Your average American woman doesn’t identify as a feminist, and may even refuse to call herself that due to embarrassment, but a host of feminist beliefs have been installed in her brain that not only determine her personality, but also how she interacts with the opposite sex. Without having to consciously accept feminism, she is more feminist than Betty Friedan, more feminist than Gloria Steinem.
What are the most common feminist beliefs in America? There are three:
1. Men and women are equal, but the patriarchy still favors men in all areas of life. If a woman fares poorly in something, it is due to structural imbalances in society or outright discrimination.
2. Any criticism of American women by a man makes him sexist, misogynistic, and a sex tourist. Any mistake or wrong by a woman can be traced to the fault of men.
3. A woman does not peak with her beauty. She peaks with her intellect and experience, which means that she must spend her youth educating herself with liberal arts degrees to eventually trade her labor to capitalists. In the meantime, she will become a mature human being by having sex with with any man who excites her.
A feminist—a true feminist—takes these three beliefs to the government and tells them to do right through legislation. She also gathers her friends and makes complaints to media companies and advertisers to mold their behavior and products through threat of boycott and bad exposure. In this regard they’ve been successful. Politicians will do anything to get their votes, and corporations (including the media), will not share views that offend them. Of course, just about everything offends them, so the range of allowable thought gets narrower with each passing year.
Your average girl on the street is not an activist. She doesn’t protest, organize, or even write emails of complaint. She’s too busy distracting herself with Instagram, her iPhone, celebrity gossip, and the latest reality TV shows, but the three beliefs are still firmly entrenched in her brain. She thinks women are being held down, she thinks women are less fallible than men, and she thinks her value is not tied to her beauty.
If she’s not protesting or complaining, where and how do these beliefs reveal themselves? Where do they leak out from her brain and transmutate into the real world? On you. You are the primary recipient of these beliefs.
Feminist thoughts ferment in her brain for many years without her realizing it to eventually rain down like napalm on your senses in the form of words, actions, and outbursts when you approach her, have sex with her, or have a relationship with her. I don’t need to tell you that this will not be positive.
She will think you are privileged. She will think that any good in your life has been achieved merely because you have a penis, not because of your hard work. She will believe that power should be taken away from you and given to women. She believes that within your being is a rapist who would not hesitate to violate and beat a woman, and the only reason you aren’t raping her is thanks to the laws of the state. She believes your only true need on earth is to be a sperm donor, and that medical technology will eventually—god willing—make you superfluous She believes that if it wasn’t for you and your gender, the world would be at peace with no death and no suffering. She will interpret any thing you say which doesn’t portray her as perfect and moral to be sexist, chauvinistic, and in urgent need of re-education. She will attribute any behavior or quirk of yours that doesn’t turn her on to be weird and creepy. She will wonder whether you’re an anorexic apologist if you criticize the foods that she loves, such as Chipotle burritos and Starbucks frappuccinos. She will wonder if your vacation to Brazil was really a sex trip where you took advantage of poor women who live in slums. She will think you’re a slaver if you ever dare hint that you’d want the future mother of your child to stay at home.
She will dissect all your stories, analyze every word of your text messages, and prowl through the internet like a private investigator to rule out the fact that you are in all likelihood a bigot who needs to man-up from a pathological inability to handle a strong women who is experienced with sex, clerical work, and fancy restaurants. It only takes these three beliefs to lead to dozens of opinions about you that make you the enemy of womankind.
Make no mistake that this is a war against heterosexual men. This is the war of our generation. This is a war against men who are presumed guilty at birth, and whose innocence is mere purgatory until a newly devised outrage sends them to hell. You are the enemy and you will be denounced in the form of “misogynist,” “creep,” and “sexist,” and this denouncement will stay with you and affect your livelihood in ways that modern technology allow. You will be prosecuted by the fattest and ugliest cunts of the land, with no hope of appeal.
The young woman who doesn’t even think she’s a feminist is nonetheless waging war on you, her attitude and denouncements the weapon, her vagina the booty that is yours if you defeat her with your sword to choke and gag her in a way that she has been taught to like in books that have been foisted upon her as if she was a mindless automaton. Every time you thrust into a feminist who doesn’t think she’s a feminist and forgo a relationship with her, you inflict a wound. Every time you ignore her existence, you inflict a wound. Every time you make love to a foreign woman, you kill her outright.
