I don’t know how this will be received, but I believe every once in a while, it’s worth reminding that we have to carry ourselves into a World hostile to an unplugged man’s life. Outside of our much focused and sometimes myopic quest of getting what we want out of this short existence, we forget that the self-deluded are all around us. Every rough edge to any circumstance has a tendency to appear like the head of a nail peeking out from some weather-beaten timber needing to be smashed flat.

The matter-of-fact, come along or get left behind mindset, is excellent for dealing with your spouse, kids, business associates, and friends. Men learn quickly that most people prefer to defer, and if they can follow your vision to a beneficial place, everyone is happy. Men understand that being the supplier of resources, be it time, fun, money or leadership, is a burden to be accepted. If a man is lucky, those around him provide value in return, and life is interesting.

My mother is a self-identifying victim. A Boomer hippie, she decided commune life in California was “more free” than collective life in the Midwest. I think it was the farming she grew to hate, when she really wanted drugs instead. So she and my father, the prototype soy “gentle” son of a WWII Marine, decided to leave me with “friends” at a Utopian style collective when I was three. No one from any state authorities knew my parents were gone, and a check from the government came to the residence to help the community take care of me. I went to school with the other children, and I was none the wiser until I turned six.

New regulations were passed as I was entering first grade, and every kid had to have vaccinations, or a religious reason to decline. Regardless, physical parents needed to be available to sign documents and appear at school to answer any questions. Needless to say, this was too much of an administrative burden on the group, and a number of us kids immediately became wards of the state.

I was in a group home until nine, when I was adopted. My adopted parents worked hard, gave me a very stable foundation, and I succeeded in their care. I thought that would be the end of any family revelations, but 40 years later, things changed.

Victims don’t understand burdens or value. Victims only understand pain. “Victim” has been allowed to become an identity for far too many people, including many of those into whom men pour vast resources. Our own desire to make things smooth just to solve the goddamn problem makes men forget nuance, and become the hammer.

With this in mind, my biological mother reappeared needing something. I came to find out at 43 years old that I am her only child and she has cancer. She has adult leukemia, with complications from Hepatitis C. My mom is a dirty whore with a blown immune system and failing liver. Of course science has come to the rescue of the Boomers with a Hep C cure, so all she needs is bone marrow from me to hopefully make her strong enough to put the cancer in remission to save her liver.

At first, my mother asked if I would donate a portion of my liver. I told her to fuck off.

Here is where nuance and setting an example for others came into play. If I would have cast myself as a victim, and focused on the numerous times some predator tried to grab my dick as a child in that group home, or getting beat up weekly for being “Orphan Boy,” I would have let the selfish cunt die a jaundiced emaciated death.

What I did, instead of focusing on this one person from my past, was register on a national marrow system, so hopefully she will be but one of multiple people I help, because it’s what I choose to do. It’s altruism from my mental point of origin.

Of course, I was the bad person and aggressor in the end anyway. I don’t talk with my mother for obvious reasons, but from her long-winded Facebook postings, she is heartbroken, I’m ungrateful, she did the best she could, I should be more supportive, a mother’s love is forever, I ignore her financial problems, I deny her the “right” to see her grandchildren, etc. . . .

As surprising as her tone-deafness, are the responses to her posts in support of her nonsense. She has a complete support system of old, dried out, Caucasian whores (and thirsty old men) that tell each other every minute of every day that they are the victims of society. I literally saved this woman’s life, so that she may libel me.

The silver lining in all of this is that I don’t have Facebook, and that I’m anonymous on Twitter. I’ve come to value my wife more through this experience, because she is the one who reads the garbage and summarizes everything for me. She’s very cute and careful about it too, which makes it fun. It also lets me know that she values my worth over the drama that could be generated for her time and attention. I let her get outraged for me, and for some reason, having a common enemy also gets her in the mood.

We choose to be victims or not, and we choose our own tribe. Don’t let your past tear down what you are continually building.

Newsflash: Men and women aren’t the same. We don’t value platonic relationships the same.

Ah, the old, “Can Men and Women Be Friends” quest is back on the map again. Apparently a whole new generation of people have been watching “When Harry Met Sally.”

Spoiler Alert: They can’t.

Well, not in the way that women want.

First, we need to come to a consensus of what “friends” actually means. I think women define “friends” differently than men do. I know my definition of a friend is someone that I can call on, day or night. They will help me solve problems (like burying a body or fixing a computer issue) and they will usually do stuff with me.

From my experience with women, they (the women) don’t usually want you (the man) to solve their problems. They want you to listen. They want to vent, they want to be heard. They may also want you to do something, like help them move, or kill a spider or something. And when I say they want you to listen, I’m not kidding.

My ex-wife didn’t “have an unspoken thought in her head.” That quote is directly from her. She wasn’t kidding. The woman could talk and talk and talk and talk and then talk some more. The only time she would shut up was when she was sleeping, which was rarely because she had a major case of insomnia; when I was sleeping, which I “played possum” all the time in order to get a few moments of peace, or when one of her favorite TV shows was on. Then she would shut up. Any other time, oh boy. At least at the time, I was fucking her. Until I wasn’t.

I met a woman back in late June and we went out for drinks one night for our first meet up. She verbally vomited all over me. The only way I could get her to shut up was to kiss her. Which worked as long as I was kissing her, but the moment I would pull back, she would start talking again.

