Love 2

It is worth mentioning that when I met my girl, like many women, she was in therapy. Lucky for her, she was not honest with her therapist, or she would have been branded with a truckload of psychiatric disorders entirely in accordance with DSM standards.

Back then she was still studying. She hated it, but being a good girl, tried really hard to enjoy it, as she was told she was supposed to. Predictably, she’d hate herself even more for failing to enjoy it. I remember her crying almost daily. She would not quit though; she’d say she needed the degree, that she had to pay off her student debt, that all her friends studied, etc etc.

The most alpha thing I ever did was to force her to stop attending college and move in with me. Well not exactly force her, I just made it clear that were she to continue studying I would not help her and our future would be unclear. She cried, but promptly quit her studies and moved in with me. It is the closest I have come to legally abducting a girl.

To this day she loves me for that. It was of course, in retrospect, a gigantic shit-test, the question at stake being: who is her alpha, you or the university?

Nowadays she rarely cries. She stopped visiting therapists, since all the symptoms that made her visit a therapist have entirely disappeared. The change is profound: from chronically stressed and anxious to genuinely happy. All because I made a decision for her. This for me has been the decisive proof that only the darkly enlightened can truly understand love.

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Love

A long time ago I used to love a girl. We hooked up and were together for some time. Then one day she told me she wasn’t sure if she still loved me, and she wanted to discover herself. She dumped me and hooked up with some Mexican guy.

So, I learned game. I binge-read everything I could find on psychology, game and women. I dated and tried to have sex with many women. I have jotted down every conquest. 34. Painstakingly I learned how to win a woman’s heart.

I have been together with my current girl for some years. She loves me with her whole heart and I love her more than I loved the girl that dumped me.

Few things in life are better than having a girl that wholly, completely, and fully loves you. Female love is much more passionate, much fiercer than the love of men. Men love on the side, women love with their entire being. I used to think that being with a girl demanded extra attention, that it was a burden on your life. But my experience has been the opposite — a woman in love adds much more to your life than she takes away. When I first met my girl she could not cook raw pasta, now I’d rather eat her meals than those of an average restaurant. She cleans, does the laundry, helps me straighten my thoughts, rests in my lap while I play video games, encourages me to be a manly man, gives me love and kisses, corrects me when I do stupid lazy men stuff and much much more.

Some might say that you can not call a man happy until he is dead. Of course I do not know what the future holds. But I know what the present holds, and if the past is any indication, which it usually is, am pretty confident that whatever problems I will have in the future, a bitch ain’t one.

Naturally it is not all rainbows and sunshine. Women bitch and shit-test. It is what they do, and some days it just gets to you. But that is just the way women are. Women are a proxy for the world: if you can’t pass your woman’s shit-tests, how will you pass the world’s shit-tests? Way I see it, handling woman’s bitching is an art.

Sometimes I ignore her bitching and she stops bitching. Sometimes she has a good reason to bitch and I address that which she bitches about. Sometimes I realize she is bitching for absolutely no reason, I grow angry and she stops bitching. Sometimes, if her bitching gets really bad, I keep open the option of hitting her, having already noticed how it works wonders for a relationship.

Of course, for all my tough talk about hitting women, I have only hit my girl once in all the time we’ve been together. I do not mind hitting her again, it is just that she has never bitched so badly I thought she deserved to be hit. The one time I hit her, she apologized profusely for the excessive bitching that made me hit her. We had great sex immediately afterwards.

I do believe that maintaining the option of hitting her is key. If you back down from that, you fail the most primal shit-test, the kind of failure ends in #metoo and societal collapse.

There is also the matter of sexual gratification. Women are as horny as men, though it is a different kind of horny. A woman has strong sexual needs, and the shortest route to keeping her heart is to fulfill those needs. There is no way to win her heart that does not include making her cum on regular basis. Sustained sexual attraction over the years is key to a good relationship. Jim’s ‘wife goggles’ if you will. (Hence why I have drastically cut on porn consumption).

