All posts by Roosh

Is Politics Compatible With The Christian Life?

Practically everyone today is an expert on domestic and international politics. People will not hesitate to strongly state their opinions on the President, global policy, race relations, Middle Eastern politics, gender relations, and so on. Through political activism, they hope to bring good and peace to Earth, but a cursory look at the progression of history shows that by trying to bring about heaven on Earth without God, they may very well be doing the opposite.

In the past, I was heavily involved in the politics of gender relations. After fornicating with many women around the world, I deemed myself an expert on women and spoke about ways to fix them. They needed to lose weight, wear high heels, dress in an inviting manner, and stop being so masculine, traits that didn’t necessarily improve their moral character but made them more sexually pleasing to me while I was in a state of lust. Those solutions tried to make women perfect to me in the here and now so that I could extract more pleasure from them.

The sexual “heaven” I would experience as a result of more feminine women would allow me to partake in more sin. I would suffer the consequences of that pursuit within this lifetime in the form of increased guilt, anger, and depression, but also risk my salvation. It’s a blessing that my activism failed and the world went a different direction than the ideological projection of my sexual fantasies, because it allowed me to see that the world will not bend to my will, no matter how many other men I recruit to the cause, and that even if it did, I wouldn’t be better off.

You can pursue political life for the sake of your own glory or for the glory of Jesus Christ. The purpose of the former is to experience heaven on Earth through the belief that your political ideas, when implemented by the society at large, will save you and those around you. In essence, you create a false idol out of your worldview. You look towards a narrow and perhaps accidental period of history, such as the 1950s in America, and get nostalgic about the “heaven” that those in that era were able to experience, but such an interpretation of heaven is purely focused on the material. The men of that era may have had nice houses in quiet neighborhoods and wives that knew how to make apple pie, but how was their spiritual life? Were they saved? Or was the high material comfort and ease they experienced a barrier to their salvation?

I consider it a gift to myself and other men that we were born in such an evil time as now, where the women around us have so eagerly chosen sterility and death instead of family and spiritual life, because it’s through this inverted world that we can call on God to help us endure. If your ideal world existed now, and all your political ideas made the Earth perfect, why would you need God? Why would you even need heaven?

The biggest problem with political activism for its own sake is that it feeds your pride, especially when people start listening to your ideas. Multiple priests have told me that the worst sin is pride—no other sin is as reliable in separating you from Christ. Pride is the fuel that makes you think you have it all figured out, that you are your own god and don’t need the One God to save you, but you were created from nothing and will fade back to nothing. None of your achievements will be worth remembering when human history ends and this universe folds up into a speck of matter as it was at the moment God began time and space. How is it possible to have pride for that which will be lost in the wind for all eternity? To have pride is demonic in nature, a blatant lie of who you are and why you’re here, and nothing feeds it better than the realm of politics where you have followers and donors. You appear in the news and are seen as a leader. People come to depend on you for guidance. You come to believe that the world would be worse without you, and perhaps the world couldn’t even live without you, a belief shared by many men who are buried in the cemeteries of the world. If you decide to make a god out of yourself, how can there be room for God?

All the ideas of the secular political activist will fail. All his theories will be for naught. Look around you—are things getting better? After having been graced by the masterful political scientists and intellectual giants that have come before us, does this look like heaven? Everyone who lived before us served a purpose, yet not to improve the world from their own efforts. Instead, they were a part of God’s plan whether they were aware of it or not. The best we can do is to serve Christ in this life, to honor those close to us, and to save our souls. If you are called by God to serve Him politically, ensure it’s for His glory and not your own. Anything else is at best busywork, at worst the will of Satan.

God commanded us to follow human authority and it is my hope that more of those authorities will be Christian, but in the meanwhile, keep your eyes on the heaven you can’t see before trying to make a heaven of the world you can. Speak the truth and say no to evil when it comes to you, but understand that nothing is a saving act without God. Everything must be done with your salvation and the salvation of those close to you in mind, because as soon as you remove God from your actions, and fail to seek His blessing through secular political activism, you turn away from God. Without Him, you may create an accidental good, since the Gospel is written in your heart, but chances are you will add more indemnity and anger to the world, making it worse than when you started.

I will share the truth to you, political or otherwise, I will support this political party or organization over another, I will be vehement in condemning the actions of cosmopolitan groups that are subverting the country, and if God calls on me to become President of the United States then I will do so, but such intentions will not be to make my life easier, to create a “better” world, or roll back the clock to a period of history I didn’t live in. I will do all this to serve the Logos, to act on the Word of God, and not under my own authority or my own ideas of how to improve the world. God already has the plan laid out for me, and all I have to do is follow it, wherever it may lead.

Read Next: Moderation Is A Myth

Roosh Hour #46: E. Michael Jones

In this stream, I interview E. Michael Jones about his book The Jewish Revolutionary Spirit and the effects Jews have had on society since rejecting Jesus Christ.

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Previously: Roosh Hour #45: Science God

The World Of Newton vs. The World Of God

If you don’t have God in your life, everything that happens to you is seemingly random and mathematical, based on statistical probabilities, which will regularly evoke the same questions: Why me? Why this? Why now? There is no rhyme or reason to your fate, so the best plan becomes to extract as much reward and pleasure from the world as you can before you die. Before that end, if God’s grace enters you, you come to see this nihilistic notion for the lie that it is.

The world of Newton

While teaching pickup, I taught men that meeting women was a numbers game—the more women you talk to, the more likely you will have sex with one. I convinced them of the world of Newton, where atoms in space are randomly moving and may occasionally collide with another atom. I was an atom in lust that wanted to collide with another atom in lust, so I maintained constant movement within tightly packed areas (urban squares, cafes, bars, clubs) to establish attraction with a woman who was desiring a man.

There was no destiny, fate, or plan in my pickup philosophy—it was merely statistics. But with such an approach comes the rub: just as a woman you meet is an atom that is quickly replaceable, so are you. The relationships that are created from the world of Newton are fleeting indeed—most will not even make it to the third date, and within a year or two, you won’t even remember the partners you’ve had unless you dedicated yourself to maintaining a diary or photo album.

Since applying Newton’s outlook to pickup does “work,” countless men have dived into the game. They regulate their energy levels to talk to mass quantities of women, improve their attractiveness to maximize the chances that another atom collides with them, and even uproot themselves and leave their families to go to lands where the atoms are more attractive. The costs of these successful collisions, however, are severe. You view women as objects of pleasure instead of partners in family, you become addicted to the physical outcome of your mathematical game (sex), you abandon your parents, and you degrade yourself through acts of fornication.

What is the alternative? If I’m not a randomly created piece of meat floating through space in the hopes of colliding with another piece of meat, why am I here? Aren’t I supposed to create my own meaning of existence? No, you were created by God to experience His love and grace for all eternity, as long as you serve His will and the plan He has laid out for you. However, His will does not involve fornication and does not involve participation in behaviors while not in communion with Him. When you accept God’s grace, His will becomes revealed to you in time, but without any faith, you will inevitably choose for your own destruction while convincing yourself that the vulgar pleasures you seek are giving you purpose in life.

The world of God

The world of God is simpler than the world of Newton. I don’t have to rely on my own effort and strength to extract from the world. I don’t have to worry about receiving bodily pleasures, money, or other false rewards. I don’t have to worry about attempting to live a long life by eating only organic foods and attending Crossfit class three times a week. I remain still, I pray, I worship in church, and use whatever talents He has given me to perform His will.

I sit and wait for God to give me worldly rewards or pleasures that He deems healthy for my soul, and I can tell you that those rewards are not what you think of as rewards, for they nurture the soul instead of exciting the body. I don’t have to be obsessed with pleasure like in the past. I wait for God’s pleasures to come on God’s schedule, without the soul-destroying cost of before. What is called luck in the world of Newton is called providence in the world of God, and as long as God is in your heart, everything is providence. Your spiritual eyes will be able to look backwards in time and think, “Aha! So that’s why God put me through that trial! That’s why God allowed that to happen!” Everything makes sense, and you look upwards with warmth in your heart as you understand God’s plan for you.

In the world of Newton, everything must be forced. You create a goal for yourself out of thin air, and it’s usually a worldly goal involving money or sex or whatever the culture of the day is pushing onto you, and then you do all that you can to achieve it. Any setback is just an excuse to dive in harder, to buy more self-improvement books, to attend a motivational seminar, to give it all that you have, to force a collision that God did not intend for you, but all goals disconnected from God come from your own pride and only distances you further from Him.

