator, I decided to scoot along about an hour later to the next white girl bar in town, knowing full well that this chick was going to be there. I just wanted to see how she'd respond, because I like to poke at things and see if they're still alive.

When I see her in the crowd -- and it was disgustingly crowded -- I decide to walk past her group, ignore her and keep going. Again . . . for science.

I eventually took up a spot on the opposite side of the dance floor from her group. It takes her about half an hour, but she eventually works her way over to my end of the dance floor. She doesn't say anything. Instead, she moves directly to my left and stands there dancing by herself for about ten minutes. Never says anything. Doesn't touch me. Just stand there dancing . . . right to my left. After ten minutes, she gives up and starts working her way through the crowd back to her friends.

The place was disgustingly crowded, as in smell of human sweat and swimming in humidity from body heat, so I decided to move along to a more dive bar type of club so I could properly be myself and enjoy myself. She never showed up there, and I managed to spend my night being chatted up by a shot girl who was trying to get my name and life story.

Weird experience. I have to say that I've never had to have a bouncer actually make a chick go away before. That's a new one.

I think part of the problem is that this chick didn't have any context besides game for processing my behavior. The idea that I was genuinely ignoring her and wanted her to fuck off did not compute. The only thing that made sense, in her mind, was that I was freezing her out.

Practitioners of game will tell you to not push a woman to a point where she thinks you're uninterested. What gets lost is that some women have themselves rated so far up the hot chick scale that they can't imagine male disinterest toward them. They don't know what to do when confronted by it. The truth is, they don't even register that it's a form of confrontation. All they see is guys gaming them, and they're just trying to process what your game is and bridge you toward participating in their game. The idea that you'd not want to play just isn't anywhere in the script.

That said, I've never seen a woman fail like that before. Women get pissy. They get whiny. Violent? Sure. I've never seen one just go into stand-by mode and stop functioning.

That was different.

Friday, April 10, 2015

The difference between outcasts and willful outsiders

I was making the mistake of reading around some of the PUA, men's right and other right-wingish, pro-manish stuff that's out there to survey the current landscape, and I happened upon this bit about being a high school outsider. I found the blod post interesting in large part because 1) it stands in stark contrast to my own experience and 2) it reminds me a great deal of a friend's experience.

The crux of what this guy, Chris, who runs the blog Good Looking Loser, had to say was encapsulate in three paragraphs.

Para 1, describing his hometown:

The premise for the wildly popular 90's show "Beverly Hills 90210" was based on Winston Churchill High School and the town of Potomac (and Bethesda, MD.).

Para 2, his thesis:

My advice is to become OBSESSED with your appearance.

Para 3, the true "holy shit" moment for me:

I know what it's like to be teased when my brother died from cancer. (4th grade)

So, let me address the holy shit factor first. Where I grew up, the ass beatin' you would've gotten for pulling bullying shit like that, even in 4th Grade, would have been unreal. If your parents didn't do it, someone would have done. If all else failed, one of the male teachers would have found a way to make it happen (likely by recruiting a few of the boys who had been raised right).

This might as well have grown up on the fucking moon when I compare my experiences to his. If you read the blog much, you may recall that I grew up dirt poor and rural. While high school shit happened, it happened within a specific context, and most of it was standard jousting for position. There weren't even that many kids who engaged in bullying in my high school, at least relative to what I hear people describe happening elsewhere.

It's funny to me reading that post because it reminds me that there are three types of outsides in this world:

  • Outsiders who are looking in through the window and wishing to join the cool kids.
  • Outsiders who are pissing in through skylight and laughing their asses off.
  • Outsiders who are just passing through and don't care whether the natives kill each other.
I happened to be the third type of outsider, except on days when people insisted upon pressuring me to be included, and then I became the type that pissed on everything in sight. Most of my friends were the type to piss in everyone's Cheerios, and the remainder were almost always the the outcasts who wanted to be cool. I'm a lifelong friend of the fuck-ups and the losers of the world, despite not being someone who is seen as a fuck-up or a loser.

