The Popular Kid Was Never That Good at Talking to Women

“Have you ever bought something because someone told you that you should?”

Ever bought a book that Oprah recommended?  Went to a restaurant because it had high ratings on Yelp?  Or even bought something from a different less convenient grocery store simply because you found a sales coupon, or a online “groupon” to use?  This method of choosing things, is a lot like how most popular kids in high school ended up dating a lot more than everyone else. Ever since anyone could remember, everyone who knew anyone always wanted to date the popular guy; the jock, the athletically talented, the guy that everyone else knows and bows down to.  It’s been a worldwide phenomenon, especially in America.  America has wrapped it’s television viewers over the wants to date the prom queen, the hopes to date the captain of a rugged sport, or the youngest richest spoiled kid at school.  With titles like High School Musical, She’s All That, Gossip Girl, CW’s new series HellCats, 90210, Glee; it’s always been the cool, in thing to do, to fall mercilessly in love with someone popular.

The truth is, everyone who is popular ends up pathetic.  Not only that; everyone who wants or ends up dating them, are shallow.  Of course, there’s a narrow obvious disclaimer that there are almost some exceptions.  But, for the most part, it’s pretty much true.  Why would you buy a book from Oprah, what gives her the right to blindside you with her recommended merchandise?  Does Oprah know you? Has Oprah built a profile of attributes that she can compile to provide any effective description of you?  What makes Oprah so important that she should be your, your signature, your personal, life adviser?

The problem is not Oprah, Oprah is one person who likes things and tells people about those things.  She’s not the problem.  The problem is in the people who’ve consistently watched the show, they’ve let themselves become mindless drones set on finding direction.  A loss of direction and the tragedy that anyone would follow the very first person who can give them that direction, is none other than the equation for someone who is shallow.  Oprah is the prom queen.  She’s the mother bee.  And today, the modern day adult who buys her merchandise simply because it has an Oprah sticker on it, are the exact replica of the millions of kids who’ve long awaited and dreamed of the almost impossible day that they would hold hands with the quarterback of the football team.

Shallow people are worthless. Their plagiarized opinions, which ideally have originated down from the appealing thoughts of others, have practically nothing unique to say.  They’re a plague, an actual defined zombie experience.  And popular kids, unfortunately they’re no better.  If you’ve seen the television shows, the movies, the media, you’ll understand that these popular kids have to follow a certain way of life simply to appease everyone’s image of them and sustain their popularity.  No matter how much a popular kid loves modern contemporary dance, he or she can’t try it.  They can’t attempt it.  It’s too weird. You’ll see this a lot in Glee, jock wants everyone to think glee club is cool, it’s obviously not, so he ends up getting flack for it.  In this way, shallow people control the popular kids at school.  If for some reason the shallow kids lose interest, the popular kids fall off the map.

So who comes out on top?  The more important question, after high school: who ends up being the most socially effective person?  We’ve concluded that it wasn’t the many shallow people who’ve spent most of their teenage years worshiping a false idol.  And in some way, we can come to our own, personal, unique, and inventive, conclusions as to what happened to most popular kids from high school, who didn’t have football scholarships or something of the same significance.  Who then?  If both these parties have been lost in defeat, what person coming out of high school would be the most socially acceptable after graduation?  There are nerds that learn to become socially acceptable, it’s true.  There are goths that become socially acceptable, and there are people from less popular sports that become socially acceptable.  However, there is one candidate, who logically speaking, would tower over all others when it comes to social ability after high school.

Competition of Egos

Have you ever wonder why none of the big countries go to war with India?  I’m not talking about Imperialism; I’m talking about actual declarations of war.  (Don’t worry; this will tie in to the idea of popular kids and social hierarchy)  In World War 2, why did Germany go to war with most of Europe?  More interestingly, why did Germany ally themselves with Japan, one of the more technologically advanced countries in the universe?  Why didn’t Germany just take over small little countries, why was it bigger countries like France and the UK?  Political science teaches this as the competition of egos.  Germany, Adolf Hitler, they went to war with countries with advanced technology, strong military, supplies, etc.  What would Germany have accomplished going to war with India?  What’s in India?  There’s no military in India, their technology isn’t as advanced, and they don’t have very much to see in supplies.  There wouldn’t be a lot to profit by going to war with a country that doesn’t have these things.

It’s the same with the social structure of popularity.  You don’t see the popular football athletes going to war with the stoners.  Why bother? You don’t see the cheerleaders giving a slight glance at the nerds in the computer lab.  Even the slightly social student body, nobody really cares about them socially.  They do their job, nobody bothers them.  So who would the popular group of kids have to go to war with?  Who clashes with them?  Who irritates them?  Who is so powerful, that that person can steal the thoughts away from popular kids and make a dent in their social beings?  There has to be someone that has those properties.  More importantly, if this person can rise above the popular kids, separate themselves from the shallow kids, and in some way have the same social rapport as popular kids, logically, this person, would make it out of high school as the social pinnacle of an adult social hierarchy.  Who then, has the best chance of that?

. . . enter the anti-hero.


To be continued. . .

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Us Men, We Talk Too Much.

Jonathan: You’re a hottie!

Emily: I don’t know about that.

Jonathan: It’s not for you to know.  It’s for us men to talk about secretly forever until you whither away unappreciated. 

 

Happy Thanksgiving!

What do you want to do before you die? A Realistic Bucket List

I thought about a story that has to do with this topic.

It’s about two middle aged guys who are dying at the same time who meet up with each other in hopes to find people that understand what they’re going through. They go on to write a bucket list and go their separate ways. One guy goes and does all these incredible random things.  He travels to Cambodia, buys dessert in some obscure French restaurant, tries to break a Guiness world record and fails. He’s happy. He comes home and gets in touch with his friend and over some coffee asks him what he did.

He says that he went to see his neurotic father and stood there as he yelled at him and verbally abused him. He visited his mom across the country and sat there for a few weeks and all she could talk about was how much she hated his father and why she divorced him. He traveled to meet his brother and sister and all they told him was how much he was worthless and pathetic and never did anything with his life. No one knew he was dying.

