Art Huxtable's Guide to Fatherhood on the Cheap

Some guys want kids, but don't want to get married. Men's sexual market value (SMV hereon) increases well into their 60s+ if they play their cards right (i.e. stay fit, have your career in order, be an interesting person, dress well, etc.). Whereas the SMV of women decreases pretty much linearly after around 30. That’s because women look at a much broader set of criteria in selecting a mate than men do. This stems from the simple fact that I could go impregnate a small village tomorrow and a woman has to carry a kiddo in the gut for 9 months.

Therefore, a man is genetically incentivized to fuck as many fertile looking bitches as he can get his hands on while a woman must be far more selective. A man wants to knock up a fit chick who will bless his child with good genetics and who has them joocy thighs and wide hips to increase the odds of a successful pregnancy. A woman wants a man who will pass good genes on to her child and who will be a good father, so she wants a man who’s physically attractive but also is charismatic and driven. Makes sense, right? Right. Moving on.

See where the lines intersect? That usually happens in your early 30s. Coincidentally, that’s when women start to “settle down.” Settle down from what? From riding the cock carousel with cool dudes who she likes spending time with, but realizes won’t commit to her. To the herby nine to fiver who she has to convince herself isn’t boring, but who she knows will stick around and pay for her botox and Prozac and her kid’s braces. He’ll definitely need them. I haven’t seen my dad since I was 4. I never needed braces. My mouth is fucking gorgeous. Coincidence? Doubtful. If Plan A and Plan B fall through, I’m becoming a mouth model, kid.

So if you’re a man who has his ducks in a row and you realize you don’t want to commit to one woman (Marriage was instituted by the Church, by the way, and Artie don’t fux with organized religion in any capacity. Those dicks should have to pay taxes like everyone else) for the rest of your life, but you want to have kids to carry on your genetic legacy and whatever other legacy you set into motion during your lifetime… you face a conundrum.

Aside: I believe that there’s a good chance that technology allowing humans to effectively live forever in some shape or form will come along in my lifetime. I still want kids though. You’ll probably need mad guap to access it though, so I gotta stack cheddar cheese in the meantime. And there’s a chance it will be regulated by the government or some shit and they’ll only let noteworthy people transplant their brains onto hard drives or whatever, so you gotta do some noteworthy shit in your life too. Gotta make the public want to keep your ass around, dig?

So anyway, you want a kid on the cheap? Knock up a chick in college. You should be working internships in college if you’re not retarded. Ask the dumbass working at Arby’s with his Communications degree how many internships he had in college. Even better, ask him how many he bothered applying for. Chances are, the number’s lower than his GPA; which isn’t saying much.

Anyway, if you have a kid out of wedlock, you gotta pay child support. This is fair, but how they determine how much you pay is not. They take a flat percentage of what you’re making at the time and tell you to pay that every month to the mother for the next eighteen years. It’s actually pretty common for comedians and ex-TV stars to be fucking broke because they start getting known, start getting some pussy, fuck around and get a chick preggers, and get their child support rated off of the money they’re making at the time. Then their gig dries up and they’re stuck owing $80K a month to some bitch who drives a pink Rover who was a hairdressed when you met. Meanwhile, you're lucky to get $200 in a night at The Comedy Store.

So what you gotta do is flip the script on ‘em! Intern pay sucks veiny dragon dildos compared to full time. But in college, you have access to all these sexy fertile bitches who will be fucking your boss after graduation. So what you do is you impregnate the most genetically gifted chick you can find at least 9 months before you graduate and get your child support rated off of your bullshit intern pay. Then, you graduate, accept the full time offer, and keep paying that nonsense child support while watching your checks grow each year. Child support doesn't match inflation either, so $1,000 today is only worth $577 (3% inflation assumption) by age 18. Now the chick has 9 months to bail, so you probably gotta lead her on. Might need to cop a cubic zirconia. But she led you on with that pushup bra, so it's a fair trade.

Then, with all that money you save, you can buy your kid a bunch of cool shit and take him on trips and shit so that he loves you more. Let mom pay for the lame bullshit like food and housing. Because life is a competition and all is fair in love and war.

