quirklylol

[quirklylol]

Life.

I don't think men can be made great again, at least in our lifetimes. Some men can be made great, and these men will join the top %ers, the elites who already occupy the tip top of the pyramid. But very few men will ever be capable or willing to do what's required to get there.

Women are only what we require them to be - they are only as good as they have to be to keep men. Men are only as good as they have to be to survive in their environment. If their environment is comfortable and easy and over-saturated with quick entertainment, they will be unformed masses of blubbering beta trash. If you "got" a free woman who was loyal to you to your death just for graduating high school, most men would never accomplish a single thing in their lives.

Society was good. Life in 60s-90s America was a fucking dream. It bred a soft generation of pussies.

Now society is bad. Life is shit if you're poor, your sex life is shit if you're not alpha, women behave like spoiled ADHD children and require you to essentially raise and reshape them if you want them to behave like adults. It sucks.

But as the Bernie Sanders crowd chants, the 1% is doing better than ever. And they are. There has never been a better time to be a rich playboy. The Bernie Bros are delusional, yes, in their idea that the 1% are evilly conspiring behind back rooms to keep the poor in chains. Just like guys may think these asshole jocks and alphas are taking great pleasure at hogging up all the pussy for themselves. That is not true - they frankly just don't give a singular fuck about you. The fat cats are not trying to prevent you from making money - they'll help you make a lot of money if you can make them money. The Chads would love to have you in their clique if you can pull your weight and be socially proofed, so as to elevate their status and increase their access to pussy.

But the Bernie crowd is right that the top of the pyramid are living better while the rest are living worse.

That's why I think in my own opinion, Life should be about one thing. There's no other point as I see it, and I find it difficult to respect people in real life who can't understand this. Life should be about climbing to the top of the pyramid, because life when you're not on the top is shit. If you're not willing to climb, go kill yourself.

That's the end-all, be-all, that's what man is meant to do. We all must climb the best we can, and remember that the people on top don't want to keep you down. The people on the bottom want to keep you down. No alpha ever was upset that some other dude was getting pussy - only betas were threatened and insecure by his success.

If you believe you can change society, fine. Go change it, go put up your mens rights signs in your college campus and ostracize yourself by "red pilling" your friends. Go deny yourself pussy because it's beneath you to fuck some slut who's cheating on her boyfriend. Do what you want to do. You can change society - it's doable - but you have to risk wasting your life achieving nothing for a very very slight chance of making a very minor difference. People do make a difference, I don't want to rob men of that notion.

But you can't stand in front of a tsunami. This wave - call it cultural marxism, consumerism + feminism, pussification of men, racist anti-racism, mediocrity, etc - has been building for decades and some of the most powerful companies and controllers of culture have gotten behind it. And it worked. Millions women in pussy hats with every major news channel giving them nothing but positive reinforcement proves that. They've won the culture war.

You just have to climb the pyramid. Join the elites at the top, it's not that hard. I was up in Oregon last weekend and most men there couldn't make eye contact with women. I saw literal real life cucks out in the open - like not internet cucks or fetishists who whore out their wife on craigslist, but men who openly are cool letting their gf / wife go fuck around, and their friends all know. How hard do you think you'd have to work to be a top 20%er there? What about a top 10? Top 1? Could you become a top 1%er male there in 1 year, probably not, but 5? Probably. Do it.

I do not believe all people have to think like this, but this is how I have always interpreted life and the general idea of life strategy and sexual strategy. If you're not willing to climb the pyramid doing whatever it takes, just fucking kill yourself. Because I've spent time on the bottom and I've spent time moving relatively higher, and when you experience life in "that guy"s shoes, you'd rather be dead than be a beta.

And when you get higher and higher, you realize that everything does get prettier. Women treat you well. Because you force them to, you create the mold and hold it out, and they force and contort themselves into the mold. Then you get your quality girl - so long as you remain at the top. When you prioritize her, she immediately knows you've lost the selfish drive required to be a top % man, and while she may not instantly lose attraction and respect, the process has begun. The slow leak has started and you won't notice until it's too late.

That's why you can never forget about the pyramid. I realized this back when there was outrage over bankers pouring champagne out their skyscraper window onto the rioting crowd. Everyone was so angry, everyone was talking about joining up with the people on the ground and changing the system and punishing the rich. I asked a different question - how do I join the people up above, the people spilling the champagne. And every time I get upset or outraged about some kind of societal bullshit, I just try to remember that. And that's what I'd urge you all to do whenever you get upset about the state of society or women or men. Don't even look down at them wallowing in the filth like fucking swine. Look up and climb.