The first guy asks the second guy why he did that, and he replies, “I did it because they’re my family, and I know they’re not perfect and they’ll never be perfect; I know that. But I only have one family. We spent so much time hurting each other that at the end of the day, the only thing we’d ever wish for, was one more day with family.”

The next day they get up early to see the sunrise on top of a hill. The second person, the one who saw his family, lays down and falls asleep. He never wakes up.

The last thing you see is the first person knocking at the front door of some random house. The door opens and he says, “Hey mom. . .”


Do You Want to Have Sex With Every Girl You’ve Ever Wanted? (with no attachments)

I dated a lot for the past 2 years. A lot. I really don’t want to go into detail. The boring, okay, somewhat exciting truth is that the whole time, I spent it looking for a girlfriend. I was looking for the right girl. A girl that didn’t leave me and a girl that I didn’t want to leave.

Having sex with multiple women seems cool if you’re a college idiot with hopes that your whole life could play out like some teenage American Pie sexual comedy. But it’s not. It’s really just stupid. It’s not real. It’s like collecting shiny rocks that aren’t worth anything.

For example: There’s no diamonds or rubies. You end up classifying every girl like every other rock you see in every other person’s front yard. There’s so many of them. You see them every day. Maybe this rock looks pointier, maybe this blonde has a skinnier face or a tighter butt. But they’re objects. You leave before you could get to know anything. There’s no emotion. It’s just a surface world where nothing’s real.

For some reason, a lot of people hate the idea of being vulnerable. It’s always power this, wanting that, paying the cheapest price to get to where you want. Those people make horrible novels. Terrible biographies. They go to China, Brazil, Italy, in search for destiny and they experience nothing. They go chasing after things because that’s all they know. They never know when to just stay. When to be happy. Or they somehow discover some obscure happiness after years of searching. However, they could’ve been happy this whole time just if they let themselves be happy.  Everything’s possible where you are!

Every girl that I was intimate with in my past I push back in my memory. And I’m pretty sure a lot of the women who broke me push me to the back of their minds too. However, the girl that you choose that wants to stay in bed for the next few months with you, grows with you, challenges you, makes you understand that you just don’t know everything.

Single and Awesome. It’s more like single and lost, looking for the next flavor, the next number, and the next shiny stone that would probably be worth a lot more to you if you just stopped looking for every other rock.

That’s my two cents. Do what makes you happy. . .

How To Invent Gravity

Before I strummed my next chord, I stopped.  I pulled my guitar from off my lap and started to cry.

I use to think I knew everything.  I could ace a test like I cheated, but really didn’t.  I could run faster than any other person on the track team, but no one off the team knew.  I could draw a picture and everyone knew that that was Jonathan Manor, no one could top him in drawing.  The day when they finally published my short story in the school newspaper with my name next to the title, was the day I couldn’t be overlooked for my talents as a writer.  That front page on that paper wasn’t just my 300 word fictional short story, it also said, “Jonathan Manor is a passionate and gifted person, and here’s a slap in the face because you thought he was stupid.”  I was the best at what I did.  Throw in some somewhat emotionally intense bones and you had what I was.  It didn’t really matter to me that not everyone knew that I was fast, smart, or gifted.  I knew who I was.  That’s all I wanted to know.  But for some reason, when I picked up the guitar, I was a failure.

I use to bring my guitar everywhere.  I could still smell the corridors in high school, the carpet at church, the benches, the cement grounds I use to sit on, every place and every moment where I strapped on my guitar and just started playing.  I could tell you what material I wore on my wrist, what fabric I was probably wearing.  I brought my guitar everywhere because I wanted to play guitar so badly.  I wanted be good.  I took the summer guitar course they held at the nearby community college.  I took weekly lessons.  I played 6 hours a day.  I even bought a tape that told me that I could learn perfect pitch so I could identify every note played in any song.  It didn’t work.  It all didn’t work.  I played the same chords, the same music, finger picked the same way, and my plucking never got any faster.  I just couldn’t do it.  No matter how hard I tried, pushed, and practiced, I never got any better.

There was a lot of reasons it must’ve been pretty obvious why I would never be great at guitar.  The first and most obvious reason was that I didn’t have an electric guitar.  I had an 80 dollar acoustic Yamaha guitar that came with free strings and a flimsy leather guitar case to hold it in.  I would later buy a hard case that costs even more than my guitar to begin with.  Another reason why I thought I couldn’t get better at guitar was that I didn’t have the proper utilities at my disposal.  I didn’t have a computer, I had compact disks that I would borrow from the library.  I didn’t have an infinite plethora of music which was just a few clicks away.  I had to rewind, hold the button with the two arrows on it, and hope I don’t overshoot.  I knew I didn’t have the proper equipment or have the means to become good at guitar like everyone else I knew.  However, there was one reason why I failed and continued to fail and that was because the way I approached the guitar was wrong.

I had two friends, Tony and Hans.  I pretty much grew up with Hans.  I knew Tony before he even picked up the guitar; we met in chemistry class sophomore year.  Hans and I started playing guitar at practically the same time.  Within a few weeks he was playing the solo to Stairway to Heaven.  It was crazy.  We all thought he was a prodigy.  Tony use to play the same power chords, power chords are the most basic type of chord, and then one day I passed him my guitar and he started playing the Mexican Hat Dance at some unreasonable speed.  I was jealous of these two, and I was frustrated with myself.  Neither of them spent money to learn guitar.  Neither of them had started playing guitar before I did.  It baffled me.  How could they be that much better?  I read every textbook, learned Melbay’s Guitar Method, the most well known basic guitar method booklet out there, and worked my toosh off to learn everything I could.  That there, that was my problem.