This is a defensive war. We have been attacked, shamed, and taxed by them and now there is not much of our blood left. They demand more and more yet give us less and less, to the point where some men are deciding it’s not even worth it to have sex—not worth following their biological purpose of existence. The United States is becoming a battlefield, and it’s those who don’t pick up arms and foolishly appease the enemy and believe in its benevolence that will suffer most. All we demand is a pleasant woman who can raise our seed in a pleasant home, but that has been denied us, and we have been left floundering on a confusing search for masculinity in a society that attacks us and makes us feel ashamed for being men. We didn’t start this war, but we will finish it.
Click the caption button to activate English subtitles (you may have to go to the video page on Youtube):
The title of this show was “Sex Mission” but it might as well have been called “Roosh Roast.” They came at me pretty hard, from just about every angle. I knew it going in so that’s why I was more impressed than surprised with the stuff they pulled. My main concern was keeping my pocket square from sliding down (I was successful).
Before I go over the highlights, you’ll see that I wore an earpiece. Someone in the studio translated everything for me but obviously there was a delay. Since the show had so many people competing to talk, by the time I heard the complete translations, someone else was talking. This definitely limited my participation. The show also edited about half of what was filmed, including my distinction of love tourists vs sex tourists, among other things.
1:55: Yes it’s true, I did study bacterias in college.
2:39: lol at grocery bag picture.
3:10: Ukrainian nationalist commended me for having the energy to visit so many countries. “He must be exhausted!”
4:00: My longest monologue, capped off with a passport beard shave, one of my newer moves for use in the East.
5:04: They found my Ukrainian girl pictures post and then brought out two of the girls.
5:50: I tell the girls to leverage this exposure into an entertainment career. I suppose my mentality is still American.
6:32: Host tries to get a rile out of me, saying I made everything up in between studying bacterias. I did speak a response (which I forgot), but it was edited out.
6:59: I’m being threatened with a lawsuit. I wasn’t scared. Both of these girls are huge attention whores, especially the brunette, whose hero is Paris Hilton. I promise you they loved being on the show.
9:00: I met this guy on Couchsurfing and we hung out twice at night.
10:14: “Of course I had to lie.” lol
10:37: There goes me, under the bus.
11:05: This girl is a lying bitch—I never approached her. I don’t holla at plastic surgery victims.
12:35: “I told my friend about it,” who happens to be a popular reporter. What a setup.
14:44: Fat Bono comes through with a smackdown on American girls. I enjoyed this. He seemed to be mostly supportive of me.
15:54: Nice camera shot.
16:45: The crazy sex tourist hunters arrive with footage of them making an Italian man cry. Most of the audience was laughing at this. I started losing the spotlight at this point.
19:13: My best pose, I’d say.
19:30: This woman is insane, full of anger. She was not pleasant in any way.
20:41: Sex tourist hunter says I’m breaking the constitution for using the flag. This argument was also used for Bang Iceland.
21:01: Go bang American women, hell if I care!
22:05: The crowd is showing me more support. I’m starting to feel like Rocky in Rocky IV. I wanted them to chant my name by the end, but this did not happen.
23:30: Max the sex tourist hunter takes actual weapons with him when he goes out. After the show, the bodyguard immediately came up to me and escorted me to the backroom, worried that Max might do something.
25:10: Is this shit over yet?
25:57: The hate goes from me to Max.
26:08: This woman (a singer, I think) was very nice to me after the show, but she didn’t speak English. I’d make love to her.
26:41: It’s revealed that Max is a PUA, or something.
27:43: I aimed for the jugular.
28:17: I win?
29:06: And I’m done.
31:26: Lovely lady who was a strong fan. She actually read about my work before the show and said that she agrees with my teachings.
32:19: Pocket square looking good.
33:04: Elegant, yes.
Overall it was a good experience. Going on this show here or that interview there is giving me experience for one day when the stakes may be higher.
Learn more about the book that led to the appearance: Bang Ukraine.