Tinder Match Optimization

Whipped this up while waiting for my phone to charge:

Art Huxtable Gets Catfished - Lives to Tell the Tale

Artie got catfished for the first time like 4 hours ago and will now recount his tale. This might be written shittily. I'm on 90 minutes of sleep and 2 Xannies. Will fix later. maybe:

I met this 21-year-old chick on Tinder who lives pretty close. Her pics were decent-looking face pics, most of which were with other girls. Two red flags:

1. Only face pics: These bitches are filter, lighting, and angle wizards.
2. Mostly group shots: They post pictures with their more attractive friends thinking guys will just go with the flow. No bitch, I gotta know what I'm getting into (lel).

Aside: Protip for checking IDs of girls who may or may not be of legal boinking age: Throw casually into pre-boink conversation: "I just got a new ID. Look how shit this picture is (my picture is str8 gorgie btw). Half the time, they'll volunteer theirs for comparison. If they don't, just ask. Or just skip the bullshit and ask to see it. Make some shit up about hair color; it doesn't fucking matter.

But definitely do card a chick who looks young, is wearing any high school apparel, generally comes off like a retarded high schooler, etc. These bitches are crazy and will get your ass locked up. But try to stay away from fresh high school grads overall. They fucking suck in bed. Often times not literally. lawl. Met an 18-year-old chick who was DTF within 45 minutes of meeting, but though giving head was gross. lol okay whatever.

Anyway, I forgot how we started talking, but the conversation transitioned to texting and got sexual quickly. This bitch is fucking filthy and I was convinced she had mental problems within like 4 texts. That's never stopped me before, so I kept on truckin'. Plus, there was talk of a threesome with her friend, who was confirmed real and moderately attractive.

I was never into sexting or trading pics. I just use texting for logistics; and sometimes to amuse myself. I'm not looking for a pen pal. But this bitch would send me literally a paragraph of filthy, nasty shit at all hours. I don't know when she sleeps. Then she'd text me, 'Fuck you, never contact me again' after I failed to respond within 10 minutes. Bitches need hobbies, I swear.

Right, so we started talking on Tuesday, I think. I hadn't had sex since Sunday, I think. The testiculars were growing heavy like a Chevy. I knew this chick wasn't gonna be a dime, but the face shots looked cute, she was a freak (fun), and I honestly am not that picky for casual sex. My pickiness is inversely correlated with [(Time since last ejaculation)(~1+(0.2+BAC))] with a lower limit on the 1-10 scale of like 6. Maybe 5.5. Yo, imagine if we had a 10 star scale instead of just 1-10 points or 5 stars. I'm a fucking revolutionary!

Guys are like, 'Bro, I only fuck dimes.'
First off, fuck you, no you don't.
Second off, why? Who the fuck cares? Pussy is pussy. I'll fuck a chubby chick as long as she still has some curves (read: concave at the sides with nice thighs, not what these fat bitches call curves. those are folds, whore) and a cute face. I'm not trying to find the mother of my son here. But when it is time for that, she's gonna have to be a fucking perfect genetic specimen. This is necessary to perpetuate the legacy that my life will set into motion.

My reasoning: I'm fucking awesome. Definitely moreso than my faggot father (I love alliteration btw). If I can have a kid with a woman who's a better genetic specimen and a better mother than my mom (shouldn't be terribly difficult, sorry mom. please never see this blog), combined with being raised in a loving, two-parent household, my son will be the embodiment of greatness. Your kids will probably have to take futureorders from him.

Okay, so it's Thursday and I'm at work. This bitch is sending me disgusting shit. That combined with going on a week of no sex and stuff from a few other chicks in the pipeline led to me spending most of the day with an erection. Oh yeah, we basically hate each other at this point and it's agreed I'm going to ragefuck her and she's getting poked in the bum. We agree to meet after work.