Tony and Hans played by ear.  I approached the guitar like a science class.  I memorized everything.  I read from all the textbooks.  All this!  All this was really just hurting me.  Unlike my friends, I didn’t end up having all the possibilities in the world, because I felt I had to read about it, memorize it, and then do it.  This just isn’t the way to learn especially with an art like music.  Did someone tell Van Gogh how to paint?  Did someone teach Picasso to draw pictures that looked like badly drawn Nickelodeon cartoons?  No.  They didn’t go plagiarizing everyone else’s best paintings.  There’s a difference between science class and actual science.  In science class we never went outside.  We stayed inside, read our books, and assumed everything in that textbook was right.  Some people have never seen a jaguar, yet they know it exist.  Most people have never seen a venus fly trap, but we all know they are pink or neon green toothy plants that eat anything that walks into their mouths.  We all learned these things, but we really didn’t know these things.  We didn’t experience them.  What a textbook really does is put limits on what we can learn.  It puts knowledge in a cage and tells you how things should really be, just because you should take their word for it.  That scientists from long time ago figured everything out for us and from now on we can’t learn anything for ourselves.

I use to have a pear tree in the backyard of my old house.  The pears would drop off the branches when they got too big and the stem holding them would break.  I discovered gravity when I was 6 years old, “Where’s my nobel prize?”  Where’s my auditorium filled with old white men dressed in togas stroking their beards.  I was 6 years old!  How come I don’t get to name the process in which things fall to the ground?  I would’ve named it “Uh oh,” or “Oops I’m falling.”  Forget about Isaac Newton, I was a 6 year old scientific prodigy because I watched the pears in my backyard go “Uh oh.”

Textbooks teach replication.  They teach you material and tell you to memorize it, so that in some far off future when you have to meet a slug you’ll know that he’s not in the same family genus species as puppies.  Pretty useful, huh?  But what if we meet something that there’s no textbooks for?  What if there’s nothing to replicate?  No wikipedia, no internet, no google images.  Who can we replicate?  Are we stuck?  It’s the same reasons why we have a poor people epidemic, because most people aren’t surrounded by millionaires and their millionaire knowledge.  It’s the same reason every guy you know is terrible at meeting women, it’s because every other guy is telling him what to do.  It’s the same reason we suck at most things.  It’s the same reason we can’t understand the things beyond what we’re taught.  It’s why we’re scared of new information.  Who says we can’t just learn things for ourselves?  Who put a page limit on biology?  Who says we can’t “JUST” play by ear!

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

On Christmas of 2003 the only present I got was a 6 string, wooden, acoustic, dreadnought, Yamaha guitar.  I would spend years finding out what failure was.  However, that day was the same day I would eventually find out that I was Isaac Newton.

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Advice Column: The Guy All Girls Want

From User:

The following response was to a user on a forum who opened a thread asking for help on his relationship.  He found out that his girlfriend was still in contact with a guy she kissed at a bar that she was attracted to a long time ago.  Overall he felt intimidated by this other man.  He believed this guy was better than him.  He understood that he did have trust issues and that he did feel jealousy.  He wanted to know how he could overcome these issues and become a better person, without having his girlfriend leave him.

From Jonathan Manor:

I’m going to hand the only information that you’ll probably need on the subject.  You need to do two things.

  1. Stop moping. Just stop.
  2. There is no lesson plan, guide, self help book, or advice anyone will ever give you that will make you become a more passionate person. Nothing. Not the way of the superior man, not the power of now, not a 232 page book that tells you why you need direction. It’s all beta material. It’s all confirming the fact that you don’t know anything.

The fact is, you don’t need to know anything. You don’t. You don’t have to be perfect, you don’t have to try hard, life isn’t about trying hard. It’s not. You need experience. And cutting yourself off from the world so you could mope is not experience, it’s stalemate.

People, not just women, people altogether fall in love with the person who has something going on for themselves. Ask yourself, “If you didn’t have a girlfriend, where would you be?”

In fact, right now, you’re acting as if you don’t have a girlfriend. As if she’s already left you. You’re moping, crying, and figured out you’ll stay pathetic (sorry dude it’s the truth) Even if that were true, even if you’re girlfriend did leave you, sooner or later you’re going to have to figure out what you want to do with your life. Are you going to pursue something? Are you going to stand for something? What are you going to do?

You could take the cheap way out which is, when she breaks up with you, jump over to another relationship. You know what that says about you, that you’re cheap. Anyone could have you. You have nothing going for your life, and you have nothing to show except for your dependence on the opposite sex.

Some women do this all the time. They jump from relationship to relationship because they can’t handle being alone. They can’t handle being themselves. So once they get back on the market, they post a for sale sign out in the open, and y’know what, guys will take it. Guys will run after it! Why, because it’s cheap.

You’re a cheap man. You’re dependent on this woman. Anyone will leave you. You have nothing going for you. You’re like the worn down sweater you get at Goodwill that nobody wants, hoping that someone will buy you.

That’s your advice. Do something with your life.

If You Want Her to Fall in Love with You, Compliment her Nose!

In 2006, 220,000 women got some type of surgical procedure for their nose.  The scientific term for a nose job, or a plastic surgical procedure on the nose, is called rhinoplasty.  Plastic surgery is a controversial subject in America.  With celebrities influencing young women, something like Ashley Simpson getting a nose job to retouch her nose gives off the message that, “it’s okay to not think you’re beautiful.”  It’s okay to change things about yourself if you don’t like them. This type of influence encourages women to not love things about themselves and get them to want to change everything about the way they look.  There’s a lot of physical aspects women tend to want to change about their body.  Things such as the perkiness of their breasts, the firmness of their midsection, and the inflammation of their tooshie. A woman’s nose is one of the top aspects on that list of things women want to change about themselves.  It’s unlikely that a woman will spend hours putting on their make up, choosing the right earrings, and putting on the right lipstick, only to say, “Wow, my nose is amazing!” It’s just not practical.  It’s weird to enjoy the feature of your nose especially after media, literature, and basically everyone throughout history has put so much emphasis on women’s eyes, smile, and breasts.