Except for start-ups in Silicon Valley that let you use scooters indoors, it has come to be common wisdom that corporations are horrible places to work. It shouldn’t be like this. A regular salary with benefits in an environment that puts you in constant touch with other humans shouldn’t cause misery, but in reality corporate work is one of the most soul-destroying activities you can do. Why?
1. It makes you helpless. The knowledge that you can be laid off, transferred, or snubbed at any time makes you feel like you have no say in your destiny. You’re at the mercy of the invisible bureaucracy, of layers of people who have control over your livelihood and the final say on your future.
2. It makes you fake. When a stripper goes to work, and has to give lap dances to fat men for money, she puts on a smile and pretends that she’s enjoying it. You do the same when you have to work in a corporation. You put on a fake smile and adopt a shielding personality to deal with people you would never choose to deal with in your spare time. This levies a significant blow to your self-identity.
3. You have to deal with Human Resources. Promiscuous women who graduated with a bogus degree now got you by the balls. Assuming you get through their dating interview process, you still have to comply with their rules and regulations, and you must be cheerful when they pimp slap you for stepping out of line or suffer one of their 90-day probations where you have to supplicate to their whims. You have to be alpha with your work but beta and subservient to the HR gals and all your other insufferable coworkers. Otherwise you’ll be written up and punished like you were in elementary school.
4. It makes you do things you hate. Your day-to-day tasks involve doing what makes the corporation money, not what you want to do with your life. The odds that a corporate position perfectly matches your passions are just about zero. Enjoy all the meetings, the Kaizen training, the diversity seminar, and the writing of TPS reports.
5. You receive low pay. You’ll never make as much as you bring in. Once Uncle Sam takes his cut, and you account for commuting, you’ll always be selling yourself short. When your yearly review comes, you have to beg like a dog for a 4% raise that barely keeps up with inflation by telling your master all the wonderful things you did in the past year that made the company money. It’s humiliating.
The answer to this sad existence is to start your own business. It’s a tough challenge that will take time until you start bringing in income, but you’ll work on your own terms, control your destiny, be able to choose your customers, and not have to work with ditzy women who have power over you. Most importantly, you’ll be able to follow your passion. I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Read Next: Now You Need Game To Get A Job
Let’s say you sit in front of a computer all day without talking to anyone. Then at 6pm, I ask you to go to a happy hour that will have a few opportunities to talk to women. How will your first couple of approaches go? Well, there’s a chance you won’t even take advantage of those opportunities. Your mind will not be primed for social interaction and the testosterone draining effects of computer work won’t even perk up your dick. You’ll come up with fancy excuses to not even try, or to wait until the weekend.
Now let’s say you did a different routine. You lifted weights in the morning, setting a personal record on the bench. At lunch time, you went to Barnes & Noble and picked up a magazine with bikini babes, giving you a 25% boner. You then did two approaches that went okay but didn’t result in a number. Once back at work, you had a five minute chat with the slutty HR gal, catching glimpses of her cleavage. At your desk you took breaks every 30 minutes to explore deep fantasies of sex. Then as soon as you got off work, you called a friend and talked about the approaches you did at lunch.
If you were to hit that happy hour now, do you think things would go differently? How would the first couple of approaches go?
In Lublin, Poland there was a ladies night on Wednesday. This is how I prepared for it:
- I nurtured my morning boner by thinking of girls I’ve had sex with in the past, but I didn’t masturbate.
- I went to the coffee shop in the mall that is right next to a popular girls clothing store. I got a seat where I had a clear view of all the female clientele. I stared, lustfully, at the pretty girls coming and going.
- I did one or two approaches in the mall after coffee shop time.
- I hit the gym and stared at girls wearing tight aerobic clothing.
When I went to ladies night, I was ready like a motherfucker, even when rolling solo. My dick was my wingman. Sometimes my very first approach hit.
Consider an approach session to be a symphony that starts when you wake. The warmup gets you ready, the actual approaches are the climax of the movement, and finally your results (number, kiss, bang) brings you back down to a hopefully satisfied mood. If you think the game starts with your first approach, your warmup is garbage. You’ll be rusty with desire that is too weak.
