All posts by Roosh

6 Policies I Would Enact As President Of The United States

Before I share my proposals for a possible presidential run, which I’m exploring with a team of dedicated advisors, let me get something important out of the way: America is dying. We have neglected the gifts that industrious and moral men of the past have given us, and are now stuck with a clown country where we suffer daily humiliations and degradations at the hands of sodomites, man-jawed feminists, pedophiles, cuckolds, and aliens.

My proposals below will neutralize those parasites and provide you with the most amount of satisfaction and fulfillment before your physical body leaves clown world and transmutates into your final spiritual form that is presided over by God. I may not be the clown you deserve, but I am the clown you need.

Here are six proposals…

1. Roosh Bucks: $2,000 monthly bag for male citizens only

I agree with candidate Andrew Yang that robots and artificial intelligence will put nearly everyone out of work except females with Instagram followers from Dubai. I will implement a Male Basic Income (MBI) plan where a bag of $2,000 is given every month to all citizens over 18 years of age who were born with a penis. Males can use their bags to enjoy the last decades of Western civilization and also to prep for inevitable societal collapse.

Women will not get this bag because they are already “strong and independent” and don’t need further state assistance. They are correct that men have “fragile masculinity,” so we’re taking the entire bag. If women want Roosh Bucks, they have to submit to a man and allow him to spend his bag on her. Otherwise, they can work in an office with moldy air conditioning for the rest of their lives. Roosh Bucks helps give men a solid edge in household income, allowing them to be patriarchs once again. No woman comes to Roosh Bucks except through men.

Sodomites will not receive Roosh Bucks, though they are eligible to receive free diseases from their anal-obsessed lifestyle. Facial recognition software will identify all sodomites through recordings of gay pride marches and other classified sources. Heterosexuality will be financially enforced by the state.

Where I differ with Andrew Yang is how the bag will be funded. He wants to implement a VAT tax, but I find this unacceptable. Below are three methods that will fund Roosh Bucks. I have confirmed that they will provide sufficient funding by using my smartphone’s calculator app.

a) Globohomo Wealth Confiscation


I will confiscate all wealth over $100 million that is possessed by an individual, family, or “philanthropic” foundation, whether it is held in money, gold, cryptocurrency, real estate, securities, or any other monetizable vehicle. The confiscated funds will be put in the Roosh Bucks piggy bank.

Many of you will say that it’s “anti-capitalistic,” “un-American,” or “socialist” to confiscate a man’s wealth above $100 million, but there is no reason for a man or non-corporate entity to have that much money when nearly half of Americans are living paycheck to paycheck and have not seen a real wage increase since the 1970s. I also don’t remember the founders of the United States saying that it is “American” for one man to have 25,000 times the net worth of the average worker’s yearly salary.

Jeff Bezos, Bill Gates, George Soros, and many other billionaires will all go back to being one-hundred millionaires as long as the bulk of their business and social activity takes place in the United States. That leaves them plenty enough money for penthouses, yachts, and high-class whores, but not enough to subvert society with a globohomo agenda.

You may think that these billionaires will simply take their wealth elsewhere. This will not happen under my presidency. I will leverage existing extradition treaties with other nations and U.S. Treasury Department financial sanction networks to make sure that evaders are imprisoned until their money is confiscated. If an American man can knock up a bar girl in the Philippines and be forced by the U.S. government to pay child support, which is currently the case, confiscating billions of dollars from globalist jet setters will be as simple as apple pie.

As a last resort, I will imprison in Federal jail all the relatives and intimate partners of persistent wealth-evaders. If Mark Zuckerberg thinks he can evade confiscation of his billions, I will imprison his entire family in solitary confinement until he pays up. There will be no more offshore or Irish loopholes to avoid the confiscation. Under my plan, the days of using excess capital as a means of spreading cultural AIDS is over.

b) Selfie Tax

That’ll be $25, ma’am

There will be $25 prepaid tax on every unique image or video you upload on an internet platform (public or private) that contains a direct or indirect likeness to yourself. For example, if a girl uploads a selfie of herself on Instagram and Facebook, she will have to enter a code showing she has paid $50 in selfie tax. If a man does a live stream on YouTube that is promoted with a thumbnail of himself, he will have to pay $50 as well. If a woman uploads five photos to her Tinder profile, she must pay $250. You’ll also have to pay if someone else uploads an image of you on your behalf (e.g. your social media coordinator or beta orbiter slave).

The selfie tax will end attention-whoring and make women think long and hard about feeding their ego online instead of feeding a good man a nicely-cooked steak dinner. The e-thot economy would crash overnight. People would begin to crave face-to-face interactions instead of craving the attention of an anonymous audience online in the hopes of becoming famous. Judging by the three pictures in this article that contain my likeness, it would have cost me $75 in selfie tax to publish them.

c) Abortion and Birth Control Tax

Women will be allowed to continue their sterile and murderous lifestyles, but at a price. There will be a $15,000 tax levied for each abortion and a $5 tax for each birth control pill. Other sterilization chemicals will be taxed at a rate of no less than $150 a month. I will also support a law that forces abortion doctors to tell women that they are going to hell if they proceed with their abortion. While I find it disagreeable to put a price on an aborted fetus via a one-time tax, it will serve as a lesson to women who see raising babies as a monetary problem.

By placing such a high financial barrier on abortion, which normally costs less than $1,000 in a Planned Barrenhood clinic, women will begin to limit their casual sex activity. In the long run, I expect degeneracy to decline and more nuclear families to be formed. We must raise barriers to whoredom.

