Never Tell Me The Odds..

scientific calculator ii

I had a really interesting conversation with a young man a few days ago. This young man identifies with the “Black Pill Community.” He’s highly intelligent, not bad looking from what I can tell, and he’s short, like me. He’s my height to be exact, which is 5’4.

We had a couple of conversations that lasted well over 4 hours total and it was educating and interesting to me to listen to his take on how things are and why they are the way they are.

Now granted, I’m not this young man. I don’t have his life experiences. I don’t live where he lives. My culture and society is slightly different from his if I had to guess. He brought up a lot of statistics and numbers about a lot of different things.

Are taller men more desirable to women? I would say yes. Are there certain genetic features and traits that women find more desirable than others? Sure, why not? I know I’m no different when it comes to finding certain traits and features more desirable than others.

Honestly though, I don’t care.

I don’t care that women in general may find taller men more attractive and more desirable than a short guy like me. That just means that I have to work at it more. Yeah it sucks, but that’s life. I can’t do anything about being short, it’s totally out of my control, so I’m not going to worry about it and I’m not going to make an issue out of it.

I don’t care that some women are attracted to younger men than me. I don’t care if she happens to like guys with a full head of hair and I’m bald. That’s another thing that I can’t do much about, so I shave my head and roll with that instead.

If I had to be honest with myself on the “Attractiveness Scale,” I’m a 5. On a good day. Maybe I’m even lower when you factor my height, my baldness, and even my age in.

I don’t care.

Never tell me the odds. – Han Solo 0_CgEx7G0G8aSgNpUN

I don’t care what your statistics say. I don’t care if the odds are against me. I’m going to do it anyway. I will succeed. It might take more time, more approaches, more work, more whatever, but I will succeed. Failure and giving up is just not an option for me. The only way that anyone will stop me is they are going to have to kill me.

Statistically, I shouldn’t be successful with women. My height, my looks, my baldness, and even my age statistically should be working against me. I shouldn’t have had all of the sex and relationships that I have had. But I’ve had them and I’m going to have many more before I die.

It’s because I don’t care about statistics, genetics, and the odds. And you’re going to have to kill me to stop me.

The woman you approached shot you down? That sucks. Try again. And again. And again. Keep going, keep at it. Look at what you said and did and try something else, do something a little differently. I believe the term is called “calibration.”

One thing I’ve learned about approaching women is that it’s a numbers game a lot of the time. Many times I’ve simply been the “right guy at the right place at the right time.” I don’t delude myself into thinking I’m some sort of Mr. Suave pickup artist because I’m not. To quote Rian Stone: “Don’t care, got laid.”

My “game” is very simple: I see a woman that I find attractive and I pay attention to anything she puts out there that shows me that she may in fact be attracted to me. If she makes eye contact, looks away, looks back again, smiles, giggles, and plays with her hair or her clothes? I’m going to talk to her.

What am I going to say? Other than “Hi, you look like you’re fun! What’s your name?” I have no idea. Whatever falls out of my mouth is where I go from there. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes I make an ass out of myself. I don’t care. It was fun while it lasted and there’s always another woman to talk to.

More often my boldness and willingness to walk up and talk pays off more than not.

I’ve had several women over the course of my life tell me, “You have balls.” Apparently that was what it took to pull them to me. So that’s my “game.”

Statistically many guys and women for that matter, shouldn’t be walking the earth. And yet they are. Why is that?

Shut up, I don’t care.

I’m short, I’m bald, I’m not wealthy, and I’m not jacked. I’m a 5. Oh boo hoo, woe is me. I might as well give up because the odds are against me and the competition is just too much and is too fierce. Might as well just pack it in and go home.

Except I don’t care about any of that. I approach because that’s what I want to do. Why? Because women are more fun than using my hand. Because women add value to my life and I enjoy their company. Because women smell and look nice. And there’s nothing like seeing the look on a woman’s face when she will do anything for you. That, and they’re just plain fun.

You can tell me that the odds are against me, and you’ll probably be right. But I don’t care. I don’t care about the odds or your stats and graphs. I’m going to do what I want to do and I’ll succeed.

If I can do it once, I can do it again. And so I do. So can you.

While genetics and looks play a part, I truly believe it is your attitude or your “will” that matters more. Your “mindset.” This applies to any endeavor in life, whether it’s a job, making money, attracting women, having relationships, making friends, or anything else.

When the young man and I finished our conversations I realized something:

He hates being “Black Pilled.” He hates being a part of that “community.” And yet, he’s invested himself in it. It’s become a part of his identity. He wants a way out, but not really.

I find it sad that he takes bitter comfort in statistics and odds and numbers, because I don’t. But then again, like I told him, “I’m not here to save you from yourself. You can listen to what I say and do with it what you will. All of your statistics may in fact be ‘true,’ but are you good with that? Does that bring you any happiness or joy? Does it make your life better for you? Or do you want to do something else?”