You know you’re doing it right when there is almost no anxiety when you start with the actual approaches. In fact, the approach is just a drop in the bucket in the entire process. It’s what you did before that first approach that will determine the bulk of your success.
Read Next: The Roosh Program
The British girl I devirginized arrived to my hotel room with a carry-on bag. I was a bit surprised because we didn’t discuss her staying with me, but since I had no intention of going for other girls, I didn’t say anything. It wasn’t the first time that a girl weaseled a relationship escalation move on me. I’ll have to be more mindful of this in the future.
I hadn’t seen her in three months, so we got right down to sex. It was good. For the first time there were more moans of pleasure than screams of pain.
While she was out for work, I explored the city and went to the coffee shop to work. She came home at 6pm and after a couple hours of relaxing in the room, we went to an Italian restaurant. She paid. After that she showed me around the center of her city, but it was touristy and not what I would have liked. We had a couple drinks at a bar. Then we came home and had sex.
It was Saturday and in the morning we had sex. She previously disliked it when I hit from behind because it’s “impersonal,” but unprompted she turned over and assumed my favorite position. I went deeper than I ever have. Afterwards I asked her about her change of heart and she said, “I’m starting to like it more.” My sex training was starting to take.
For the first time I felt the urge to separate from her, but instead we had breakfast downstairs. We had more sex. I told her I “had” to get work done and that she was welcome to come with me to the coffee shop with a book. She got bored after an hour, as I expected, because no one has coffee shop endurance like I have, and went back to the room. I enjoyed this time alone and was reluctant to return.
I researched an area of town to go out. We took the subway and stumbled on a Belgian restaurant. Her eyes seemed more focused onto me than before. She knew that I was immediately going to Poland after my time with her.
“I enjoy our time together,” I said, “but knowing what happened last time I was in Poland, I think it’s best we take it one day at a time. Who knows, maybe you’ll meet someone here.”
After a long pause, she said, “I recently started dating someone. It’s early.” Her head bowed slightly. Now I know who she’s been texting on and off from the bed in between my orgasms (she herself has still not experienced an orgasm, as far as I knew).
I was actually pleased. I would feel no guilt with whatever choice I’d make with her. But I was curious: “How long have you been dating? Does he know you’re with someone else?”
“Not very long. He thinks I’m with an American girlfriend.”
We went to a bar, had a drink, then went back to the hotel room to have sex. Like always, we did not use condoms.
She left early for a bridal dressing. I timed it so I would leave the hotel room right before she came back to maximize my time away. I went to drink with a couple guys. She texted me on and off, asking if I’m having a nice time and suggesting time points to meet, but I kept it vague and stayed out late. I returned drunk to the hotel room and unrobed her for sex.
When I was about to orgasm, I pulled out and said, “Open your mouth.” I put my dick in her face but she didn’t open. “Open, open!” I said, hurriedly, but her mouth remained closed. Then I came all over her face. I laughed and got her a towel. “I told you to open.”
Today was her birthday. I gave her morning sex before she had to go to work, but this time she didn’t want to leave. She snuggled up next to me in a half-dressed state, wanting to talk when I just wanted to sleep. She made a move for my dick, but I denied her. I turned my head away when she wanted to kiss. “You’re going to be late for work!” I said. She left and I felt relieved that I had the next eight hours completely to myself.
I dreaded her return, but when it came I wasn’t entirely displeased. A part of me missed her companionship. For her birthday I took her to Pizza Hut since she told me she liked pizza. She was satisfied and we went back to the hotel room for more sex. Afterwards I told her that I could no longer perform. I never had so much sex in five days.
On my way to the shower, she said, “I have to make a call.”
“Is it the guy?” I asked, mockingly.
“Yes. Are you jealous?”
I laughed. “No, not at all.”
The next morning she insisted on driving me to the airport. As an extra birthday gift I gave her a near-full bottle of Absolut vodka that I had purchased at the airport duty-free shop.
She parked the car at the departure gate. I didn’t want to linger, quickly getting my bags and hugging her goodbye before the tears welling in her eyes fell. I gave her a kiss goodbye and made my way to the terminal, eager for round two of Poland.