To some extent, a lot of the tension that I experience in life arises from pressure that others wish to apply to people who they see as potential social assets to join their group. The problem in my case is that I have such a well-developed image of myself as a casually aloof outsider just passing through Western civilization like an anthropologist handing out machetes and shotguns to the locals (this isn't a joke; Napoleon Chagnon actually did this!!) that it's very hard for me to make the necessary mental and emotional leaps to ever be included in any group. I enjoy being an outsider, largely because it allows me to appropriate for myself the right of relentlessly pointing and laughing at the stupidity of others.

If you go and read the post by Chris and then compare it to some of the stuff that I post, you'll notice a lot of differences. For shit and grins, let's actually compare and contrast . . .

The Life of Chris

  • Wealthy school district
  • Obsessed with body image
  • Wanted to be cool
  • Mostly harmless poppped collar type
  • Struggled to get the attention of the opposite sex
  • Emotionally abused girls through systematic rejection

The Life of the Aloof Guy

  • Dirt poor school district
  • Barely aware of the concept of body image
  • Willfully firebombing what little passed for cool
  • White trash raised around people who committed several homicides and numerous suicides
  • Confused by the attention of the opposite sex
  • Emotionally abused girls through systematic rejection 
You'll note that the last item is the same. There's a reason I included that. I think its interesting that two very different sets of life experiences can bring two very different people to the same conclusion.

First off, trust me when I tell you that shutting of the attention spigot is likely the worst form of abuse that you can inflict upon a woman. That's the money shot if your goal is to really grind a woman down and question her self-worth. You can beat a bitch senseless, and she'll love it because physical abuse is attention and attention means emotional investment. If you wanna really fuck a woman up, you have to feed her about three breadcrumbs of attention and then cut the supply off entirely the moment she thinks she just might have a fighting chance.

What interests me, however, is that we arrived at the same point from very different starting lines. Chris wanted to be one of the cool kids and wanted the girls' attentions. I aimed to always be an outsider and a fuck-up, and I only wanted the girls' attention if they could be crammed within the very limited space allowed by definition of myself and my limited set of social skills.

At the end of the equation, however, we both wanted to get revenge on the girls. He wanted revenge because they hadn't paid attention to him. I wanted revenge because I didn't understand what the fuck they were trying to get me to do and felt confused and hurt by the entire experience.

How socially retarded was I in school?

It's worth re-reading one of the earliest posts on this blog if you wonder just what a socially retarded mess I was.

Here's the truth of it. I was so socially retarded that I actually thought:

  • Girls who liked me in high school did so purely because we had been around each other.
  • Overt sexual or physical advances weren't any sort of proof of any actual interest.
  • Some girls just liked to talk about stuff that interested them with me.
  • If a girl liked me, she would let me know, especially if I had already said something.
  • Girls simply jerked guys around because they were batshit crazy. (This, however, was based upon my sister, who was crazy enough that a fake pregnancy scare was her go-to move to get a guy to be more serious in a relationship.)
I had zero clue that there was any type of game being played, let alone what anything like game might have been. My basic assumption was that game playing was purely pathological.

I was dumb as a motherfucker when it came to girls.

For example, my first kiss came during a summer party that a friend of friend's family was throwing (they were very devout and decent people from a good background -- just because I was white trash didn't mean I didn't know decent and well-off folk, which is typical of small town rural life in America). I was going into 7th grade the next year, and one of the 8th grade girls who was there (I didn't know who she was) took a shine to me and spent the whole day trying to make her intentions known to me, asking about, trying to corner me and chat me up, etc. None of this registered with me, and in fact I thought she was bullying me.

Toward the evening, the adults had asked the older kids (ya know, 7th and 8th graders) to organize a game of hide and go seek for the younger kids. Eventually the 8th grade girl (usually I change names to protect the innocent on this blog, but in this case I really can't recall what her name was!) got her turn to be it. She made a point of seeking me out, and found me behind a bush at the very edge of the property. She then went straight in for the kill, grabbing me and planting a kiss right on my mouth.

Being the socially retarded mess that I was, I quit the game and spent the trip home bitching to my friend about the girl. His parents never invited me to anything after that tirade, BTW.

At my old age, I of course understand what happened. What happened was I had won the fuckin lottery in terms of middle school accomplishments and then proceeded to light my ticket on fire and run away. Worse, I was pleased with my choice!

