We’re not interested in this anymore, remember!

UPDATE – In other news, I received a DMCA takedown notice today from Florida-based attorneys for a picture I used when commenting on Justin Wayne being exposed hiring actresses (yet again!). WordPress told him/them to get fucked (I paraphrase) because it’s protected speech. Is anyone else getting Justin Wayne-related heat from Florida (where he spends much of his time)? Is he trying to cleanse the internet of his woeful reputation, or is this action nothing to do with him but coincidence?

There are few things in life as fun as not shagging women. Okay, I exaggerate. Yet, I’m remarkably balanced and tranquil nowadays and I’ve been getting into the business of Mindbuilding in addition to Bodybuilding. Without skirt turning my head every five minutes I’m rather focused on productive pursuits.

I was chatting to my personal trainer yesterday. He commented that my discipline and work-rate are exceptional. I never skip a session, never complain, and I always give 100%. “There’s no way I could put so much into the session if I had an office job,” I tell him. “We only have two hours genuine focus per day. On back or legs days, I have to go straight home and have a nap. Usually I’m too tired to even watch YouTube.”

“We’ve got even less than two hours focus, mate,” he said.

I tell him about my mate Clappsy, a determined London daygamer with a penchant for diseased women. He goes to BJJ class before his full-time job, training at purple belt level. I can’t imagine anything more ardous before starting work than having purple belts squashing and grinding me at 7am. “He’ll give the best of himself in BJJ and have little left over for the office,” said my trainer. And after work, he goes out and daygames! Madness!

Progress = Intensity + Consistency

My gym is going great precisely because I cleared the decks for it. It’s the number one priority in my day. It’s the one thing that, in a pinch, will not be sacrificed. By making it the unequivocal number one, I can pour all my focus into it. Whatever focus is left over can go into the reading, writing, or *shock* daygame. That said, let me elaborate a little on my mantra of Seratonin not Dopamine.

I wrote earlier about escape loops. Briefly, cortisol builds up when something in your life isn’t going in the right direction and you need the impetus to change. Modern society allows us to overwhelm the cortisol badfeelz by way of unlimited options to access the goodfeelz of dopamine. The problem isn’t solved but the symptoms are drowned out by video games, porn, consumer spending, shagging, or whatever else we choose for pleasure. This sets up an unresolved tension in day-to-day life. We bail out the water flooding the kitchen without ever thinking to simply turn off the taps.

When faced with decisions, I want to choose the happiness over pleasure. When in the grocery store I want to choose the low-fat cottage cheese over the bag of cookies. When in the bar, I was to choose coke zero over beer. When in the gym, I want to choose the last two painful reps over putting the bar down when there’s still gas in the tank.

These are moments of weakness. Moments when the siren song of dopamine calls out to you. “Take the easy road, Nick. You only live once! You could get hit by a bus tomorrow.” Thus I have my little mantra: Seratonin Not Dopamine. Choose happiness over pleasure. Choose calm over ego.

It’s been working out well for me so far. My no-fap streak is at eight weeks and gets easier daily. I’m still averaging a book every two days and resisting the lure of video games and Netflix [1]. I’m applying the same discipline to building my mind through reading, contemplation, and chemical management [2] as I do with the bodybuilding.

Progress is not an illusion, it happens, but it is slow and invariably disappointing (says George Orwell). I take the long-term view towards mindbuilding as I do bodybuilding. Aristotle has it that we become virtuous through practising virtue. We are what we consistently do. So, by consistently working on my body and mind I how the slow and invariably disappointing progress accumulates until the improvement is eventually marked. It’s certainly what happened when I was learning daygame: trust the process, do everything right, and eventually the rewards come.

As usual, fuck all that lifestyle design mindwank. Shagging birds is what counts so buy Daygame Overkill and Daygame Mastery. Or, alternatively, you could pay The Natural Lifestyles or Robbie Kramer thousands of dollars to feed their Ukrainian hooker habits while they bullshit you about lifestyle design and “game” [3]

Pretty much the opposite of a healthy, balanced, happy life. But good TV.