She called me on my way home. I kept the convo short and could only make out like a third of what this bitch was saying like she was using a fucking Razr flip phone from 2004. She's clearly not straight retarded, but there is something off about her. I can't put my finger on it. But I might put my finger in it lololo

Anyway, I tell her to give me her address. Radio silence. I get home and I'm like, fuck it, I'm gonna go work out. She texts me saying she's feeling insecure about meeting up. I'm tired of her shit at this point and tell her to text me her address by the time I'm done working out or stop contacting me. She never hits me back and I delete her number.

Oh yeah, I have blue balls from having a boner all day at this point. Working out only reduced the intensity of my ailment by like 35%. I hit up NeighborChick (not actually my neighbor but close enough to hold the title for now) to relieve some tension. While I'm with NeighborChick, a number I don't know calls me. I ignore it, as per SOPs. I recorded my voicemail when I was like 12 and still use it. trollolol. I ignore a couple more calls and head home.

I get home. She starts texting me. Like, a lot. The type of shit a wife who thinks her husband is cheating would text. And I had't even met this bitch yet. Red flags all up in my grill, yo. I'm just trying to write a new song and am in a pretty decent mood and just want her to fuck off. I can't find an app to block both calls and texts. I just silence and flip my phone and work on some music for a couple hours. Made a delicious turkey burger (no bun; that's for fatties) with some salad too. Mixed that pink Himalayan sea salt and roasted Tabasco in. With the olive oil, crushed black pepper, apple cider vinegar, sharp cheddar melted onto the burger, and brie in the salad.

I'm done with my song at like 1AM, pop some ZMA I got in the mail that day, and head to bed. I don't really fuck with any supplements beside fish oil, but I'm trying to get into lucid dreaming and this shit's supposed to help. Ya boy wants to fuck a Pokemon in his sleep and cum Koolaid all over its antenna. Sue me

Look back at my phone. Bunch of missed shit. Text her to fuck off: Mistake #27. This bitch's horniness is directly correlated with how mean I am to her. And it's hard for me not to be. She's an annoying retard who texts me pictures of Vicodin and Goose bottles like a fucking high schooler.

She starts writing all the nasty shit she wants to do. I'm bored and can't sleep, so I humor myself by with some shit I know will drive her crazy. She calls me saying she's dripping wet bla bla. My penis is growing (lol) erect. And once it's up, it's not going down without a fight. Fuck, why did I do that. I know this is a bad idea at this point, but I'm past the point of no return and curiosity outweighs all other feelings.

It's 1:30 am. Pandora is gonna wake me up at 6:25am. I decide I'm going to fuck this chick. She lives 15 min away. Round trip + 90 min there = I'm back at 4 am if I leave soon. Two and a half hours sleep is plenty for a Thursday night.

I get the addy, grab some rubbers (Either this chick is just perpetually horny or a fucking gutter slut, or both, but I'm wearing like 3 rubbers at once with this one. for realsies)don'tactuallydothis, and head out. Driving at 2 am is awesome. Fuck other cars.

I get there and call her. I told her to be out of the shower and ready by the time I got there and told her my fucking ETA. I'm big on efficiency. I call her upon arrival. 'Oh shit, give me like three minutes. I just got out of the shower.'

'I don't give a fuck. Just throw some shit on and come show me where to park.' I rapid right swipe on Tinder as I wait. These are unconquered grounds.

Three minutes turn into ten. Goddamnit this bitch is no doubt applying enough makeup and cover up to kill a test chimp. Speaking with her on her fucking flip phone is infuriating. She insists she has a Galaxy. I don't fucking care. Annunciation your shit, you cunt.

She refuses to come outside and tries to guide me in like a fucking air traffic controller. A disgusting, annoying air traffic controller. I get pissed off, park at the stop sign, and get out. She obviously can see me but won't approach and makes me guess which house is hers in the dark. Red flags flying high as fuck. We talking some Medieval Times castle, Siege of Stalingrad, Tiananmen Square flag raising type shit

The prospect of getting catfished actually doesn't cross my mind once. I think that I may have a knife pulled on me within the next 10 minutes, but I'm okay with and mildly excited by this possibility. Arty likes a challenge. I leave my wallet in the car.

I figure out which house is hers and start walking up the driveway. Is that a recycling bin in the middle of their garage? What odd placement.