The world of God is calmer, more harmonious. You don’t struggle for worldly wants, you don’t fight against God’s plan. You accept both good and bad in your life as necessary for your salvation, and don’t compare what you lack to others. You come to realize that you were born in these times for a reason, and pray that you complete the tasks God has for you with the strongest of faith before your earthly life ends.

I’m not a random atom. I was not created by chance from billions of years of evolution from the mythical primordial soup or the big bang. I am a soul created by God whose mission is to serve Him in this life to sit with Him in the next. As long as I serve His will, and not let the talents He gives me go to waste, whatever I receive will be His gift for me, and I will accept it graciously. I bid farewell to Newton and his world of atoms and random collisions, for if I were to see my existence as random, the only result would be a random life that sends me hurtling over the abyss.

Read Next: Worldy Beauty vs. Graceful Beauty

Roosh Hour #45: Science God

In this stream, I discuss how our leaders have given us an alternate religion where we worship “science” as gospel and mortal men as gods.

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Previously: Roosh Hour #44: Jay Dyer

Incels And Fornicators Are Almost The Same

Most people see incels and fornicators as complete opposites. The successful fornicator is enjoying life and receiving rewards while the incel is obviously suffering in mommy’s basement due to a lack of sex. Most secular people would agree that it’s much better to be a fornicator, but if that assumption is examined, it becomes clear that incels and fornicators are not that different from each other.

I was a successful fornicator for nearly two decades. Using both inherent abilities and acquired skill, I learned how to chat up women in just about any environment, show value, and—if a woman had attraction for me—profit with at least one instance of casual sex. It’s not exactly easy to master the art of pickup, so what do you think was constantly on my mind during these years I aimed to be a world champion fornicator? Sex. I would wake up in the morning and think of sex. I would write about sex during the day. I would think of sex when seeing women in public. I would fill my nights with the pursuit of sex, and if that failed, I would masturbate to videos of people having sex. A huge chunk of my life was dedicated to feeding my lust in order to generate the fuel to undertake the challenging task of pickup, with which I was successful enough to teach thousands of other men.

Now imagine the incel. What do you think is going on in his mind every day? Sex. He wakes up in the morning and dwells on how he desires sex but can’t get it. He masturbates vigorously to porn day and night, cursing the world for his imposed celibacy. If he doesn’t talk about sex, he’s discussing women through the lens of sex, complaining about them being sluts, dishonorable, race-mixers, or what have you. He attacks men who are successful with women and wishes for society to burn to the ground because in that case, his odds of getting sex may increase. He’s not getting laid like the fornicator, but sex is no less on his mind.

The fornicator and incel are identical in that they are held hostage by their lust. They both believe that a woman can save their lives in some way, and therefore dedicate just about their entire mental outlook to women. The only meaningful difference is that the fornicator can at least occasionally get laid due to being better looking, more persistent, or more socially calibrated, but what type of outlook did most fornicators have before learning how to get laid? That of an incel.

I was an incel in high school and college. I lusted after women and were jealous of men who got laid. Then I learned game and became a renowned fornicator, but internally I was the same, still enslaved to my lust. If anything, getting laid made me even more enslaved because I developed an addiction to the physical aspect of sex, and did not want to regress back into being a “loser” who had to masturbate alone, as if there was no other option.

Sometimes when I see a man with big muscles, I think to myself, “Where is the little boy inside?” The muscles are just an outward physical covering that doesn’t change what is happening within his soul, for any increase in confidence a bodybuilder experiences will immediately evaporate if his muscles deflate. He stays in the gym not necessarily because he enjoys it, but because he’s scared of going back to possessing a normal body and having to look at the little boy in the mirror. His confidence is false, and it’s the same with the fornicator.

When you look at a modern Don Juan, ask yourself: where is the incel inside? Where is the man who wanted his dream woman but couldn’t get her, and moved mountains to “improve” himself in order to receive the consolation prize of sex with promiscuous women? He may feel more confident now, but that confidence is totally dependent on a woman saying yes to his advances. It takes just one cold streak of no sex and the little boy will reveal himself in a frustrated panic. Whether a man sleeps with a few women or a few hundred, you will see the incel again from just a week or two of bad responses from women.

As long as you are enslaved to your lust and the intimacy you hope to receive, it matters not whether your classification is player or incel. Both are obsessed with sex, and while the player is lucky or skilled enough to participate in the carnal act, they are more similar than they would like to admit. They are both immature boys, because you cannot mature as a man if you spend your adulthood feeding your vices and being enslaved to your passions. Simply ask me how I was a 39-year-old boy, and I will tell you.

Outside of marriage, only the man who is celibate through his free will (i.e. he is a practicing Christian) is different from the fornicator and incel in both substance and spirit. The Christian man is not dependent on the responses of women to make him feel good or confident. With God’s help, he has minimized or entirely removed lust as his master to turn away from the type of sin that can lead to judgement. He is celibate because he wants to please his Creator and be a good steward of his soul, which means the demotion of his bodily desires along with other concerns of the world. Meanwhile, the fornicator or incel cannot see beyond the tips of their erections. The entire world must be framed around sexual attraction and a distorted perception of human value, just to abuse their bodies for fleeting pleasure. I know this being I lived it, publicly, for so long.

When I was in Austin, Texas, I met a man in an Orthodox church who was about the same age as me. He said that he found pickup around the time The Game came out, before I wrote my first pickup book Bang. He tried to learn game, and got a handful of dates, but was rather unsuccessful at it. Instead of turning to another game guru for help, or to pornography, he turned to God. He received God’s grace and met his wife not long after. There in the church were four of his children. How I wish at that moment that I was also bad at game! But no, I was good at it, because I was so crazed for sex that I would do everything to ensure success. Each new bang kept me in the game, and next thing I knew, eighteen years of my life had passed me by, and the only “children” I accumulated were stuffed animals in the backseat of my car.

It turns out that the incel is better off than the fornicator, because while he may be a vigorous masturbator, he does not fornicate, so he sins less in the eyes of God. He sustains less damage to his soul and is therefore closer to receiving His grace than a man who is puffed up with an unwarranted ego just because he can sleep with fallen women he meets in bars or through Tinder.

My sexual “success” gave me so much pride that I never thought I needed God to save me, but that success was actually a massive failure, down to every last bang which I have prayed to forget. These acts helped push me down such a dark pit that only direct divine intervention could lift me back up. I wish that when I was frustrated about sex, instead of turning to pickup to save me, I turned to God instead. I wish I asked Him to help me with my lust and to send me a woman if it serves His will instead of being directed by my own passions and remaining a little boy for so long.

Read Next: Game Is For Fallen Women

Roosh Hour #44: Jay Dyer

In this stream, I interviewed Jay Dyer. I asked him questions about the global elite, psychological operations (psyops), Orthodox Christianity, and a lot more.

I have recently started broadcasting my streams on DLive. Follow me here.

Listen to the above stream in podcast format or download the MP3:

Here’s a highlight from a previous stream:

Subscribe to my Youtube channel or podcast RSS feed to catch future streams. You can also subscribe to the Roosh Hour Clips channel for stream highlights.

Previously: Roosh Hour #43: Medical Gulag

How To Use Twitter Without Damaging Your Soul

For years, I attacked people online with glee. I wanted to hurt feminists, beta males, journalists, fat women, and many others. I wanted to make them reconsider their horrible views and behavior. I’d write articles or send tweets about them, believing that I was making the world a better place due to my actions when I was actually making it worse by adding anger, invective, and resentment. If anything, I solidified the positions of those I was attacking, since practically nobody changes their mind due to someone yelling at them. I needed to change this bad habit.

After I turned to faith in early 2018, I made an immediate improvement when it came to committing bodily sins. In a moment of pride, I actually thought I was almost sinless, but I still continued my awesome takedowns of people on Twitter. I would highlight the wrong ideas or behaviors of a random somebody in a tweet and then inspire my followers to send that person dozens of negative comments with the aim of hurting them. The more likes my tweet got, the more successful I considered my attack. I truly wanted to hurt the other person, because they have hurt the world. I had done this hundreds of times in the past, and greatly enjoyed it, but it didn’t take long for my conscience to start bothering me. I was accusing a person of a grievous wrong, sending a mob after them, and then soaking in the moral superiority that gave me pleasure since I’m obviously a “better” person, but was I not committing the deadly sin of pride?

Even as my developing Christian conscience gnawed at me, I fired off the tweets anyway. Why shouldn’t I do what I’ve always done? Inevitably, I began to feel guilty. Normally I’d feel good about hurting others, but now I felt bad. I may have ruined that person’s day based on my interpretation—whether right or wrong—about their moral character, along with the invective spewed by my followers. The person I attacked did not attack me directly and did not obstruct my faith, yet I personally attacked them.