[1] I did watch an episode of Mad Men last night. Pretty good.
[2] I don’t mean taking drugs or any nootropic bullshit. I just mean structuring my life and cognitive structures to precipitate serotonin and oxytocin over dopamine.
[3] Or even better, you could pay into one of con-trepreneur Andrew Tate’s pyramid schemes to keep him in rented Lambos and his regular coffee-and-cigars in the lobbies of five star hotels he can’t afford a room in.

Currently wanted by Scottish police force

I’ve now read six volumes of the lecherous Venetian’s epic memoir which, I believe, puts me at the halfway mark. It’s been an entertaining and eye-opening read. In fact, I’d go so far as to rank it as the all-time second best player memoir series. Well worth a crack.

Like many other cultural icons – James Bond, Conan the Barbarian, Dogtanian [1] for example – the popular image of the man is at variance with how he is written in the original stories. My readers are perhaps wiser on matters Casanova than most but I’ll bet most of you know him as an elite-level seducer of top-quality Regency tottie. Well, that’s not quite accurate. Casanova operated in a very different world than today’s humble seducers and faced different challenges. He also had different priorities. So, let’s consider some of the things I learned from his story so far….

1. He played the whole lover-provider range.
Orthodoxy within the London Daygame community is that if you pay for sex, it doesn’t count. It is no more of an achievement to bang a whore/sugarbaby/Ukrainian “model” [2] than it is to buy a movie ticket and watch The Avengers. To call yourself a player when paying for sex is like calling yourself a comedian while paying everyone in the audience to laugh at your jokes. There’s no accomplishment. No winning.

Casanova clearly took pride in his real seductions, and the books include many of them. He’d pursue some women for weeks on end, going to elaborate lengths to woo them. He’d also just as easily pay for it in cash, or set up mistresses with houses and incomes. He was shameless about it. In one case in France, he sets up a silks factory and hires two dozen young seamstresses, then proceeds to hit on every one of them, offering money for sex.

The memoirs include rapes, prostitution, sugar-daddying, and extortion as means of getting laid in addition to the usual seduction.

The Claw, yesterday

2. Smart men had his number.
It took a while for me to figure this out, but as the books wore on I started to see a pattern emerge. Casanova would arrive in a town and ingratiate himself into a series of social circles, often with a particular woman in mind. Almost immediately he’d make an enemy or two among local men. In itself, no big deal. Until, that is, I realised his enemies were usually high-ranking army men with careers in soldiering, or successful business men. It was wolves recognising a rabbit in their midst. Casanova is frequently run out of town by men who, to him, seem to persecute him without provocation. In volume six he arrives in Switzerland and is temporarily forced to restrain himself and not hit on women for a week. He comments that when walking the streets, locals look at him with respect and he’s not used to that! Other times his reputation precedes him, for good and ill.

3. Sexually transmitted diseases were a huge risk
Casanova is frequently sidelined by illness, sometimes taking painful mercury and nitrate cures to clear up venereal diseases, and out of action for months at a time. This was two hundred years before antibiotics and Casanova usually refused to wear “English sheaths”. There’s one funny time where he stays at a lodge and takes a fancy to one of the girls there, Raton, so offers her two louis to come round and shag him. After showing her to his bedroom he steps out to the lavatory and noticed a patron has scrawled “October 10, 1760, one week ago Raton gave me the clap and it’s killing me.” Casanova returns to find Raton naked in his bed and her shawl stuffed down between it and the wall. He pulls it out and notices its stains. She flees.

Another intrigue is centred around him getting the pox from a vengeful Madame F. and, because his Spanish valet Ludec has also just caught the pox, Casanova is able to turn the tables. It’s a squalid story I shan’t spoil.

