Little Red

November 4, 2020October 31, 2020 Rob Says4 Comments

mohawk haan crows close up

Sit down everybody and listen closely, for I have a story to tell. You all know about things that go bump in the night, the mystical and mysterious creatures of legend. You all know about werewolves, witches, and vampires. You’ve all heard about The Jersey Devil and El Chupacabra, but how many of you know about Little Red?…

My name is Rob and I’m documenting what I know about Little Red on my voice-recorder. Why am I speaking into this machine instead of writing this down? Let’s just say that it’s easier to speak it than it is to write it down.

This all happened a few years ago when I lived in an apartment complex called “The Redwood.” The Redwood was, well, I’m not going to mince words, the Redwood was a shithole plain and simple. It was an apartment complex in the “bad part of town,” and it of course had its share of less than desirable people.

There was Paula from 2263 who I found out was only a few years older than me, but if you were to look at her, you would think that she was in her late 60’s or early 70’s. A lifetime of bad decisions from drinking daily to smoking 2 packs of cigarettes a day will do that to you. She had dingy, stringy black hair that was the worst dye job that you had ever seen on a woman. If Marilyn Manson had been a woman, this is what he would look like.

There was Linda from 2060 who had a string of failed marriages and had also made a bunch of bad decisions throughout her life and she ended up at The Redwood as well. I could always hear her coming while I was out and about in the complex because she had a bluetooth speaker that she wore attached to her belt loop and she would play the pop music that the Zoomers today find popular. Linda had short blonde hair and at first glance she looked sort of like a Q-Tip with her hairdo. She loved her whiskey, her weed, and her Lortabs though.

And then there was “The Troll.” I say that because I don’t even want to know her name. All I know is that she lives across from me in 2166. The first thing that I see when I go to leave for work is the Troll sitting out on her balcony every morning or every evening, depending on my work schedule. The Troll would sit out on her balcony and she would be blasting whatever horrible music that it was that she liked to listen to and usually she would be drinking and screaming at Jeff, her boyfriend. She would be so loud sometimes that her voice would carry over the entire complex. How else would I know that she hadn’t been properly laid in months and that she had chronic pain from an injury that she received in a car accident?

I remember the first time that I had any interaction with the Troll and it was one of the many times that she was screaming at Jeff about whatever. It was early August and I had the window to my apartment open, hoping to catch a little breeze to cool me off. The cheap, tiny air conditioner unit that was stuck in my window was dead. Again. And my apartment was an oven. I stared out the window at the Troll who happened to look in my direction at the same time. She screeched at me, “Mind your own fucking business!” Normally, that’s exactly what I do, but it was a hot afternoon and I had had enough and so I yelled back at her, “That’s what I’m trying to do, except you’re making your shit my fucking business! Go inside!” And it was “on” from there.

My war with the Troll never really escalated beyond sneers from her and smiles and waves from me and although she never tried to hide the fact that she didn’t like me, I just acted all the more nicer just to piss her off. It worked. Her daily yelling and screaming became so normal and so tiring that one day I couldn’t stand it anymore and so I turned her in to the apartment management and to my surprise, they actually did something about it for once. They called the cops on her.

While the police had corralled the Troll in her apartment with Jeff, I was standing out in the courtyard, having a cigarette. That’s when I first met Linda and Paula that I mentioned earlier. They were giggling like a couple of schoolgirls and I could smell the weed and the booze on them. It wafted and exuded out of their pores like a toxic fog.

Even though it was building management that had called the cops on the Troll, everybody in the complex just assumed it was me that did it. In a roundabout way, I guess they were right.

So there I was, having a cigarette and trying to cool off and relax when Linda and Paula came over to talk to me. Like I said earlier, both of them ended up at The Redwood due to poor life choices. Now that I think about it, what does that say about me? Nevermind. While I was standing there, listening to these two drunk, stoned women prattle on about the comings and goings in the complex, I noticed a young couple with a young child and a very large dog, walking through the complex. The dog’s name was “Bee.” I have no idea what it stands for or if it’s a shortened version of something else, I just know that I’ve heard the guy when he calls for the dog, he calls it “Bee.”

Paula noticed me looking at the couple and the dog, and she said, “Lots of pets in this complex. You got Bee over there, a mangy, yellow tabby cat named Rufus from 1839 that runs around here, pissing on everything like he owns it, and somewhere around here, there’s a three legged, one earred, half blind mongrel named Lucky. He looks good compared to his owner.”

“Sure are a lot of animals around here,” I agreed noncommittally. “I’m still waiting to wake up and see deer in the common area.”