2. State-Sponsored Foreign Girlfriend

The second feature of my platform is that men will be given a foreign girlfriend from a poor country through a match algorithm, because American women are beyond the point of rehabilitation. All foreign females between the ages of 18-25 who want to live in the United States will be assigned a score of 1-100 based on her beauty, weight, fertility, weight, age, weight, and basic literacy. Citizen men will also be scored from 1-100 based on their work ethic, employment potential, age, religious faith, and financial stability (i.e. if he’s responsible with his Roosh Bucks). Not every man will get a pretty woman, but they will be able to experience love and family without worrying about having six-pack abs or smooth game.

The match algorithm will also take into consideration factors that lead to fertility and societal harmony. Women will always be younger than their male matches, and when it comes to race, men will be matched up to women of the same race to prevent spawning mixed-race individuals who are prone to projecting their lack of identity through destructive behaviors and leftist activism. Men who want to mix races will have to accept a female with a lower score. For example, a white man with a score of 60 out of 100 would match with an Eastern European woman who has the same score. If he wants an Ethiopian woman instead, he will have to suffer a 25% race-mix penalty in her score, meaning that the African he’s matched with will have a score of 45.

Service guarantees citizenship: a foreign woman will have legal residency as long as she is in a relationship with her male citizen match, and she will become a legal citizen upon marriage. If the woman subsequently initiates a divorce, she’s immediately deported back to her home country. If the man initiates divorce, she will be recycled back into the program and given to another man (if she’s infertile due to advanced age, she can match with an elderly man as a comfort woman).

Men who don’t want a girlfriend, or who are happy with their existing girlfriend, will see no change in their Roosh Bucks allotment, but any man who marries will get double the bucks. Family will be incentivized under my presidency: you will also get an extra $500 Roosh Bucks per child. Paternity testing will be mandatory to ensure that you are indeed the father.

I understand that relationships fail. Therefore, a man is allowed one girlfriend placement every three years, but he will suffer a 10% match penalty for every subsequent placement. This is to discourage men from pumping and dumping their lovely foreign girlfriends.

3. Ban On All Male Immigrants

The last thing America needs is more male immigrants. If an immigrant is already legal, he will be allowed to stay, but all illegals will be deported using Deportation Squads Of Love And Caring. I will order the Feds to go door-to-door, starting in California, and remove anyone who doesn’t have proof of legal residency. Women who are in the process of being deported will have the option of participating in the State-Sponsored Foreign Girlfriend program if they are of normal weight. If they are heavyset, they will have four weeks to slim down, or they will also be deported. We don’t have enough money to treat their future diabetes and heart disease.

There will also be a moratorium on all legal immigration that is not part of the State-Sponsored Foreign Girlfriend program. This includes H1B-type visas and even tourists. Sorry, but we’re full. A household in disarray has to deal with its own problems first before allowing visitors.

4. Renewal Of God’s Spirit

It is clear that Protestant Christianity in most forms has strayed from the teachings of Christ, and has actually paved the way for alien control of the United States through the mechanism of social justice, Cultural Marxism, and plain old evil. I will therefore decree Orthodox Christianity as the official religion of the country. I will make Federal funds rain down on Orthodox churches and foundations that stay true to the word of Christ.

While many non-religious men may groan as this policy, fact is that a healthy society which strives towards moral belief and behavior is not possible in practice without religion. Through Orthodox Christianity, we will implement rigid social control that promotes healthy behavior and relationships. Sodomy will no longer be promoted and glorified, including anal or oral sex between heterosexuals. To encourage heathens to savor their skin in the game, men who declare themselves as atheist or non-Christian will have a monthly bag with 50% of the Roosh Bucks ($1,000). The United States was founded as a Christian nation and it will stay that way.

In addition, all divorces, whether with a domestic or foreign woman, must be granted by an Orthodox priest who believes that the couple’s differences are truly irreconcilable. If a priest does not sanction a divorce that the husband initiated, he will lose his Roosh Bucks. If an unsanctioned divorce was initiated by the woman, she will receive absolutely no assets or financial support.

5. Termination Of Relationship With Israel

Israel will be cut off financially and militarily. No more fighting their neverending wars in the Middle East. We have given them enough money and technology (e.g. nuclear bombs) that they can lift themselves up by their own bootstraps. For the money we save from cutting off financial aid, we will have enough to build three concrete walls. One wall on the southern border will block out the aggressive migrant horde and a second even-taller wall behind it will be a tourist attraction for Americans to witness the glory that is the first wall.

The third wall will be on the border with Canada. Because I expect that country to descend into chaos, we need a way to keep them out, though Canadian women with slim figures are more than encouraged to apply for girlfriend placement with an American man. However, Canadian women with green, blue, or purple hair will be automatically rejected.

6. Ban On Usury

Companies and individuals will no longer be able to lend money at interest. I will give banks and other financial organizations two years to adjust to the new law.

All Aboard The Roosh Caboose!

The Roosh2020 exploratory committee (i.e. my drinking buddies) is working hard right now to see if I have a shot at becoming President of the United States based on the above platform. My policies benefit women by severing their dysfunctional relationships with daddy government and the internet. It benefits men by providing a cash bag that allows them to start a family with Jesus Christ as their wingman, which is far more healthy than the atomized, rootless, and sexually frustrated lives that many have today. And it benefits the entire country by blocking our current descent into hell that is becoming more agonizing and intolerable by the month.

We may not be able to return to the glory days of America, but with the ideas above, we can surely make things significantly better than they are today.

Read Next: The American Cold Civil War

Roosh Hour #36: Black Hole

In this stream, I talk about the fake black hole image, how women are unable to take care of themselves, the true meaning behind tattoos, the first ever six-layered clown world event, why evil won’t win, how God gives “friendly” warnings to those who are living wrongly, and much more.