Knee-Clap was endemic

4. He was ruled by his urges.
Casanova was an inveterate gambler in addition to his lustful wanderings. Most of his stories are some variation of this model: (1) show up in new town with letter of introduction from a notable in previous town, and with a full purse, (2) join a social circle centred around an aristocratic lady, (3) gamble every day, winning and losing large amounts, (4) target the lady or one of her retinue (5) get into some kind of intrigue behind the husband’s back, (6) leave town due to either a duel, the pox, or unpaid debts.

Casanova is an inconstant. He will fall in love with a girl and contemplate marriage. They’ll develop a serious relationship and then, just before proposing, the daughter of the local baker will catch his eye and he’s off after her instead. The old flame is simple forgotten.

5. There’s rather more murder than one would expect.
The last story of volume six concerns a mistaken identity with a nun. The thirty-five year old Casanova is walking home one afternoon when he sees a young nun (21yr old) chaperoned by an old battleaxe nun. He mistakenly thinks it’s an old flame called M.M. from five years earlier, so he follows them to their lodgings in a peasant cottage. An intrigue ensues. In order to deflect the battleaxe, the young nun (who is hiding a pregnancy inflicted by a fifty-year old hunchback) conspires with the peasant landlady to give the older woman a sleeping soporific. They overdo it and the battleaxe has been asleep for 28 hours. Casanova consults with them and they decide not to call a doctor, as it would reveal the pregnancy and the intrigue. So, they let her die and pay off the parish priest to get her buried without incident.

Years earlier Casanova ambushed a man walking home late one night, clubbed him with a blackjack, and threw him unconscious into a canal. The poor victim was only saved by revellers who saw him floating. There are other such events. Casanova appears to have had no scruples at all.

There’s always someone cheating at Faro

6. Degenerates seek him out.
There’s one story in volume five where literally everyone involved is on the make: He fancies the daughter of his inn-keeper but she’s been made pregnant by some random a month earlier, and nobody knows. So, Casanova consults an aristocratic lady friend who recommends a local midwife abortionist. Social pressure is immense, so they have a plan to go to a masquerade ball together then slip out, take a coach, and consult the midwife. They pay her a 50% deposit to buy the supplies, then tell the pregnant woman. Ultimately, they don’t follow through.

Months later, Casanova is walking in a park when the midwife recognises him. She’s with a rogue. She reports him the the Chief of Police saying he tried to procure an abortion and she refused. So Casanova is about to be prosecuted. Witnesses are “found” to support the midwife. What follows is a comedy of betrayal, pay-offs, and dissembly as literally everyone is trying to scam everyone else.

Another time, in volume six, Casanova shows up in town and is immediately targeted by three officers who slip him roofies, take him for a fortune in an illicit gambling den, steal his jewellery, and then pursue him through the local courts for payment. He ends up drugging the guard at his hotel, sneaking out a neighbour’s window, and fleeing town. In other towns he always seems to know the card sharps, pimps, abortionists, con-men, and other low-life. This despite him being rich and supposedly moving in high circles.

7. Logistics were a nightmare.
It’s not unusual for Casanova to rent a country house, full complement of servants, and host grand balls just in order to provide a plausible reason to snatch a quarter hour with his target. He’ll bribe staff, wear disguises, and communicate in secret codes with his target in order to secure a couple of hours isolation. Frankly, it sounds like a nightmare. We should be thankful for smartphones and urban anonymity.

8. AMOGing isn’t so special.
Casanova was considered a good amateur swordsman and several times he fights duels to first blood. Other times he challenges irate suitors to duels and they don’t show. Those of us growing up in the era of 2005-PUA are well aware of anti-AMOG tactics. Hey, great shirt pal. Cool story, bro. Seeing Casanova duelling with pointy blades is a reminder of just how faggy modern PUA is, as an expression of how faggy modern nightclubs and dating can be.

I should probably announce the release of Last Man Banging at some point, considering it’s already available on Amazon in paperback and hardcover. And, it’s way better written than old Giacomo’s effort.

[1] The latter is not actually a dog!
[2] Yes, The Natural Lifestyles, I’m looking at you.