I wanted to stop, but when you’ve been doing something for years, it’s not that easy. Many times I’d send off a tweet, initially thinking it wasn’t an attack, only to delete it minutes later. I had to re-learn how to share things on the internet in a way that didn’t unleash my anger or feed my pride, and I struggled with it for many months. It was so difficult that I had to make a checklist to go through before sending a tweet that involved individuals or groups. If I could answer yes to any question, I did not send the tweet. Here are the five questions I use:

1. Are you falsely accusing someone of a misdeed based on circumstantial evidence?

If there is no clear and identifiable evidence that someone committed a misdeed, you should not make an accusation or insinuate it. Today, accusations of homosexuality, rape, or pedophilia are thrown out without any evidence. Don’t take on the role of the accuser we already have—Satan. He accuses us all of all manner of misdeeds, so there is no reason to make his job any easier by doing it to others.

2. Are you making incorrect claims about the opinions or statements from a person or group?

A common tactic is to make someone more extreme than they really are by inflating their position to one that is easier to attack. This is often done by taking quotes out of context or analyzing their work incorrectly. Always look at the original source for any wild claim you’re about to make.

3. Are you judging a specific person for their sins, especially one that you don’t commit yourself?

It’s tempting to condemn someone for a sin that you are free of. I’m not much of a glutton, and never had a weight problem, so it has been very tempting for me to make fun of fat women, because it can serve as a reminder of how “good” I am and how “ugly” they are. But if they are guilty of the sin of gluttony, why should that make me happy or prideful? Pray for them instead so that God may relieve them of that sin.

Even worse is the hypocritical behavior or attacking someone for a sin you are actively participating in. It’s easy to attack homosexuals, but are you in a state of fornication? Perhaps your act of fornication is less severe since you’re doing it with the opposite sex, but in God’s eyes, it’s still enough to condemn you. Strangely enough, you are more likely to accuse others of sins you are doing since it’s a way to relieve yourself from the guilt of your behavior.

4. Are you opening up a specific person to mockery from the mob, either directly or indirectly, especially if they did not insert themselves into the public conversation?

If you learn how not to attack others directly, but still have pride flowing from you, you’ll get crafty and allow the mob to do your dirty work. For example, you’ll share a tweet of a woman promoting abortion with a rather banal or even kind text knowing that your followers will unleash venom onto her. You can then sit back and watch the show, convincing yourself that your hands are clean, but you are in fact as guilty as those who did respond with anger. While you can’t be accountable for everyone who follows you, do not send the tweet if you know for sure that your followers will respond in a negative manner.

5. Are you publicly commenting on personal conflicts or feuds in a way that does not bring about a peaceful resolution?

It’s tempting to get involved in internet drama. This e-celeb is having a dispute with another e-celeb and everyone is taking sides for their “team.” Many are asking you to comment on the drama. In the past, particularly with tradthots, I would pick a side in a way to inflame the drama, which was wrong. Unless your involvement doesn’t help resolve the dispute, you should not comment publicly.


It takes time for God to help you develop a new conscience. If you’re a prideful person, your new moral instincts will take a while to be ready for primetime, causing you to stumble online. You may need to use some sort of checklist until you become more mature.

I still have a lot of work to do when it comes to not using the internet to feed my pride, but if you’ve been following my Twitter for a long time, I’m sure you’ve noticed how much I’ve toned things down. I’ll share news stories, and point out the factual and harmful actions of individuals and groups, but more to inform and enlighten than as a way to punish others while feeling smug about it. If things flare up for me again, and Twitter remains a stumbling block, I may have to quit it for good.

Read Next: Lifestyle Is The Disease

Roosh Hour #43: Medical Gulag

In this extended stream, I review the latest authoritarianist measures surrounding the coronavirus pandemic and make the claim that we are now living in a medical gulag.

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Listen to the above stream in podcast format or download the MP3:

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Previously: Roosh Hour #42: Coronavirus Is Revolution

What Happened When I Took Psychedelic Mushrooms

The following is an expanded written version of a segment contained within my speech What I Learned About Life.

I have long known about psychedelic mushrooms. In conversations, it was often brought up alongside “bad trip” stories concerning a related drug, LSD. I had decided that I didn’t need to take mushrooms or any other substance to learn something I couldn’t figure out on my own while in a sober state. I much preferred to stay in “control” of my faculties.

That belief changed after my sister died in March of 2018. The lifestyle I had created through my own will and effort provided me with no meaning or comfort, and all the control I thought I had over the world was an illusion. I began to desire to see things in a different, more truthful way, but I was still grieving and emotionally unstable. Ten months after my sister’s death, with the worst of the grieving over, I began warming to the idea of taking psychedelic mushrooms.

One night in 2014, while I was living in Poland, I met a man from England by the name of Albert. He approached me in a bar and said he was a fan of my work. As an Englishman, he sympathized with my writings that portended the inexorable decline of Western civilization. Our response to that decline was similar: we extracted pleasure from Polish females in the town we lived in, though I embarked on this task with far greater zeal than he did.

Albert is anti-establishment, to say the least. He has squatted in empty dwellings and experienced homelessness for long periods of time without complaint. He regaled me with stories of his experimentation with just about every drug known to man, from typical party drugs to Ayahuasca. He also happens to be one of the most learned men I know, with a deep knowledge of history, philosophy, and politics. I would wonder why he chose to live roughly instead of making money on the internet selling sex books. Why didn’t he value the material world in the same way I did? Why didn’t he open a YouTube channel and build up his subscribers? Why didn’t he, or anyone else, live like me? Regardless of his own choices, and his eccentric personality, over time he became a man who I could trust. When my sister died, he was one of the few men I spoke to about her last moments.

A relationship I had with a Polish woman ended in 2017. The pain from that was minuscule when compared to my sister’s death a year later, which left a hole in my heart so large that a foreign land or its women could not begin to fill. Many nights I would break down and grieve for my sister in whatever little apartment I happened to be renting. By that time, I had reached a dead-end with hedonism. I long ago adapted to pleasure of all kinds and felt increasingly enveloped by modern evils. The secular world and its teachings offered me no aid, and I distracted myself with work and entertainment.

For the first time in my life, I found myself in a pit that I could not get out of, and even if I could overcome the pain through some type of life hack, I would probably choose not to. I didn’t want to be “happy” after witnessing my sister’s sufferings. I didn’t want to merely resume where I left off. I flailed in this pit, allowing feelings of hopelessness to envelop me. Many times I asked why she died while I continued to live. I would not classify my state as suicidal, and had never thought of a method to end my own life, but I had at least lost the will to live. I was phoning it in, sleeping with this woman or that if it was easy enough to do so, busying myself with work to keep the pain at bay, participating in the day’s latest internet outrage to feel any emotion besides sadness. If I could stay mired in meaninglessness, maybe I could forget that my life had no meaning.

After visiting my family during the Christmas of 2018, I decided to return to Poland. This would be my “last gasp,” I told friends. I would hang on for just a bit longer to the European lifestyle that had given me so much fleeting happiness in the past.

I first spent six weeks in Warsaw, a city that I cannot love no matter how much time I spend in it. I attempted to go to the clubs to pick up girls for the sake of cheap pleasure, but I could no longer bear the nightlife or the drunken women. During the day I would flirt with a girl here or there in the cafés, but my heart wasn’t into it. Then a new desire came over me that I never felt before in my life: the urge to pray. I felt the impulse to get on my knees, clasp my hands together, and pray to God. The only problem was that I had no idea how to pray. My ideas on prayer all came from Hollywood movies. The actors in those movies, while actively participating in some type of sin, would pray to God for a material benefit, usually a million dollars or the love of a promiscuous woman, as if He were a genie in a bottle.

I made up my own prayer. Upon waking up, I said, “Please God give me the strength to fight against evil and endure this pain.” At exactly this time, I was in a state of extreme horniness. I had not fornicated in over a month. Thoughts of lust bombarded my mind, in part thanks to the many beautiful Polish women walking around the city. I’d feed those lustful thoughts by creating sex movies in my mind. On the third day of my rudimentary prayer, a woman sent me an unsolicited pornographic movie of herself using various dildos to the point of ecstasy. I masturbated to it. The next day, the urge to pray completely disappeared, so I stopped praying.

A couple of weeks later, I moved back to the Polish town I had lived in before to spend time with Albert and other expat friends. I rented the exact same apartment I lived in when I first came to Poland in 2011, during the absolute peak of my fornicative behavior. I met with Albert and one of the first things I told him was that I was finally ready to try mushrooms. He told me it’s best to take it while outdoors in view of nature, and to wait for spring to arrive. In the meanwhile, I fornicated with a girl I had dated in the past. Now that I was sexually sated, fewer fantasies came into my mind. Soon, the urge to pray came back, this time stronger than before.