“Oh for sure!” Linda cackled. “It’s only a matter of time before they come in.”

“Hey have you seen the chicken?” Paula butted in.

“Chicken?” I asked.

“Lord yes! There’s a chicken that hangs around here!” Linda piped up before Paula could get the chance to continue.

I started wondering about this chicken and where it was and where it had come from. I guess I got so caught up in my thoughts that I didn’t realize that Linda and Paula had started fighting with each other. All I know is that I had to jump in the middle of these two older ladies and pull them off of each other. Both of them had small clumps of each other’s hair in their hands.

I told them both goodnight and went back to my apartment, I don’t have time for that kind of bullshit and I don’t want any part of it. Besides, the police were still there dealing with Jeff and the Troll and the last thing that I needed was them turning their attention towards us.

I woke up early the next morning since I was on the morning shift at my job that day and when I went outside to go and get into my car, that’s when I saw it for the first time.

The chicken.

I didn’t know what to expect when I saw it, but it was somewhat disappointing. I guess I was hoping for a big, red rooster. This bird was a little, brownish colored hen. She was sitting on the landing of my building, next to my neighbor’s door. She had been sitting there, roosting from last night if I had to guess, and if she hadn’t stood up, done that head bobbing thing that chickens do, and flapped her wings, I would have stepped on her. That’s how close she had been to me.

I stopped and slowly backed up and went back inside my apartment. I had some bread in the fridge that I wanted to feed to her because to me, she looked hungry. I came back out and she was still there. I pulled pieces and chunks from the couple of slices of bread that I had and threw them towards her. She initially flapped and kind of ran away from them, but when she realized what they were, she came back and began pecking at them and eating them. I finished throwing the pieces of bread towards her and then I left and went to work.

If she was still around later when I got back, I would feed her some birdseed, I thought. If she’s still around when I get back, I’m going to give her a name. I’m going to call her, Little Red.

When I got home from work that afternoon, Little Red was down by the dog run. Pecking around, looking for worms I imagine. I tore open the bag of birdseed that I had picked up after I got off work and threw a couple of handfuls towards her. She immediately darted towards where I threw the seed and began pecking away.

I felt so happy that she was eating my birdseed and I knew that I was doing a good and kind thing. I kept sprinkling out little handfuls of seed and was working my way closer to her, I wanted to see if I could actually touch her.

So there I was, sprinkling and moving ever closer, and Little Red, the now unofficial mascot of The Redwood, was pecking and clucking at the seed. I finally ended up right next to her and I slowly leaned down and touched her.

She was soft and sort of silky and she didn’t seem the least bit scared of me. In fact, she cocked her head to the side and looked at me quizzically, as if trying to decide something. She made a couple of clucks and pecked at the ground while I had visions and fantasies of this chicken being the mascot and sort of “pet” for the apartment complex. Paula and Linda would “ooh and ahh” over my taming of the bird, and everybody would come around and want to see and pet my new friend.

I was talking softly to Little Red about this, about her status as the mascot for The Redwood and how everybody would want to pet her and feed her and how everybody would go looking for her after that day, telling each other and anybody who would listen about her, when it happened.

Although it’s been several years since it happened, I can see it in my mind’s eye plain as day as if it had happened yesterday.

I was talking to Little Red about all of these wonderful things that were going to happen for her here at The Redwood, when she cocked her head as if listening to me, and maybe she actually was, and then she opened her beak, clucked once, and then she flapped her wings and attacked me.

I was so startled by her change of behavior and demeanor that she totally caught me off-guard. I was too slow and had my hands full with birdseed in one and the bag of seed in the other that I wasn’t able to fend her off or defend myself.

The pain of her talons scratching my face was excruciating and when she went for my eyes, it was as if someone had poked me with a white-hot poker. I saw blazing white and felt warm liquid running down my face and I remember screaming and beating about my head, trying to get Little Red off of me, and that’s when everything went dark.

I woke up later in the hospital and to my shock and horror, everything was black. No hint of grey, no blurry images or smeared colors, but complete and absolute black.

I told you at the beginning that I was documenting this on my voice recorder because it was easier to say it than it was to write it down, and that’s because Little Red scratched both of my eyes out.

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When You Want For Nothing…

November 2, 2020January 2, 2021 Rob Says2 Comments

Screenshot_20201031-103510 (2)

It’s damn near impossible to sell something to you.

I made a tweet a couple of days ago, saying “If by saving the west, you mean: semen retention, sunning your asshole, ‘don’t lean in bro!’ and what is or isn’t alfa, I’d rather let the fucker burn.” I got the reply above.