I get closer.

Oh god. Oh god damn it. The outline of The Mountain is awkwardly looming in the shadows.

If Gollum was given 12 pounds of weed and access to a 7-11, this is what would emerge in a year.

I tactically assess the situation:

Convex on sides? Check.
Cute face? Can't make it out clearly. 
Probably not based on how long it took her to come out. Even if so, not enough to make up for the degree of convexity.

Wants to do gross shit? Check.
Probably talks a much bigger game than she walks based on her assumed appearance and will be physically difficult to maneuver around? Check.

I had no contingency plan. I approach her and follow her toward her half-open garage door, trying to find a redeeming feature in this hobgoblin - trying to convince myself that the darkness is playing tricks on me.

We're approaching the garage horizon; this is the moment of truth. Artie, if you cross that line, you will emerge a changed man. I can't do it. It is not within me.

"Are you allergic to dogs?"
"I left my car unlocked."

Swerve.
Drove home listening to Katy Perry and Lorde. long hair don't care

I kind of regret not smashing. Or at least letting her to blow me in my car. I just got my tire pressure adjusted though. And I was afraid she'd get hungry and bite off my cock.

It would have been a flag, at least: My fattest flag ever. On the bright side, this is my first catfish. Also a flag! I can't fucking lose.

I'm just genuinely curious as to what made this chick think I'd go through with it. Did she not see this face? Fucking gorgeous. Did she not see this body? Impeccable. Personality? Tolerable. Future prospects? Convoluted, yet bright.

Did she think that...

1. My standards were that low, despite my undisguisable awesomeness?
2. I was just that fucking horny? I'd rather go home, cut a hole in my memory foam mattress, and fuck that.
3. I wouldn't be at all upset about clearly being misled?

I'm just curious as to what the thought process of crazy bitches actually is. The female mind fucking intrigues and astounds me. Like lizards and paper clip necklaces.

She's probably gonna see this. I hope she does. I linked her this blog in an attempt to get her to fuck off in repulsion, but it had the opposite affect. Maybe I did a good thing. Maybe I was a vessel of Raptor Jesus looking out for this girl. Maybe she hobbled back into her shack and ate some fucking celery. Jokes, son. No way celery has ever entered this creature's refrigerator, let alone her mouth portal. But still. Maybe she jotted down "Celery" on her shopping list right under the Wonder Bread and bacon & cheese Hot Pockets.

'But they're high in protein and calcium!' Maybe she'll get her shit together, put down the Krispy Kremes, buy some running shoes, actually use them for their intended purpose, and emerge from her lair in a year as one of those former fat girls (FFGs hereon) who still has fat girl self-esteem.

Or maybe she killed herself. Haven't heard from her since. Either way, world's better off.

And I say that objectively, from a third-person perspective. I don't hate fat people; I just dislike that they exist. I disagree with those who say that being fat is a choice:

We live in a society in which being fat is really easy due to advances in technology, the economy, and our societal safety net. In ancient times, corpulence was a sign of wealth and/or royalty. Motherfuckers had to work to eat. Our society also allows for the lowest common genetic denominators to reproduce. They enter their late 30s, decide they don't want to die alone, settle, and make ugly little genetically defective babies that go on to be mediocre at best, complain to everyone about everything, and demand minimum wage hikes. And the cycle perpetuates itself. The inferior used to just die out.

So this bitch is born with shitty genes, which combined with her life experiences (probably involve parental molestation based on her texts), either directly or indirectly led to her being fat. Which leads to an increasingly defeatist attitude. The cycle is self-perpetuating. We live among walking (read: waddling) fossils: remnants of genes that should have washed out of the gene pool long ago. And these people go on to have more children, on average, than those with superior genetics. Good thing we keep them in check with McDonald's, CNN, and sprinkles:

Vice: Cry Baby of the Week

Art Huxtable's 2014 World Cup Bracket

Do I think the United States of America will win it all? Of course not. But fuck you if you don't root for your home country.