Anyway. I believe that my girl is an extension of myself. I see further with her than without her. The cheesy thing is to say that she completes me, the calculated thing is to say that my girl and I are in cooperation/cooperation mode. And that is all because she loves me, and that is all thanks to the internet.

How do you make a woman love you?

Love is a solvable mathematical equation.

Love is polarity: the biological magnetism between natural dominance and natural submission. Shit-tests and game is how that magnetism is felt.

Love is war: show too much weakness and your girl will press on it like she were rubbing salt on an open wound. But show no weakness at all and she will think you are unreal.

Love is her being the wind, howling around you, while you remain steadfast as a rock.

I have an image in my mind of a woman on her knees, looking up at a man. The man raises his hand and slaps her across the face. That is love.

Finally, there is of course the question of how serious you, my dear reader, should take all this talk of love. Experience tells me that my attitude towards women is rarely copied completely. It takes a strange kind of man to boast about the kind of love I boast about, even if anonymous on the internet.

But experience also tells me that, as time goes by, men always agree more with me, never less. Especially now. #metoo is rapidly becoming the symbol of a generation of men completely unable to reason with women. All around me I am seeing wreckages of failed marriages, broken families, divorces… Rampant depression, abuse of pills, suicides, anxieties… It’s so incredibly stupid, so senseless. It’s a complete breakdown of cooperation between the sexes. I refuse to live like that. And if you, dear reader, agree with me even in the slightest, then perhaps we have some common ground after all.

Byzantine privacy laws 3

Final thoughts on the subject.

It probably will not get so bad that you can’t access your own medical file…

… Says the fool. It will very likely get so bad that you can’t access your own medical file, in that it will be such a bureaucratic hassle that you’d rather pull out all your hair than keep trying.

A friend commented that the whole EU privacy law is similar to the cookie laws adapted a few years ago. No one cared, no one still cares, yet everyone in the West loses approximately a day of their life spent clicking the ‘yes I accept cookies’ buttons.

Women tend to take these things very seriously. Very seriously. I suspect part of it is natural female risk aversion, but larger part is shit-testing, by which I mean that women think they find it very important, but in fact they do not, in actuality they care about using societal norms to shit-test every male, which you can only retroactively discover by passing the shit-test and find out that women totally not care about that thing they just said they care so much about. P.J., it is just like women’s supposed hate of rape, which is revealed to be false by women not giving a flying fig about rapeugees. The privacy law version would be something like an alpha male shouting privacy data from rooftops and women giggling about it. Who is man enough?

Byzantine privacy laws 2

This comment by Karl was so good it deserves its own post:

Well, you can’t see your medical file because it contains data of other persons too. There is the name, usally in abbreviated form, of the physician’s assistent who entered data into your file – the physician is not allowed to give away data of his employees. Then there is the name of the physician who made whatever diagnosis that is in your file – he’s probably an employee himself so you can’t have that name. Moreover, the file contains time and place of meetings between you and other persons, namely the physician and his assistants – no business, at least in the EU, is allowed to give you such personal data.

Usually your file contains data of test results which were provided by a third party, say a lab that analysed a sample of your blood. So there is name and adress of that third party, name of a contact person at that third party, and an invoice for the tests they made with your sample. Let’s ignore that the pricing, business address of the lab and the listing of whatever tests they made might be protected know-how and focus simply on the penal low regarding data protection, these additional names are also privacy protected data which the recipient (i.e. your physician) must not disclose.

There is still a legal way for you to get your medical file. You have to need it in a professional capacity, i.e you are a physician yourself, and are willing to sign a non-disclosure agreement. Of course, then you are handling other people’s data in a professional capacity. So that means you have to have a data protection commissioner (no, for legal reasons, that person can’t be yourself). You have to document how you store such data, for how long, and until when, how you ensure that the data is deleted when it is no longer needed, etc…

You didn’t request to see your medical file recently, didn’t you?

No, I did not…

Byzantine privacy laws

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Updated privacy policies are all the hype. Makes sense, since Cambridge Analytics used Facebook data to help Trump get elected. The horror!