Throughout my life, I’d always known I was surrounded by a bunch of wankers but now it has literally come to pass. I’m the only clean-minded individual around these parts. One of my friends recently developed a strain of chlamydia so bad that it spread to his knees and ankles, putting him on crutches in Dickensian fashion [1]. In figuring out who he’d contracted it from, he was only able to narrow it down to three particularly unsavoury tarts. Another of my friends recently ended a cycle of Human Growth Hormone, then we went on the lash in Antwerp whereupon not only did he out-drink me quite prodigiously, but he invigorated himself with ample cocaine. When that was gone he flagged down two passing vibrants and cadged some kind of gas- the street name of which escapes me- that is snorted from a balloon.

I dunno, when did I become the paragon of clean living? Compared to such shenanigans, sitting at home reading a book a day comes off as positively boring.

Might as well just move here

Anyway, pre-amble aside I wanted to offer some thoughts on how my No Fap has been going. I initially opted for a Hard Reset, meaning no porn, no fap, and no sex. It may surprise you that of the three, my only lapse was in the sex – I banged an old flame who stopped off in Newcastle on her way to visit a friend in Scotland. Does that mean I reset the Hard Reset clock to zero?

Of course not! We all know that re-treads are not notches and therefore don’t count as real sex. This is established PUA orthodoxy. Phew!

So, five weeks/35 days of precious little stimulation. What’s it been like?

Rather good, I’d say. My attention span continues to lengthen and I get decreasingly distracted by sex-related thoughts. I do find sexual desire bubbling up multiple times a day, usually triggered by a line or two in a book I’m reading, but I don’t feed it and it dissipates within about five minutes, fifteen at the outside. In my daygame days I’d deliberately nurture such bubblings in order to spur me to seductive action whereas nowadays I take the opposite route, dampening down the urges and distracting myself with other things until they disappear.

Five minutes’ distraction, yesterday

I’ve found the sexual appetite is absolutely not a NEED. You try going without food and water, you’ll discover what need really means. The sexual urge simply comes and goes. I can see how monks could go decades without acting upon that urge.

Strangely, I’m reminded of a reader’s letter in Viz magazine [2]. It went something along the lines of: “It is medically-proven that the adult male must discharge semen through ejaculation every two weeks, whether through sex or masturbation. So, Cliff Richard, which is it?” Obviously, that was written for comic effect and there’s likely no such medical consensus. However, I’d always assumed the sex urge was like holding your breath underwater: at some point, you will come up for breath. I can say from 35 day’s experience, this isn’t true. It comes and goes. It doesn’t build up if you fail to act upon it.

I did have one minor lapse that surprised me. I was checking my torrents folder on my desktop, after many months away from it. There was a Japanese porno I’d downloaded from JAVJunkies about a year ago taking up 5GB of harddrive space. Wishing to free up space, but curious, I decided to skip through it to see if I definitely wanted to delete it. I’m calling that a lapse because I should’ve just deleted it sight-unseen.

Anyway, I watch the opening credits (non-sexual scene setting) and remember, “Ah, this one was a bit shite, no wonder I forgot it”. I click on the timeline, quickly scanning across the ninety minute run time and I realise something odd: it’s considerably more interesting now than it was a year ago. Having grown unaccustomed to lust and sexual stimulation, landing on the middle of a sex scene was like taking a line of cocaine. My brain lit right up and relatively mediocre tarts engaged in relatively badly-staged scenes were suddenly the most interesting thing in the world.

So I closed the media player and deleted it.

I thus conclude that my brain chemistry is in fact changing. Spending time away from lustful thoughts and entertainments does indeed settle a man down.

Speaking of settling down, Daygame Mastery and Daygame Overkill will help you pull lots of girls and thus avoid having to do so. And Epstein didn’t kill himself.

[1] Jimmy and I felt terrible mocking him for that, but we didn’t stop.
[2] To date, the funniest periodical ever printed.