Goldman's money is on Brazil:
http://www.goldmansachs.com/our-thinking/outlook/world-cup-and-economics-2014-folder/world-cup-economics-report.pdf

Goldman is comprised of risk-averse, traitorous needledick bitches who would shoot poison darts at their mothers' necks for a 3% bonus hike. The insurmountable amount of shit these guys ate in high school has turned them into soulless, spreadsheet-pumping machines that feed on prestige, mediocre cocaine, and hippie tears.

You root for your fucking home country. If you don't like your home country, you move to a country with an ideology that aligns with your own. If you live in a shithole and can't get out (I see you, my seven Argentinian and Kazakhstanian readers), you do everything in your power to change your country.

My fellow Ukrainians were unhappy with their Mafi-run, Putin-influenced government. They did something about it. The younger generation of the entire Arab world was fed up with being oppressed. They did something about it. These people acted to advance humanity. They want their kids to live better than they do. They're willing to do something about it. Fuck you if you aren't. Go sit in a closed garage with the engine running.

Fuck Bloomberg too:
http://www.bloomberg.com/visual-data/world-cup/#0,0,-1

Artie Hux Buys a Keychain Breathalizer

Woke up today, mild hangover from last night's BBQ festivities. Started drinking vodka with Powerade Zero around 2pm. Drank and worked on my music until 4pm. Drank lots of Fat Tire and some girly wine at the BBQ. My brother stealth recorded me, as he likes to do, so here's a snippet:

First order of business: popped 2mg clonazepam washed down with a sip of melted ice vodka. shit, shower, shave, dress. I'm at the train stop 40 min later and two water bottles deep.

blow a 0.09 on the bench outside. Can't tell whether the Asian girl next to me is impressed or disgusted. She's ugly, so Artie don't care.

Chug another water bottle.

0.08. okay cool. I don't feel buzzed and the K-pins are kicking in, so whatever.

20 minutes later, blow a 0.06 on the train. I brag to the guy next to me about the herculean virility of my liver. He is impressed with my contraption. We discuss why Apple products suck.

Throw two pieces of Stride spearmint gum in my mouth. Yeah, two. Because I'm well-off like that.
Just kidding. I get packs for free at work. They need to add some variety to the kitchen though because Five is superior.

Blow a 0.11 after 5 minutes of chewing!

Don't know whether it's just Stride or spearmint in general, but this shit makes your breathalyzer score go up! I wonder how many guys fucked themselves into DUIs when they could have skipped the gum and blew a 0.07.

I subsequently wonder how many guys have gotten out of DUIs with the gum defense. I can't find any solid stats on Google in the 3 minutes I looked, but it's definitely been done.

Fuck do I wish I'd known all this shit about beating DUIs BEFORE I got a DWI. For fucking pot. I've since met a fair amount of lawyers and the ones who know this story say they could have beaten the case easily on multiple grounds. I kind of brought it upon myself though by:

1. Being approached by a cop who had, about six months earlier, come to my home and more or less told me to stop selling drugs or they're coming back with a warrant. And I did stop within two days, returning only once for a brief 3 month period during which I needed cash fast. For drugs, yo. If you're ever cutting a check to someone you don't like, put "Drugs, yo" in the "For:" section.

2. Being approached in a police refueling station (I thought it was a closed-down gas station) while smoking a cigarette, fiddling with my GPS, and having a mini bong in one cup holder and a tin jar of pot in the other. I was being fucking responsible by not driving and playing with my GPS. Take-away? I don't fucking know. My DNA test (shoutout 23andme) did tell me that I don't learn from mistakes well compared to the average European male, so there's that.

3. Telling the officer I had nothing illegal in my car when he asked me to step out. He obviously saw the paraphernalia immediately, but I was high and barred the fuck out and didn't really give a shit about anything at that point in life.

4. After being arrested for pot and paraphernalia possession, being handed my keys back, and being told to get driven home and pick up my car in the morning... and being told that my car was being monitored by video... I chose to get in and attempt to drive home. I was sober by this point, I think. I had just spent 4 hours at the police station acting like a hardass.

Got pulled over for swerving and failing to reduce speed (total bullshit, they just wanted to fuck me. I would have wanted to fuck me too. I'd still fuck me winkeyface). Got a DWI and a few other minor charges. For fucking pot.