Listen to it 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 #35: Clown World

Men Are Wasting Their Time

How much time do men spend pursuing casual sex with no hope of deeper intimacy? How many months or years do they waste in countries without building meaningful roots? How much effort do they exhaust with self-help, working out in gyms, or chasing material toys that make only skin-deep differences in their lives? I’ve met too many men who are diverting most of their intellect, time, and energy into gaining leftover scraps of happiness from life instead of building up their communities or nurturing a deeper love with one woman because of how toxic and dangerous both women and our communities have become.

I began pursuing women for mostly sexual reasons in 2001. I must’ve logged tens of thousands of hours into the task. I’ve been also traveling or living abroad near continuously since 2007. I’ve spent a lot of time trying to fornicate, fornicating, traveling to more effectively fornicate, and writing over a million words about fornication. What did I learn from all that? It’s an experience that gets more dull with repetition, like any other experience. However, it also leaves you with a massive hangover where you find yourself at a loss. What was the point of all that? Is there anything I’ve truly gained? What lasting glory have I achieved? If I wasn’t a writer, I would have nothing to “show” for my efforts besides memories that are as likely to make me cringe as give me happiness.

If society were healthy, and if women were more traditional, most of my time would have been spent writing different kinds of books, maybe concerning religion or history. I would have a family, and spend much of my time nurturing the love between them without degenerate interference from the government or cultural elites. I would look at my neighbor as an ally in keeping our community strong and safe for our children. We’d block out the effects of any cosmopolitan transplants who move in and try to change that. While there is nothing in life that is solid, my family and community would give me a stronger feeling of continuity. Tomorrow, things that are likely to be here would still be there, compared to the easy-come-easy-go modern lifestyle where putting your penis inside a girl is not even close to a guarantee you’ll see her again, and where any job you have, or apartment you live in, is as transitory as the next bus that rolls down the street.

All of this wasted time is by design. The oligarchs in power don’t want us to become leaders of households and communities. They don’t want men to create loving bonds with women and vice versa (and if you manage to do so in such an inverted climate, permissive divorce laws will reduce the chances it lasts). They don’t even want men to be self-sufficient. Instead, they want you to form weak bonds with other people and focus entirely on your belly and genitals, all while being a cog in the machine that gorges on GMO food, lusts after tattoed women, and consumes entertainment in a lonely urban box. The more atomized you are, and the weaker your relationships, the more dependent you are on the system—on the corporations and government to provide you with a cheap but damaging simulation of love and meaning that used to be real.

I can’t help but notice that they started banning my books after I began telling men how to create genuine connections from a position of masculine strength. It’s okay to teach men how to have casual sex with sluts, like I did in Bang, which is still available for sale on Amazon by the way, but to create families from a patriarchal foundation? That’s too much! Consider that you’re hard-pressed to find reviews of Neil Strauss’ bestselling book The Game that explains how it helped a man find a wife and have a big family, and that it was released by a big New York City publishing house, and that it’s still available for sale while my book Game is banned. As long as you can keep men in a state of hedonism and casual relationships, you’ll be tolerated by the system, if not outright promoted.

I can’t control the era I was born in, or what the agenda of the elites happens to be during that time, but I can control how I react to the information I perceive and the experiences I have. As I approach 40 years of age, I see most of my hedonistic and travel pursuits as expensive life lessons than a source of meaning. My nature, and I believe the nature of most masculine men I meet, is one of creation, strength, and provision for family, things we’re increasingly not allowed to do, or allowed to do only at impossible cost. I may not be able to change the world and revert back to a healthier time, but I surely don’t have to waste any more time doing exactly what they want me to do.

Read Next: Sex Has Become An Obsession

I Will Get Your Girlfriend Banned From Social Networking

Do you have a girlfriend who is addicted to displaying her body on Instagram? Are you tired of thirsty men sliding into her DMs? Well I have the perfect service for you: I will get her permanently banned from the most popular social networking platforms, and she will have no idea it was because of you! Your girlfriend will become modest and traditional before you know it.

It’s clear that many girls have no built-in immunity against the desire to become a public goddess. Your girlfriend will upload photo after photo of her body in sexual poses to be worshipped by men who want to sleep with her. Inevitably, she becomes addicted to a virtual lifestyle where she is hotly desired and pursued, hurting any potential for genuine love with you. Even worse, when a man with good looks or game (or both) contacts her, she will have a “secret relationship” with him that mainstream culture says will “strengthen” her bond with you.

That’s where I come in. Social networking platforms now have “community guidelines” which are so vague that everyone is in a state of violation, even your girlfriend. Using proprietary Rooshsoft Social Technology, I will mass flag her spicy photos, videos, or politically incorrect comments. If that doesn’t get her banned, I will unleash a Russian bot army upon her profiles that shower them with fake follows and likes, which will trigger any platform’s “muh Russia” warning system. And if that still doesn’t work, I have a nuclear option that, for the sake of my own freedom, I cannot reveal publicly.

Because this service is the first of its kind (don’t trust copycats!), it’s not cheap, but honestly, can you put a price on the type of love your parents or grandparents were able to experience but which is being denied to you? Just imagine your girlfriend’s attention and feminine instinct channeled wholly onto you instead of hundreds of beta orbiters, Chads, and Dubai sheiks!

When my Swedish ex-girlfriend was mysteriously banned from Facebook (hehe), you can’t believe how loving she was towards me until she encountered a group of sexy Somalian migrants while working in a refugee shelter. But hey, she didn’t meet them on the internet, which proves that my service works.

My service can not help you with offline suitors

Below is the price menu for several popular platforms. The cheaper the price, the easier it will be to ban your girlfriend.

