So…There’s this girl.

Rarely, do I indulge the notion of “love at first sight”–all men do at some point. The simple concept that any woman can ensnare our imagination based on simple physical features, is the cliche in the “mating game” or “rules of attractions”.(for you James Vanderbeek fans) Heaven forbid any man, too preoccupied with drowning in this sea of pointless pussy; finally meets his Cleopatra–his detached opposite, yet their union completes one another.

We I see an attractive female I immediately study her–really I just fan of women, in general. I collect all the “kiss the cook” merchandise, I listen to all their albums; wear the “I’m with stupid ” novelty apparel and keep all the sappy valentines day candy and cards until it is not longer cute, anymore.

I hate the feeling  of the “missed opportunity” moment when I’m stricken with the impression; there could have been something but the feeling passes like a Snapchat story. She meet someone, else. And the romanticized carnival ride of us together in Venice Beach: fades into the self-loathing highlight reel.

I recently met and she is like a female version of me. Witty, funny, not of trace of narcissistic tendency, neither a obsession with making her plumper by hovering one ass-cheek  over the bathroom sink, while taking a selfie. The fours words that best describe her: the girl next door. She makes me excited and afraid at the same time. Normally, people gravitate to me and I decide if they are cool enough to be on the V.I.P list; but, with her it’s different. Maybe, it is because I met anyone from such a rich ethnic background; maybe it’s because she has the same type of  humor; hell, maybe it’s because she from New York–the city I always spray paint my own insignia on subway train.

A vacuum in time and space opens up and sucks me in, closer and closer in her direction and I don’t even know if I’m just another random dude, friend, business association, colleague etc…

For the first time, I have someone to talk to without dumbing-down my lingo; and all I want to do is put my car in park and watch the stars. I know I don’t own her–never been my style, anyway. I just want remember what it is like to talk to a female that has more on the brain Mascara and Twitter followers.

What’s her name you ask?

See…there’s this Girl.

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God Hates Us All.

First and foremost, This post is in no way condemning anyone’s belief system, if what you believe in works for you and you are completely satisfied with results, then by all means: keep reading and may we will share a coffee one day.

In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth and some-odd millions years later: he is still shitting on us. Now, I’m not an Atheist. The only thing more ridiculous than all-seeing, all-knowing benevolent-being, watching everything that you do; in charge of  all happens, both chronological or the reprecussions of events. Is the thought that when my earth-bound subscription to “love-heartbreak-captivity and death is cancelled. My reincarnated body shall return as a  Weeping willow.

            Objectifying sin.

You. And by you, I mean: people. Operate within the living-quarters of sin, daily–it is the on-going pop-quiz that never seems to end, not to mention, the damn thing came with a very short lesson plan. Yet, that doesn’t stop the divine authority from spreading repent/redemption propaganda through the platinum-encrusted megaphone.(paid for by the men and women who actually give 10% of their earnings to the collection basket) Taking weekend vacations to Panama City and Cape Code; 2-3 times out the year; terrorizing the interstate with “Dora the Explorer” singalongs–echoing from the souped-up  Chevrolet Avalanche.

Vessels of faith and devotion in front of a crowd, heretics and hypnotist in practice. Millennial guidance counselors for the morally bankrupt, of the present day youth. They promise “free will” and “free speech” unfortunately, neither truly exist. We are so in love with the idea of things, we inadvertently romanticize the idea planted in us, to point where, we often forget what “free will” and “free speech” looks like. Not in this country, not in a country that trolls anyone for speaking out against injustice–especially, when the police are involved. Not in a country that wonders why rape-culture is epidemic, right now; this country was founded on the raping, the genocide, and the complete ethnic cleansing of indigenous people. Not in a country that thinks omitting the second amendment will somehow make the shootings stop.