I can remember years later discussing this story with a woman on a first date, and she just smiled and laughed, telling me that it was the cutest first kiss story that she had ever heard. In retrospect, I know that most people would think it was a really cute story, but for me it was awful and left me feeling a tad violated. (There is an argument to be had here that if a boy did this to an awkward girl that it would be viewed as closer to a sexual assault than a cute story of young love.)

The difference

For me, the frustration of dealing with other human beings has always been the unwanted pull from them. For a guy like Chris, the frustration arose from wishing that they were pulling him toward the social center.

I think that difference is relevant. Why?

The big advantage I had over a guy like Chris is that I was practically a perfect natural to some of the real nuts and bolts elements of sociosexual game. Having an aloof personality and a strong personal need to push others away allowed me to easily avoid the neediness trap that usually catches guys well before they discover the basic social dynamics of game. I also displayed signs of authority problems at that age, and that of course always sells well in the sexual marketplace. You also create an obvious abundance mentality when all of the girls around you see how retarded one of the hot ones is willing to go. In short, I was packin' aloof bad boy game from the day that I hit puberty, and I couldn't even be bothered to care that I was.

My biggest regret about high school isn't that I could have been cooler than I was. My biggest regret was that I didn't understand just how much pussy I was swimming in.

I've said before on the blog that it would be pointless to go back in time and tell my younger self the deal simply because my younger self would not have cared.

I was so angry about the way girls played the game that it wouldn't have mattered to me. In more than one case, I got the picture well enough to understand that a particular girl liked me. Trust me, when you're sitting in 9th grade Spanish class with a girl leaning back on your desk and tossing her hair around trying to provoke a response, you do get the rough outline of her intentions. For me, at that age, it was pure anger at the idea that this whole dumb process was somehow required.

In that particular case in 9th grade, I just wanted that girl to stew in her own insecurities and self-hatred for not responding to my direct indication of interest in her. I got the idea, vaguely and roughly within my limited scope of social skills, that she wanted me to do something, but I was so pissed that she hadn't provided any response to my direct request, in writing, for a relationship that I simply figured she could go fuck herself. If she cared, she'd do what I did. That's simply how I saw the issue.

I somehow doubt that the younger me, even with the whole concept stretched out in a straight line and explained in detailed, would have changed his disposition in the slightest. If anything, I suspect that I would have been even more angry. Even now, the whole concept of how women half-assedly flirt with guys and then expect guys to carry the entire burden of a potential rejection leaves me feeling a little chaffed. I may understand the concepts, but I still don't find the whole enterprise amusing in the slightest. It's still chickenshit.

It's also important to realize that I never processed the idea that puberty had actually happened to me. I had a self-image going back into elementary and middle that was based in being fat and smart and poor. The fact that puberty had rectified my basic shortcomings didn't get processed until I was in my late 20s.

Making the leap of logic doesn't help

In fact, in retrospect, I think that's where the real evidence of my social cluelessness sits. Even through college, the idea just never sunk into my brain that attractive women found me to be attractive. The biggest problem that I had was making the logical leap to the idea that I was expected to form up as part of the in-crowd, be successful and just act like an attractive and successful person is supposed to act. The concept just never struck me.

Even now as I progress well into my 30s, I may understand the concept, but I also take a perverse pride in laying waste to it. I still quite enjoy watching women go stupid over me and then treating them like shit. I've never ceased to get a kick out it.

Somewhere along the way, I simply developed too ingrained of an image of myself as an outsider, a poor kid, a fuck-up, a fat kid, etc, that it became very easy and very normal to me to sit on the periphery of humanity. I'm proud of it. The idea of seizing my right to be a handsome and successful man has zero appeal to me.

As a willful outsider, it doesn't feel right to me to be cool and to be lavished with attention. What feels right to me is to treat those people like shit and then sit there smirking at them when it sinks in that I'm not playing with them: I really am just mistreating them for my own amusement.

It is funny. I never get tired of watching some cute young thing's face change when she realizes that at least one man in this world just isn't buying into her bullshit, no matter how desperately she tries to explain herself.

I also can't lie: watching almost every single girl who comes into my orbit and shoots out the other side then proceed lose 10 to 20 pounds within six months is the greatest form of ego massage a man can experience. It happens like clockwork, and it is frankly fascinating to watch, especially if you have a sadistic streak and like to watch women hate themselves. I don't even have a strong preference for thing girls! I just like watching the consequences of their internal turmoil and self-hatred boil up into real world results.