I wanted to pray properly, so I did an internet search on “how to pray orthodox.” I added the “orthodox” since I was baptized when I was nine years old in the Armenian Apostolic Church, which is contained within the branch of Oriental Orthodoxy. I found a detailed prayer resource from the Greek Orthodox Church. Close enough. I printed the prayers out one afternoon in March of 2018, and that night, I got on my knees and prayed.

For the next half an hour, I cried like a baby. I don’t know if it was from grief or from the act of humbling myself before God for the first time, but I soon began to feel a sense of relief that I no longer had to be my own god. I didn’t have to know everything or have it all figured out. I didn’t have to know how to save myself from the evils and madness of the world through my own human power. I intuitively sensed that I could put my faith in God and allow Him to guide me instead of my vulgar desires for pleasure, fame, and status. For most of my life, I had been trying to invent ways and rules to puff myself up as a “strong” and “masculine” man, but all of that—every last idea from my own mind—had failed me. My first prayer was an admission that I was a fool.

I found more prayers online, including ones for dead relatives. I began praying before going to bed, for God to help guide me, to watch over my friends and family, and to have mercy on my sister’s soul. I asked God many questions about her. What happened to her? Where is she now? Would I ever see her again?

The weather forecast predicted that the first warm day of the year would be a Saturday at the end of March. It happened to fall on the one-year anniversary of my sister’s death. Albert told me that taking mushrooms for the first time on such a day could make the experience “heavy,” but the grief was already heavy. I told him that I wanted to proceed.

Before I explain what happened when I took mushrooms, I must state that the drug is extremely powerful. What I’m about to share with you is not an attempt to glorify its use, and for every positive story you hear from someone who tried it, you don’t have to look far to read a negative experience that put someone on a darker, more occult path. If you make the decision to take mushrooms, do so with an experienced guide who can keep an eye on you or calm you down if you experience distressing effects, one who is intelligent with a stable demeanor, because during your trip you are sure to have questions about the nature of existence, society, and God. Based on my experience, it would have been a huge mistake for me to take mushrooms alone, so I’m grateful that Albert was there with me.

The Saturday arrived. I woke up, did some light reading, and had a cup of coffee. I left my apartment around noon with a bag containing rolls of bread, almonds, bananas, a bottle of water, a beach towel, a notepad, and a pen. In my front jean pocket with a single 100-zloty bill (approximately $25 in U.S. currency). I left my smartphone at home.

I met Albert near the city square. He was wearing a red Make America Great Again hat. I walked with him to a park on the north side of the city. As expected, it was crowded with locals eager to break out of their winter hibernation. We entered into a lightly forested area that was covered with soft molehills, eventually settling on a spot that was about forty yards from the nearest path. Albert took out two yoga mats from his bag and laid them out.

Albert retrieved two sealed jars. They each contained 1.8 grams of crumbled mushrooms in one-third cup of lemon juice. The acidity of the lemon juice is theorized to mimic the stomach’s digestive enzymes and break down a substance in the mushrooms into its more active hallucinogenic component. Albert told me it’s the first time he had taken mushrooms with lemon juice. I placed full trust in him for the experience, not questioning the dosage, the location in the park, or any other detail. I’m already quite rigid with my daily routine and how I live life. For this experience, I had consciously decided to let things happen as they may.

Albert unscrewed one of the jars and handed it to me. The liquid looked like water mixed with dirt. Even though I was about to take a new drug, my understanding of what it could do was quite limited. I knew far more about Ayahuasca and DMT, drugs that could purportedly give you access to other dimensions containing monsters and elves (i.e. demons). For mushrooms, I expected trippy visuals and weird things emanating from the trees in a wide range of colors. I did not ask Albert for the specifics of what the drug would do so he would not give me any preconceived notions or biases of what I “should” see. He did warn me, however, that I may develop an upset stomach.

I gulped down the liquid. The citrus of the lemon juice balanced out with the earthy flavor of the mushrooms. I was now strapped in for the ride, excited to begin feeling its effects. From what I gathered online, I had the impression that many young men took psychedelics as a sort of shortcut to understanding the world or experiencing enlightenment. I was not looking for a shortcut. I was a 39-year-old man of the world who won in pleasure, lost in misdiagnosed love, and suffered a loss that made all of his life’s efforts seem like a total waste. I was tired of life, ready to give up completely. A man who is tired of life does not look for shortcuts. No, he looks for something to help him get through another day.

Albert and I talked like we normally did, about politics and girls. He spotted a red squirrel and commented that they were rare in England. More Poles entered the park via the paved paths. Thirty minutes after ingesting the mushrooms, I started to feel lethargic. I laid down on the mat and looked up at the forest canopy. Branches on two trees were moving in slowly and rhythmically, yet there was no wind or rustling sound that normally accompanies the movement of trees.

“Hey Albert, are the trees moving or is it just me?”

“It’s just you,” he replied. Was he joking? I took out the Polish bill from my pocket and stared at it. It appeared brighter than normal.

The red squirrel returned. He came close to us and started cracking a nut. He put his back to a tree to protect his rearguard.

“Can you imagine having to worry about getting killed while you’re eating?” Albert mused.

After the squirrel enjoyed his nut, he moved to another location, observed us for some time, and then repeated the procedure.

“He’s preparing to attack us!” Albert yelled.

“No, he’s probing our defenses,” I said. “The rest of the squirrel army is coming!” I began laughing for much longer than the squirrel’s behavior warranted. This is the moment I knew I was high, because squirrels are neither funny nor physically threatening.

I stood up and started walking around to test my physical abilities. The spongy molehills now made the earth feel like a moon bounce. The ground was so soft that I was scared I would sink in.

“Albert, the ground is not right. I need to find solid ground. I’ll be back.”

I bounced on the spongy earth towards the nearest concrete path that was lined with benches. I told myself, “Okay Roosh, people will see you so try to act normal.” I sat on a bench and tapped on the asphalt with my feet. It felt like carpet. I stared at the asphalt and noticed that it was undulating in a subtle manner. I recalled that asphalt was usually quite hard and unmoving, but now I had the urge to lay on it to further test its properties.

A man and woman were walking towards me. Where should I put my hands? On my lap or to my side? Should I cross my legs or leave them straight? Am I slouching? How should I wear my face? I should wear a neutral expression so they don’t think I’m weird, but I can’t tell what expression I’m wearing. What is a neutral expression, anyway? I wish I had a mirror. Uh oh, they’re here! Should I make eye contact with them? Maybe I should smile and say, “Hello fellow humans, how are you today?” No, that’s a bit odd.

Right as the couple was about to pass, I laughed. I immediately tried to contain the laughter by shutting my mouth and out came a spray of spit. They looked at me. My cover is blown—they know I’m a freak. I turned sharply towards the right so they couldn’t see my face, and noticed a family of four. An obese mother reached down to pick up her son. As she did so, her shirt lifted and revealed a mound of flesh. I laughed again and turned my head back in the other direction. Trying to be normal was impossible. I carefully walked over the asphalt carpet and then the moon bounce back to the encampment.

“Albert, I can’t find solid ground!”

“Now that’s a metaphor,” he said, looking up from his phone.

“And I don’t know how to be like other people. It’s too hard.”

“How about I give you a top hat and monocle so you can fit in?”

I sat down on my mat and took out the lone bill from my pocket. The anti-counterfeit seal on its right side now appeared to have a soft texture like that of a peach. The paper fibers looked like little hairs, giving the bill a 3D appearance.

“Are you ready for another dose?” Albert asked. I had originally planned on just the one small dose, but outside of the feeling of being high, I figured that I was tolerating the drug quite well. I was in complete control of my body, and outside of the laughter, I didn’t feel that I was in any danger or on the verge of experiencing a bad trip. Besides, Albert wouldn’t offer if I looked crazy.

Albert handed me another jar of 1.8 grams of mushrooms in lemon juice. After gulping it down, I said, “You know, Albert, the effects of this drug are only sensory. I know what I’m doing for the most part and feel that I’m in charge. This is just a drug for fun.” I didn’t know it at the time, but the effects of the first dose had yet to reach its peak.

“Is it safe for me to eat?” I asked.