As societal trust crumbles it becomes difficult to trust strangers. Unfortunate fact about internet life is that it comes with a truckload of mingling strangers. These strangers of course have vested interest in earning your trust, but the nature of anarcho-tyrannical modernity is such that they can’t help but betray your trust.

The coup-complete solution to this problem is to acknowledge that, the moment you hand over your data to a company, your data is in the hands of that company and they may use that data for evil intentions. If you party in someone else’s garden, you play by the rules of that garden’s owner. Don’t trust the company, don’t share your data. As simple as that.

The coup-incomplete solution is to give the impression you’re solving the problem without solving the problem. Say you’re really sorry and it will never happen again.

How to assure people it will never happen again?

By publishing monstrous documents detailing every possible situation with every possible piece of data. No one reads them, no one fully understands them, but you show everyone you’re taking this very seriously!

Paraphrasing burn the bureaucracy:

The purpose of bureaucracy is not efficiency, it is compensating a lack of trust. Compare the 1787 American constitution (8000 words) with the 2010 Affordable Care Act (360.000 words). Lifelong friends need only a few words to understand one another. Lifelong strangers demand a multi-thousand word contract be set-up so they can’t be screwed over.

The irony is of course that people will be screwed over despite multi-thousand word contracts. It is a Jimian truth that if a company very loudly shouts that your data is safe with them, it is obvious that your data is totally not safe with them. Considering that all companies are shouting very loudly that your data is safe with them, this does not bode well for the future.

In practice, whatever problems the byzantine policies and laws solve in terms of public anxiety, they create in terms of shifting the focus from Getting Things Done to Please Don’t Sue Me. I’ll wait for the moment where I request to see my medical file but the doctor refuses because doing so would be against privacy laws.

Manosphere sour grapes

I have read many of Roosh’s books and enjoyed all of them. I still read his blog, with pleasure.

But I am fed up with the sour grapes I see time and time again in Roosh and the associated manosphere.

It seems that whenever a manosphere guy describes the world, all he sees is blue-haired shrieking feminists and bitches with tattoos who, at best, are good for a singular nut. I don’t buy it. Which is to say, I totally buy that there are many, many unattractive self-mutilating women out there, but I know it is even more true that men make their own destiny and that women submit to men making their own destiny.

Personally I have gone through a lot of girls before I found one I love. In my search I encountered many women of the kind manosphere guys complain about, but in the end I needed to find only 1 good girl, and I found her, have been together with her for a couple of years now.

Am I so singularly amazing that I have found the last good girl left in the world, or is the manosphere selling me sour grapes?

It seems to me that for men, unlike for women, complaining does not fix anything. Don’t get me wrong, I empathize with the complaints, but I empathize with action more. Seems to me the right course of action is to find a good girl, start a family and teach your children to laugh at old fat lonely spinsters driving by in mobility scooters.

(Although the laughing part is probably overdoing it, because everyone knows, including childless feminists, that the last laugh inevitably goes to he who lives his life well, which is why unhappy people tend to resent happy people.)

Now, perhaps settling and having kids ain’t your thing, and although it seems to me to be programmed in our genes to settle and have kids, who am I to judge? But then, please sleep in the bed you’ve made for yourself. Stop bitching about women, stop bitching about Western society suiciding. We’re working on it.

Panzram & Hitler’s Table Talk

At the recommendation of Jordan Peterson I read two books: Panzram, A Journal of Murder and Hitler’s Table Talk.

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Hitler’s table talk was interesting, for the first 20 pages or so. After that I got bored and stopped reading. Hitler has excellent cadence and word choice, exactly what you’d expect from a renowned orator, but boy he is repetitious. Typical syndrome of a man in power surrounded by yes-nodders; he does not understand that what he says is exactly what he said the day before, thus less interesting with each consecutive day.

The takeaway is that the reactionary analysis of Hitler as a 50s leftist is accurate. Hitler was into renewable energy, into hydrogen gas, into nature, into turning ze Ukrainian plains into a flourishing farmland for ze German people! He said some interesting things, he said more nonsense. He was pretty obsessed with Russia.