My gran was a wily old goat [1] and I recall her once letting slip to my dad, as she was helped into the front seat of his car, “I don’t think Nick is going to marry again.” That was about seven years ago and I’ve done nothing to prove her words inaccurate. My gran was well into her Mills & Boons novels, a monthly book club for lovers of romance fiction. North American readers should think of Harlequin romances to get an idea of it. Kind of like Mack Bolan for birds. Every lunchtime when I’d walk from school to my gran’s for lunch, she’d have a little stack of Mills & Boons paperbacks on the coffee table.

Years passed. I decided to read one today. I was very quickly reminded of a presentation my old buddy Tony T had given at a 2009 bootcamp. He’d based it on the book Dangerous Men Adventurous Women, a series of essays by writers of women’s romance, explaining how they fashioned the stories. “Get to know what birds pine for, and your seduction game will improve,” he advised.

Not as gay as The Natural Lifestyles coaches

So it is with this in mind that I picked up a paperback of Georgette Heyer’s Powder And Patch, a 1923 regency romance [2] first published by Mills & Boons. And, my oh my, isn’t it half red pill! Reading old books does make you realise that what we think is edgy / thoughtcrime in 2019 was in fact simply “common sense” in earlier times. The story is standard stuff: Phillip is the young son of a country squire Maurice, both of them simple honest men desirous of a quiet village life. Phillip has fallen in love with neighbour and recently come-of-age Cleone who appears to share his sentiments, though neither dares voice their feelings. The foppish Henry returns to their village to lie low after a duel in London and cracks on to Cleone to amuse himself. His wordly knowledge and fast patter make Phillip seem dull by contrast, so Cleone goads him to “go become a gentlemen”. Piqued, Phillip sets off and his dad Maurice entrusts him to the formerly-foppish uncle Tom to educate him in the ways of High Society.

Like I said, its for the birds. There are no explosions, car chases, ticking bombs, or strip clubs. There are a few sword fights but strictly until first blood and with no intention to seriously wound. It’s a light-hearted book.

But the red pills! Get a load of this advice as the two older brothers chat about how a man of means should live…..

Isn’t that exactly the life advice Rollo dishes out over at The Rational Male? What could be redder pill than that? It would seem us Euro Jaunters aren’t quite the pioneers we may like to think we are. Later, Phillip turns into a debauched gentleman in Paris and he certainly knows how to go on a bender…..

So far, so interesting but the book really earns its red pill spurs in the character of wise old Aunt, Lady Malmerstoke. Phillip has returned to London and is the talk of Society, the same circles that Cleone has recently been debuted at by the Aunt. As you’d expect from a romance novel, many misunderstandings and awkward events ensue to keep the couple at odds. Eventually, Phillip asks Cleone’s hand in marriage and she rejects him (out of pique, she does love him). Distraught, Phillip seeks advice from Lady Malmerstroke.

Dickheads, I present you with a masterclass in understanding the female psyche. It begins with Phillip having told Lady Malmerstroke that Cleone challenged him on having flirted with too many women already and thus being a man of tainted reputation. Perhaps you’d like to open your copy of Mystery Method to compare it line by line….

Let’s recap what game fundamentals Lady Malmerstroke is advising:

1. Deny, deny, deny!
2. Women want to be mastered.
3. Don’t listen to what they say.
4. Women are irrational.
5. Don’t reason with them.

I dunno, it almost seems like Chateau Heartiste is still writing.

It also got me thinking on another point: the interchanges between men and women in this book are so much deeper and more nuanced than anything a typical PUA is capable of coming up with. These dialogues are verbal sparring, proper banter. The men are impressing the women by their ability to outclass the latter in the art of conversation. It’s a deeper game than simply caressing their hand, pushing logistics, and escalating. These books involve the man winning over uncertain women, not simply filtering for whatever Yes Girls will take them.