  • Facebook junkie: $250
  • Instagram selfie addict: $500
  • YouTube grrl gamer: $5 (first community strike free!)
  • Twitch camwhore: $500
  • Snapchat Premium prostitute: $500
  • Twitter political pundit: $750
  • Ban my girlfriend from everything combo: $1500 (40% off!)

If you order now, I will throw in a free to ban to Tik Tok, the hot new platform that allows your girlfriend to lip sync in a seductive manner to millions of horny men. I bet you didn’t even know it existed! Of course I knew it existed, because I watch hours and hours of sexy women every week purely for research purposes.

Click the link below, fill out a brief questionnaire, and wait for me to send you a credit card invoice. I stand by my service so strongly that if your girlfriend is not banned within 30 days, you will get your money back!

>>> Ban My Girlfriend Interest Form <<<

After Amazon banned 9 of my books, I had to come up with new ideas to earn a living. Ban My Girlfriend is the result of that banning, and I’m confident it will make me much more money than spending hundreds of hours writing boring books. As they say, when one door closes, another opens, so here’s to a relationship where your woman focuses her love on YOU, instead of teasing her vagina to every other man in the world.

Read Next: Girls Just Want To Have Fun

Countries Have Become Like Coworking Spaces

As the world becomes increasingly globalized and connected, different countries are starting to look the same. This country has the same kebab as that country. This country has the same fashion as that country. This country has the same English speakers who believe in the same things as that country. They are all becoming nothing more than coworking spaces, uniquely designed “offices” that are “fun” for slaves to work and socialize in.

You can blame the internet, airplanes, Hollywood, or what have you, but the world is being robbed not only of its cultural diversity but also human diversity. New York, Washington D.C., London, Berlin, and Sydney have the same alien caste system of leftist white workers managing their hopeful colored pets, all looking for “opportunity” and “success.” People in these cities may live thousands of miles away from each other, but they think and behave in the same ways and are trained to respond to globohomo stimuli in the same sterilized consumer manner.

Anywhere in Europe

Even if you visit an exotic locale, where you take pictures of the major sights from the same angles as thousands of other people, or you have a genuine moment with a local, which you have to tell everyone lest the experience go to waste, odds are you will add nothing to your being by stepping foot in another country. You won’t learn another language, you won’t experience struggle besides a blocked credit card, and you won’t go a single minute without access to your favorite internet sites. Go to this coworking space downtown or that coworking space in midtown—what’s the difference besides the size of your desk and the decorations hanging on the walls? I can receive more novelty today by going on YouTube than visiting another European city.

If countries are like coworking spaces, our sexual partners are like rental cars. It starts with the exciting moment you ease yourself into the seat of a car you’ve never driven before, and proceed to ride it aggressively since you know you’ll never have to buy it. You’ll slam the door harder than necessary and put in the cheapest gas you can find. It’s okay if you dent it up a little—just tell the rental agency that it was there beforehand, and get angry if they disagree. There is no feeling of ownership, no sense of pride.

She’s abusing her rental

What better way to go to your coworking space than in a rental car. You feel stable, as if you are part of the local community, but you’ll have to give the rental car back in a week or so, and the coworking space gets boring after you’ve had your fill of their free coffee and sweets. So off to another space in another rental car for another hyper-sexualized and commercialized experience that is barely different from the previous one. You embark on a futile attempt to undergo what conquerors and explorers of old have experienced, yet they put their lives on the line while you are reluctant to even sacrifice mobile internet.

Everywhere is different, but everywhere is also the same. Once you hit a certain age, there will be nothing left in the external world to pleasure you. Anything truly novel or special will have already been packaged and neatly delivered to your eyes, ears, and genitals. You won’t help but feel nostalgic, to imagine that things had to be better in the past, that meaning was constant and always flowing, and whether that is true or not, if the external world is already conquered, all that’s left to explore is the internal.

Read Next: Vacations Are A Scam

Roosh Hour #35: Clown World

In this stream, I talk about how women are being encouraged to cheat, the use of porn as a weapon against men, why women revolt against men who give them power, the Satanic environment of nightclubs, the inability of women to keep on their clothes, and a lot more.

Listen to it 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 #34: “Man Up”

37 Articles I Strongly Recommend

1. Women’s voices are measurably deeper than in the past [Link]

2. “Muscular Christianity was a movement characterised by a belief in patriotic duty, manliness, the moral and physical beauty of athleticism, teamwork, discipline, self-sacrifice, and ‘the expulsion of all that is effeminate, un-English, and excessively intellectual.'”[Link]

3. Satanic cult awareness training guide [Link]

4. The story of the British historian who was deplatformed for questioning the Holocaust narrative [Link]

5. Using metadata to find Paul Revere [Link]

6. The criminalization of masculinity [Link]

7. How corporations banded together to push homosexual marriage [Link]

8. “We’re getting close to the end [of the United States empire] now. Can you feel it?” [Link]

9. How the airline reservation system is used by the US Government to conduct illegal searches [Link]

10. Jews control admissions into top American universities [Link]

11. “Passivism is a command to ignore and avoid the official political system, on the grounds that the official political system is a screwed-up, dysfunctional, evil and corrupting mess.” [Link]

12. The proven dangers of microwave ovens [Link]

13. Five best home-defense tactical shotguns [Link]

14. “Zersetzung (German for ‘decomposition’) is a psychological warfare technique used by the Ministry for State Security (Stasi) to repress political opponents in East Germany during the 1970s and 1980s.” [Link]

15. I was the mob until the mob came for me [Link]

16. A dubious sexual harassment allegation against an overextended Washington D.C. restauranteur pushed him into ruin [Link]