In the end Hitler promised escape from a degenerate Weimar republic, but his escape plans were white socialist figments of his own imagination. Wish I had more to say about him but I really don’t.

On the bright side, with help of the book I have been able to pull off a decent Hitler impression. My girl absolutely loathes loves it.

220px-Carl_Panzram

Panzram was a good book, because Carl Panzram is an interesting character. As it says on the cover: ‘Panzram is one of those people who doesn’t exist in your mind until you come across him in life or, as here, in a book, and then he never leaves it.’ True.

Carl Panzram, born 1891 in Minnesota, hated everyone and everything. He murdered twenty-something people, sodomized many more, stole everything he could get his hands on and set fire to every church he crossed. He did not care about the consequences of his actions. Every time he was disciplined (which was a lot) he’d react by spitting in the face of those that disciplined him. He spent most of his time in prison, and of that time spent most of his time in solitary confinement. In his thirties he murdered a prison guard and demanded the death penalty for it, because he wanted to die. He eventually received it and was hung in Kansas, 1930. His last infamous words to the hangman: “hurry it up, you Hoosier bastard! I could kill a dozen men while you’re screwing around!”

The book, being a 20th century book, not so subtly puts the blame for Panzram’s hatred on Christianity, since in his early teens he was sent to a Chistian correctional school. ‘If only Panzram weren’t treated so cruelly by fundamentalist Christians, perhaps he’d have grown up with love in his heart!’ Seem like leftist nonsense to me. Jeffrey Dahmer and Ted Bundy had relatively tranquil childhoods and murdered a bunch of people anyway. Conversely some people are abused and mistreated when they’re young but turn out fine anyway. Which is not to say abusing young Panzram and apparently also raping him did not leave its marks on him, just that Panzram would have been stealing, lying and killing regardless, was in fact shown to be stealing and lying before he was sent to correctional school (hence, why he was sent to correctional school in the first place).

Some people are born with hatred in their hearts, or hatred in their genes if you prefer scientific over poetic accuracy. That’s just the way it is. Panzram was one of those people.

Question is, how do you deal with a guy like Panzram, a guy who just wants to see the world burn?

Panzram received a lot of corporal punishment. Though I have no problem with a bit of corporal punishment, the amount Panzram received seemed to me needless violence doled out by sadistic men. Counterproductive.

Panzram received re-education. This seems to me a leftist device to decriminalize criminals. Consider Panzram’s re-education: he was rewarded for good behavior, he was allowed to carry the flag for the prison marching  band and in the end, he was allowed some modicum of freedom so as to rebuild his trust with society. So, what happened? Well, Panzram escaped, stole a gun and almost killed someone before he was recaptured. Counterproductive.

The reason leftists obsess with re-education is because criminals make a potentially good ally against law and order. The point of re-education is not to change criminals, the point is to decriminalize criminal behavior: your bike was stolen? How dare you complain, don’t you know the thief had a rough childhood!

The punishment of criminals is the act of being in prison. You can add some amount of corporal punishment, and a very minor amount of re-education, but being confined to prison is the punishment. If a man does not accept punishment and, like Panzram, continues to murder people even in prison, the death penalty seems to me perfectly appropriate. Similarly, if an ex-convict continues to murder people outside prison, the death penalty also seems to me perfectly appropriate. That is how I think you should deal with a guy like Panzram.

Enforced monogamy

A champagne socialist from the New York Times observes that enforced monogamy suspiciously resembles the kind of redistribution of goods rightists supposedly oppose. As always, it is good to take leftist venom with a grain of salt, but this point is worth addressing.

First, I’m no libertarian. I like capitalism because it creates wealth and prosperity, but I also like using the market to help my allies, hurt my enemies. Hence I oppose the redistribution of my goods and tax money through the government, as the government tends to be my enemy, as tends to be custom with socialism, but I have no big problem with Trump’s steel tariff, as Trump is my ally.