If you like nuanced game that pays appropriate respect to game fundamentals while also specifically adapting to the needs of a modern daygamer, get yourself Daygame Overkill and Daygame Mastery. Learn to play the game in Maybe.

[1] Before senile dementia diminished her faculties, sadly.
[2] That means set in the 18th century, you clod.

I just passed the three-week mark of my No Fap streak. It wasn’t particularly difficult as I’ve never been one to engage in that kind of muck on a frequent basis [1]. What’s been unusual is how little interest I’ve even had for porn since I completely cut it out of my life. I expected I’d miss the stimulation, that somehow absence would make the heart grow fonder. It’s been quite the contrary – out of sight, out of mind.

Now that it’s gone, it’s like it was never really there. Kinda like my mate from Wales’s YouTube channel.

Given that I was never a porn addict, why have I been so Adam Ant about giving up on it entirely? That would be because of the Rule Of Lust.

Get back thee, Satan!

I hadn’t even considered the issue until Universal Man mentioned it in passing on one of his Sexual Self-Mastery videos [2]. He postulates that Lust is a cheap, superficial imitiation of healthy sexual desire, much as junk food is of a healthy diet. It is a super-stimulation, all sizzle and no steak. When addicted to porn, a man’s sex drive rockets until he’s horny all the time. This lust squeezes out all other interests in life until nothing but sex matters. Everything else in life is cheapened, drowned out by the lustful instinct.

I can relate to that. Many times I’ve been on Euro Jaunts and wondered, “what do normal people even do on holiday, if they aren’t chasing skirt?” I’d see people queuing outside the opera, or dining in fancy restaurants and wonder what the hell they are playing at. What a pointless load of shit when you could be clacking some young bird.

BOOOOOOOOOOORRRIIIIINGGG!

I’d come to look back on my teenager years as a woefully-missed opportunity to get notches. Many a time back then I’d get talking to girl, make out with her, and then keep her at a distance. At least half a dozen times I declined to bang girls who were absolutely serving it up on a plate for me. They weren’t unattractive either. Why?

To a PUA, it seems like absolute madness. Why would you turn down easy notches from pretty girls?

Well, teenager me just didn’t particularly care. Sure, I’d have liked to bang those birds but I remember what stopped me: “she’s going to want to keep hanging around, isn’t she? She’ll expect us to do it more, and go on dates and stuff.” I was rather choosy about which girls I’d let into my life so, to forestall letting the wrong ones in, I declined to shag them. Don’t let me overstate how often this happened. Maybe a half dozen times in two years. Maybe add another dozen where it hadn’t yet been served up on a plate but probably would have been if I’d put forth a little more effort.

The point was this: casual sex wasn’t very important to teenage me. I was not ruled by lust.

When a man is lustful he’s not really in control of his life. He’s certainly not free. Say you’re in a cafe reading a book and two hot slags birds walk in, twittering on like decorative little dollies. Your head comes up and your concentration is broken. Lustful thoughts fill your mind and there’s an ache in your soul if you don’t try to bang them. It can be very frustrating. I’ve spent years of my life in that state. It gets tiresome.

What would YOU do?

A couple of years ago I began thinking what life would be like without libido. My primary conclusion: it would be a blessed relief.

You can’t just cut porn/birds/sex out of your life and expect to be happy. Something has to fill the gap. For me, it has been reading and gym. I don’t expect to remain in Monk Mode forever. For the time being, though, I’m enjoying life a lot as my sexual urge is ratcheted downward, lust no longer inflames my blood, and I can get on with other interests.

I doubt I could’ve found satisfaction in a cleaner simpler life if I hadn’t first banged loads of birds.

But anyway, I don’t recommend YOU become a monk – nosiree! You’d be far better off chasing lots of skirt and what better way to succeed than to buy Daygame Overkill and Daygame Mastery.

[1] And this magazine is for my dad, sir.
[2] An interesting series. Recommended.