“Yes, but chew carefully. You don’t want to bite your tongue. “

I took out a thick roll of bread. It compressed as I bit into it. A small piece of bread separated and entered my mouth. As I began chewing, I watched the remaining bread in my hand slowly expand back to its original thickness. I brought the bread close to my face, amazed to see that a new world was being created. Caves, rocks, and tunnels were forming right before me, in a configuration that has never existed before, all from the single bite of my jaw. When the bread world finished coming into being, it froze in absolute stillness. I took a second bite to create yet another fascinating new world. With the bread only a few inches away from my face, I examined it from different angles, admiring every stalagmite, nook, and cranny. I didn’t have a clock, but I imagine it took me fifteen minutes to finish eating the roll of bread.

I took out my bag of almonds. I bit half of an almond and then looked at the uneaten half. I had never observed the insides of almonds before, but now I was examining them closely. I noticed that each almond had its own unique pattern, like a fingerprint. I finished eating and wiped my hands with a white napkin.

I glanced onto the paved path and said, “Am I hallucinating or is that an African pimp in a red suit walking with four Asian women?” This was an impossible sight in Poland.

“You’re definitely hallucinating,” Albert replied. He glanced onto the path. “Wait, there actually is an African man in a red suit with four women.” We howled in laughter for some time.

Albert asked, “Why is everyone on bicycles? They’re obsessed… truly obsessed.” He repeated his complaints about the bicycles for some time. I didn’t understand half of the things he was going on about. Then again, I doubt he understood why it took me forever to eat a roll of bread and bag of almonds. Our external experience was shared, as we could objectively agree on witnessing the African man or the numerous bicycles, but how we were interpreting and feeling those shared experiences were quite different.

Albert’s railing against the bicycles put my attention on the path. I watched the Polish people for some time. They all appeared to behave in an identical manner as if they were computer players in a video game. If weather is nice, go to park… locate paved path… walk on right side of path at medium pace… maintain proper distance from other humans… do not talk to other humans… glance at humans for no more than half a second with neutral facial expression or slight smirk… glance at pretty tree for two seconds and take a deep breath… purchase ice cream cone or liquid refreshment from kiosk.

The pedestrians behaved like automatons. We were in a huge park, with isolated areas of forest and grass, but everyone was walking on a path that was constructed for them by another man while doing the same things in the same way while wearing the exact same facial expressions and even the same clothes. It didn’t make sense!

The peak of the afternoon heat hit. “Albert, where are all the people coming from?”

“They’re spawning from that far end. It’s like a film reel.” They did all seem to be walking in the same direction.

“They’re not looking at us, at least.”

“Oh, they’re looking,” Albert replied.


“Yes, they’re glancing at us in that discreet Polish way.”

I focused on the part of the path nearest us, and he was right, they were giving us a half-second glance. I felt self-conscious like when trying to sit on the bench. Was I being too loud? Was I making too many movements? Was my blue jacket too bold in color? The knowledge and ability to act “normal” or “socially acceptable” in public, an ability I have had for my whole adult life, escaped me totally.

“Maybe we should move soon,” I told Albert. The path seemed plenty far away when we first chose our spot, but now it was becoming hard to tell what was far or not. If I could notice people noticing me, I must be too close to them. I put my back on the path and the self-consciousness subsided. The people weren’t on my mind as long as I didn’t observe them, similar to how a baby thinks he’s invisible if he covers his eyes with his hands.

I glanced around for the thickest tree and stared at it. At first it appeared still, but eventually I could see that its trunk, the thickest object in the forest, was moving, just like everything else. The farther up the tree I went into the thinner portions, the more movement I saw.

I write these words while completely sober. I’m sitting in front of a large window facing many trees. I can testify that they are not moving in the slightest, except for when a bird makes contact with a branch, and even then, the movement is a brief spurt, though the reality I was experiencing in the forest was one of a constant dance. The trees never stop dancing. How could it be any other way? All matter is made of atoms that are in constant motion. We perceive objects as still or solid so that we don’t end up staring at inanimate objects for hours or days at a time.

“I need to make notes on this,” I said, taking out my pen and notepad.

“It’ll all be gibberish tomorrow,” Albert replied.

“But I have to record what I’m seeing.”

“Write down your nonsense!”

“Shut up!”

I wrote down my first note: “Everything has a breath.”

I decided to perform a rudimentary experiment. I grabbed a rock and stared at it. I took note of the gentle ripples that graced its face. Then I vigorously rubbed my hands over it and observed again. The pattern of the rippling changed! My “breath” affects the breath of other things, and I’m sure the vice versa is also true. I immediately thought of sex, the most intimate of exchanges. You impart your ripple pattern onto the woman and she imparts hers onto yours, but what if the woman is bad? Can bad ripples stay with me forever?

I still felt in control of what was happening. While I was “hallucinating,” I didn’t feel like I was hallucinating. Instead of seeing things that weren’t there, I seemed to be witnessing an amplification of things that were. A tree is real. Its constant movement unrelated to the wind must be real since its base composition, the atom, is in constant motion. Therefore, seeing the trees move seems to be an amplification of my limited sense perception, which has been fine-tuned in a way to prevent me from going mad while living on earth. Rubbing my essence (my atoms) on a rock must also really occur, but it cannot be perceived until a certain drug removes the filters that safeguard us against an overflow of information. Also removed were my social filters that normally allow me to share the same space with complete strangers without acting weird or awkward.

If we could see the world for how it really is, we wouldn’t even be able to walk down the street without noticing an empty soda can and staring at it for some time before rubbing against a light pole to see what would happen, all while laughing maniacally at someone who had a kitty cat picture on their t-shirt. We’d certainly be late for work and other important appointments.

I laid on the yoga mat face up and closed my eyes. I was in a red hallway shaped like a subway tunnel. I turned to the side and could see the frame of the wall crisscrossed with lines. I opened my eyes and stared at the two trees above me and to the left. Then I closed my eyes again. I could still see the outlines of the trees, and attached to the outline was a lattice frame. The trees were supported by something outside of themselves. Maybe this was just an ocular imprint, similar to seeing a halo when you close your eyes after staring at a bright light. I kept my eyes closed for some time to rule out the imprint hypothesis. The tree lattice remained. The trees were props on a stage, supported by a mechanism that is invisible to the sober eye. Then I put one hand over my eyes to block out all light. I could still see the trees and the lattice, but it was fainter. Then I put both hands over my eyes. I could no longer see either. For several minutes I used my hands to control the light that was entering my vision to change what I could see.

I sat up and faced Albert. The forest appeared darker. “Albert, did you change the brightness level of the sun?”

“I think that’s called clouds,” he said.

“Look, Albert, there’s a lattice. It holds everything in place.”

“How can a lettuce hold everything?”

“No, LAT-tice.”

“Yes, I like lettuce.”

I started laughing at the idea of lettuce holding the universe in place. I grabbed my pen and wrote a note: “Lettuce.” I laughed some more and then looked at the ink. It appeared as oil. I brought the notepad closer to my face. The ink was so elevated that it appeared to float. I was worried it wouldn’t properly adhere to the paper and my note would be lost. I watched the ink dry, first at the appendages of the letters and then the main trunks. I then crossed out the word lettuce and wrote down three notes:


The lattice holds nature

There is no empty space

I noticed my crumpled white napkin on the ground. I picked it up and brought it in close. It seemed that every wrinkle and fold of the napkin was purposely made to maximize its beauty, as if it were done by a Japanese origami master. I held it up in the air against the sky. It looked like a white rose. I rotated it, trying to find a part that was flawed, but the entire napkin was brilliantly perfect. How can something I crumpled in such a random, haphazard way be so beautiful? I stared at the napkin for some time. I wanted to save it and encase it in glass, but I knew it wouldn’t appear beautiful after the effects of the drug faded.

“Albert, take a look at this napkin. It’s so…” I stopped talking. My voice sounded strange, as if it were being played back to me through a cheap radio speaker. “Hello… hellooooooo. Is this really my voice?” It had to be my voice, since I was controlling it, but where was the sound coming from? I tried to test my internal monologue, but no thought entered my mind.

“There is no point in talking,” I said to Albert. “My thoughts are meaningless and…” I couldn’t continue, and Albert didn’t seem to notice. My words were just useless noise, my thoughts insignificant.

I laid back down on the mat and closed my eyes. I saw mostly black, though occasionally a geometric pattern flew by. Then my breathing became labored and loud. I could hear the sound of air filling into my lungs as if it were a balloon. I put all my attention onto my breath so I wouldn’t forget to breathe. I didn’t want to suffocate. My chest felt like it was being twisted by strong hands. I got scared of what was happening and opened my eyes. The sound of my breath and the chest tightness immediately vanished.