As Giovanni argues, socialist wealth redistribution makes perfect sense on the side of socialists: it is the victors handing out the spoils, in this case leftists helping their allies, hurting their enemies. I don’t want wealth redistribution because I believe that, generally, the nature of the free market is such that it helps my allies, hurts my enemies.

Women are goods that, when left free on the sexual market, are monopolized by my enemies, e.g. asshole men who would rather pick a fight with me than tell me the time of day. I know this, because when I was single acted exactly the same in order to get laid. You can’t trust single men.

The nature of free pussy is such that it hurts my allies and helps my enemies, for women cheat on the beta males that build and maintain the society I live in, and have sex with the asshole drug dealers that steal my bike.

Women are not meant to roam free; they are meant to be divided among the winning tribe, they expect to be divided among the winning tribe. To the victor goes the spoils.

That many white males have trouble with women tells us that white males are not the winning tribe. Once they become the winning tribe, best to divide the loot fair and square: obvious enforced monogamy is obvious.

The Orb of Covfefe, Part IX: SS Escape

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When Barron had emerged out of the dark, dank tunnel, he found himself surrounded by a big shrub at what seemed to be the end of Nigel’s street. In the distance Barron saw and heard police sirens rushing towards the Farage estate. No doubt his friends would be in shackles soon. Barron really hoped nothing worse would happen to them. Images flashed in his mind; the pistol aimed at mrs Farage’s wife, the utter rage in Khan’s eyes when he socked Nigel. Guilt and terror struck Barron. He turned and ran.

After calling the phone number and receiving instructions to head for a harbor city, Barron hailed a cab, whose Indian driver did not show any signs of recognizing Barron. After stopping only so Barron could buy sunglasses and a hat they drove straight to Ipswich. Barron checked Perv’s Twitter. Nothing.

The drive took only an hour, yet the meter pointed to a bit over 300 pounds. When Barron questioned the fee, the driver shrugged. ‘inflation’s up 20% mate.’

The drizzling summer rain and the quant English streets made for beautiful scenery, but Barron was not in the mood to enjoy them. He checked into a hostel using his fake passport and spent the remainder of the time in bed with the curtains closed.

The meeting with Colin however went much better than Barron expected. Not only did Colin seem like a genuine fan of his father, the guy claimed he could get Barron out of England, no questions asked. On the way to the hostel it stopped raining and Barron didn’t feel like sleeping yet. Scared to enter a pub, but with lifted spirits, he bought a can of beer in a night shop and drank it sitting on a brick wall overlooking the sea. This journey wasn’t panning out the way he expected, but at least it didn’t seem like the end yet.

The next morning, an anxious Barron met an excited Colin. ‘So something big is going on eh!’ was the first thing Colin said. ‘Harbor security checks are up. I guess they’re looking for you. Don’t worry, we’ll get you across.’ He gave Barron a yellow safety helmet. ‘Put it on. Let’s go!’ He led Barron around the harbor and while doing so, explained their plan. Turned out Colin was a sailor on a ferry between Ipswich and Rotterdam. The captain’s ferry was a staunch nationalist who wanted nothing more than to personally deport all foreigners on his ferry, and Colin knew he considered helping Trump’s son to be an honor. As for getting past customs, well… Colin smiled and said nothing.

Half an hour passed. They were walking amidst shipping containers, cranes, and a big chain link fence that separated public British territory from private harbor territory. In a secluded spot, Colin pointed at the fence. ‘Look, you can see it’s been repaired here.’ Indeed, the fence’s reparation showed that there had previously been a man-size hole cut in it. ‘This was one of the spots illegal refugees entered Britain through. Of course it took months before we were allowed to plug this hole.’ Colin winked. ‘But now, let’s open it for some opposite immigration shall we?’ He grabbed a fence cutter from his backpack and they re-opened the hole. ‘OK, great. Now, go through it, walk straight ahead until you hit the sea, then turn left. Search for a big blue boat, by the name of Thatcher II. Here’s your ticket. I’ll meet you aboard.’ And with that Barron was alone again.