“What if saving the West just involves being a good man, husband, and father?”

That’s great if that is what you want, but why should I be on board with that?

What is in it for me?

I’ll be the first one to admit: I’m not a “team player.” Actually, I take that back. I am a team player, I play for team ME.

Monogamy and children and being a husband aren’t for me, so what else do you have? Your religion, whatever flavor it is, doesn’t interest me, so again I ask, what do you have?

What do you have that would be of interest to me?

As a side note: notice the use of the words, “good man.” Being a “good man” is a moralistic definition. I guarantee you that your definition of being a “good man” is going to be different from mine. So who is “right?” You are, of course. At least to you. But not to me. For me, I am right.

To quote Jack Donovan:

There’s being a good man, and there’s being good at being a man.

One is defined by morality and the other is defined by action and capability. If you don’t have capability and the ability to take action, being a good man becomes a moot point. A man that is capable and is willing to use violence may not be a “good man,” but he’s good at being a man. I’ll take him as an ally over a good man any day of the week.

Which brings me back to where I started:

What’s in it for me? You have your cause, you have your beliefs, you have whatever it is that you want me to sign up for, to buy, to get on board with. But what is in it for me? If you can figure that one out, you’ll have an interested buyer and possibly a great ally in me. Until you figure that one out though, go pound sand.

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“Your duty as a man…” Dude, go fuck off.

You don’t get to decide what my “duty” is. Go fuck yourself. My “duty” is to me and mine and that is it. Period. Full stop. Struggle, pain, honor. Nice container words that are absolute nonsense and bullshit. What’s in it for me to consider anything that you are flapping your gums about? What do I get out of it?

Struggle? Pain? Fucking “honor?” Coming out the “other side as a better man?” Like I’ve said before: Nobody gives a shit about your struggles. Nobody gives a shit about your pain. And what is a “better man?” I’m sure you have your own convenient definition that will have absolutely nothing to do with my own definition of what is “better.”

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Here’s the truth about your “honor”:

“Stand in the ASHES of a TRILLION dead SOULS and ASK the ghosts if HONOR MATTERS. Their SILENCE is your ANSWER.”

Brilliant. Brilliant because it is true. Nobody gives a shit about “honor” but you. The only time “honor” matters is when it gets you what you want.

None of my ancestors, deceased friends or family have come back from the grave to talk to me about honor, virtue, or anything for that matter. They haven’t come back because they are dead. The dead don’t care about the affairs of the living. The dead don’t care about anything and that’s because they are dead. Sell your shame and after-life fantasies to someone else, I’m not interested in them.

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How about thinking for yourselves for once in your life? Instead of asking what to think, how about figuring out how to think? One thing I’ve noticed over time is that guys with the least amount of experience in whatever topic it is, are the one’s that are most likely going to tell you what to think about it. Instead of encouraging you to learn how to think for yourselves, they are going to teach you what to think instead. Of course, what they are going to teach you to think benefits them.

But what’s in it for me? How does them telling me what to think benefit me?

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Here’s a hard lesson to swallow:

Most guys don’t want to think for themselves, they don’t want to think at all. They want to be told what to think and be told what to do. Like a good little follower. Like good little sheep. Like cannon fodder. Most guys aren’t looking to lead, they are looking to be lead. Like Rian says in the above tweet, “You want a shepherd, not a family.”

Most guys are looking for their mother’s in their girlfriends and in their wives. Most guys are looking for their father’s in either some random asshole on the internet, or in the idea of some higher being known as “god.” You are the only “god” that exists. Figure out your own rules and live by them.

Figure out how to think instead of looking for someone else to tell you what to think. When you figure this one out, you’ll see that most everything else, especially on social media is set against you. It’s geared to get you to not think. It’s geared to get you emotional and to get you to buy. Or to get you on board with whatever the latest “cause” is.

Think about that the next time some outfit selling razors shits on men. Think about that the next time some outrage over children dancing seductively on camera comes up. Think about that with anything that deals in politics. It’s all designed to get you to not think. It’s designed to get you to what to think, instead of how to think.

As for me, I want for nothing. I’m happy with my life. I’m good where I am and with what I’m doing. I’m good with the state of affairs when it comes to men and women. I don’t have a problem with dating and having sex. It’s easier now for me than when I was in my 20’s. I don’t have a problem with longer term relationships either, they are easier now for me than when I was in my 20’s and 30’s.

My struggles are minimal and nobody except me, cares about them anyway. Why would I possibly want to change any of it? What’s in it for me?

