Red Pill Rant: One Last Dose of Anger
When a man finds game, it’s only natural to be angry. In fact, I’d almost wager that it’s almost unhealthy if you don’t go through that angry stage. Especially as you get older – can you blame the man who, at 30 – has struggled with women his whole life? Who has never had his pick of mate? Who has spent the majority of the last fifteen years touching himself rather than experimenting the touch of a woman?
Upon discovery of this, he realizes that while some of the responsibility falls on himself (he could be in better shape, make more money, etc.), he was ultimately lied to. Who told him to be nice. To not make a move. To always be friends with women first.
He was lied to by friends, family, and really – all of society. Practically a gang rape. No young man can overcome that if he’s so overburdened with blue pill philosophies his entire life.
The thing is, this could have very, very easily been me. If not for some lucky Googling when I was 21, I could have easily been going down the path towards forty year old virgin. That’s why I write this blog, it’s why I help guys, and it’s why it makes me happy as hell to see my readers and clients succeed (and even more frustrated when they are given the tools and don’t apply them – ugh).
For the most part, I’ve moved past my angry and bitterness at the world for teaching me how to be poor with women. Don’t get me wrong, I chuckle at myself and think, “If only I’d known everything I know when I started as a freshmen at San Diego State…I’d have racked up 100 notches during my freshmen year, easy!”, but that’s really the extent of it. Really, I’d say my red pill transformation is (and has been for a while) complete. Gone is the resentment, replaced with acceptance.
Except for one thing, which makes me outrageously furious.
My fucking job.
On paper, sounds fine. Except nobody mentioned to me that I’d simply be pouring my soul into another man’s idea and getting nothing but a paycheck to put food on the table with. No self-discovery, no building an empire – nothing of benefit for me except a comfy chair to sit at, and “stability”. And the damn chair isn’t even that comfy.
Think about it, really.
Would you pour your blood, sweat, and tears into raising another man’s child?
I can answer that with a resounding no. I’ve dated (and am evening dating one now) single moms. I’ve even briefly met the kids on occasion. But never in my dreams would I consider raising the little bastards of the deadbeat dad while my genetic line goes extinct (or, best-case scenario, let me genetic line share the resources and motherhood of a deadbeat dad’s line).
And really, is working for someone else your whole life much different? You’re buying into someone else’s vision while you become a dead end. When you’re buried in the ground, nobody ten years is going to remember, or if they do, give a shit, that you worked at ABC Engineering for the last forty years of your life. Your dedication and contributions to the company will be buried with you.
I take a bit of solace in that if I died tomorrow, thousands of people would still find this blog every month. Men will have that eye-opening, light bulb moment. I can still change lives if I suddenly left the earth. Leave a tiny legacy.
But it doesn’t mean I’m not angry at the fact that I was repeatedly told that the best way to live my life was to sit in a cubicle and bend over to someone else. While a company rapes me for everything I have and gives me nothing but dissent in return.
You’ll notice, I’ve posted nearly every weekday for the last few weeks. I am cranking out 5,000 words a day at my day job. But I’m still in mystery as to how to really make money online. It may not be through this blog. Perhaps my pursuits should be directed elsewhere. But writing about my anger helps. It’s therapy. Nobody else at work understands. They all just tell me to stick it out, that work isn’t meant to be fun. Fuck them, I say. Life is short. And not meant to be lived in a cubicle.
It just makes me so angry.
And I have a feeling it will make me angry until I walk out my office for the final time, leaving a big “fuck you” behind.
Happy New Year.