I stared at the dancing trees for a while and chided myself for being so afraid. My whole life I sought to control my body and the worldly outcomes that I faced. I methodically planned projects, routines, and relationships, and immediately took corrective action if control was lost. And what has that gotten me? What have I profited from this control? Everything I had accumulated in life through my own efforts gave me no solace when darkness overtook me. No, I must let go, and allow things to happen as they may.

I turned to lay on the right side of my body, almost in a fetal position, and closed my eyes once more. The geometric patterns were gone, my vision all black. My breathing became labored once again. My chest felt like it was being wrung out from the center. I tried to be careful with my breaths to make sure I received enough air. Still, I was fighting.

The sound of my breaths was still loud, but now they were becoming spaced further and further apart. Don’t be afraid, I said to myself. Then the sound of the air entering my lungs went silent. I was no longer breathing. I could not perceive myself as breathing. I tried to open my eyes, but I couldn’t. Then I tried to wave my hands in front of my face, but nothing happened. I was no longer in my body. Then whoosh—I felt a great movement at amazing speed as if I was transported somewhere else.

I was placed in a great void. My breath was gone, my body was gone. I couldn’t hear Albert or any sounds of the forest. And yet I was not afraid or worried. There was no concern for what happened to my body or if I would ever possess it again. There was no lamentation that I could not continue experiencing the world as I have for my previous 39 years of existence. In this great void, with no sign of stars or other physical matter, or even the perception of space or time, I felt complete serenity and peace with myself.

Then a large dome with a gray outline came into view. The bottom of the dome was flat. In the center of the flat bottom was a white light. I stared at the light and a warm feeling overcame me. The word “home” entered my mind. That’s the home of my soul, where I came from and where I will go back to, where I will rest for all eternal. I desired to be with the light, to float towards it, but then my eyes opened.

I was back in the forest, curled up on the ground. I took a deep breath and stood up. I wanted to talk to Albert but I had no voice. I whispered, “Albert, I saw it.”

“Saw what?”

“It! I saw It! The source!”

“The sauce? What kind of sauce?”

“It, Albert! Everything!” I tried to calm down. It would be best to wait a while before revealing anything more to him.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” Albert said. “Do you have to go?”

“Yes, I’ll go,” I mustered.

My voice returned and we walked through the forest, crossing over two footpaths. Albert carried a large stick and was banging it against the trees. Other humans continued to give us half-second glances before looking away, no matter how loud and obnoxious we may have been.

Albert pointed out a secluded area and I went to urinate behind a bush. On the way back to the encampment, we approached one of the footpaths. I stood in the middle of it and asked, “Is this a road or a sidewalk?” I couldn’t perceive distance or size.

“Why are you talking so low?” Albert asked. I also couldn’t perceive volume.

I knew I had to be alone to process the vision. I found a tree trunk near our encampment. “Albert, I’m going to sit here for a while.” As soon as he walked away, I started piecing together what I saw. On this one-year anniversary of my sister’s death, I remembered how she died. I witnessed her laborious breaths, the sound of the air creating friction with the fluid in her damaged lungs, the spacing apart of her final breaths, and the changing color of her body as her soul left her. While on the tree stump, I came to believe that God had just killed me in the same way that my sister died to show me where her soul went. Then he allowed me to be put back into the body for a second chance at life.

My sister was no longer suffering. The drugs and surgeries and false hopes that doctors tortured her with have been followed by her departing to the Lord. He showed me a hint of her soul’s journey, just enough for me to understand the truth and accept that I was on the right path in turning my back against the world and choosing Him.

I was in a full, heaving sob when Albert came back around. He handed me his Make America Great Again hat and said, “Will this make you feel better?”

“Go away!” I snapped, looking away from him. I wanted to cry alone.

Albert came back a couple of minutes later. “What do you want…” I sternly began, and then he handed me my pen and notepad so that I could take notes.

Dome with a white light

You are not the body

The sadness of my sister’s death will never leave me, but on this day I began to feel relief that she is okay. I experienced how our body is a container for our soul, and once the body fails, our spirit returns to God, for Him to judge us with His great mercy based on how we lived, and while I am in this body, no force or person has power over me unless I grant them that power. There is no danger but the danger I bring into my life by the choices I make. There is nothing to fear while in the body.

I got up from the tree trunk and walked back to the encampment. I guessed it was 4 p.m. The park was crowded and we received many more looks than before. Our little spot now seemed like an elevated stage. “Let’s go somewhere else,” Albert suggested. We packed up our things and began walking in search of a more isolated area of the park.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the Polish bill. I looked at it for a few seconds and said, “Albert, this money is just a piece of paper made by a group of men. It has no real value.” I picked up a brown leaf from the ground and handed it to Albert. “Kind sir, may I have some goods and services for this leaf?”

Albert played along: “Why yes, I accept this leaf and so here are your goods and services.”

My “fake” money fell on the floor and was picked up by the wind. I ran after it, saying, “This may be fake, but I know I will need it later!”

As we walked through the park, I saw other people walking on the paved paths. They appeared normal. Is this how I appeared when not on the drug? Only children listened to their natural voice and walked off the path to explore the grass and the bushes. They had no notion of what was acceptable or where they could and could not go. Parents would let a child explore for a minute and then yell after them: “Come back! Come back to the path of man! You must be normal!” It only takes a couple of years for the child to be conditioned. He learns to become fearful of straying from the path, and to only give short half-second glances to those who do.

Albert and I found a small mound. We had a beautiful view of the most manicured section of the park that amplified my perception of the world of man as a movie set.

Society is layers

Layers and layers and layers of bullshit

It’s all fake!

Albert offered me a third dose of mushrooms. “No thanks, I already have a lot to think about.” I looked at the ground—it was still breathing. I wanted to start connecting all I had seen in the previous few hours, but the drug still had a power over me, bouncing my emotions from appreciation to grief, curiosity to concern.

Albert took the third dose. Shortly thereafter, he removed his shirt and fashioned it into a turban that wrapped around his head. He began having heated conversations with a thick stick as he bashed it against various trees. While he made war with the trees, I paced back and forth between our encampment and an isolated tree a few hundred feet away. I thought about the lattice, the societal filters, my sister, and the source of creation. Numerous questions entered my mind. Is the human world separate from the source, or a part of it? Is this world a stage just like the park? Is it possible to experience the world of God while living in the world of man?

I wanted to ask Albert these questions and many more, but he was busy with the trees, accusing them of all sorts of crimes. Yet one question arose within me which I needed an answer to. I walked up to Albert while he was attacking a tree with his stick, and asked him, “Why did God do it? He didn’t have to make this world for us. Why did He give us life?”

Albert paused his battle with the tree, turned his head to me, and said, “And leave us hanging out there in space?” And then he went back to bashing on the trees.

It’s a gift. This world is a gift from God for our souls to exist in a physical body so that it may one day exist at His right hand. If we follow His rules, and use our limited time here to glorify Him and spread His word, we will be graced by His love in this world and rewarded in the next. He selected certain men to reveal His commandments and love, and when it was time to redeem humanity, he sent his only begotten Son, Jesus Christ, to be crucified for us.

My sister died too young, before she could fully turn to God. Things of the world distracted her as they have distracted me, though I believe her extensive suffering in this world did much to scrub the sins she committed, and that she has paid her way into God’s good graces, but in case not, I will pray for her daily, and hope that God recognizes the fruits of her love in the form of her brother choosing to walk with Him, something that may not have happened had she not died.

Two more hours passed. It became dark. I stared at the ground—it was no longer breathing. I took the bill from my pocket—it appeared dull and flat. The high was finished. I sat on my mat and waited until Albert was done bashing the trees. We then began the walk back to the city. The park, now empty, seemed real again. When we passed other people, I no longer had to remember how to be normal.

As we got closer to the city, eight hours after we first started off, layers of society began reappearing: traffic lights, buses, billboard advertisements, car horns. At one intersection, Albert thought I would ignore the Don’t Walk signal, so he put out his arm to block me from crossing, not knowing that the subconscious filter which allows me to move through society without hurting or embarrassing myself had returned.

A part of me didn’t want to go back into the city, because I knew there was nothing in it for me. I was only a glorified tourist here and in every other country I had ever been to, and perhaps even my own home town, and perhaps even this world. I wish only to go to my true home.

Most of what I had experienced or saw during my mushroom high was an amplification of what I already knew or believed. I chose God before so I saw God. I believed the manmade world was artificial before so I saw how artificial it really was. I saw the beauty of all things, the workings of nature, how the most inanimate objects are alive, how my essence impacts the essence of other things, and the nature of our souls. We are not just random beings that came out of random mechanisms that evaporate from the world upon our death. My vision of the eternal, in a place of no time or space, watered the gift of faith that was given to me just weeks before.