I know the things that I do want, and for you reading this, I’m not going to hand them to you on a silver platter. Figure it out. Do the work. You’ll get a loyal friend, ally, lover, buyer, customer, whatever it is that you want, if you do.

Until then, what’s in it for me? You don’t know what that is? Go pound sand. I’m not interested.

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Teriyaki

October 26, 2020June 11, 2022 Rob Says15 Comments

This is “Teriyaki.” I call her that because of an inside joke between us. I met her back in July of this year. It all started with this text:

Screenshot_20200720-160444_LI (2) — The text that started it all.

It’s been a lot of fun hanging around her and getting to know her, and I can’t complain about the sex, there’s been plenty of it, and she’s pretty open-minded about trying and doing new and different things.

The woman has gone through some things in her life, some of them are totally out of her control, because sometimes shit just does happen, and some of the things are her doing. Watching her as she talks about those things, what she has learned about those things and herself, I think she’s seriously wanting to change her life around compared to when she was much younger. Let’s just say that her actions are speaking louder than her words when it comes to cleaning her life up.

I’m bringing her up today because of a post that I read earlier. Madd Monk is a blog that I follow and I read when he posts something. I haven’t read all of his stuff yet, but from what I gather, he’s a younger guy who got divorced, took the Red Pill, has been owning his shit, and has been learning game and spinning plates to one degree or another. I like reading his blog because he’s actually a really good writer. I feel like I’m right there, listening to him say what he’s got to say. His blog is mostly about his different adventures with the different women that he’s met over the last several months and how he feels about them and about himself. He’s definitely a guy who is blogging his own personal journey with women.

On one of his latest posts, he had this to say:

I genuinely enjoy Midwest’s [one of his girls -ed.] company whether we’re having sex or not. That’s enough for me to keep her around. I don’t feel drained when I’m around her.

I get where he’s coming from. While I enjoy random, casual sex with what my ex-wife referred to as my “strange women,” I also enjoy them for their company. I don’t always have to have sex, and sometimes I’m just not in the mood, although it doesn’t take much for me to get in the mood. That’s one of many things that I like about Teriyaki. We don’t just have sex. We have conversations and genuinely enjoy each other’s company. She’s actually fun to be around.

One of the things that I noticed pretty early on with her is that she is comfortable with silence. She doesn’t feel the need to fill up the empty space between us with a lot of conversation and sound. When I’m working on something like a video or a blog post, she’s perfectly content to do her own thing. She doesn’t need constant communication and constant talk. Just being in some form of proximity is good enough for her.

I like that about her. When I was married, my ex-wife couldn’t stand silence and so she constantly talked. She once told me, “There wasn’t an unspoken thought in her head,” and she wasn’t kidding. Having to constantly listen and keep track of all the babble that came out of that woman’s mouth was exhausting to say the least. I tried for a while, but eventually gave up as it became too much for me to keep track of everything going on in my own head, let alone her head. The only time that my ex-wife would shut up was when one of her favorite TV shows was on. Then at least I wouldn’t have to hear her ramble on about whatever was rattling around in her head. Until it was commercial time, then let the onslaught commence. That’s how it was for the entire duration of our marriage.

My ex-girlfriend was good with silence and was good with doing her own thing too. I didn’t have to listen and keep up with every little thought that ran around in her head. Teriyaki is no different. I guess I’m doing something “right.” It goes to show that you can teach an old dog new tricks.

My whole point of writing this post isn’t to wax poetically about Teriyaki, but it is to say that I know that I look for more than “just sex.” I may not be looking for monogamy and “playing house,” and while a fast “pump and dump” is nice on occasion, I mostly look for a stronger connection than just a sexual one. And there’s nothing wrong with that.

I sometimes wonder if one of the reasons that guys will readily and willingly jump into monogamy and commitment isn’t just because of thirst and the availability of easy sex, but is also because they sometimes stumble upon someone, at least early on, who they genuinely enjoy being around, or they think that they enjoy being around. Someone that they can have a conversation and do stuff with as well as have sex with.

I’m pretty sure that this is the case to one degree or another, but I felt it needed to be said. Sometimes the guys on the internet get so caught up in “only banging 9’s and 10’s” and what is or isn’t “Alpha,” and painting green lines on pictures, and pointing out that the more you lean, the bigger simp you are, that they forget why they are there.

It isn’t about leaning or not leaning, it isn’t about what is or isn’t alpha, it’s about creating connections. Whether those connections only last for a few hours, or they last for years, it’s about creating connections.

Hopefully some of those guys that I previously mentioned will see this and read it and it’ll help them get themselves back on course.

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