One day, you, too, will get old and die–just like me.

February 7, 2011

Well, I’m definitely going to die; how old I’ll be when it finally happens is a bit of a question.

But the fact remains–we all get old (to some degree), and we all die. You may die clean, or you may die ugly. You might die quietly, or you might die screaming. You might die bravely, fighting “the good fight” (whatever the Hell that might be, these days), or you might die a coward, your pants full of shit & piss, begging on your knees (like Che Guevara) for your life. You might die alone and unknown, or you might die famous and surrounded by others.

Whatever the modifiers, the constant remains inescapably real: You are going to die.

You will not escape. You will not upload your mind to some computer network; there will not be an immanentizing of the eschaton through the creation of a hive mind; you will not race forward to the Zero point and dance on the edge of a Singularity.

There is no escape. One day, you will die. Until you accept that, you are useless.

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An in-law gives me a look…

December 21, 2010

…and it’s got me wondering.

Family function at my brother’s the other day: his wife has a niece (18-19) who’s a HB8-9. I’ve occasionally gotten a look from the Niece that had me nervous, but the last one has me downright worried.

I don’t want to be the Creepy Uncle; truth be told, I think (*IF* I am reading her correctly) she might be focusing on me because my brother is married to her aunt. This would be an explosive situation if it progressed. Fortunately, these family get togethers are infrequent–the best course of action is to ignore it, and hope that her current boyfriend keeps her otherwise occupied.

But…damn, it’s been a loooooong time since I got that look from a woman. It makes you feel young (well, younger).


I guess that’s one reason we don’t hook up…

December 12, 2010

The Journalist swung by the desk last week for some idle chit chat, and she started griping about the person she was waiting for:

“I can’t believe this guy is taking so long. I would never let my boyfriend or husband make me wait like this.”

I give her a sidelong glance; “Really?”

She didn’t notice my look–far too busy checking her Iphone for messages. “Yeah.”

I saw the guy she was waiting for get off the elevator. “I guess that’s one reason we don’t hook up.”

Her eyes went round as saucers. Whatever response she might have made was cut off by the arrival of her associate. I have no idea if she looked back at me– I got busy with my own work. Whether she knew it or not, she just eliminated herself from “the pool of potentials”. If I have learned one thing from the Roissysphere/Manosphere, it is this: Never, never, ever, let a woman dictate your level of importance to you.

I remember being worried over feeling jealous at the sight of the Journalist getting a hug from a guy– worried because it meant I was slightly pedestalizing her, and suffering from attachment. That conversation killed that once and for all. Thank God. My time is running out, and the last thing I need to do is pine over a woman who would treat me like my time is less important than hers.

Never sell yourself short. Ever.


It’s all about the numbers.

November 16, 2010

(With a tip o’ the hat to the VDARE.com blog)


A little uncertainty can be usefull…

September 28, 2010

An interesting interaction between myself and the Journalist has led to a change in her behavior towards me; I was going through some orientation material with a new hire, when the Journalist came up and introduced herself:

Her: “Hi, I’m X,…I’m one of (The Blanque)’s favorites.”

Me: “You’re one of my favorites?” (with a note of surprise in my voice)

Her: (turning to look directly at me) “Yeah.”

Me: “You are?” (I injected a slight note of disapproval into my voice as I said this)

Her: “Aren’t I?”

Me: (saying nothing, but cocking my head and raising an eyebrow as I looked at her, trying to convey that she was being a bit presumptuous)

I swear to you, I could see the wheels in her head start spinning, trying to figure out what she had done wrong. I’ll give her props on this, though–she never let her worry go any further than her eyes.

I let her hang there for about a minute, then let her down easy, saying that yes, she was one of my favorites (with a slight emphasis on the one), and that I just wanted to see her sweat a little. Since then, she’s been more…attentive, even flirtatious as she speaks to me–prior to this, it’s been a casual “good morning” as she went past. She’s definitely putting more effort to engage me as encounters me during the day. I think I successfully reminded her that she can’t take me for granted.

I guess it’s ok to shake a woman’s foundations a little bit every once in a while.


She almost had me…

August 23, 2010

Women always test.

The Journalist stopped by the desk, bearing a scratch ticket.

She: Give me a quarter. I’ll play it right here, and if I win, I’ll look out for you (she’ll cut me in).

Me: Wait–did you win? (I was referring to a conversation we had last week, when she bought a Big Game/Megabucks ticket, and told me not to play because she was going to win.)

She: I haven’t even played it yet!

Me: No, no–I mean last week.

She: (Blank look, then..) Oh! Uh, no–I lost.

Me: Waitaminute–you told me not to play because you bought a ticket! I might have won if I had played!

She: C’mon–gimme a quarter!

And I almost did it–I caught myself fishing a quarter out of my pocket. Damnit! Fortunately, she got distracted by one of my co-workers, and forgot about it altogether.

I’m not sure what I would have done; how do you diffuse a situation like that without seeming like a dick?

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Speaking of failing tests, I watched the following on Saturday:

There’s some kind of event going on at Government Center, and there are a bunch of performers on stage doing salsa and contemporary dance. One troop moves off stage, and move inside to change clothes–all except one woman, who proceeds to whip off her costume by the side of the stage. The Sergeant (Gold Shield means Sergeant, right?) steps up and asks her to move around the corner. She didn’t even look up at him, and said: “Do I make you uncomfortable?”, to which he responded, “Yeah, a little”. She chuckled, and said, “You’ll get used to it.”

And he let her go on disrobing. Poor bastard–that woman dissed him, and he didn’t have a clue as to what to do about it.

Women always test!


Competition for mates shortens men’s lives: no real surprise there…

August 15, 2010

Competition for a mate shortens men’s lives: study

Men who face plenty of competition to find a mate have slightly shorter lives than those who don’t.

New research shows that gender imbalance, when men outnumber women, affects male longevity by an average of about three months.

Although the link between gender ratio and longevity has been shown in animals, the study published in the journal Demography is thought to be the first to show the impact in humans.

“If you’re having a hard time finding a mate, it winds up affecting your body and how long you live,” said Professor Nicholas Christakis, of Harvard Medical School.

Three months may not seem like much, he added, but it is comparable to the effects of taking a daily aspirin, or engaging in moderate exercise.

“A 65-year-old man is typically expected to live another 15.4 years. Removing three months from this block of time is significant,” he explained.

I don’t think this is all that surprising; growing old alone is a rather miserable fate as it stands. When you add to that the way our culture treats men….well, there’s a reason that the suicide rate amongst elderly men is so high.