Then, I consented to a field sobriety test (which I fucking nailed. I saw the video. I was like a gymnast in that bitch), but I also consented to a piss test. Which I did not fucking nail.

I chose such a shit lawyer that I ended up firing him half way through the drawn-out court proceedings. All-in, it cost me ~$4K in various fees and fines, 2 years of supervised supervision (had to report to a PO monthly), 75 hours of alcohol and drug education classes (where the mustached instructor talked primarily about WWE and fishing and where I met my go-to pharmaceutical guy for the next year). I was going to community college and working as an optician at the time, so making time for these mandatory 3-hour sessions was a headache.

...And 50 hours of public service, which is different from community service. Community service is when you pick what you want to do. Public service is when they assign you to a spot to do your hours at. I put off doing those and never went to the first spot I was assigned, so they reassigned me to a fitness center a mile from where I was living at the time.

The general manager was a cool burly dude with white chest hair poking through his Dickies shirt who would take me to the basement with him and we would chain smoke and he'd complain about his girlfriend and his truck.

The guy who actually ran shit was a little Ukrainian dude. Note: My grandpa, who is a badass who guzzles vodka at 81 and goes alpine skiing, goes to that gym. Also, I'm Ukrainian and so is my grandpa obviously.

Once SovietManager found out who my grandpa was, my pool cleaning days were over. I'd come in, we'd go to his office in the basement, and he would complain about how my grandpa manipulates the sauna temperature by throwing cold water onto the thermometer and tell me about the Old Country. We'd talk for an hour, he'd sign off that I did 8, and I'd go home to do whatever the fuck I was doing those days.

Back to the breathalyzer: The day I was finally sentenced and met my PO, I had been drinking JD the night before and was sweating liquor in court that morning. I didn't know they were going to breathalyze me each visit and I blew a 0.05. PO was a total bro. I joked with him all the time to tip me in on which pawn shops in the area gave the best deals because I would need to pawn all my shit to pay these fucking court fees. Now that I think of it, it'd be good to mail that guy a bottle of nice scotch. But all I have is his work info. I'll figure this out later. There's a short list of people who have been bros to me who I need to mail some good liquor to.

Anyway, I'm pretty sure he knew I was still buzzing. This dude knows what liquor smells like. He's like, 'You don't look so good. You had some cough syrup last night, didn't you?'
'Um, yeah my throat's been sore.' *Throat clear*
'Yeah, that can really throw these things off. Just make sure you don't use any of that next time I see you. I'm using my discretion this time and writing down zero. Which I'm allowed to do, by the way.'
'Yes sir.'

Potted Plants Over Bouquets

It's my mother's birthday today. I got her a bunch of shit showcasing what a fucking thoughtful son I am and indirectly thanking her for putting up with my degenerate ass for all these years and undoubtedly having years of her life shaved off since my birth (I tried to come out the wrong way. trolled).

In addition to all that, flowers are mandatory. I've always hated gifting flowers. Don't get me started on how fucking stupid women's obsession with diamonds is and how men who purchase them are chumps. So I'm gonna go spend money on something that'll wither and die in a week? Fuck a depreciating asset. I'm a hypocrite because I spend money on retarded shit all the time,  but I'm working on it.

Lately, I've been gifting potted flowers when the situation calls for it. Here's why:

1. If it's for someone who has a balcony or a yard, they can plant it. It's seen as more thoughtful. Google some shit about that particular flower. It brings peace to a household or some shit and I wanted them to be everlasting for you.

2. You stand out from the bunch. I'm at my mom's house right now. I already gifted her some potted Lilies or some shit along with all the other shit (delivered gradually over the course of an hour for added impact). The doorbell rings. I turn down my M-Audio monitors and emerge onto the balcony overlooking our front door wearing only basketball shorts, having just come back from a run to see who it is - partially hoping it's one of my mom's friends so that I could show off my glistening body and abundance of chest hair. An advantage of not having a dad is that nobody wants to turn my childhood bedroom into a fucking man cave once I move out and I still keep a bed and some other shit here.