A concept I liked from Universal Man‘s discussion of dopamine detox is that of Escape Loops and Productivity Loops. It goes thus…. Cortisol is the drug released by the body to create dissatisfaction. It is the stick to dopamine’s carrot, there in order to motivate behavioural change. So, something happens that’s against your interests and requires action…. you get a dose of cortisol.

Getting fat and looking like shit in front of the mirror? That’s your SMV going down, and the rising sense of unease you feel is caused by cortisol.

Been on the wrong end of a run of +1 texts from your daygame mates? That’s your social status going down [1] so you’re denied the pleasurable seratonin and instead blasted with a shot of cortisol.

Failed a job interview? Carpeted by the boss at work? Stuck in a traffic jam?

Fixed an election and STILL lost it?

It’s all cortisol. Your body is reacting to a perceived change against its interests and attempting to prod you into restorative action. The problem is two-fold. First, your body is adapted to a different environment and is thus misreading cues. A traffic jam is not actually a threat to your survival and replication. We are no longer in the state of nature. Second, modern society has furnished us with a range of diversions that allow us to counter-act the cortisol spike without actually addressing its root cause. Universal Man calls them escape loops, and they are activities which drown out the cortisol with dopamine without solving the problem at hand.

Porn is the big one. There are many more: comfort eating, getting blotto drunk, chasing sub-par skirt, farming social media likes, binge-watching Netflix, video games etc. They are all quick-fixes of dopamine that will wash away the badfeelz of cortisol. They are escapism.

Badfeelz (cortisol) —> Escapism (dopamine) —-> Repeat

It gets worse.

On a single per-occurrence basis, there’s not much harm in engaging in a little escapism. You’re struggling on your Moscow euro-jaunt, your mate +1s the WhatsApp group, so you quietly have a wank and go to sleep. Not a problem [2]. But what if you keep doing it?

Here we get into another problem, that of Shadow Careers. It’s a term Universal Man picked up from Steven Pressman [3]. The modern world furnishes us with a smorgasbord [4] of options to progressively climb imaginary ladders to nowhere. Think of the meta-progression in the typical video game, such as levelling up your Assassins Creed character with new skills, or progressive unlocks in Call Of Duty and online rankings. Think of your followers ratio on Instagram, or your retweets. Think of any virtual credibility.

NONE OF IT MATTERS

Shadow careers provide the illusion you are progressing in your life goals while, simultaneously, your real life is going to shit. Thus it is an extended version of the Escape Loop: create a source of dopamine/seratonin/oxytocin to drown out the badfeelz of cortisol without actually removing the problem that is creating the cortisol.

You might as well buy a white van and drive around Eastern Europe opening mediocre birds [5]

I’m ruined!

What’s the solution? UM reckons you should replace escape loops with a productive activity. When you you feel the burn of cortisol, forgo the opportunity to engage in escapism and instead get something done.

Fuck all that. The most productive thing you can do is buy Daygame Overkill, a detailed in-field demonstration of how to pick up girls without harassing them and without shitting yourself because a few low-t soyboys do a Fake News show about daygame.

[1] As far as your monkey brain is concerned, anyway.
[2] If I was into this kind of mucky stuff, I’d have spent all of 2018/19 on Pornhub.
[3] In a book I haven’t read but mean to.
[4] Finally, I slipped that word into a blog post!
[5] Then take all your content offline in a panic.

Bing bang bosh! The next great milestone in the history of pick-up fast approaches: the release of volume seven of my interminable epic memoir: Last Man Banging [1]. I’m currently sitting at my laptop facing a first draft of the complete layout, a sixth draft cover, and with three industrious contract artists to oversee. Exciting times.

All the hard work is done. Now it’s a case of tweaking, error-checking, and polishing the final document. I think that’ll take another week. Then I’ll print myself a test copy and have a look through when I’m back home in October. So, my best estimate for release is mid-October.

And by then, I’ll have started on writing the final volume [2]

[1] Formerly known as Little Brown Sex Machines.
[2] Volume 6, as yet untitled, covering the year immediately prior to Last Man Banging.