Here we are, at the cornerstone of the century and people still God will swoop down on angel-wings and save us. But, I don’t see why anyone would intervene, at this point. I mean, after all the wars, the chemical/germ warfare, the raping; the relocating; the on-going war on terror and propaganda behind it; the indoctrination for the investment in the religions of: money, politics and industrialism. After all that, all those sins; does God still have your back–has he really taken the wheel while your texting your friend about margarita night–swerving on the freeway. Is he truly with you after second…third…now fourth abortion this year, after your “her-choice” life coach sent his approval. Has God turned a blind eye to all the late nights working you told your wife, of 17 years, was for a better future, but you have secretly been sneaking off to see the guy that bartends at Ruby Tuesday. Blind ignorance and Hypocrisy will the death of us all.

If there is, indeed, a God; he loves to watch. A I don’t mean in a Morgan Freeman kind of way, either.(Bruce Almighty)

          Man Shit

God, at best, is our heavenly man-child of a father, who loves admiration and unsupervised worship; that guy. And his extremely exclusive fan-club.

More than the love of his fans, is the false sense of security he provides. Empty promises and exaggerated truths. “Ask and ye shall receive,” believe, and all your sins will be forgiven. Meanwhile, the actress working at Denny’s is still waiting for her prescription hemroid creme commercial  call-back. If what ye ask for is not in thy design, ye will take what thy giveth and be grateful.

But what God really loves: is pushing for the illusion that we are all stars in our own little “Truman Show.

I can not deny the truth  and the principles behind most religions however, the message usually translates in a members only deal.

Somehow, God is indiscriminate, except with it comes to location.  Hindu, if you are born in India, Buddhist if you are born in China or Japan; Muslim, if you are born in Islam, Christian fundamentalist, if Texas is the center of your universe.

             Checkered Past.

195 countries, and God has almost a whopping 72 aliases; with a nation surrounded by the new-found concern on mental health, this whole time our heavenly father, in fact, suffers from schizophrenia. Everyone loves a redemption story, I guess; but, I think he should get the benefit of the doubt: God is really a spy and Jesus was/is his sleeper agent.

Persona after persona; engraved images after engraved images. It is like God is reinventing himself over and over and over; and over, again. In a way, He symbolizes the early European invaders of this country, trespassing on preconceive beliefs–establishing himself as the religious authority and poof; two-thirds of the history, outside of Christianity, completely buried underneath esoteric folklore, Satanic practices and pagan/druid mythology.

 

                                     To Be Continued……

Why wait…love

 

  The Sea.

Have you ever met someone? You know. The opposite gender’s equivalent of yourself. As a man, this is rare occurrence, though, the occasional mishap of running into someone whom also shares a mutual love of the works of Robert Greene would be ideally satisfying. But still, in a sea of pointless pussy; the wayward traveler must be careful not to drown. No life preserver, no rafts, no life guards, not even a Wilson via the movie “Cast Away”. You drown. How does the pot know when he has found his top? Is their really such a thing as a soulmate? And if so, are each of us only given one? In a lifetime or are people like interchangeable parts(coined by Henry Ford) and as we evolve, our soulmate are swapped for another one. It makes you wonder about the fishing analogy associated with dating and relationship, especially in reference to throwing the fish back if it’s not the one for us. For me, I rarely like anyone, right away. I study people before allowing anyone in my sandbox. Years of psychology textbooks instead of nursery rhymes as bedtime story will do that to a person. No, that doesn’t mean I’m an expert. It just means I’m more interested in how a person ticks in the grand scheme of things. I don’t use labels, but rather I care more to understand how they think instead of arbitrarily calling a pickle jar a grease dispenser.

  Claw Machine for the lotus eaters.