Sister walks in with my niece in one arm and a bouquet of motherfucking Lilies in the other. I grin.
"Hey Sis, hey there Niece! What's the haps? Very thoughtful bouquet, sis. Is it the kind that doesn't wither and die in a week? I hear Google's been working on that."

Sis walks into the kitchen and sees my magnificent potted Lilies sitting on the table: the focal point of the entire room. Last night, I sprinkled two packets of that plant food shit that comes with bouquets onto it, watered it, and kept it hidden in the back yard overnight. This plant is in pristine fucking condition. My sister looks like she's about to cry, shit, and vomit. At the same. Damn. Time. I just showed her up in front of her small child. Maybe this will be Niece's first memory.

3. So if you're on good terms with the person you're giving flowers to, it's seen as more thoughtful and shit. If you're not, you just trolled the shit out of them. Enjoy watering these bitches daily. I just cancelled all your future trips with $14. Now that's value.

4. I haven't been in a relationship since high school and I haven't given a girl flowers ever. But if a situation arose in which I found this gesture appropriate, I am confident that potted flowers would be superior to a faggy bouquet in every arena. 
If shit goes well, she's reminded of you all the time and is more likely to hit you up for dick.
If shit goes south... enjoy never going on vacation again. And enjoy crying about the dick you're missing out on as you flower your fucking Petunias with tears.

Doesn't even have to be flowers. Get a Mexican bitch a fucking cactus.

Don't Jerk Off. Don't Look at Porn.

In fact, delete all your porn and your LatinaMilf links. I did a while back and it's helped my life immensely. Obviously, this is anecdotal evidence on my part, but if you want some real evidence:

http://yourbrainonporn.com/
There are also a bunch of great Ted Talks (Google it) on why porn is harmful to you in the long-term.

Why I stopped watching porn was because I began to see that there was a direct negative correlation between [time + frequency since I last watched porn] and [social prowess]. Basically, watching porn did something to my brain or my balls or my dick or the alignment of our moon with Jupiter that made me not be on my natural game. 

I just didn't feel like a lion scoping out gazelles to prey on and weaker lions to subjugate to my will while walking through the Chicago Loop to work every morning, or at the supermarket, or anywhere. I didn't feel as outgoing.

I noticed this primarily with women. I was more timid to approach, more timid in my approaches, and subsequently less successful in bedding women.
I noticed this at work. I didn't speak up in meetings. I wasn't as energetic. I just didn't feel that energy that I feel now from people drawing us together with me being the final arbiter of whether or not I want to build a relationship with that person.

I noticed changes in my diet and athleticism. I felt like a sloth. I would come home from class or work to drink beer and eat shitty Chinese food. I didn't feel motivated to run or work out. And when I did, I wasn't making progress like I am now and I wasn't getting as much fulfillment out of exercise.

Fake it 'til you make it, right? I've always thought that phrase is used inappropriately way too often, but I think it works in this context: Become the man you want to be today. You think your ancient ancestors managed to survive and reproduce for 200,000 years by sitting around with their dicks in their hands? No. Those guys probably existed, but their weak ass genes are no longer around.

But thanks to the society we live in, even the weakest of genes are getting passed on. Embrace your inner animal. Become the man you want to be. This isn't some self help shit. This is some live your fucking life to the fullest shit. Again, this is anecdotal evidence, but I feel fucking phenomenal. My life is great and I'm going places. I'm in great shape. My career trajectory is awesome and I have options. I have sex with sexy bitches on the regular. I travel all over the fucking world. Why live vicariously through Lex Luther's dick?

So delete all that shit now. This isn't some 30/60/90 day challenge. This is just how you live your life now. You're not a guy who watches people fuck on camera and jerks his dick to thoughts of being that guy. That puts fucked up thoughts of inferiority into your subconscious that manifest themselves in all areas of your life. And if you can't escape being that guy, I would rip your throat out in the wild and impregnate your girl. We like to pretend we aren't fucking animals with our shiney bullshit, but we are. And as a man, you should strive to be a dominant and well-developed (in several areas of life) Human specimen.