I got back into my apartment and went online. I read through numerous mushroom trip stories, trying to find one that matched mine. I read stories of “ego death,” where a man temporarily lost his self-identity and felt he was no longer connected to the world. I read “out of body” experiences, where a man could see himself from a distance, often from a position above his body. I experienced neither. The closest I could find to what I saw were near-death experiences of those who had clinically died and saw a light. Perhaps God created the image of the dome specifically for me, because He knew what I needed to see to boldly go against the secular world and put my faith in Him above all else.

When I got bored of reading mushroom stories online, I messaged Albert to join me at a nearby burger restaurant for a late dinner. After eating, we went to a bar and sat in the back. I ordered a sparkling water and observed the other patrons. They were drinking and socializing, hoping to convey beauty and status to others in order to receive pleasure. The music was loud, interrupting my thoughts. After what I had just experienced, the bar seemed so deficient and corrupt. The streets, packed with obnoxious drunkards, seemed more void of life than a quiet forest. I knew that only with God’s help could I navigate this world of man without causing further harm to my soul.

Whenever I encountered a problem in life, I would always solve it through my own efforts, but how could I now? How could I respect my own judgement when for decades I did all those things which I’m now ashamed of? No, I cannot trust myself—I can only trust in God. If I need help, I will pray and ask Him for help. No longer will I use my free will to be a slave to my own passions. I will be a slave for God instead. I will ask Him what he wants me to do, and then I will do it.

The above was an expanded written version of a segment contained within my speech What I Learned About Life. Click here to learn more.

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How Coffee & Alcohol Addictions Are Linked

I’ve consumed alcohol and coffee for most of my adult life. I’ve enjoyed both, but have experienced enough negative effects from them that I’ve embarked on multiple periods of abstainment. Through those periods, I’ve learned that alcohol and coffee addictions are linked together, and if you want to quit one, it helps to first quit the other.

I’m able to quit alcohol without much willpower, but coffee is far more challenging. The withdrawal effects are so severe for me that I have to plan to quit during a week when I don’t have much going on so I can nurse my headaches and fatigue without facing any important deadlines. During a period of not drinking coffee, I may still drink alcohol at night, but on the day after, I feel slightly sluggish and strongly crave coffee to pep myself up. It then becomes a matter of time until I’m back to having a daily cup of coffee, addicted like I was before.

It also has worked the other way around where I tried to quit alcohol without first quitting coffee. In that case, the coffee will inevitably lead to high-strung and jittery feelings that alcohol is perfectly tailored to resolve. To lessen the coffee jitters, I may have a couple of beers in the evening. The next day, I experience a mild hangover and now crave coffee to wake up properly. The cycle continues.

Modern life is set up so that you need to wake up at a predetermined time to perform cognitive work, and then when that work is finished, you must experience a feeling of relaxation in order to sleep properly for the next day’s cognitive work. So you drink coffee to perform work, sometimes multiple cups, and then drink alcohol (or smoke marijuana) to bring you back down to counter the negative effects of coffee to feel “relaxed” at night so that you can get something resembling sleep to do it all again the next day. The root cause of both coffee and alcohol addiction is therefore contorting your body to perform activities on someone else’s clock, such as that of your employer, instead of your own natural clock.

My bigger weakness is coffee, so in order to successfully quit, I had to quit alcohol at the same time, which made the task far easier. You will be tempted to moderate your consumption of both, but this will fail you in the end, so you must abstain completely, and in the times you slip up, you must not consume more than one drink of either, and strongly resist the urge in the next 48 hours to consume more.

While drinking alcohol or coffee in moderation is not harmful to your body, it is the gateway to physical or psychological dependency (or both). You can’t get addicted to something you never consume, and since I have proven to myself that I cannot properly control my consumption of these substances, especially coffee, the only solution for me is to abstain from both.

Read Next: Moderation Is A Myth

Roosh Hour #42: Coronavirus Is Revolution

In this extended stream, I carefully lay out the theory that the coronavirus pandemic is being used by the elites to usher in a more totalitarian stage of their globalist system. If you’re short on time and want to get to the meat of my analysis, start at 1:53:30 and watch until 3:37:30.

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Previously: Roosh Hour #41: Tower Of Babel

6 Signs That A Woman Is In Rebellion

Most women you meet are in a state of rebellion. They have rejected the natural order and God, along with the notion of biological sex roles. While in rebellion, a woman will not respect the authority of a man or submit to him for long. Such a woman will be the source of great misfortune and heartache. Below are the most common signs that a woman is in rebellion.

She rejects the natural state of her body

She does not want to accept the body that was created for her. It is not beautiful or capable enough, so she begins an intensive crusade to morph herself in what trend-makers—who are in rebellion themselves—say is beautiful or capable.

In the early stages of rejecting her body, a girl will apply profuse makeup, dye her hair, or pierce her body in areas besides the earlobe. Still unsatisfied—and there is no other option for her to be unsatisfied when rejecting God’s gift—she will then adorn herself with fake nails, eyelashes, and even eyebrows. Almost always, rebellion against her natural beauty takes the form of adopting plastic beauty that is cultivated, advertised, and sold by corporations and the medical industry. Adopting their commercial wares may get her more likes on Instagram, but decreases her overall beauty to any man who is not in rebellion himself.

In the middle stage of bodily rejection, she will get tattoos, which she believes are righteous because it increases the amount of attention and therefore dopamine she receives. In later stages, she will undergo plastic surgery, particularly when it comes to fillers in her lips or botox in her forehead and cheeks. Since rebellion is eternal, she will not know when to stop modifying her body.

Obese women are in indirect rebellion from being in a state of gluttony, one of the seven deadly sins. Their proclamation of “beauty at any size” is intended more as a comforting rationalization than an attempt to attack God, but the end result is the same: she refuses the natural body she was given and morphs into a different creation.

She idolizes herself

The rebellious woman wants to be seen as a goddess or queen, and may even use those terms to describe herself. She wants to be worshipped by men and admired by women. The quality of those who worship her is less important than the quantity: her goal is to increase the number of individuals who admire her or “follow” her on social media platforms, because it provides an objective number to her goddess-like status that can be compared to others (the analog for men is sexual notch count). To learn how to be a goddess, women will eagerly follow other popular women on Instagram, mimic them, and drool over the prospect of being as popular as them. She soon becomes addicted to compliments of her appearance.

In the past, a woman would morph into “goddess” mode when entering a nightclub. She would put on a haughty mask and look down on any merely average male who wanted to talk to her. This was only temporary, and she would morph back into normalcy the following day, but we are now entering a time where goddess mode is more-or-less permanent. She really believes that she is more important than other men and women because of her artificial beauty, trendy style, or follower count. Who are you to disturb her? Don’t you know she has 900 followers on Instagram?

She rejects her traditions, countrymen, hometown, or nation

A woman in rebellion will be eager to run away from who she is. If she was born a Christian, she will take up yoga or be sympathetic to Islam. If she’s German, she will bring home to mom and dad an African man named Mutambo who arrived to Europe by boat. If she’s from a rural Midwestern town, she will escape to Miami or New York City. A manifestation of rebellion is to seek out the extremes, far away from what is familiar.

Whenever a woman from a foreign country slept with me, she was passing up on countless of her native men—men who shared her traditions, language, and religion, and who would make a far better long-term partner than I could. In some cases, she was directly cheating on a native man with me, her enabler and tempter. Fornicating with me was a way to reject those men and the country of her father. It’s no surprise that many foreign women I’ve slept with possess multiple rebellious qualities. While abroad, I adopted the view that if a foreign woman was quick to sleep with me, she couldn’t possibly be a suitable long-term partner.

She prefers the virtual over the real

It’s hard to carry out a successful rebellion while fixed in the real world. There is a physical limit to how many men a woman can interact with at any time. There are bodily flaws that can’t be hidden no matter how much work is done to conceal them. But in the online world, anything is possible. She can be perceived as a goddess from a shockingly high number of men who covet her photoshopped images taken at angles that camouflage her flaws. She can easily play out the fantasy of who she wants to be.

The people who buy her online fantasy—and this is increasingly happening in the literal sense of men paying money for access to her lewd content—are often ones who are in a state of rebellion themselves. The virtual world allows fools to fool other fools. Women are very hesitant to create real-life relationships as opposed to ones in the virtual world because then she might be found out. This is why so many women will spend hours on online dating apps, soaking up the attention that makes her feel like a goddess, but go on sparingly few dates.