I remember going to arcades, mostly in skating rinks and movie theaters, and among the countless matches of Mortal Kombat and Street Fighter; my money almost always go towards the claw machine. Sometimes they would have good prizes, others not so much but I rarely saw anyone consistently win with the claw machine. I mean, rarely. That’s if the damn thing worked at all, sometimes the claw would descend and go straight back up again without any indication: the buttons work. And when the machine actually did always some control: it was nearly impossible to get the prize you wanted. You would probably end up with a power puff girl decoder ring (in my case) instead of the Tommy Oliver White Ranger movie replica. My point is: soul searching works the same way. There are no adults anymore. Just modified children. Each of us are layers upon layers: of ongoing themes, reoccurring and recirculation of the same type of thoughts, behaviors and stigmas. Sheltered by the personas, in which we developed for survival purposes, as well for our own social calibration to the outside world. And finally, the motives and influences our parents had on us. Coincidently, one day a group of scientist huddle together—took all these deciding factors: and dubbed it a Personality. For the most, given our disposition, the vast major suffer from deep wounds of Apathy. Everyday merges into another day, then another; and then another. Barreling through work and for some, school—appealing to expectations from friends, parents, co-workers, spouse, boyfriend/girlfriends. The days blur together: more, and more dull interactions. So we delegate. Free up time for some, while others we offer nothing but excuses and broken promises. We do mean to. But, we want to be around people whom, make us feel and understand us on deeper levels, then we could possible understand. While, chasing a career, pursuing happiness, staying connected with friends; starting a family, pleasing parents and ultimately finding love. They come into our lives at the most inopportune times and we selfishly give into the excuse: time makes bond strong.  And how can I have such strong connection with someone I barely know.

Yet, I’m stunted at the multitude of people(preferably religious) still are under the impression: that there is only one person out there for you. Obviously, the guest on the Jerry Springer never got the memo.

 

       Broken Rhythm

 

That feeling. Every moment your with this person, and you probably been together for years. As the months fly by, you say to yourself: they are the one. Through the best of times, through the worst of times—you still love them and with every cycle of pleasure offsetting the pain: those feelings grow stronger; they intensify, even. Every morning and every night, if your not lying next to them—your thinking about them. Where are they? What are they doing? And if they take too long to return your phone. Are they with someone else? Have they met someone? Frequently, you even daydream about them see their face, making note of every detail as vividly as you can imagine. Then. One day. You lose that connection. Maybe, you move and now it has turned into a long-distance relationship. Maybe, Work has increased or a promotion and your priorities change, Maybe, they still have more school. But, “We can make it work, we love each other”, you tell yourself. Until one day…the magic fades. Late nigt conversation are replaced with tears, not of joy, but of anguish. Your daily check-ins become shorter and shorter. As the torment increases: they become strangers. Each passing day, no, passing moment; the little things about this person that irritates you—come bubbling to the surface. And that image, that perfect picture of this person; you always hold in your mind’s eye—starts to fade and fade and fade. Without Delay, as the warm fuzzy feeling is on it’s last leg: you break up. Could be until the fall or for good.

Your world is spinning. You know nothing else but them and now you have-to reinvent yourself. For the first time in a while, you are just you. You are not his girlfriend and his not your boyfriend, vice versa.  Emotionally shutting down and distance: you hope that you get back together, not so much with words or action, but in the form of rereading old messages and keeping all the pictures you’ve taken together. Tell everyone you need time to heal, all-the-while shuffling through the day—trying not to burst into tears.

          Ask…and it will come.

Love is constant, yet fleeting if not attended to. You can date someone you have known, seems like forever, break up. And as soon as you are at a low point: someone else fills the gap. As a moth to a flame, you meet someone new and that same fuzzy feeling comes fluttering back even stronger then before. We should embrace these moments—embrace anyone whom, fills us up with so much joy. Seeing their smile—that weird twinkle in their eye—and how they make us laugh while clinging to every word from them. They could be gone tomorrow. Anyone whom, authentically give you great pleasure to be around…hold nothing back. It can all go away, and you’ll be alone again. Time doesn’t build bonds. You can meet someone right now at work, at a movie theater, a skating rink, or at a Starbucks: that blows your fucking mind away.

Pretty soon, you find yourself have inside jokes with this person, public, as this is going on: you are stealing their sayings and mannerism and using it in regular conversation. Now, a new world has been created, just you and them. And it all could have not happen if you let something as inconsistent as the rules of time dictate it. Life is not perfect. And perfect timing doesn’t exist.