Eyes, lips, hair, stomach, breasts, and legs; all these are usually the main focus of what is beautiful.  There’s a suffocating obsession with makeup, lipstick, hair products, and shapeable bras that gets women into retail stores like Victoria Secret, Mac, and Sephora, to buy item brands like Revlon, Pink, Vidal Sassoon, and Britney’s Spear’s scented perfume, Circus.  These women come home spend hours on their makeup, surgically guide a brush across their nails, and go off to the city immediately before their hair has time to lose its maximum volume.  Then when a strange man you haven’t met approaches you through the corner of your peripheral vision, and he tells you ““You have beautiful eyes!”” as if he was reading some blatant scripture off some obscure Esquire magazine passage; you say to yourself, “”Thanks. . . I know!””

“However, what if he compliments your nose?”

Now you missed something, now didn’t you?  Women spend all their time revamping and decorating delicate intricate Van Gogh like paintings on their eyes, lips, and nails that they forget their nose.  There’s only so much a woman can do about her nose. Maybe implement a slight touch of some fluffy powder or something, however, it just isn’t that flexible.  It is practically the only bare feature specifically centered on a woman’s face which she cannot drastically change the appearance of.  So when a guy comes up and says, “”You have an absolutely beautiful nose!”” You’re baffled.  You become insanely belligerent.  You become intrigued and curious.  And maybe even in some drastic instances you fall apart and cry, because it is the one and only thing that’s still real about you. It’s the one thing you can’t hide.

We fall in love with the people who fall in love with our imperfections.

Our imperfections tend to be the things we can’t change or choose to not change about ourselves.  Our perfections are what everyone loves about us.  The fact that someone can acknowledge that you’re smart, funny, athletic, and down to Earth, doesn’t get you wedding bells and satin silk sheets as you lay her naked body under the night sky peering into her bedroom.  Those are obvious things everyone else notices. Those are the same things every guy tells her about, and practically the same things the rest of the population of men on Earth wishes he could comment about.  It just doesn’t get you far to make an instant observation.  If the world’s sexiest woman fell in love with all the men who noticed the first thing everyone else notices about her, than we’d all be married to that same girl.  (Which as of 2010’s Maxim’s Hottest Woman List states, that girl would be Katy Perry)

However, when you acknowledge the unlikely and more practically irritating and annoying features in a woman’s arsenal of things she recognizes as flaws, then you touch something else.  Something deep.  The way she snorts when she laughs, her sincere sophisticated tone that she uses when she talks down to people, the obvious dark gray mole riding the side of her nose.  These are all imperfections.  They are also her signature. They are the things that make her different from everyone else in the world.  When someone can acknowledge that and enjoy those unlikely features, then that girl you like will know that you can let her be who she really is.

That’s a relevant essential piece to the idea of love.  The fact that you can understand someone for who they are.

 

 

Read last relationship lesson:

The remedy for the too aggressive or too passive man

Facts from: http://www.articlesbase.com/health-articles/

In 2006, 220,000 women got some type of surgical procedure for their nose.  The scientific term for a nose job, or a plastic surgical procedure on their nose, is called rhinoplasty.  Plastic surgery is a controversial subject in America.  With celebrities influencing young women, something like Ashley Simpson getting a nose job to retouch her nose certainly gives the message that, “it’s okay to not think you’re beautiful.”  It’s okay to change things about yourself if you don’t like them.  This type of influence encourages women to not love things about themselves and want to change everything they look like.  There’s a lot of physical aspects women tend to want to change about their body.  Things such as the perkiness of their breasts, the firmness of their midsection, and the inflammation of their tooshie.  A woman’s nose is one of the top things on that list of things women want to change.  It’s unlikely that a woman will spend hours putting on their make up, choosing the right earrings, and putting on the right lipstick, only to say, “Wow, my nose is amazing!”  It’s just not practical.  It’s weird to enjoy the feature of your nose especially after media, literature, and basically everyone throughout history has put so much emphasis on women’s eyes, smile, and breasts.

Eyes, lips, hair, breasts, abdomen, legs; all these are usually the main focus of what is beautiful.  There’s a suffocating obsession with makeup, lipstick, shampoos, and shapeable bras that gets women into retail stores like Victoria Secret, Mac, and Sephora, to buy item brands like Revlon, Pink, Vidal Sassoon, and Britney’s Spear’s scented perfume, Circus.  These women come home spend hours on their makeup, surgically guide a brush across their nails, and go off to the city immediately before their hair has time to lose its maximum volume.  Then when a strange man you haven’t met approaches you through the corner of your peripheral vision, and he tells you “You have beautiful eyes,” as if he was reading some blatant scripture off some obscure Esquire magazine passage, you say to yourself, “”Thanks. . . I know!””

However, what if he compliments your nose?

Now you missed something, now didn’t you?  Women spend all their time revamping and decorate delicate intricate Van Gogh like paintings on their eyes, lips, and nails that they forget their nose.  There’s only so much a woman can do about her nose. (bold/ italics)    Maybe implement a slight touch of some fluffy powder or something, however, it just isn’t that flexible.  It is practically the only bare feature specifically centered on a woman’s face which she cannot drastically change the appearance of.  So when a guy comes up and says, “”You have an absolutely beautiful nose!””  You’re baffled.  You become insanely belligerent.  You become intrigued and curious.  And maybe even in some drastic instances you fall apart and cry, because it is the one and only thing that’s still real about you.  It’s the one thing you can’t hide.

We fall in love with the people who fall in love with our imperfections.