Either way, he gets to burn.

Never tell me the odds, I don’t care.

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Observations From A Saturday Night

photo of glass overflowing with beer

It’s Labor Day again. By the time you guys read this, it will be past Labor Day, but yeah I’m writing this then.

I did what I didn’t think was possible. I’m actually burned out on drinking. I’m writing this sober and even the idea of having a beer just doesn’t sound good right now. I’m not hung over, I’m just….Done. At least for today, maybe longer, who knows? We’ll see.

It all started Friday afternoon and continued well into the wee hours of Monday morning. So that’s what, two and a half days of constant consumption of alcohol? 2 and a half days of being in some sort of buzzed state, if not straight up drunk? Yeah something like that. I think a few of my guys would be proud. (Carl and BullRush come to mind.) Or maybe they would be a little nervous. (Jesus, do we really want to go out drinking with Rob? The guy might actually put us in the grave.) Be afraid Jack, be very afraid.

Not bad for a short, skinny guy.

Skinny. That’s a funny word to me. It’s funny to me because I’ve never been able to see myself as skinny. I’ve always been the overweight guy. Even now when I look at myself in the mirror, I don’t necessarily see myself as thin. There’s residual “love handles” that are still there. And yet when I touch them, I realize that the protrusion I’m seeing and feeling is more hip bone than anything.

I’ve had people online on Twitter call me skinny or thin and it makes me pause. Again, because that’s not how I see myself. But these people have never seen the younger, fatter version of me, they never grew up with that. All they know about me is what they see now and I guess they see a skinny guy. A “bundle of stix.” I take that comment as a compliment. I’m okay with that. In today’s world of obesity, it’s been my personal experience that it is better to be a bundle of sticks than to be fat. Especially if you are a Man.

Which brings me to the next observation:

On Saturday afternoon and well into the night, I got the pleasure of meeting up with a fellow Man by the name of Elton Skelton. He’s a great guy. He’s recently “unplugged” and is figuring out what he wants out of his life and is truly starting to live his life on his own terms. I couldn’t be happier for him.

Mr Skelton and I went out Saturday night to a local club here in Salt Lake and listened to the house band, which was phenomenal by the way, had a few drinks, and had a great time. It’s been over 15 years since I’ve been in a “club.” Oh I’ve been to many bars since those 15 years ago, but not a club. Clubs to me are usually too loud, too chaotic, and now that I’m getting older, I could be easily seen as the “creepy old dude at the club.”

One thing I’ve learned about women is that they are conformists and herd animals. They typically travel in packs, and whatever the group does or believes, the individual tends to tow the party line. What that means to me is, I know there are young women that would be totally into an older guy like me, but because the group as a whole may frown on “the old guy,” she will go along with her peers and not be open to being approached by said “old guy.” I’ve come to realize that while I’m sure I could take a much younger woman to a club and we would be just fine and have a good time, trying to approach and meet a much younger woman at the club is going to be very difficult to say the least.

I want to approach and “pick up” women with ease. I don’t need to summit mountains to get the phone number. I think that’s an ego thing for the guys who do that, and that’s okay for them, you do you. I’m more concerned about my success with approaching than I am about the degree of difficulty. In fact, the less difficulty, the better. Maybe that makes me lazy in some people’s eyes, but I don’t really care. That degree of difficulty or the lack of it may be all the difference between you getting blown out of the water, and me going home with someone that I can enjoy. I’m rambling, let’s move on…

Another observation that showed up for me while I was at the club with Mr Skelton was that he, myself, and one other guy were the best dressed guys in there. 3 guys. That was it. The rest of the guys were seriously doing the ill fitting t-shirts and cargo shorts thing. Clones of each other. It was really sad and a bit pathetic.

Also, I found myself, at least for a little bit, going into “security mode.” I used to do armed security for a couple of bars back in the day and I guess that training and mentality dies hard. I was finding myself scanning the room, looking for any threats. Looking for the big, aggressive drunk dudes who may decide to pop off and throw down. Looking for anything that could show up for me as something to avoid or to keep an eye on. There was none of that on Saturday night. Not a single one. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want there to be trouble, I don’t want to avoid people in order to avoid ending up in a fight, but there was none of that there.

The guys that were there were all so “soft.” Soft in their bodies and in their actions, which tells me, they are soft in their minds. Not an assertive one among them. Not one “predator.” Just soft, lost doughboys. Pillows wearing ratty oversized t-shirts and cargo shorts.

Guys, that’s your competition. That’s what’s out there. I don’t know if the bar could fall any lower. I found it really sad that here I am, 47 years old, and I’m in better shape than 99% of the club, and I’m not even trying. I’m no paragon of healthy eating and living. I’m in better shape than all the guys that were in their early to mid twenties. It still blows my mind when I think about it.

Guys, you don’t have to work hard to be in the “upper tiers” today. Just do a little work. Seriously.

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