17. The internet was originally intended as a spying network [Link]

18. Google’s true origin partly lies in CIA and NSA research grants for mass surveillance [Link]

19. American conservatives can’t stop elevating vapid women among its ranks [Link]

20. How the FBI tried to encourage Martin Luther King Jr. to kill himself [Link]

21. How fake news successfully encouraged a mentally unstable entrepreneur to kill himself [Link]

22. The elites are getting ready to replace humans with robots [Link]

23. Amazon has become out of control in its quest for retail domination [Link]

24. Major Western cities are becoming uninhabitable hellholes [Link]

25. America is suffering through technological decline [Link]

26. The secret to a happy marriage [Link]

27. Bryan Singer molested boys for years while working as a famed Hollywood director [Link]

28. The rise of tattoos [Link]

29. Meet Pierre Omidyar, the new George Soros [Link]

30. Learning from the Spanish Civil War [Link]

31. Historical account of what led to the victory of Jair Bolsonaro in Brazil [Link]

32. The friendship that made Google huge [Link]

33. Islam in the United States is being corrupted into adopting progressivism [Link]

34. Female empowerment is working so well to sterilize the world that some experts expect a massive population crash [Link]

35. Putting a cell phone to your head for thirty minutes has the same effect as ingesting half a cup of coffee [Link]

36. People inadvertently become red-pilled on mass shootings and Jewish influence while working as Facebook moderators [Link]

37. Proposal to adopt homosexual marriage in the United Methodist church is defeated by the African delegation. Sermon by Liberian minister rejects globohomo evil. [Link]

Read Next: 25 More Articles I Strongly Recommend


The following is an adaptation of the eulogy I gave at my sister’s funeral service. She died of cancer in March 2018.

She was my only sister, born seven years after me. I never imagined I would have to one day stand here and give her eulogy. A few days before she died, I told her that she has to get better to one day take care of me, and that I would get sick on purpose and even make her wipe my butt. She would usually laugh when I made a joke like that, but now she could barely manage a smile. The morphine and fentanyl were taking away her mind. She was no longer herself.

You may be in a state of shock as to what happened because she probably seemed normal to you when you last saw her. I want to be honest and explain what the cancer did to her.

She was diagnosed with stage 2b triple negative breast cancer in October of 2015. Stage two means that cancer cells escaped from the site of the initial tumor and made their way into nearby lymph nodes. I live in Europe, so after she was diagnosed, I came back to help her with treatment. I was with her for most of everything the doctors advised: chemotherapy, surgery, and radiation. I did my own research and verified that she was getting the best treatment that modern medicine allowed. She was going to get better. The cancer would go away.

Chemotherapy was the hardest for her. Imagine a volcano that activates deep within your body but refuses to erupt through the surface. It caused far more pain than the tumor itself. There was no shortage of cheerleaders in the doctors’ offices and the support groups that told her to be strong and never give up. This was only temporary, they said, a mere speed bump of what would be a long and fulfilling life. She took it to heart and endured months of medical torture, more than I believe I could handle myself.

Once her treatments were done, I went back to Europe and believed she would go back to living as she had before, but one thing they don’t tell you about cancer is the terrible, constant anxiety you face while in remission. A random headache was brain cancer. A stomach cramp was cancer of the gut. Fatigue was blood cancer. Her doctors wanted to put her on anti-anxiety medicine, because any problem to them can be hammered away with drugs or surgery, but instead I talked her down from many of the panic attacks she experienced, all of which I was sure were false alarms.

During these panic attacks, I was careful to not say that the cancer didn’t return, because how could I know for sure? So many people told her she’d be okay, and the cancer would never come back, but how could they know? They were just saying words, building her up as a “cancer survivor,” but cancer always comes back, and in her case, I don’t think it ever left her.

In January of this year (2018), she contracted the flu. The flu turned into bronchitis. Then it turned into bilateral pneumonia. They say that on an x-ray lung cancer and pneumonia look the same, so one month was lost pumping her with antibiotics when the symptoms were caused by cancer cells that relocated from her breast to her lung. I was walking to my favorite French café on a Saturday evening when I got a call from her. The results of her lung biopsy came in.

“It’s cancer,” she said.

“Are you joking?” I replied, not wanting to believe her.


We cried together. I told her that I’d be with her to fight this just like before, and she wouldn’t be alone. I booked a flight that night. Four days later I was back home. She was already on round-the-clock oxygen, fed through a nasal prong. Her coughing was continuous. She couldn’t lay on her back or else she would feel shortness of breath. She didn’t sleep for more than three hours a night. I knew she was experiencing bad lung symptoms for the previous six weeks or so, but when I saw how bad she was, I couldn’t believe it. I just saw her a couple of months ago, and she was fine.

The worst was the pain in her chest. She said it felt like a tight squeezing, as if her heart was about to stop. One night, we swapped out her oxycontin for another pain medicine that we were told could manage her pain better, but it didn’t work. She howled for hours until it was safe enough to resume the oxycontin again. My little sister was suffering, and all I could do was watch.

We received a new treatment plan from the doctors: eighteen weeks of chemotherapy and three weeks of radiation. Both were to start at the same time. I liked the plan because it was aggressive. We were going to go after this cancer and put it on the defense, but I couldn’t help but notice the word “palliative” on the medical consent forms she signed. I knew it was a form of care that aims for comfort instead of a cure.

Nonetheless, I wasn’t discouraged. There were many stories of people with advanced cancer who survived many years, and not once in her dozens of doctor appointments did I hear the words “death” or “dying.” Everyone knows that we all die, and you know that one day you will die, but we don’t really believe it. Death is something that happens to other people, not us, and not to your kid sister.