Our imperfections tend to be the things we can’t change or choose to not change about ourselves.  Our perfections are what everyone(italics) loves about us.  The fact that someone can acknowledge that you’re smart, funny, athletic, and down to Earth, doesn’t get you wedding bells and satin silk sheets as you lay her naked body under the night sky peering into her bedroom.  Those are obvious things everyone else notices. Those are the same things every guy tells her about, and practically the same things the rest of the population of men on Earth wishes he could tell her about.  It just doesn’t get you far to make an instant observation.  If women fell in love with all the men who noticed the first thing everyone else notices about her, than we’d all be married to that same girl.  (Which as of 2010’s Maxim’s Hottest Woman List states, that girl would be Katy Perry)

However, when you acknowledge the unlikely and more practically irritating and annoying features in a woman’s arsenal of things she recognizes as flaws, then you touch something else.  Something deep.  The way she snorts when she laughs, her sincere sophisticated tone that she uses when she talks down to people, the obvious dark gray mole riding the side of her nose.  These are all imperfections.  They are also her signature.  They are the things that make her different from everyone else in the world.  When someone can acknowledge that and enjoy those unlikely features, then that girl you like will know that you can let her be who she really is.

That’s a relevant essential piece to the idea of love.  The fact that you can understand someone for who they are.

Facts from:  http://www.articlesbase.com/health-articles/rhinoplasty-women-and-nose-jobs-346001.html

1 Million Reasons Why You Should Get Into A Fight.

My brother and I would play in the backyard of our house.  We used sticks as swords.  We pretended we were knights or samurais, or two boys with sticks.  One summer day, when the dirt was especially warm, my brother stood across from me holding the stick out in front of him.  “Okay, I’m going to give you a free hit,” my brother said to me, “just hit me.”  For a minute I thought about it.  He told me just to do it, pushing me to slice the air with the wood and initiate a lethal slash on my brother face or into his torso.  I didn’t.  I pretty much just significantly tapped the far end of his stick with mine.  He looked at me and shook his head.  “You don’t know how to fight,” he stated.  I was 6 years old.

In middle school, after all my classes were over, I would hang out in the parking lot along with everyone else who didn’t have to be anywhere soon.  Everyday I fought my classmate, and everyday I lost.  I didn’t know how he did it.  I memorized everything that he did.  He used the same pattern, the same sequence of movements.  He’d throw a punch, step behind my legs and trip me onto the floor, and then punch me several times in the ribs.  I knew it all.  I mathematically pulled it all together.  The punch would lead me backwards, and then since I moved forward after that, he’d be able to trip me.  I ran the sequence in my head over and over.  Every morning I thought I’d be more prepared to fight the next day.  I wasn’t.  I fell onto the floor, and I would feel my lungs collapse every time he’d punch me in the ribs, over and over, until someone screamed for him to stop.  I was 12 years old.


I was working for a newspaper subscription company the summer before I started high school.  I would walk door to door to recite my prepared speech that I usually mumbled over in hopes that someone would buy a newspaper subscription from me.  It was a scam. I didn’t know it until later in life, but it was definitely a scam.  I didn’t get paid hourly.  Some weeks I would work 6 days a week between 3pm to 7 everyday, and I some wee ks I would only end up with 30 dollars worth for that whole week.  However I liked my job.  It brought me into a whole new world of experiences.  I never left a 10 mile radius of my house.  Everyday I’d leave my little city and go to places with lakes, mansions, and our boss would pay for warm oily pizza after work.  I didn’t even know what a Jamba Juice was or a Starbucks until I started working for this job.  We’d come home after the sun would set and I would walk to my house from across the street with my binder, which most of the time didn’t make any sales or anything to show for my day.  It didn’t matter though.  I was starting to see a lot more to my life.

We were sitting in the back parking lot of large retail stores drinking frappacinos.  Those frappacinos were my newest favorite thing.  I felt like an adult; making a paycheck, drinking blended ice coffee.  We were talking about my failed attempt to “slap box” with one of my coworkers during one of our days off. It was pretty ugly.  He didn’t know how to fight either.

“You want to spar?” one of my other coworkers, said almost sporadically.  Matt placed his drink down on the hood of the car and took a few steps away from us into an open area in the empty parking lot.

My coworkers cheered me on.  I seriously didn’t want to fight or humiliate myself in front of all my coworkers.  Before I knew it, I was being pushed closer to my new instant fighting opportunity.  I didn’t know what to do.  We were going to slap box, which is where we weren’t allowed to punch each other with a closed fist, it was still something I obviously wasn’t good at.  I took a breath and thought for a split second.

The plan:  Hit him as many times as fast as possible.

One of my coworkers said go, and I swung my right hand into Matt’s face with my open palm, and then did it again with my left.  Back and forth, left and right, again and again.  It was my only two moves, my two options.  I sucked my hands back and then swung into his face and then did the same thing with my other hand.  I could see my hands rip into the sides of his face.  It was the same pattern, the same sequence, the same tactic, the same attack, and it was working.

Matt put his guard up, placing his forearms up by the sides of his face.  I just went faster.  I needed to get pass his defense, but I only knew one thing that worked.  I didn’t have time to regroup.  Matt would time my hits, and block almost every single one.  Then he would slip through and swing at the side of my face.  So I went faster.  I needed to break through his defense.  So I went faster and swung harder.

I swung again and again.  My eyes focused on the center of his face.  I could see Matt infiltrating my simple pattern of left and right punches.  He caught every open hand with his forearm, and within three of four failed attempts to reach his face, he ran right through into mine with a solid friction burning painful collision across my cheeks.  My ears were getting red.  Before he could suck back and get back into position, I dove in, driving my hands into his face over and over.  It was the only opening I could get.  He would block my hits, slip in his hit, and then before he could regroup I struck him with as many hits as possible, moving forward, not letting him rest.  I could feel my breaths climbing out of my body.  I could feel the weight I placed on my calves and how they tightened every time I followed through with a punch.  It didn’t matter that he was blocking some of my hits; I was hitting him.  I could still see his head swing backwards, and feel the skin on his face break from my hands.  I had it.  It was that eureka moment.  The heartbeats, the slow motion, the solving answers to all the equations.  This moment, it was the moment where everything seemed so simple now that I have the answers.  The aftermath, the conclusions.  I was holding up the master key to unlocking every lock that I could never open and that now stood in front of my face.  I just did what I needed to do, and did everything I could to get there.  I had a path, a working plan, stepping closer and closer towards success.  It didn’t matter that my ears burned red.  It didn’t matter that I was breathing heavily, or that the pain building from under my face echoed across my skin.  I felt a passion burning, running through me with every punch that reached my face, and every poetic journey that ended with my hand ripping onto his face.  I had finally found direction.