Live now and love hard. Destroy and rebuild

The Male Disease

This following is in no way an thinly vale attempt, to get in good with women. More like a  observation on the male species as a whole, and more importantly why we are so fucked up. And the fairer sex knows what’s good for them; they’ll offer more support to Elon Musk’s ambitions on Mars—pack all the eyeliner, the lip-gloss, the anti-aging face cream, and all the nail polish remover they can find before embarking on a one way expedition to the new space colony. But nothing short of physical and verbal abuse, clinical depression; and hormonal and emotional roller coaster up the wahzoo. And that’s just the day to day continuous labyrinth to put it mildly: womanhood.

So, this will be an exercise to pop the hood and give women, along with other men a peek inside the spectrum of masculinity  in which I will piggyback off the observation by stand up comedy George Carlin: “The Male Disease”.

We are all diseased. All of us. Men especially suffer from a massive epidemic; it spreads and contaminates a new generation, every forty-five seconds. “ The Male Disease” by George Carlin.

 Leaders of the pack.

You don’t have to be a historian to know we were traditionally the hunter/gatherers of the tribe, unless you were born of nobility, held extraordinary status, or had a special talent and skill that place higher on the hierarchy of the tribe. It is in the small, tightknit community; man encountered the first of many variables that will lead to the undeniable slippery of self -destruction: other men. That’s right, the father figure, the teacher, the church pastor; the boss at your job, the CEO, the retiree; the store clerk with thirty-years of experience, the secretary of defense, even the president of the United of States. Our need to fit in and to be cherished outweighs the want for independence, thus we doom any hope of true transparency and begin acting like other men.  They are all men. They all have authority over men(women as well). And they have a single common denominator: they are full of shit (liars). There’s a part of the brain position behind the pre-frontal cortex called the Rostral Cingulate Zone or (RCZ). RCZ in a nutshell governs over social acceptance, given that RCZ is so close to the pre-frontal cortex; what you end it with is a predisposition to respect or in most comply with authority. Which brings my attention to another troublesome funnel-cake of grey matter: Dorsal Premammillary Nucleus (DPN). The best analogy for DPN: Joe Pesci. That’s Joe from “Goodfellas”. Angry, aggressive, territorial, and especially over-sensitive to criticism. In hindsight, this is just rudimentary biology of the male mind, however since the functionality of these inner workings are hardly ever black and white; you get a corner piece to the building block of masculinity. A bunch of guys jocking for supremacy and once the leader is established; everyone else falls in line, and to make matters worse, they defend the status of their leader, the tribe and themselves through rationalization and fear of being casted out. With this in mind, you can imagine the holla-hoops; young boys have to jump through to give a chance to be in the same utterance of the role models they aspire to emulate. We are attracted to powerful men, only in a platonic sense. Because it is not the man itself we desire: it’s the magic. The magic, he creates with every interaction. The magic, he generates with every woman; he encounters just before she falls head over heels for him. The magic that occurs when the world appears all but hell bent on destroying all he has created only for him to regain everything that was taken times two. Men want that. We adore great men, yet we are threaten by other men at the same time.

The Male Sub-Cultures and Icarus.

Sub-cultures are a man’s young adolescent clubhouse occupying space in Big Mom’s oak tree, the no girls allowed sign nailed to the front face board of the window. They are suppose to provide a place of male bonding, interacting with boys/teenagers their own age and ironically, learn useful skills and social intelligence. However, what ends up happen other then the previously discussed pecking order cock fight(pun intended), because the need to control is so woven into our DNA; after the smoke clears, whomever is the established head honcho: everyone falls in line and the squeaky wheel gets replaced. Different means death in the male subculture. The following are Sub-cultures in which every man is at a member of:

  • The machine and automotive
  • The guns , hunting, and outdoors
  • The sports and competition
  • The police and military
  • The drug and alcohol
  • The exclusive society or club i.e. biker gangs

All of the sub-cultures share one common denominator, one fear, other than not fitting in with the other guys: homophobia.