[quirklylol]

A man learns how to build himself from a solid foundation first by abandoning the marshes of iniquity around him, sickened by abundance never earned. He turns his back on his bad habits, shuns them, avoids them and focuses only on the good, the pure truth – this new foundation in which he must trust. To do so strips him of all he has known and charges him with the task of creating his own world. To do so is to take leave of the homestead and throw himself into the cold, harsh wilderness of the mountains. To learn to sleep on emotionless stone in spite of the soft bed of old, to scoop frigid water from the fresh brook on hands and knees in spite of the running tap in a cosy room of old, to furnish the frosty ground with psychological ornaments of true meaning in spite of the physical comforts of home. Above all, to do so is to wish for the cold ground, to relish the fresh water, to desire the responsibility of creating for himself, rather than mindlessly consuming what is thrown at his feet. It is the most difficult step, as the foundation of any structure must be the most enduring element, bearing the weight of all else. The foundations are laid piece by piece, and they are few but firm. By pacing about upon them, they are aligned, worn smooth, set in their proper places gradually but steadily. This is the most crucial and most difficult struggle – to resist the call of the familiar marsh. The marshes call at every turn and he hears because they are all he has known. With each heavy slab heaved into place, a deep chair beckons. With each hungry moment, a cheap but unfulfilling dinner calls. He hears rustling in the bushes after dark and he is scared. He is afraid to relinquish himself and abandon the marsh forever. It may be necessary to venture back there – a man who can surrender his identity all at once had none to begin with – but he learns that the marsh does not serve him, it will corrupt him with its comfort. He is guarded in that place, now, wary of it. He is there only as long as he must be, yearning to return to his barren but truthful stone. The marsh will sucker him into complacency, tempt him with its easiness. But he does not feel antipathy for the marsh; it has no sentience. Ultimately, he learns his prison was not the marsh but his own iniquity. And so the foundation grows, soon wide enough for him to make camp there; to train his body until it cries out for rest; to light a fire; to spit an animal upon it, and to gaze up at the stars afterwards, shivering and naked, cold but free. Poor in body, but richer in spirit than he has ever known. He has almost nothing, but he has consigned himself to the path which will lead him to everything he has ever truly wanted. In thinking this, he realises how little he ever truly desired what he had in the marsh. He learns a respect for the stone. It is unforgiving and it does not shape itself to him; he finds the smoothest spot to lay himself down, and wants not for comfort. In the marsh he would will its subservience; upon the stone, he forces himself to adapt to it. The stone cares not for his wishes, and a part of him likes it that way. In time, his body becomes hard as the stone. His mind becomes clear and fresh as the running brook. The creatures upon the fire do not make him fat but supply him with lean muscle, tight and strong, and the energy to build. Before, it tasted bland, now it is succulent – all the more for having chased it, having fought and defeated it. That sickly overload of flavour he used to experience but never once appreciated becomes shameful indulgence in retrospect. He is glad for the little flavour he must earn, and cannot imagine how he could ever stomach the abundance soullessly meted out, aimlessly collected, greedily consumed, forgotten in a moment. Then the building begins. He is fond, now, of his plinth – and a fine plinth it is – but it could be improved. He journeys out, over long, hard days, and finds flat rocks to build an oven. This will allow him to cook his kills thoroughly, that he may consume more of them. He searches far and wide to find straight, strong timbers to build a small shelter; the winters are too cruel for any man to survive forever. He crafts himself a bow with some arrows and he practices shooting until his aim is true, his reach far and his strikes instant death to all but the greatest beasts. All this he does not to reward himself for what he has done; but only to empower himself to do more that deserves reward. His plinth becomes well-trod, coloured with wear. The timbers of his shelter settle, their ties tightening into place after each rainfall. The weaker arrows break and are lost, the bent shafts fly wide never to be seen again; they are replaced with the finest arrows he has yet crafted. He mourns them not. He makes for himself clothes of the beasts he kills, though his body no longer feels the cold. He finds that he can carry water and dried food for days, discovering new hunting grounds, feathered birds whose plumage will make his arrows fly straighter, flint for their tips, sharper than ever. As the seasons pass, he becomes fast and sure with his bow and spear. He is no longer afraid of the rustling after dark. He tracks the herds of beasts and can hunt to feed himself for one week in a single day. He fills his skeins with water from that loyal brook, and visits it only every other day, now. And so he gazes up at the stars at night, observing their movements. He sees the flashes here and there, marks them in his mind, marvels at them. He begins to tap a stick while he turns a beast upon his spit, humming in time with it. This makes him feel content and alive. He begins to paint the creatures he hunts, daubing carefully with their blood, a mark of respect. He begins to wonder about the world afar, and what he might build if he had other men to help. All his routines still test him; they keep him true and honest and humble, but he wonders what more he could learn, what more he could rely on himself to achieve. It is tempting to stay there evermore, upon that hard-fought and worn plinth of stone which has served him so well. It provided the resistance without which he could not possibly have raised himself. He starts to think he has built a more rewarding prison for himself, but a prison nonetheless – how is he to go now back to the marsh and build something greater than himself? The people there would shun a life upon stone, and he cannot bring the stone plinth with him. One morning, under the most radiant sunrise, he journeys to the mountaintop. All the lands of his noble world are revealed in a single humbling sweep. He sees marshes far and wide, the people living in them. He thinks he spots a few stone plinths here and there, jutting slightly but firmly into the sky. He sees that the stone beneath his feet leads into marsh, into soil, into snow, into leaves, back into stone and so forth, more than he could ever track. It is all connected, all one. He had not left this world, then, he had only found his right place within it. But it is no longer the right place; he must journey forth into that world, into the places he has never seen. Standing tall and straight, he sees it all before him and realises that he can take the stone with him; it must be carried within, a hard object to remind him of permanence, of toil, and that he can only build upon what resists. They laugh at him, this wild man, carrying a worthless, useless stone with him. But they only laugh from their armchairs, drunk on their cheap spirits, cowed and bent by the inconstancy which surrounds them. They cannot raise themselves in the marsh. But standing upon that small stone, the man can raise himself anywhere.

[quirklylol]

Made a sick beat. Reblog if you like it