I found everything…

“Hold on,” I said laughing, my body aching.  I placed my hands on my knees and caught my breath.  I pulled my body back up quickly, “Okay let’s go!” I said, not waiting another second to get into the fight.

“No, we got to get home,” my boss said.  “What?  Why?” everyone asked in broken unison.  My boss said it would be a long ride home and he didn’t want to get calls from all of our parents asking where we were on a Friday evening.  Matt and I hugged.  Everyone couldn’t stop laughing.  We all couldn’t stop talking about it.  It was a spectacle to witness. Two young boys, I age 13, Matt age 15, both killing each other with open palms in an empty parking lot.  The night sky was clear, filled with stars that evening.

“Is that blood?” Matt said, touching the side of his face.  We all laughed as I sipped from my caramel frappacino.

Evaluation:

  • Find something that works and go with it.
  • The road to success isn’t as complicated as everyone else makes it.
  • If you have a goal, go for it.  Don’t let anything stop you, no matter how much pain you might be in.
  • The world is filled with clutter and information overload.
  • Simplify everything.

Disclaimer:
I don’t encourage fighting.  This happened since when I was a little kid.  Adults getting into physical fights just sounds immature and you could get into a lot of trouble.

Read my previous life lesson here:  The Cure for Assholes and Losers:

How Gambling Makes Dating Easier

My brother and I would play in the backyard of our house.  We used sticks as swords.  We pretended we were knights or samurais, or two boys with sticks.  One summer day, when the dirt was especially warm, my brother stood across from me holding the stick out in front of him.  “Okay, I’m going to give you a free hit,” my brother said to me, “just hit me.”  For a minute I thought about it.  He told me just to do it, pushing me to slice the air with the wood and initiate a lethal slash on my brother face or into his torso.  I didn’t.  I pretty much just significantly tapped the far end of his stick with mine.  He looked at me and shook his head.  “You don’t know how to fight,” he stated.  I was 6 years old.In middle school, after all my classes were over, I would hang out in the parking lot along with everyone else who didn’t have to be anywhere soon.  Everyday I fought my classmate, and everyday I lost.  I didn’t know how he did it.  I memorized everything that he did.  He used the same pattern, the same sequence of movements.  He’d throw a punch, step behind my legs and trip me onto the floor, and then punch me several times in the ribs.  I knew it all.  I mathematically pulled it all together.  The punch would lead me backwards, and then since I moved forward after that, he’d be able to trip me.  I ran the sequence in my head over and over.  Every morning I thought I’d be more prepared to fight the next day.  I wasn’t.  I fell onto the floor, and I would feel my lungs collapse every time he’d punch me in the ribs, over and over, until someone screamed for him to stop.  I was 12 years old.I was working for a newspaper subscription company the summer before I started high school.  I would walk door to door to recite my prepared speech that I usually mumbled over in hopes that someone would buy a newspaper subscription from me.  It was a scam.  I didn’t know it until later in life, but it was definitely a scam.  I didn’t get paid hourly.  Some weeks I would work 6 days a week between 3pm to 7 everyday, and I some weeks I would only end up with 30 dollars worth for that whole week.  However I liked my job.  It brought me into a whole new world of experiences.  I never left a 10 mile radius of my house.  Everyday I’d leave my little city and go to places with lakes, mansions, and our boss would pay for warm oily pizza after work.  I didn’t even know what a Jamba Juice was or a Starbucks until I started working for this job.  We’d come home after the sun would set and I would walk to my house from across the street with my binder, which most of the time didn’t make any sales or anything to show for my day.  It didn’t matter though.  I was starting to see a lot more to my life.We were sitting in the back parking lot of large retail stores drinking frappacinos.  Those frappacinos were my newest favorite thing.  I felt like an adult; making a paycheck, drinking blended ice coffee.  We were talking about my failed attempt to “slap box” with one of my coworkers during one of our days off. It was pretty ugly.  He didn’t know how to fight either. “You want to spar?” one of my other coworkers, said almost sporadically.  Matt placed his drink down on the hood of the car and took a few steps away from us into an open area in the empty parking lot. My coworkers cheered me on.  I seriously didn’t want to fight or humiliate myself in front of all my coworkers.  Before I knew it, I was being pushed closer to my new instant fighting opportunity.  I didn’t know what to do.  We were going to slap box, which is where we weren’t allowed to punch each other with a closed fist, it was still something I obviously wasn’t good at.  I took a breath and thought for a split second. The plan:  Hit him as many times as fast as possible. 

One of my coworkers said go, and I swung my right hand into his face with my open palm, and then did it again with my left.  Back and forth, left and right, again and again.  It was my only two moves, my two options.  I sucked my hands back and then swung into his face and then did the same thing with my other hand.  I could see my hands rip into the sides of his face.  It was the same pattern, the same sequence, the same tactic, the same attack, and it was working.

Matt put his guard up, placing his forearms up by the sides of his face.  I just went faster.  I needed to get pass his defense, but I only knew one thing that worked.  I didn’t have time to regroup.  Matt would time my hits, and block almost every single one.  Then he would slip through and swing at the side of my face.  So I went faster.  I needed to break through his defense.  So I went faster and swung harder.