 

         Misogyny and the pressure cooker.

“Big boys don’t cry. Young man only girls show their emotion. What will the other guys say? Don’t you want to play with the rest the boys? Are you sure you are not the one with the pussy? Who cares if she has a boyfriend, anyway what does that have to do with you and your dick? She’s just some girl, it not that important.” I’ve have heard phrase like these my whole life. They changed over the span of time; our culture has underwent significant metamorphosis within the last fifteen years. Especially in the realm of dating.

Male intimacy. Just putting the two words together is practically an oxymoron; If you’ve been following so far, then you realize the male architype is one of obedience, woe, shame, and conformity. Which is why artist like: musicians, painters, sculptors; photographers even fashion designers are revered so much by the opposite sex, not the excluded the men that cheer them on from the background. Because we are not made for this; the extent of displaying real emotion—short of a bar-room brawl or an arm wrestling match would be that of a handshake. Or maybe a chest-bump among Broskis’.

So now, here’s the fun section: women. What does all this failed male chromosome mean for women? Basically, If you enjoying interacting with an egocentric, narcissist, with a deep fear and hatred of women, correspondingly a childlike fanatic of male authority. Not the mention, the pathological obsession for pussy. We are all dying a slow death—communication skills are shot; our need to in control, head of the house hold, our need to be more important than women… is killing us. I can’t stress anymore…”Our need to be more important then women is killing us.” Ladies, that means you get the opportunity to nuture and develop an overgrown man-child with controlling and anger issues, all the while he is trying to turn you into his mother. Sounds fun doesn’t it. All things considered, this nothing compared your on-going battle with men in the workforce and societies pressure on beauty.

   Truth about Lesbian Eugenics.

The jig is up. Women are tired of being our emotional and physical punching bag, and they are phasing us out…with other women. Think about how hard it is to be a woman; you have to work harder than their male counter part; you look a certain all the time; you have the terrible task of weeding out the particular brand of men that approach you. You can’t have recreational sex with being in a relationship; your not allowed to explore yourself, without shame. Not to mention, the ongoing feudal war with cosmetics and skin-care products. I can skip over analyzing the worrisome topic, right? Despite all the current elements against women, lesbian, bull-dykes, studs, however they self-identify: overcome social norms and lead longer standing relationships compared, on average with men.

Sperm banks, surrogacy, and good old fashion adoption are not only options for parenthood for couples that can’t conceive. But also, as agents of accommodation. Women are biologically designed to be nurturing, caring  and raise families. They don’t need us, anymore. They’ve cracked the code. With social media on the rise, dating website reduces human to human interaction to just algorithms on the computer screen; generally speaking, men are unable to cope with age-old truth: women are the source of life. And when it comes to reproduction: women do all the work. Men are the part time mechanic, who only job is to hold the funnel and pour the gasoline in. Maybe, that’s what wrong with us on a sub-conscious level, as a result we measure one another by size of our guns; the size of our wallets; the size of our cars; and the size of our dicks.

In summary, the old hierarchy of male dominance needs to die. If you don’t believe me as of today, more men have searched how to make my penis bigger than how to tune a guitar, make eggs benedict, and changing a tire. The Male Disease: we are full of  shit.

Confession chronicles

Interlude

With the upcoming release of my little bundle of joy, which would be my first book; my first attempt showing the world glimpse of my vision and possibly crash and burn into a drunken stooper while swearing off writing again. Only to redo the cycle of: excitement, discovery, and finally disappointment. Thus, the tangerine-colored light bulb went off in my publisher’s head and she came up with the brilliant idea of creating blog. To not only keep me writing frequently but in addition to that, establishing a platform that would help future ventures—couldn’t hurt. Not to mention, the emphasis on the human aspect of my work. So…here goes.