Read Next: The British Virgin
You have a few hours left to take advantage of the massive $1 discount to my new book, Why Can’t I Leave A Smiley Face? If you order before midnight, you pay $3 instead of $4. Here’s a reader review:
Roosh has an approach to writing about his life that is at once clinical, self-reflective, funny, critical and–one just does not expect this–philosophical. In his latest, he returns to the country of his birth and ultimately find us wanting; but I’m jumping ahead of myself.
The book is a series of vignettes documenting his return to visit friends and family after years away. Each chapter describes occurrences on this journey and reads very much like an quirky, independent movie so much so you will think you were at your local art house cinema drinking a Belgian lager and watching a cool guy make his unconventional way through life.
As he describes what’s happening, Roosh deadpans his observations like a movie voice-over. He writes with a detachment that is at first startling but ultimately refreshing and makes me think he may be reproducing for us what happened in his mind real-time as it was actually happening.
As you read, you stumble across various pronouncements about the human condition from a man who will, in his lifetime, meet more different people in two years than most ever will in a lifetime. He is frank, quite brutally frank actually, about sex. He is brutally frank also about the female of the species, genus Americanensis. Here, for example, he describes how many men it takes to turn a woman into a ruthless entitlement mare:
“I estimate that it takes ten male partners for a woman to start realizing that she doesn’t “need” a man. Any man who dates her after that will get half-assed relationship efforts and increased entitlement. She knows how easy it is to get [a man] that, though maybe not as good as yours, will validate her nonetheless.”
Since 10 is quite a low number in modern America, if one accepts his assertion it is no leap of the imagination to see where things have gone. And every other story he tells of meeting women in DC seems to bear this out.
Especially funny is the story of the female lawyer who cannot understand the psycho-dynamics of reality and asks–no demands–attention. On his metaphorical feet as usual, Roosh turns ice cold and decides to see just how far he can push the interaction. And like the damaged spirit that she is, unrecognizing, blind, she stumbles unfeeling towards eventual cat-owning obsolescence. No way a normal person could absorb this every weekend and emerge unscathed. Roosh seems to shake his head, clarity prevails: I’m back in the United States.
More than the travails of random encounters with tigresses is Roosh’s interactions with his mother and sister. It seems he’d thought they were supportive of his lifestyle, but something about their XX chromosomes had since taken over and produced arguments against his choices, and it seems to find him taken aback. “In my own house, too?”
What I like most about Roosh’s writing is the philosophical calmness with which he writes, how he describes the process of levelling counter-arguments without emotional outburst especially considering he’s “arguing” with those he loves about a way of life he has come to love. One can be forgiven for thinking it a writer’s low trick, made to show how cool under fire he is, but watch his videos and you can sense this is how he is regardless of the circumstance. It is no leap to connect this person with his writing persona and sense the veracity of it.
Methodically, he rips apart mom’s reasoning so that, by the end, she is making what I feel is the painful demand that either he change or he stop communicating with her. This couldn’t have been an easy thing to write about, but it is invaluable to anyone thinking of hoeing this road. This is what may and likely will happen to you: even your own family will disapprove of your jumping the society-lain train tracks.
Another family story, this time of dad. Seeking perhaps to understand himself further, he meets up with his father over a weekend’s gambling in Atlantic City and coaxes from him the apparent genetic source of Roosh’s “talents,” shall we say. Dad was a “player” back before it became codified, before it became popular. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
Underlying all this and forming a backbone of his new book is the world-weariness: he’s half-expecting something new, please surprise me. Perhaps in the two years I’ve been away, he begs, please be different. But he only finds more of the same and even worse. It is a jungle of the heart and the cougars are winning: you can play with a tame lion, but those claws, those claws, those claws. The title of the book comes from a tryst with a woman who coldly dispatches him from her bed, and in a moment of vulnerability, he leaves a note and discusses with himself how best to convey that a human experience between them has occurred instead of a steel bare transaction: perhaps a smiley face? She never calls back.
And so, as he departs (sister no longer cries at the airport) he comes to the conclusion that America is the land of the barren of soul. He no longer recognizes it and thus leaves its shores, a stranger. I wonder what that means for the men who are left behind. I ponder this question and my soul freezes at its outer edges.