I swung again and again.  My eyes focused on the center of his face.  I could see Matt infiltrating my simple pattern of left and right punches.  He caught every open hand with his forearm, and within three of four failed attempts to reach his face, he ran right through into mine with a solid friction burning painful collision across my cheeks.  My ears were getting red.  Before he could suck back and get back into position, I dove in, driving my hands into his face over and over.  It was the only opening I could get.  He would block my hits, slip in his hit, and then before he could regroup I struck him with as many hits as possible, moving forward, not letting him rest.  I could feel my breaths climbing out of my body.  I could feel the weight I placed on my calves and how they tightened every time I followed through with a punch.  It didn’t matter that he was blocking some of my hits; I was hitting him.  I could still see his head swing backwards, and feel the skin on his face break from my hands.  I had it.  It was that eureka moment.  The heartbeats, the slow motion, the solving answers to all the equations.  This moment, it was the moment where everything seemed so simple now that I have the answers.  The aftermath, the conclusions.  I was holding up the master key to every unlocking every lock that I could never open and it now stood in front of my face.  I just did what I needed to do, and did everything I could to get there.  I had a path, a working plan, stepping closer and closer towards success.  It didn’t matter that my ears burned red.  It didn’t matter that I was breathing heavily, or that the pain building from under my face echoed across my skin.  I felt a passion burning, running through me with every punch that reached my face, and every poetic journey that ended with my hand ripping onto his face.  I had finally found direction.

“Hold on,” I said laughing, my body aching.  I placed my hands on my knees and caught my breath.  I pulled my body back up quickly, “Okay let’s go!” I said, not waiting another second to get into the fight.

“No, we got to get home,” my boss said.  “What?  Why?” everyone asked in broken unison.  My boss said it would be a long ride home and he didn’t want to get calls from all of our parents asking where we were on a Friday evening.  Matt and I hugged.  Everyone couldn’t stop laughing.  We all couldn’t stop talking about it.  It was a spectacle to witness. Two young boys, I age 13, Matt age 15, both killing each other with open palms in an empty parking lot.  The night sky was clear, filled with stars that evening.

“Is that blood?” Matt said, touching the side of his face.  We all laughed as I sipped from my caramel frappacino.

Evaluation:
Find something that works and go with it.
The road to success isn’t as complicated as everyone else makes it.
If you have a goal, go for it.  Don’t let anything stop you, no matter how much pain you might be in.
The world is filled with clutter and information overload.
Simplify everything.

Disclaimer:
I don’t encourage fighting.  This happened since when I was a little kid.  Adults getting into physical fights just sounds immature and you could get into a lot of trouble.

Read my previous life lesson here.

16 Reasons to Love and Hate Alpha and Beta Men

There’s a lot of great reasons to love assholes and losers, and in retrospect there are also a lot of sufficient reasons to hate both of them.  This post defines both the good and bad qualities of both types.  As I said in the earlier post, The Cure for Assholes and Losers, it’s not about becoming one or the other, it’s about finding a balance.  Assholes do have a negative connotation to them, and losers do have a more common delightful tone to their being.  However, there is more to consider when analyzing both of them.  There are a lot of things that can either make them really negative jerks and tools, and there are a lot of ways where they can be either seen as having great qualities for being an Alpha or Beta male.

 

Disappointing Qualities

Main Disappointing Quality: Most losers lack a sense of passion and direction because they feel the need to please everyone else before themselves.

Other Disappointing Qualities:

  • Relationships: They almost always end up being “just friends.”
  • Career: They’ll almost never follow what their passion is, or know what it is to begin with.  They’ll usually end up choosing a career that fits other people in their life such as their wife, children, and on some likely occasions their mom.
  • Social Status/ Community: Losers tend to follow what everyone else says and does.  Since they do this, they’re usually easily influenced when it comes to doing stupid things.

 

Advantages

Main Advantages: They help others before they help themselves.

Other Advantages/ Great Beta Qualities:

  • Relationships: Losers make for great marriage material and are usually desensitized to infidelity especially compared to assholes.  They turn out to be more long term relationship material.
  • Career: Tools, or losers, usually end up getting promoted often due to their ability to focus on helping others.
  • Social Status/ Community: Losers tend to keep everyone together.  They do this by listening to other people’s problems and helping others through harder times.

 

Disappointing Qualities

Main Disappointing Quality: They tend to push other people away.  They usually only care about themselves and don’t consider other people’s feelings.

Other Disappointing qualities:

  • Relationships: They usually don’t make for great spouses.  They end up with a high infidelity rate.  They do jump from relationship to relationship, but more often, they jump from bed to bed sleeping with a different woman every chance they get.
  • Career: Since most assholes tend to follow their passions and nothing else, they usually find themselves unemployed.  If they are holding a job, it’s usually a job they hate and would never get a promotion for.
  • Social Status/ Community: They tend to burn bridges, hurt other people’s feelings, and tear up social circles.

 

Advantages

Main Advantage: Assholes are very passionate.  They go after the things that they want no matter what anyone else says.

Other Advantages/ Great Alpha Qualities:

  • Relationships: We’re a lot better in bed.  Assholes have unique ideas and are more inclined to get others to try new things.  If a woman could tie down an alpha male then both parties can feel more challenged and feel more rewarding.  It also makes for a more fulfilling, less dull, eventful relationship.
  • Career: If they find something they’re passionate about, they’ll live very fulfilled lives.  Most of them have the power to persuade most people with their charm, ease, and the passionate appeal of their voice.  They make great salesmen.
  • Social Status/ Community: They’re usually funny.  Since they take chances there is a larger likelihood that they come up with unique exciting things to do instead of staying in the normal routine of things.

 

Someone who just contains the disappointing attributes of an asshole, is just an asshole.  However, there are a lot of advantages, and great alpha qualities, that aren’t as much learned as it does somehow just naturally comes together from being an asshole.  Obtaining those positive attributes over the negative ones, make for a more Alpha male perspective on life.  Same with losers and tools.  If a male just contains the negative, disappointing, qualities of a loser, they’re just losers.  They’re just people nobody really cares about, or isn’t excited to meet.  However, if they encompass some of these positive qualities they will bare some great beta qualities, making them more eligible spouses, friends, and colleagues.  Even though the phrase beta has a negative connotation to it, and is still a lower form of male than the alpha male, there are still some great qualities that come along with being a beta male.