We went out one more time where she finally got around to asking me what I was looking for. I told her what I tell all women I meet: “I’m a Lover. I’m not looking for friends.”

Long story short with her: She texted me the next day wishing me well, but she wasn’t into me, at least not sexually, and since I was clear that I wasn’t looking for friends, she wished me the best.

She did me a favor.

I said quite some time ago that I like women, and I do.

But I also like and value my time. I can and I have spent many countless hours and days in the distant past being “that guy” who listened. Who let women verbally vomit on me. Who let them cry on my shoulder. Lesson learned. I won’t ever do that again. While I like women, I don’t consider them my friends, with the exception of one.

I do have one woman that I consider a friend. I met her back in high school, so I have known her, at the time of this writing, for over 32 years. “Back in the day,” she was hot. “Back in the day,” we had a moment in time between us, where yes, I slept with her. So yes, she’s a friend, and she is also someone that I fucked a long time ago.

Would I sleep with her again today if given the chance? No. She’s far from the young, slim, good looking woman that she used to be. My desire for her sexually went away a long time ago. That and I find her mostly insufferable. Her bitching, ranting, and venting is too taxing to do for extended periods of time. So I only talk to her a couple of times a year. We’ll text each other, like on our birthdays, and we’ll get together and “catch up” over breakfast or something. But that’s about it. She’s a friend because I have known her most of my life, and she was one of the few people that showed up for me when my Mom died. I won’t forget that any time soon.

Sorry to break it to you babe, but the great majority of women aren’t “worth my time unless I get to be inside her.”

That female friend of mine that I just mentioned? Yeah, she used to say that same type of shit a long time ago. “Men are pigs. You only want one thing and it’s disgusting.” I won’t lie, it fucked with my head back then. Now? Nah. “I already did the time, I might as well commit the crime.”

The only time that I can think where men and women can be friends is where both parties are gay. That’s probably it. Any time one party is attracted to the other, but the other “isn’t feeling it,” you have “unrequited love.” And that’s a bitch.

I don’t think men and women can “just be friends,” until we have an agreed upon definition of what “friends” is. From my experience, women throw the word “friend” around like it is going out of style. Guys on the other hand, use the term “friend” with a little more discernment and reverence. If I call you a friend, you can reach out to me any time, day or night, and I’m there for you. I’ll help you solve your problems. I’ll do stuff with you. I’ll keep in regular contact with you to make sure you are doing okay. That’s what friends are for, that’s what they do. I have never heard a guy say, “That guy over there? I just barely met him, he’s my friend.”

My time is my most valuable commodity. I can never get it back. There are no “do-overs.” I can’t get more time. So I want to spend my time wisely. Would I choose to spend it with someone who wants to verbally vomit all over me, with nothing given in return? Or would I rather spend it with someone who wants me to “go up inside her?”

For the ladies who might be reading this, let me ask you a sincere question:

“What am I getting in exchange for my time? What are you willing to give to me or do for me? Are you willing to come to my house and fix me dinner or bring dinner with you, out of the kindness of your heart? Are you willing and able to help me solve some of my problems? Are you willing to keep your mouth shut and help me bury a body if that time and need should ever arise?”

You want me to listen to your woes and not offer advice or judge. You want to have a shoulder to cry on, I understand that. You want me to do the “heavy lifting” if and when it should arise. What are you willing to offer to me in exchange? Sorry if it sounds so “conditional,” but it is conditional. The only person in the world who may love and care for you unconditionally is your mother, if you are lucky. Other than that, you are going to have to provide some value. Something worth my time.

I have had some of the most amazing conversations, and done some amazing things with women over the years. But…

I slept with every one of them first.

I’m back posting on Twitter for less than an hour this morning, when a gem of a comment falls right into my lap.

This was the Scenario:

• I was laughing at the almost desperate attempt by the US Government’s AD Council to make fatherhood look cool.
• DADICATION is a years long campaign designed to make fatherhood appear damn near heroic. It features different dads speaking to the camera and describing what makes being the Paterfamilias great during cutesy family vignettes.
• I attached a particularly cringeworthy episode featuring a fat dad with his two kids. One biological and the other adopted. I simply stated that the campaign was pandering for men to remain fathers, because look how cool it is.

Then the expected happened:

Imagine talking smack about men wanting to be fathers

— prcc1981 (@prcc1981) September 24, 2022

YOU CAN’T TALK POORLY ABOUT MEN WANTING TO BE FATHERS, CHESTY. THAT’S BAD FORM!

Sure I can. I do it all the time.

Why? I can, because firstly, I am a father of two. A teenage boy and girl. I haven’t parented in the aspirational realm. I do it for real every day with all the real problems and energy that raising children requires.

Secondly, I am self-aware enough to know, and have met enough men in the real world, to state affirmatively that the male of the human species is no less of a man if he decides to not have children.

Thirdly, fuck the government for telling anyone what to do with their time, energy, and money. “Do it for the kids” can model both good and terrible relationship behaviors, depending upon how much the parents care for each other.

Lastly, I had kids because I wanted them. Take your moral compass or whatever “Dad Superiority” you feel and shove it up your ass.

Parenting is concomitant with sexual reproduction. It’s not necessary for the individual to live, or to have a fulfilling life. If you find yourself making your domestic necessity a source of pride or virtue, especially when your single friend is enjoying himself, then that is your problem, not the bachelor’s.

Don’t yuck another dude’s yum.