Her condition declined so steadily that every day I came to expect a new function or ability that she would lose. I bought a wheelchair because it became too difficult for her to walk, and being her annoying older brother, I wheeled her at a fast speed to give her an adrenaline rush. One time I tried to wheel her over grass, but we got stuck and I accidentally dumped her on the ground. She forgave me, which was easy to do because I tormented her much worse when she was younger and I used to rip off the heads of her Barbie dolls for fun.

She completed her first few days of treatment and then Friday came. She had serious difficulty making it to the car for the trip to the doctor’s office. She saw black in her vision and had to pause for minutes when performing the most basic of movements that I take for granted every day. I was still determined to complete the last radiation session of the week because I knew that without treatment, she wouldn’t make it, and I didn’t want her to die.

I pushed her to try just a little harder, and we made it to the doctor’s office half an hour late. She somehow managed to hold her failing body in the machine to get zapped with radiation. Then she looked at me and told me she was done. She couldn’t make it home. I called 911. While waiting for the ambulance, I called my mom to tell her what was happening, but I was so choked up that no words came out. I had to compose myself and call her again. The ambulance took her to the hospital and she was admitted to the intensive care unit.

Her decline continued in the hospital. The doctors pumped her with so many drugs that I joked with her that she was officially a medical experiment, and that when she got better, she’d appear in all the top medical journals. In addition to the oxycontin she was on, the doctors gave her a patch of fentanyl, a drug so powerful that children have died playing with their parents’ used patches. That wasn’t enough to relieve her pain, so they also put her on a continuous morphine drip.

Her physical pain faded, but at the cost of impairing her mind. She became confused and shared random memories from years ago, but even in this condition, no doctor told us that she was dying. I even used the medical word for dying, “terminal,” to ask the lead doctor if she was indeed dying. He told me that she was “getting to” the terminal phase. I had to read between the lines to know what was going on.

The biggest hint I received was when one doctor showed me side-by-side CT scans of her lungs spaced one month apart. Last month, there were little white specks, but now her lungs looked like Swiss cheese. Part of her left lung collapsed. If those were the scans of any other woman, I’d think she was in dire straits, but this was my sister. I didn’t want to accept that she was dying as much as it was staring me in the face. The doctor said, “We don’t usually treat a patient with cancer this extensive.” I told my mother and father, and we began to prepare for her death in our own ways.

They actually gave her a round of chemotherapy while she was in the hospital. “Our goal is to get her home,” the oncologist said. My dad and I were desperate to try it, thinking that it could help, but chemo takes weeks to begin working. My mother, who has watched her stepmother and sister die of cancer, was more realistic. She prayed for an end to her daughter’s suffering.

She soon needed a mask that delivered 100% pure oxygen. If I were to put that mask on you, you’d pass out quickly, but even with it on, she complained that she felt like she was suffocating. I couldn’t imagine the agony she was going through, and although she had no shortage of people by her side, she was dying alone, experiencing it alone. She grabbed my arm and said, “Brother, I’m scared!” I replied instinctively, “Don’t be scared,” but I was scared too. At that moment I would have done anything to trade places with her, to exchange my healthy body for hers, to die so that she can live. I would have made a deal with the devil if he presented himself before me, but there was no deal to be made as I helplessly watched her approach the abyss.

I couldn’t handle what was happening. Nothing in my life prepared me for this. I snuck in a bottle of scotch to the hospital and started drinking in the nearby family room. I’d sit by her bedside, break down while holding her hand, then go back in the room and drink some more. If she opened her eyes while I was beside her, I’d wipe my face and pretend everything was okay, but she wasn’t fooled, and asked me why I was crying. I kept drinking until the hospital ceiling started to spin. I passed out and my mother put a blanket over me.

The next day, the doctor said, “If she becomes unresponsive, she will likely pass in 24 hours.” I drove home to shower and get a few days’ worth of clothes. On the way back, my mom called me and said “Hurry up” before hanging up the phone. I gripped the steering wheel tight and yelled so loud, in a way that I never have before, that it didn’t at all sound like me.

I arrived at her hospital room. My mother and father were by her bedside. The pulse and blood oxygen readings on the monitor were now replaced with the word “Comfort.” She was unconscious and taking her last breaths. I could hear fluid in her lungs. I paced the room back and forth, repeating “I don’t believe it” while shaking my head. I wanted to grab the television that was hanging on the wall and throw it through the window. I wanted to destroy everything in sight. I wanted to kill myself.

I calmed down long enough to sit by her. I held her and told her that I loved her and will always love her, and that I was sorry this happened to her, and that it was okay for her to go now because it would end her suffering. The space between her breaths got longer and longer. Her limbs turned a faint purple and then her face. My beautiful sister, the most important person in my life, took her last breath. Minutes later, I swear that I could see her chest rising up and down, because there was no other way that I could see my sister other than alive, but she was gone.

I know I’m supposed to stand up here and say she didn’t suffer. I’m supposed to say that she died in peace. But that wouldn’t be the truth. She was in tremendous physical pain that had to be managed with the most powerful drugs made by man, and because the end came so unexpectantly, even for someone with cancer, she was not able to make sense of her dying.

She still had a lot of living to do, a lot of places to see, so she felt robbed that the end came so early. If you put a gun to my head right now, I’d ask you to get on with it and pull the trigger, since I’ve done everything I set out to do, but that wasn’t the case for her, and if there is anything that proves to me that life is inherently unfair, her death is it.

I wish they told us. I wish the doctors said she was dying. At least we would have spent the energy of her last days and months in a different way than fighting a futile battle to keep her alive at such a high physical and emotional cost, of repeatedly having hope after hope crushed as the cancer spread on its own schedule, regardless of what we threw at it. The doctors orchestrated a great charade that only added to her suffering.