I’m an Outsider. And not by choice, to me, interacting with people is by far more difficult then “finding a needle in a haystack”. If I had to come up with a more plausible analogy; the closest reference would be finding Carmen San Diego…in San Diego. I’ve probably devoured over fifteen psychology textbooks, over twenty thousand in man hours—devoted to learning micro-expressions and body language from Youtube videos, even more on seduction and hypnosis. Despite, My efforts whatever success I have or did achieve has completely washed over any preconception going into my findings almost to the point where I wonder why started in the first place. However, I learned more about myself than anything.

People say I’m judgmental. Maybe they are right, especially when it comes women. It’s not that I think I’m more important than a woman, quite the opposite in fact. It’s more like, I want to know everything about everyone but in a generation that swipes left, right clicks; leaves comments unread, curves more bodies than a licensed chiropractor, and last but not least people and their filters on everything.

Misunderstood maniac

I don’t know what is real anymore. Are they really a friend or a saboteur? We always talk for hours in person, yet she never replies when I ask her to come skating. Am I a good listener or someone’s emotional tampon? Navigating through people’s dirty laundry, seems to be all I’m good for. I don’t think I’ve ever had a meaningful relationship. How can I? No one has ever understood me, even the people that are supposed to be my friends have never understood me. Not even my parents. The politically correct thing to do would be to simply blame my parents, hell, at least, Freud would agree with me. But I can’t. Once you get a taste of that sweet hot fudge of free will and critical thinking, something truly life changing happens: you can’t blame others. That’s right, I found a way through the back to the dinner party, in spite of the “no blacks or Jews” sign without an invitation. Excuse the colorful metaphor, but I want you to understand how rare a quality it is to take ownership over everything that happens to you or for you.

Broken link in the chain

I probably have the shortest contact list out of any single male my age. Not that I don’t enjoy the elegant banter every now and again. A little chat among consenting adults but rarely do I find anyone I talk to for hours, as if anyone does that anymore. Unfortunately I suffer from another ailment of not wanting to be bothered, yet dying on the inside for someone to call. Passing up social gathers, only to ultimately regretting no ceasing the moment to increase my circle. A walking contradiction of charisma and indifference. I have a natural magnetism to people that’s very much underused.

So what’s my deal? I care about nothing, yet I love everything and everyone all at the same time. Did I say I was a contradiction? Noble in theory, ambivalent in practice. I want to be rich and ground in humility at the same time. I enjoy anonymity as I’m hand you my business. A wall flower rooted in a stone garden.

First to be last

First, I’m first in everything in my family. The first to go to college and dropout in less than a year. Only go back six years later, and realize I was right: degrees are bullshit. I am the first to start my own business only to go the first, second, third, and fourth month without a sale. Ironically, after a complete overhaul of the structure of my website and made more money in two weeks than I make in a year: selling dildos. Consequently, two more weeks later a receive legal documents to cease all distribution of all adult toys products or stare down a six-figure law suit. I close up shop and go back to being a complimentary artist. I am first to spend 67 hours in a holding cell…in Beijing. I’m also first to celebrate a twenty-seventh with children or a wedding ring. I am first to write his own book, blog, and sell his artwork via amazon.

At best, I’m a poor man’s Michelangelo. Still, I’m first to march to the beat of  a different drummer. Maybe, what I think is wrong with me are the things not so right with the world. Where does a man with hardly any role-models and male influences go when your hero’s fiction characters and your father cares more about maintain a vehicle than connecting with his own son. To later for a heart to heart now, dad. The veil has been lifted and Moses’ trail ride to the land of milk is just another; one, I can’t afford to believe in anymore.

The old fat guy and Ferrari.

 

We are special. Not true. Every person, whether alive or yet to be born, are not automatically considered special.

High Schools, universities, daycare, even private schools spend an enormous amount of effort repairing the fragile ego of parents. Parents, whom, long since squandered the privilege of living free and dying young. Well….maybe not a physical death. Rather a death of the soul and because dear old mommy and daddy are slowly rotting away: eardrum to eardrum.  You would think that would translate into biting the bullet and give children some freedom of expression. Hardly.

Kids are told were to sit, when to talk, and how to think.

