You can write this Blog post off as yet another update to my Nice Guys and Players series of sorts lasting over a decade. The last one of which was ten years ago which should tell you how long I have never been and never will be in “the game.” The only news that I have about Rom wills, by the way, is my awareness of his YouTube channel with about 13 thousand subscribers.
Rom Wills may not immediately agree with this statement: most young women are on a mission of selfless wish fulfillment and the sole purpose of your presence in their life is to help them complete (or, worse, enact) this mission. There you have it, son, that is the “secret.”
My use of the word secret is not to indicate something “we” do not know about “her”—it is to indicate the very, very high probability that this young woman does not know that she is on this mission. She has things hidden from herself. This is the more exact reason why boys should be afraid of girls: because a boy actually trying to be a “real man” will dedicate (and often give and lose) his life (starting with his financial life) to a mission that “no one” knows about… It is literally dying for nothing: the roughneck definition of a “good” marriage.
So clearly I have been through some shit that I claim almost killed me (or is actually killing me now). I have matured (or degenerated—depending on your missionary position) to the level where I can turn to Rom Wills and know with (annoying) certainty that a “nice guy” is a dude that does not know a young woman is on a mission and “a player” is one that does (in very fucked up ways).
I was a nice guy. I am now that third man that is neither a nice guy or a player. To the woman on a mission, I have just defined myself as useless to her. The reason why there is no misogyny here is because I know that such a woman usually does not know I am useless to her. All she knows is that I should just fall away from her and see whether we cross paths again…
By the way, kids, my mother died at an early age because she was imprisoned by wish fulfilling for her mother, my grandmother. By the time my mother realized she was on this mission for nothing, she considered it too late. In the same manner my mother gave her life for nothing, a man married and dedicated to my mother would have given his life as well. All for nothing. Women can unknowingly send men to their death without little or no effort—this, again, is why women should be feared and respected.
Let’s take a closer, more horrifying look at my use of the words “selfless wish fulfillment”—on the surface, this phrase makes the young woman seem heroic. But the horror comes when you consider the possibility that selfless refers to her lack of a “self.” So now you have this “good husband” dedicating his life to a person that has no concept of “self” (usually phrased as “issues of identity” in the feminist circles of the 1990s) helping her on a mission that is not really hers: she is living her life for other people. Under patriarchal oppression, this is the very definition of a young woman.
The leading reason, by far, men of all ages join the not-really-defined mission of the young woman is because almost always her mission involves pregnancy and childbirth. I was one of those men. I have spent hundreds of thousands of dollars to prove it. And for the sake of having about three children (which I have now), I would do it again (but with tremendous amounts of bluesy sadness). More horror: just because one knows about this irreligious missionary-zeal bullshit does not mean one has a “solution” or an alternative.
So, now that I have the great “wisdom” of this “secret” (and my hormones have calmed down), whenever I see a young woman, I see the very real possibility of dying for nothing. I see someone who honestly and sincerely does not have the time to give a flying fuck about me or any man. She has a mission—or rather, a mission has her—and these days it will probably involve selfies. (And that selfie, by the way, is not always selfish vanity—it often seems an appeal to a self …it is a subconscious statement, “Is not this body worthy of childbirth and the mysterious allure of my nebulous mission?”)
Apart from my dedication to my children (which rapidly fades as they get older because I am not a multi-millionaire), what keeps me barely alive is this new, radical, post-hormonal way of looking at women. I now understand why it is tragic when a man over forty (like myself) is truly and authentically not strategically interested in young women like, say, Jim Brown or Harvey Weinstein is interested in young women. When I approach the mature women I am attracted to, the first thing I want to know is whether they survived their young-woman mission. Her answer has been so far one of these:
- I have no idea what you are talking about so I am going to walk over there and look in that direction.
- My body is ravaged by eating rituals of neurosis and I take shelter in the phrase “body shaming”—and I hate you to prevent me from hating myself (again).
- Yes—and I realized I was killing my husband; I saved us by saving myself. Have a nice day. Bye.
- No, and that is why I call this grown-ass man my boyfriend (and, for this very young boy on the side I get cougar with, the term boyfriend is perfect)—hey, um, do you have medical insurance?
- Yes but the obligations surrounding my educational attainment prevented my family from making further demands from me. You will excuse me: I have to go pay off my student loans by making more money than you.