I should also point out that frickin lerv feeding a woman just enough line to make her think she has a chance. The longer they stay on the line struggling and fighting, the more I like it. It's hard to find the ones that will stay there for months or even years, but damn is it satisfying when ya do.


It's intriguing to see the difference between someone who's trying to pull people in versus someone who is trying to push them away. It's also interesting to examine how we each get our kicks from getting revenge on the opposite sex. Life experiences take us all to strange places, and a few of us end up being really fucked up messes.

I don't think I can ever understand, on a gut level, why anyone would fight to be one of the cool kids. It's just more fun to make everyone feel like shit because you won't join them. And it's even more fun to string them along and watch their puzzled expressions.

Tuesday, April 7, 2015

Perhaps my primary complaint about women

I was dwelling on the past the other day, and a particular pattern over my lifetime struck me. To be clear, this isn't a relationship pattern. This a pattern that pertains more to how I respond to the initial flirtation and attempts at feeling me out that women try.

Particularly what I don't like is the assumption that I as a particular type of man who they might happen to like am somehow wasting a perfectly good life by not being what they what me to be. I've been subjected to multiple variants of comments (including in the comments section of this blog) to the effect that it's terrible to see such a good alpha male waste his life by being me.

If you know much about me from reading the blog, then you'll know that I'm not a fan of the alpha male label. One, because it's dumb to assign dog pack concepts to human. Two, because most guys I know who seek out the alpha male label do so for really dumb reasons. There are fake alphas doing it for pussy. There are guys who really want to be large and in charge. There are dude with unresolved shower rape issues from their time in on the varsity football team.

I don't see myself as an alpha male, and I object to the idea that I'm obliged to see being an alpha male as a worthy goal. I understand that most guys given the chance to have women call them alpha males would leap at the opportunity. Therein, for me, is half of the problem. What's the big deal about being a big deal if you sit around like a fourteen-year old girl really want to be a big deal? It's kind girlie and not very becoming of an actual man.

It's easy to tell that women are so used to men defining themselves as the pursuers of women that women struggle to process any other dynamic. The idea that a man wouldn't want to be an alpha male is deeply foreign to the average woman.

To be honest, you, as a woman, are well within your rights to want to have an alpha male in your life. I think it's lame, but I also think religion and politics are lame, and somehow society keeps chugging along despite my objections to those too.

Where it starts to piss me off is that I end up being the object of a lot of anger from women for not wanting to participate in the great alpha male game. There has been a clear consensus among the women I've known in my lifetime that there's something deeply wrong with how I play the game. To make the problem worse, they get very pissed that I refuse to play the game. It seems to be a high crime for a man to opt out of this bullshit, and most women are heavily insulted when they try to flirt with a guy and simply has no part of playing the alpha role that she wishes to cast him in.

Understand, I have had my fair share of women lash out physically at me for not playing along. We're not talking about women just being pissy about it. There are sore losers all over the world, so that's not my problem.

What bothers me most is the implication that I, as a man who has all the potential to fit within this obnoxious and highly objectified role of the alpha male, have not right to want to be anything else.

Women expect men who can reel women in to be out doing as much of it as they possibly can. And that in its own right is fine. The problem arises when they simply refuse to leave it at that.

Hey, if some other guy wants to be your dancing monkey alpha male, hooray for him. But don't make it my problem just because you think I would make a superb alpha male. So fucking what if I would? It's not my goddamned job to be whatever you feel I should be.

I get that the supply of men who can fit the objectified dominant role in a relationship is very low. I do not, however, consider it my fucking civic duty to make up for that by pretending to be what you want me to be just so you get a little tingle down in your girl parts.

I'm not required to be anything, and it amazes me how lacking in self-awareness women are when they start dropping shit like that on me. So what if I'd make a great alpha male? It might be a fuckin' tragedy for you, but it's just not something I want in my own life. Fuck that. That whole dynamic is obnoxious, and I have every right to chart my own path outside of the norms that women want me to conform to.

I just don't care enough about the well-being of your pussy to be bothered with being the man you think I should be.