Children are treated like hired hands than the future leaders of tomorrow.  With the promise of ” you can be anything you want to be” speech, echoing in some middle school auditorium. It’s no wonder the majority of the population has such a bias disposition of the 1%. The “us versus them” slogan of the new age–placing more value on memorisation, over actual learning.

You throw that in with the self-esteem movement and you’ve established a build -a-bear workshop for the emotional disturbed, clinically depressed, economically frustrated youth of america. Because the money in not in having six billion masters free from the twelve years of brainwashing , heaven forbid, we allow that many entrepreneurs to fly their private jets–to initiate he second, third, fourth capitalistic venture. To fly to Washington, Vancouver, Beijing for yet another Ted Talk on personal development.  So what is left? Where do the emotional depraved youth of america turn when pursuing a passion is no the Twitter feed? Occupation included:

  • , Get-rich quick scheme
  • spending money on red pill product (one answer solution)
  • work jobs/careers that they hate
  • Decide to Rap as an easy way out
  • become  a professional athlete.
  • Slave away years working at dead end job
  • get accepted and graduate from a big name college. along with a quarter of a million in debt.

Carrot or the Stick.

The adolescent fear of rejection and being considered an outcast prevents us from asking the big questions and choosing a lifestyle of our picking. We all have this dream, seeing ourselves as the life of the party, with  our friends happy to see us and inviting over to different hangout spots–Friday nights. But the dream never comes, and each passing year our interactions with others become more like horrific bloopers then highlights. What to do? Another four years of school, Six , if your interest lies in the health care profession. nine plus, if pleasing mommy and daddy matter more then enjoying the best years of your life.

Instead, kids primary ambitions reflect those of  parents or worse: peers. Can you blame them? Career Day and monthly visits from the overweight pedophile known as the representative of D.A.R.E children have very few lifelines for excellence. By the time most people make it to college, the brainwashing has sunk in.  Spoon-feed promises of summer resorts in Cape Cod and one day they’ll be invited to race ATVs’ in full camo-gear while guys from” Duck Dynasty” run consumer test for new paintball gun. Spoiler alert, your the target.

With this educational slight of hand taking place; The years of sitting in an old auditorium–feeding children the same self-entitlement propaganda, thus if any real obstacles should happen to rear its ugly head: morale goes to shit.

Because with any problem solving skills, the youth build a desperate attachment to technology. Seems convenient, until the vacuum that plays “ O all ye faithful” pulls a hamstring and needs some repair. Now I’m sure it is not considered macho to know how to fix a vacuum cleaner, rather the emphasis pertaining to resiliency.  And without, people become procrastinators instead of innovators. A let the negative self-fulfilling prophecies roll in. “My ideas suck”. “You’ll never make a living. And what happens if you end up homeless chasing this dream of your?” To name just few destructive thought patterns. Hence my own self-loathing.

The living died.

You wake up one day and realize all the empty promises the school administration tackled you with didn’t result in you finding your golden ticket. After all the bullshit assembles, the career day events, and brochure on trades school, which in hindsight, is a better choice. Not as many people, no fraternity/sorority, and you’ll have to host your own parties but the big up side is no six figure debt and nonrefundable textbooks.

Twenty years have come and gone, while in-crowd still refers to you as the new young. The goal of making Forbes 30 under 30 gets added to the laundry list of conversation starters, in order to deflect from the fact that your a walking cliche’.

You’ve managed to whore yourself off to some whats-its-face’s company, while making your six figures the old fashion way–the stupid way. The big questions never got answered. Didn’t get an email, nor a shoutout, not even a twitter follow. In fact, its not even on your bucket list. So what do you do? you spend money on things and places for all the wrong reasons.

It takes dating someone half your age for you to realize: your the fat bald guy, who drives a Ferrari. Stuck in a man-made prison that you created–you had a opportunity to create art–something beautiful. Instead, everything was sacrificed for the sake of conformity and luxury appliances that lose their value once it’s out the store.

Time for money doesn’t equal happiness.

Loving what you do and who you really does.