You're gonna see a surprising amount of free time open up. Use it productively. Personally, I read a lot of books, work on my music, and pursue a few other hobbies. You're gonna see your social anxiety (we all have it to some degree; some choose to deal with it like men and some choose to dull themselves with pills and liquor) dwindle. You're gonna see women act more flirty with you and you won't know why. They won't know why either; that's fine. That's just their brains' reaction to their subconscious picking up on subtleties in your behavior, your body language, your vocal tone, your rate of speech, etc. Also, they literally smell your dominant phucking pheromones penetrating their delicate nostrils. And you're gonna gradually learn what to do about it instinctively.

Finally, there are online communities of guys out there doing "NoFap" challanges. Stay the fuck off them. This isn't a challenge; it's just how you live your life. You don't need support from those losers (good luck to them though, seriously). What kind of fucked up rationale is it to read about not jerking off while trying to avoid jerking off? Just delete that shit, put it out of your mind, and reap the benefits.

Godspeed

Friday Frustration

When you're at your desk and everything is seemingly normal. You had some turkey and a salad for dinner last night with a few glasses of scotch: nothing out of the ordinary. You had a nice breakfast of eggs with ham and veggies.

Then, suddenly, like South Park Satan himself poking his horney head out of the depths of hell.. you feel it.

It: That feeling that is the definition of inescapable, unmistakable anguish. You feel as if a small rattle snake ate a tarantula (which is still alive in its stomach and fighting furiously to get out), then slithered through broken beer bottles and into a teleporter which led it directly to your colon.

You know that the only solution is to evacuate your bowels like they were Chernobyl on April 26, 1986. You tactically power walk to the kitchen like a soccer mom at noon on a Sunday with 5 pound dumbbells strapped to her palms. You pour 3/4 a cup of black coffee and fill the rest with ice water; you do not have time to wait for the transfer of heat to run its course. Isaac Newton doesn't know your struggle. The expression on your face is the same one the CIA trains its operatives to make if being interrogated.

Having downed two cups of watered down black coffee, you make for the restroom. The handycap stall is empty: Our first victory. You enter swiftly. The cripples can wait. They get the best parking spots. Let us have this one thing. They probably have the option of nonchalantly shitting in a bag anyway with toilets just being a luxury.

Both tarantulas and snakes can apparently go for a very long time without oxygen. Do your bowels have oxygen in them? Do spiders even breathe? You commit to looking into this later.

The toilet seat is clean: Another victory. You lay down four layers of toilet paper over the seat so as not to catch AIDS from the one minority who works at your office. You take off your pants, roll up your sleeves up past your elbows, unbutton your shirt down to your sternum, and grasp your phone with both hands. Gladiator music begins to play.

The waiting game begins. You can feel the serpent squirm, yet your exit port refuses to dilate. You begin to sympathize with pregnant women. At least they get a spinal tap. Or drugs if they're terrible people.

No progress yet. You have experienced about a dozen different sensations at this point. You wonder whether anybody has ever done a spinal tap with a MasterCard. This is added to your list of things to look into once you are free from the clutches of Nagini. Or rather, once it's free from yours.

You distract yourself by messaging stupid shit to fat girls you matched with four days ago on Tinder. One replies immediately. You inform her of your anguish.

As the minutes tick on, the dreadful sequence of quasi-alien sensations gradually decrease in intensity. You are relieved, but at the same time concerned as to what kind of nether beast resides inside of your body at this very moment. The armpits of your shirt are soaked. Fuck it. It can stay as long as it keeps quiet. All serpentine infractions will be forgiven so long as the sensations go away.

You feel comfortable enough to go back to your desk. After several deep breaths and a few more minutes of swiping right on Tinder, you muster the strength to get dressed. Right after wiping three times for good measure (both ass and brow).

As you walk back, you begin to feel ecstatic. Both the serpent and the spider are either dead or dormant. Soon, Brother Caffeine will do to your bowels what that one asshole who never learned to cram does to the entire campus during finals. You look forward to the inevitable sensation of a freshly-birthed galaxy ready to burst out of you with no resistance. This is immaculate conception.