Things worked out just like Colin said. Barron found the boat, got aboard without problems and sat among the tourists as if it were the most normal thing in the world, though he was sure not to take of his glasses and hat. He’d like to think the unshaven chicken hair on his chin and jaw helped him stay unrecognized.

When the boat left shore, it’s horn blowing, Barron let out a sigh of relief. He hoped the remainder of the journey would be easier.

On Perv’s Twitter account a new tweet was posted: “Important mission against NWO underway! Battle fills frogtwitter loyalist with grit!” It was accompanied by a picture of a muscled blond man in boxers posing in front of a waterfall with a gun.

Soros’ phone rang. He answered the call, and a groveling voice spoke to him.

‘My deepest apologies mr Soros, we couldn’t have known Farage had an escape hatchet installed. We’ve arrested his entire team and we’ll use this incident to further cement our posi…’

‘I do NOT care about his team, nor do I care about your PETTY domestic politics’ interrupted Soros. ‘I want the kid stopped. I specifically instructed you to stop the kid. You did not. Your failure does not shine well on your future career, mr Khan.’

‘I understand mr Soros, I understand. I have men at all continental transport connections, airports, trainstations, harbours…. We will stop him before he reaches the mainland, of this I assure you.’
– ‘It is likely that he has already reached the mainland. It seems that I require better help. You’ll be hearing from us.’
‘Mr Soros, wait mr…’
*click.*

Soros put a hand on his forehead and rubbed his eyes. All important loose ends were under control, but this Trump kid was getting further than he was supposed to. No more time for games. He searched his phone index and clicked on the contact called ‘mr Lenin’. The phone rang twice before a gruff voice answered.

‘yes.’
-‘good day, mr Lenin. I have an assignment for you.’
‘hm.’
– ‘Donald Trump’s youngest son, Barron Trump. Barron currently travels through Europe, unaccompanied. He wants to get to Saudi Arabia to retrieve the Orb of Covfefe. He must be stopped.’
‘For the president’s son I ask triple price.’
– I will pay you quadruple if you succeed. Furthermore, consider all my continental assets to be at your disposal.
‘Ok.’
*click*

Somewhere in Paris, a huge bald man sitting on the edge of his bed put away his phone. Behind him, the voice of a young man: ‘you have to go, mon amour?’ Mr Lenin answered without turning his head: ‘no, you have to go. I have to prepare.’

The Eurovision Songfestival is peak bioleninism

Do not feel like spending too many words on Eurovision.

For non-Europeans: the Eurovision is a contest in which every European country + Israel enters one artist with one song. Winner is determined by votes. It is pretty big.

Why is it pretty big? Because Eurovision has become the symbol of our progressive overlords. It’s where all the bioleninists gather each year to celebrate the progress on immanentizing the eschaton. Just like the Romans had the colosseum, the progressives have Eurovision. And so the media pushes it through everyone’s throats.

Which is not to say it isn’t entertaining. It is fine entertainment. The artists, songs, costumes and performances are fun to watch. Certainly not gladiator fight level entertainment, but not bad.

The problems with progs is of course that everything they touch turns into a holiness spiral. The propaganda has become cringe-worthy: 2013’s slogan was a hive-minded ‘We Are One’, 2014’s slogan repeated the hive-mind with ‘#Join Us‘, and who can forget 2016’s subtle slogan broadcasted from Kiev, Ukraine: ‘Celebrate Diversity‘. Take that Putin!

As it goes with the slogans, it goes for the artists. The last time people listened to Eurovision songs outside Eurovision was in 1974 when ABBA won. Nowadays your best shot at winning is to be a drag queen with HIV. But, I have to say that this year’s winner takes the cake in terms of peak bioleninism:

 Schermafbeelding 2018-05-14 om 12.41.17Schermafbeelding 2018-05-14 om 12.41.17Schermafbeelding 2018-05-14 om 12.41.17 I can’t breathe.

Just so I have this straight: the winner of 2018 Eurovision is an obnoxious, fat, Jewish chick complaining about being #9 #29 on a badboy’s booty call list?

You can’t make this up. You just can’t.

So. That’s the Eurovision Songfestival for you.