In future posts we will come to revisit these two ideas behind personalities.  I’ll also be focusing on one single type of personality at a time to provide a more in depth analysis.  I’ll be going over some fictional characters, and some nonfictional historical figures to dissect and derive information from.  Anticipate these posts, they should be coming soon.

Read last life lesson here:  The Meaning of Freedom

Yaz Birth Control Killed the Sister I Never Knew

I could hear the painful cries and moans echoing through the hospital walls.  They were more like screams.  It wasn’t ordinary emotions.  They were deep sharp aches that climbed out of the stomach.

“Something happened,” I said to my sister as we came closer to the intensive care unit.
My sister noticed the crying, but she thought it was just the same crying that she heard all day today.  As we came closer we noticed it was different.  It was loud.

“What is that?” she asked me, “What happened?”

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

“Hey Jaype!”  my sister said knocking on my glass window.  I was still in bed, shirtless, wearing pajama pants with my face eating the cotton shirt I wrapped around my pillow.  She continued knocking on my window.  “Jaype!” she said again continuing to try to get my attention from the slightly open window.  Jaype is what my family calls me; it’s my first and second initial crammed into one syllable.  “Jaype!” she said again, “Janelle’s sister is in the hospital.”  I woke up.

I didn’t know Janelle very well except for the fact that she had been in a relationship for the past few years with my brother, Eliot.  They were due to have a baby and I still wasn’t that close to her.  I’m not close to both my brothers.  We just aren’t that type of brothers.  I didn’t even know Eliot’s girlfriend had a sister.  Her name was Janice.  I never met her or heard of her.  Even then, I still got up, got into the shower, put on some pants, a white shirt, and my hoodie, as I headed over to the hospital.

When we got to the hospital it was what it was; excruciating pain, prayer, emotions running rampant.  It wasn’t your normal kick back Saturday morning.  I never met Janelle’s family.  The halls of the ICU and the walls of the waiting room were surrounded with people I didn’t know.  My sister said we were there to give support.  Even if they didn’t know us, they still needed our support.  We shook hands with people we didn’t know, asked them how they knew Janice, got asked how “we” knew Janice and we replied with the same story: her sister is dating my brother.

Everyone was hopeful.  She was fighting, everyone said.  Janice was dying from a blood clot that formed in her lung.  The blood clot started forming because of a birth control she used called Yaz. She entered the hospital last night and she still laid in bed.  Everyone knew she’d get better.  Everyone had hope.

They wanted to sing hymns in the waiting room.  They must’ve been hardcore Catholics.  They didn’t have a music player with speakers, so my brother volunteered himself to get his CD player at our house.  My sister and I drove back home with my brother to go get it.  We pulled up to our house, my brother ran in, and we headed back to the hospital.  My brother walked ahead of us as my sister and I stayed behind.  As we started getting closer to the ICU unit, that’s when we heard the cries.

We walked passed a girl screaming in pain on the floors by the elevators as one of her friends held her in her lap.  She was shaking, trembling, she couldn’t control herself.  We walked through the hallways and everyone crowded the ICU main entrance.  I could feel the frustration in some of their faces.  The dark broken tones breaking all of their hopes.  There emotions were smearing across everyone’s defeated hope.

“They’re starting CPR,” the doctor said to one of the parents, surrounded by everyone else wanting to hear what was happening.

She was already gone.

It must’ve hit everyone so suddenly.  She had just entered the emergency room last night.  Everyone thought she was okay, and that she would recover.  No one even thought that she was dying.  There was no chance that she could’ve been on her last breaths.  She was 22.  She was almost my age.  She didn’t smoke.  She exercised.  She drank occasionally.  Everyone thought she was fighting.  She was supposed to get better.  People were still rushing in only to find that they were too late.  It was just yesterday that they brought her in.  It was 2pm in the afternoon, and Janice had left her body.

My sister was mostly with my brother, who was mostly with Janelle, the whole time holding her.  She cried and yelled, “Why didn’t they take me!  She had so much to live for!”  I watched them comfort her in an almost empty waiting room.  There were hymns playing.

After the painful sudden embrace of death, everything simmered down.  They started bringing people in to see her.  I didn’t feel anything and neither did my sister.  We were there to hug everyone even though no one wanted to hug us.  Nobody knew who we were.  When one mom came in with her daughter she told someone, anyone, to watch her daughter as she went into the ICU to see Janice.  I took her baby into my arms and carried her after she came back out, tearing up, sitting on the floor with a broken spirit.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

My sister took a seat next to me in the hall where I was sitting alone.

“When I was younger and it was only Angel and me, we would always be with mama,” my sister, Shirley said.  Angel was our eldest sister, she was the second oldest.  “One day when we were on the bus with mama the bus crashed and Angel and I were hurt badly.  We were pulled out, but we couldn’t find mama.  Angel kept crying, ‘where’s my mom  Where’s mama!’  When they finally found her, there was blood all over her face.  There was a large opening ripped on top of her head and she was covered in a lot of her own blood.  Angel kept crying.”

“Your sister and I stayed in the waiting room in the hospital.  Angel was still crying.  She was crying a lot.  I didn’t feel anything.  I watched her cry since we left the bus crash and all she did was cry.  I looked at her and said, ‘You cry too much.’”

“We couldn’t sleep at the hospital and they didn’t know how to contact papa so they put us in a foster home.  Papa thought he lost all his family.  He couldn’t find us.  Angel thought we lost our mom and this was going to be how our life would be, no parents, just me and her.”

“Later on, papa picked us and up and took us home.  Mama got better.  But ever since then I noticed that I was sort of desensitized to type of things.  I just don’t cry as much as your older sister,” Shirley said.

“I’m pretty sure I have that too,” I replied.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

When I walked into the ICU, into the room that held the body of the sister I never knew, I felt out of place.  Her family surrounded her life left body.  Her mother and her sister held her hand wondering why it had to be her.