“…and go about your fucking business!”

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No one cares whom you fucked.

 

Even if they did, they probably wouldn’t believe you.

 

Not to mention, on the off chance they did, they’d judge you by how she looks now.

 

Not how she did when you took her.

 

 

 

Go ahead; lose yourself in it.

 

And, as the years go by, take note of how every woman is fatter, older, less pliable than the ones that preceded her.

 

Sure, you could relive past glories.

 

That is, if Alzheimer’s hasn’t robbed you of your memories.

 

Although, that might be more merciful than to realize your conquests grow increasingly meaningless, at best, or perceived as pathetic at worst.

 

My 58 year old roommate keeps trying to convince me (read: himself) how hot the women he gets are.

 

It’s fucking sad.

 

 

 

But, by all means, keep worrying about women.

 

And how to get them.

 

I mean, Adam pissed and moaned until he got one.

 

And look where he ended up.

 

Oh, you’ll be different, I’m sure.

 

 

 

I keep hearing “Iron sharpens iron”, ’round these parts.

 

Yeah, maybe that’s true.

 

But women are stones.

 

Their whole fucking purpose is to blunt your edge.

 

Although, you’ll be different, I’m sure.

 

Adam’s fate, and the fate of a million “alphas” before you, will be avoided because you read a few blogs between meals.

 

Yeah, tell yourself that.

 

 

 

I’ll be here, regardless.

 

Telling you to focus on your mission.

 

Reminding you to do something g☼ddamn productive with your time.

 

Pointing out that the only worthwhile women you’ll ever attract will be the one’s that find you as you pursue your life’s purpose.

 

 

 

Write a book.

 

Compose a song.

 

Build a house.

 

If a woman latches on to support your purpose:

 

Great.

 

If not:

 

Carry on.

 

It’s one less distraction.

 

 

 

Oh, on the off chance you feel like shouting:

 

“But muh genetic legacy!”

 

Children die long before most houses collapse.

 

Or good novels go unread.

 

Or quality songs go unsung.

 

 

 

Hey, back a losing horse.

 

Time is your fucking coin.

 

Spend it as you will.

 

 

 

Although, I remind you that women chase things that run from them.

 

So sprint toward your mission’s goal.

 

That way, you’ll likely claim victory on all fronts.

 

 

 

 

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