I have to say that her death made me feel like a fool. For years I’ve been chasing women, fame, and novelty, thinking that those things would make me happy or somehow complete me when the one thing that could make me happy was so close the entire time. Instead I went to faraway lands, as far as I could, to pursue exotic pleasures and entertainment. They were fun at the time because my family was healthy, my sister was healthy, and I was healthy, but now that all seems so meaningless. I don’t even want to remember those experiences. The only thing I’m scared of is that in a few months, once the pain of her death subsides, I’ll go right back to doing all that, because I don’t know what else my life is for.

A few days before she died, the palliative nurse came by and gave us a packet with the title “My Wishes,” which was actually a funeral planning guide in disguise. It was a way for my sister to express herself in case of death, because as you can tell by now, you’re not supposed to tell someone they’re dying.

We went through the packet and got to a question that asked how you would like to be remembered after you die. I have the packet right here so I’ll read to you what she said in her morphine fog: “I want people to remember me as kind, and that I tried my best to share my love and make people happy.”

As someone who gave way more than she took, I know she will be remembered in this way. When I die, I can tell you that thousands of people will celebrate, and it’s a good thing if you don’t know why that is, but with her that wasn’t the case. She was a big-hearted person through and through, which just adds to the unfairness of it all.

I know a lot of you had crazy times with her at parties or concerts, but our relationship was simply one of steady joy. She was someone I could talk to about whatever came to mind, or I could just sit in silence with her to enjoy her presence. We could play off each other and make ourselves laugh until we cried, or have serious discussions about our lives. She was the first person I would go to when I had a bizarre experience, because I loved hearing her reaction and the jokes she could make from it. I would go to her when I was unsure about a woman, and she would give me an analysis that—in hindsight—was always right.

Before I broke up with my last girlfriend, I first cleared it with her to make sure I wasn’t being too hasty. Before any big decisions, I would always get her thoughts, as if I was launching a nuclear missile and needed her to turn her key. I would even focus group my newest jokes on her before trying them on others, because she would never judge me for being dumb. She was my best friend. She balanced my rigid and overly analytical nature. She made me see the light of things, that there is a play to life, not just the seriousness of seeking perfection and trying to figure every little thing out. She understood me more than anyone else in the world. Who will I trust more than her? Who will I tell my silly stories to now? Who will tell me that I’m going too far down the wrong road? She left me and now I don’t know what to do. Sister, where are you? Why did you leave me? I’m still here! I didn’t know that most of the happiness I experienced in my life was because you were a part of it. 

Late last night I was trying to make sense of her death. I know her well enough that I decided just to ask her what I should do, and see if a voice answered me back. I closed my eyes and remembered when she was in elementary school and I would pick her up from the bus stop every day at 3:15pm. I remembered when I took her to HFStival, her first rock concert, where I watched her carefully from the mosh pit while she sat smiling in a stadium seat. And I remembered all those chemotherapy visits, of helping her get through the toughest part of her life, where our relationship deepened to the purest love that a brother and sister could have. These film reels were playing in my mind when I asked, “What do I do now?” What came back to me was, “Remember me, take care of yourself, I love you.”

I know that life goes on, but it won’t be in the same way. Experiences I have from this point on will come with a different feeling, a different color. The sadness will reduce somewhat, but I know the emptiness will remain, and I’ll just have to make the most of life without her. My wish for you in the years to come is to remember my sister and take care of yourself, and know that if you are in this room, she did have love for you. Thank you for being a part of her life, for making her who she was, and I hope that her spirit will remain close to your heart until the end.

Previously: What To Do If Someone Close To You Gets Diagnosed With Cancer

The Rejection Of Natural Life

On the surface, it seems that living in a city is far easier than living close to nature. Proof of this is the nonstop migration of people from rural areas to urban ones. But aren’t we natural beings? Why does life seem to get easier the further from nature we go?

For the past decade, I’ve told myself that I will one day move to a farm and humbly tend to basic crops and chickens. I’ll cut my own wood and repair things with my own hands instead of calling a repairman. I’ll wake up at the crack of dawn and put in a full day of physical labor. Deep down, I know this will never happen. The older I get, the more I crave comfort, and working on a farm is anything but comfort.

I meet many people in Eastern Europe who grew up on farms. They tell me in detail how farm work is hard and grueling, and how they are obligated to work according to the season, regardless of their mood. Their body aches and moans, never able to feel fully rested. If anyone in a European village gets the opportunity to move to the big city, they take it nearly 100% of the time. The people who stay behind are often seen as not industrious enough to escape.

With my farm dream deferred, I can’t help but ask why we were created to run away from what is most natural. Shouldn’t we love coating our hands in the earth and watching the fruits of our labor rise from the ground? Shouldn’t we appreciate the sun and the rain, and celebrate the coming of a new season with a similar level of excitement to how we celebrate our own birthdays with a shot of alcohol in a city bar? Instead, we dive headfirst into the urban simulation. We go through years of educational training to prepare us for sitting at work, sitting in cafes, sitting at home in front of unlimited entertainment options. We spend most of our waking lives staring at electronic gizmos or listening to music that sounds like it was made by an electronic gizmo.

Everyone craves the urban lifestyle, yet who is truly happy with it? You are desirous of more entertainment, more fun, more fornication, and more money. You require ever escalating doses of novelty and drugs. You require more attention and more validation. You require achievement systems and self-improvement programs to change yourself into something else, because you want to be like the man who has all the women and status, or you want to be like the woman who has hundreds of horny followers online. You’re never satisfied with who you are. We live in the city, and we are miserable. Our bodies are rested, but our minds suffer.