She has completely divorced sex from reproduction

The way a girl in rebellion believes she will achieve enlightenment is through her vagina or anus. She owns several sex toys and masturbates to them often. She believes being penetrated by a sexy man who doesn’t love her will fulfill her or make her happy, but as sexy as that man may be, she fears being impregnated by him because her career is not yet “established.” She has been on birth control since she was a teenager and is in favor of abortion.

She takes pride in being confident when it comes to sleeping with random men, but since such an act is not something that God allows her to do naturally, she must drug herself with alcohol or pills and be egged on by her girlfriends. After sex, she mimics the behavior of men by bragging about her “conquest.” While a woman with multiple sex partners may seem staunchly heterosexual, she begins to take on the demeanor of a man, because when you’re in rebellion, you adopt traits that exist in the opposite sex. (Men who sleep with a lot of women are profuse conversationalists with high social calibration, traits that are normally possessed by women.)

She trusts in her own abilities above that of a man who loves her

God created Adam. God saw that Adam could use companionship, so He created Eve from the substance of Adam. God intended Eve to submit to Adam who then submits to God. While God gives equal blessings to men and women, he intended for women to follow the authority of men. Women in rebellion barely respect men, let alone follow them. They won’t listen to their fathers, their boyfriends, or their husbands, and will only fake submission for a short period of time when they want to deceive a man to gain a material reward. They believe that through their own knowledge and confidence, they are deciders of their fate and must only follow the result of their feelings and unseen demonic influences.

If you get involved with a woman in rebellion, you will have to suffer her punishment, just like how Adam following Eve into sin caused him to be condemned alongside her. You cannot isolate the pleasure you experience from a bad woman without also enduring the negative effects of deceit, lies, cheating, and other forms of manipulation. If a man can’t find a suitable woman, he is better off alone, because at least that fate will not lead to spiritual death as it did for Adam.

She is gay

The most severe form of rebellion is homosexuality. Such a girl has completely refused the natural order and the authority of men to develop a deep-seated hatred for both. Since a woman cannot penetrate another woman without the use of a plastic toy made in a Chinese factory, she has essentially chosen a life of masturbation in place of genuine love and intimacy.

It may seem “hot” when you see two attractive girls in a bar, but such situational bisexuality is an effort to spite God to receive attention. Indeed, stay away from harlots you only noticed because they were committing a severe act of rebellion.


If a girl is rebelling against God, her Creator, she will rebel against you. It’s not a matter of if, but when. Many men foolishly think they can tame a rebellious woman, but this is the same as thinking you can tame Satan himself. It’s fine if a girl who chooses against rebellion requires additional guidance or knowledge from you to stay out of rebellion, but if she’s in active rebellion, I suggest you run away unless she humbles herself before God and repents.

Most men are tempted to extract casual sex from a girl in rebellion, since she so freely gives it up, but understand that that sex act will not be free, and may haunt you for years to come while risking your salvation. Currently, I am single and can walk with Christ in peace, so I don’t feel compelled to take a risk on a woman who spits on God and sees herself as a goddess. Choose the women of your life very carefully, because your very soul may depend on it.

Read Next: Not Every Woman Wants To Use Men For Attention Or Sleep Around

5 Layers Of Sexual Temptation

Upon transitioning from a life of unbridled fornication to one of chastity, I had to become more careful about staying away from sexual temptations that stem from the sight of alluring women or interactions with them in close quarters. Such thoughts create the desire to participate in masturbation or sex. I learned that if you cut temptation at the source, you are more likely to resist the urge to pleasure yourself or fornicate.

Here are five ways men may be tempted, from the least to most dangerous…

1. Sight or image of an attractive girl

If you witness a girl who has sexualized herself with tight or revealing clothing, you will almost certainly think of sex. The severity of the thought depends on how sexualized she is and if you’re looking at a mere photo or a real woman up close. A photo of a naked woman on the internet will create more lust than a fully clothed woman in real life, but if the latter changes outfits to reveal cleavage and a perfect rear-end, the lust she can create within you will surpass a naked photo.

Online, I do not view any pornographic or nude imagery. Offline, I maintain custody of my eye and try to look only at a woman’s face. This is easier said than done, and my eye often roams, but if you successfully focus on a girl’s face, no matter how beautiful she is, your brain is less likely to create sexual thoughts. If it’s a hot day and every girl is semi-naked, like often is the case, I have to be extra vigilant in keeping my glances of them above the neck. If that fails, a self-imposed quarantine could be an option during the steamiest parts of summer. This is where living in a rural area or small town is helpful.

2. An attractive girl fixed in your field of view

The second layer of sexual temptation is when you find yourself in a setting where you have to look at a desirable girl for a prolonged period of time, with little option to turn away. One example is if you’re in a university class and a sexy girl wearing sweet-smelling perfume is sitting in front of you. Another example, which has often happened to me, is when an enticing girl sits in my field of view while I’m working at a cafe. She could also be a store clerk or receptionist. In these cases, you will absorb her essence for much more than a glance, allowing you to create a richer fantasy of how her intimacy is like.

The solution here is easy enough: get up and move. Unless you’re in a prison, you are not forced to remain in a certain position. Put your back to the object of temptation and continue with what you were doing. Unfortunately, the fashion industry designs female clothing to frame the breasts and buttocks, highlighting them as if they were Las Vegas lights, so you may have to take strong measures to block out illicit views.

3. An attractive girl fixed in your field of view while you’re intoxicated

The most common example is when you’re drinking in a bar that has many libidinous women. You’ll lose custody of the eye and start to explore the crevices of their bodies. In addition, alcohol removes all willpower to control your thoughts, and since you are also less inhibited, you’ll find it easier to talk to the sort of woman you wouldn’t have been interested in had you been sober. In such an environment, a thought of sex can easily turn into its fulfillment. There are very few substances out there that more easily facilitate lust and the sex that follows than alcohol.

In order to block this threat, I recommend not drinking alcohol in places where women are present. Feel free to have a drink with your buddies in private, or even alone at home, but once you start to drink in bars or clubs, you will allow lust to take over, and then feel ashamed that you acted in such a weak manner the day after. This may force you to make substantial changes to your lifestyle.

4. Continual and steady access to an attractive girl who is not suitable for you

If you work in a corporation, you may have a sexy female coworker that you cannot pursue, either because she doesn’t meet your standards, would not make for a good long-term partner, or is already betrothed to another man. In spite of that, you will get to know her deeply over a prolonged period of time, and there will be moments of flirtation on late work nights when completing a project under deadline. You will see hints of her vulnerability and sensuality, and imagine all sorts of romantic scenarios with her.

Unfortunately, this case is hard to combat, because you will see her every day. It doesn’t help that dress codes in modern workplaces are sometimes not that different from gym wear. If you are single, she will enter your mind in lonely moments and linger, sometimes providing fuel for masturbatory action. Unless she is ugly or your willpower is especially strong, there is no way to stop this temptation unless you remove yourself from her presence entirely. Consider transferring departments or getting a new job.

5. Attractive woman who has diabolical plans to corrupt you

The most dangerous layer of temptation is when a woman, likely under the influence of a demon, has made a choice to corrupt your chastity. Online, she will send you nude photos and videos even if you didn’t ask, and then follow up with sexual banter (e.g. “Do you like my vagina?”). Offline, she will compliment you and touch you lecherously, inching ever closer to your crotch, prompting you to develop an erection. As strong as a man you may think you are, you have no innate resistance against this type of seduction, even if you haven’t consumed alcohol. Pray continually and then block the woman online or escape from her in person.

I’ve had a handful of cases in the past where women online sent me nude photos and videos, particularly on Instagram and Twitter. Their pornography immediately aroused me and I had trouble stopping myself from masturbating to material that was “custom made” for me. Since then, I’ve withdrawn from Instagram and stopped accepting messages from strangers on Twitter. Recently, when a woman tried to seduce me, I prayed without ceasing, kept my hands to myself, and waited for the threat to pass.


If you’re a fornicator, you may find the above examples silly, but if you’re chaste, you understand how hard it is to remain so in a secular world that has elevated masturbation and sex to virtues. You will be tempted nearly every which way you turn, not just from pornography and real-life women, but also advertisements, movies, and music videos. It’s almost as if those in power want you to think of sex constantly. The average woman in her prime is more than eager to play along with this agenda.

I know that my biggest weakness is the female flesh. I have very little willpower to defend against an attractive woman, so I’ve had to identify and block the main areas where they tempt me while praying to God for help. If there’s no temptation, there’s no lust, and if there’s no lust, the desire to fornicate diminishes. I’m still a hot-blooded man, but thanks to these efforts, I’m much more in control of my passions than before.

Read Next: How To Control Your Lust