And another review:
I picked it up before bed, thinking I’d read just a small bit of it before crashing out. I was about halfway through and set it down to get some sleep, but then it kept nagging at me so I picked it up again and finished the rest. I say “nagging at me” because it wasn’t like it was the most captivating book in the world, but I felt like it touched me on a real emotional level in a lot of ways (no homo), so I had to put those thoughts at ease by finishing.
Maybe it’s because I’ve struggled with a lot of the same emotions and challenges Roosh talks about over my last year of being home in the states. In fact, I think a lot of the issues touched on are things that have been in my mind over the past couple weeks.
I also found my spirits lifted in some of the brighter moments, even smiling a little; Roosh has a great ability for getting readers involved in his story. I especially appreciated how his camaraderie with the other forum members seemed to balance him. Makes me want to meet more like-minded guys.
On another note, I’ve noticed that in a lot of Roosh’s more recent writings, he seems to float back and forth between wanting to settle in a little bit, maybe even questioning his beliefs about women, and just embracing the momentum he’s already built in his life. I think this is something a lot of us struggle with. He doesn’t overdo it or give the red pill back; he just acknowledges its presence.
To be perfectly honest, I felt like some of the play-by-play in the nightclub chapters was a little too drawn out and that some of the “angry” banter Roosh had with women seemed pretty trivial in nature. Then again, I think a lot of the guys who read the PUA stuff enjoy this play-by-play type writing, so I’d say it fits that side of the audience. And while the personality revealed in some of these interactions may have rubbed me a bit wrong, one of my favorite aspects of any Roosh writing is the way he lays it all out there to be seen, warts and all.
He doesn’t sugarcoat something just because it might put himself in an awkward or less than favorable light. I always respect this type of honesty in a writer, and revealing the true subtleties of human nature makes for a more interesting, believable read and commentary on the lifestyle we’ve chosen.
In conclusion, I liked this homecoming story and will probably give it another go. Coming home to suddenly feel like an outsider can sometimes wear on you and leave you wondering if perhaps it’s you that has become flawed. Just knowing others experience the exact same thing is reassuring and offers a reminder that we aren’t all born into a place that’s right for us.
For some of us, there’s just no going back once we’ve embraced the international lifestyle (much like taking a red pill of any other hue). It’s a scary, somewhat alienating feeling, but you just have to keep searching for whatever it is you’re looking for. Even if it never reveals itself, sitting home probably wouldn’t have made you any happier, and at least you reach the end-game knowing you gave it a shot, which is far more than most people can say.
I hope you find what you’re looking for, Roosh. Thanks for another good read.
If this book interests you, click one of the following links:
- Read sample pages from the book
- Order your paperback or Kindle copy
- Order your ebook copy (pdf, mobi, and epub)
I’m also offering two combo deals that last until midnight tonight. In the first, you get all three of my memoirs for $8. The download package contains pdf, mobi, and epub formats for each book, 433 pages in total…
The Life’s Work combo has all 15 of my books (1,484 pages), including Bang and Day Bang, my two popular game books. It also contains the Bang audiobook in mp3 format. The price is $35:
Click here to order the My Life’s Work Combo (256 megabyte download).
Your thoughts on Smiley Face so far are encouraging me to tackle a longer memoir in the future.
How many sexual partners is too many?
What happens when you’ve lived away from your birth country for too long?
Why do moms give bad advice to their sons?
Why do Americans talk so much?
Should a one-night stand have romance?
Can a man ever be more interesting than a woman’s smartphone?
Are you your father’s son?
How much money is enough?
Which country is best for men?
Can a city decrease a man’s sex drive?
Why is it that using a smiley face is needy in one country but not in another?
These are the questions that come up in Why Can’t I Use A Smiley Face?, a short memoir about one man’s brief return to America after living in Europe for nearly two years. Stories range from trying to bang girls in Washington DC to getting caught up in a web of lies.
Living abroad can bring great experiences, relationships, and happiness, but it may cost you friends, family, and even your own identity.
The book costs $3. If you purchase the Kindle or ebook edition (pdf, mobi, and epub package) before Sunday at midnight, you get a discount of one whole dollar. The price will increase to $4 after that.
Click one of the following links to continue:
- Read sample pages from the book
- Order your paperback or Kindle copy
- Order your ebook copy (pdf, mobi, and epub)
This book is a mini-sequel to A Dead Bat In Paraguay, the memoir I released four years ago after quitting my job and living outside of America for the first time. I recommend you read it first before Smiley Face to better appreciate the stories. While reading Dead Bat is not required, you should at least be familiar with my background to put Smiley Face in context. This weekend I’m offering a combo deal where you can get all three of my memoirs for $8. The download package contains pdf, mobi, and epub formats of each book, for a total of 433 pages…
I started writing my first book, Bang, back in 2006. In the past seven years, I’ve written 15 books that contain 1,484 pages and 537,867 words. I’ve also produced a Bang audiobook with the help of a voice actor. In this combo, get all 15 books and the Bang audiobook in mp3 format for only $35:
Click here to order the My Life’s Work Combo (256 megabyte download).
Smiley Face is on the short side (it will take you about 90 minutes to read), but it’s a story I wanted to tell. I hope you enjoy it.
When you go out over the weekend and get a batch of numbers, you’re almost guaranteed to get a response from the ugliest girl you picked up while not getting a response from the hottest one. It only makes sense that lower value girls will see you as higher value.
For example, say you went to the clubs this weekend and got five numbers. Three of the girls were 6s, one was a 7, and one was an 8. Come Monday when you start contacting them, which girl would you want to agree to go out on a date with you? Of course the 8. Even if the personality of a 6 was superior, your desire for beauty transcends personality and you will be more inspired to bang the hottie. But by Tuesday, only two of the 6s contacted you. You didn’t get a response from the others.
Now fast forward one year later where you have some type of niche that puts you into contact with beautiful women. You go out to some exclusive parties and get five numbers. Three of the girls were 8s and two of the girls were 9s. The ugliest girl of that bunch contacts you and you eventually bang her. The “ugliest,” of course, was an 8. A girl of her caliber wouldn’t have hit you back the previous year, but now you banged it.
A lot of guys ask me how to bang 8s and above. It’s pretty simple actually: get a lot of numbers of 8s and above. If you’re getting numbers of 9s, that means two things: you have capable game and you have access to beauty. It’s just a matter of time until you smash top shelf.
Sadly, the average guy has neither access nor game. He interacts with mostly 6s and talks to a bonafide 8 maybe once a month if he’s lucky. He gets super excited when he meets that 8 and hopes that it will translate into a bang, but of course it doesn’t, because the top end of your number closes will rarely convert. If it does, it’s more luck than skill. Guys treat the phone number of an 8 like gold. They spit needy game without realizing it and are then disappointed when the girl doesn’t even reply back to a text, when that result was easy for me to predict.
Instead of relying on luck, it’s better to rely on math. Get a lot of numbers of hot girls and eventually one will come through, just like how you can get a 6 to come through today because you have approached a lot of them. You need to play the numbers game with a 9 just like you are doing now with 7s and below.
“But Roosh, I don’t get opportunities with 8s and above. I don’t meet enough of them to play the numbers game.”
Then you won’t get them. What do you have to do where talking to 8s on a weekly basis is routine? I’ve put myself into some nice Eastern European cities, but even then, access is an issue. There are 9s in Zagreb, but I was only able to do one solid approach a week on them, which wasn’t enough. Until you’re doing at least 5 approaches a week or more on the talent you want, the math won’t compute in your favor.
A few weekends ago I got six numbers, all low to high 7s with one high 8. Did I get excited when I got the number of the 8? Nope. I don’t play the luck game, I play the math game. And the math game says that I need to put myself in front of much higher talent and get more than just one number of an 8 or above.
I’m sure you get a little jealous when you see a guy with no game and no muscles with a smoking hot girl. Don’t be. He had the access you don’t have, and played the numbers game on a tier of women you don’t see often. Look at that man and ask yourself how you get math on your team just like he did. Then it’s just a matter of time.
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