Then you go into the village, and meet an uneducated farmhand. His body is tired. He daydreams of relaxation. He has been drinking for much of the evening to help relieve the stress of physical labor and monotonous work. And yet his mind is clear. He has accepted his fate, and assuming he has not lived in the big city to enjoy its pleasures, and assuming he does not have the latest iPhone, he doesn’t know what he’s missing. His village is his entire world, and all he can think of is where he can lay down and doze off until the sun rises again, all without Ambien or “sleep hygiene” protocols that urban zombies need, only to sip on sugary caffeine drinks throughout the next day. The villager’s body suffers, but his mind does not, and if it ever does, it’s nothing that a few beers can’t resolve. His mind empties without the need for clubbing, Instagraming, or visiting the hottest new restaurant in town to feel like a human being.

When man moved from the village to the city, he traded bodily suffering for mental suffering, yet the sum of his suffering remained the same. If anything, he has chosen a new kind of suffering that is much harder to solve. It robs him of his sleep, blocks his ability to connect with the opposite sex, and silences the sound of the river. He believes he made a good deal as he sits in his air-conditioned office, but he’s sitting in an air-conditioned office, wondering how he will get his next hit of external stimulation and pleasure. Year by year, he is gradually taken away from anything resembling a natural life, trading it for one of excess, anxiety, and neverending cycles of self-help.

I punched through the urban life and see nothing on the other side. Ways to make it “better” or more “successful” only lead to more mental suffering, and yet I’m not exactly straining to move to the village, one that I’ve never lived in. While my mind is tough, my body is not. A lifetime of doing workouts in the gym, where I barely broke a sweat, has not prepared for me for life on the farm, and I doubt I’d make it even a month. I know that the sum of my suffering will not change if I move to the village, so I will stick with what I know, and tonight when I lay myself to sleep, after I put on my night mask and turn on my white noise machine, I hope that I won’t toss and turn too much.

Read Next: City Life Is A Simulation

3 Lessons From The Confrontation Between Burt Reynolds And Marc Summers

On October 17, 1994, Burt Reynolds and Marc Summers appeared on The Tonight Show with Jay Leno. They proceeded to have an altercation that turned out to be a case study of what happens when a man is confronted by another who is more alpha. I recommend you watch the below video first, read my analysis, and then re-watch it to catch anything you missed.

Analysis of the confrontation

Burt came on as the first guest to promote his new book. After his interview with Leno, Marc was announced as the second guest. Marc glided through the stage with spirited confidence. He shook Leno’s hand and then made a noticeable swallow when he shook Burt’s. Already, there is fear, which was reportedly due to the fact that Marc had previously made jokes about Burt’s divorce habit. I suspect that Marc did not plan on ever seeing Burt in such close quarters.

As the interview with Leno begins, Marc contorts his body away from Burt’s, as if hoping he will somehow disappear. He also crosses his legs, which is usually the body’s way of seeking comfort. Burt then makes some kind of noise or movement at 1:13 that catches Marc’s attention. He looks over to see what is going on. Burt takes that as an opportunity to insert himself into the conversation.

Marc re-adjusts his body language to accommodate Burt, but quickly goes back to facing Leno with legs crossed in the hope that Burt doesn’t interrupt again. That hope is dashed. Burt interrupts Marc to criticize his distant body language. Marc immediately adjusts his body to please Burt and his dominant frame. Marc then obediently answers two of Burt’s questions before catching his own subservience. He feels inferior and attempts to re-assert dominance by patting Burt on the back while making a joke about the fact that Burt is going through a divorce.

Burt does not submit to Marc’s frame by responding with a verbal insult of his own. Instead, he escalates the situation by dumping a mug of water onto Marc’s lap. Marc is shocked yet tries to laugh it off, and then attempts to splash Burt with a mug of water, but Burt is too quick and blocks the incoming attack, causing both the mug and water to impact Marc’s face. There is a flash at 1:54 where you can see Marc expressing genuine fear. He quickly recomposes himself and tries to show apathy by smiling while Burt continues to sit stone-faced as if nothing abnormal is going on.

Shock and fear on Marc Summers’ face

Burt then leans over and makes a threatening gesture with his hands. Marc shows a sign of submission by separating his hands instead of adopting a defensive posture. It has gone too far for him. Judging by his stunned reaction and high-pitched nervous laughter, I wouldn’t be surprised if this was the most violent encounter that he had ever experienced in his life.

At 2:18, Marc reaches for another mug but stops himself upon realizing that Burt will likely retaliate. He gets tongue-tied, repeatedly saying “you know” until finally getting his sentence out. Burt remains calm. Not yet done with his fun, Burt pats Marc on the hand to display dominance. Without looking back at Burt, Marc says “Don’t touch me” in a serious tone. Perhaps realizing he has gone too far, Burt says he’s “Sorry.” Marc takes advantage of the apology by facing Burt and asking him a question to control the frame. Burt does not take the bait.

Burt soaks in the absurdity of the situation by reclining far back on his seat and laughing. Marc takes the opportunity to splash Burt with a third mug of water (3:04). Marc then immediately turns his back on Burt, as if he wanted to run away. Burt does not physically escalate, but jokes that he slept with Marc’s wife. Marc’s response to being called a cuckold was to appeal to Burt’s kindness. It doesn’t work, and then Marc insults Burt and his inability to get regular work.

Burt gave Marc an opportunity to retaliate

To capitalize on the drama, the show’s producers set up a cream pie duel. The two men start with their backs to each other. Leno begins the count to three. Burt, ever the scoundrel, launches his pie at the count of 2.5 with great force, landing a direct hit on Marc’s face. The impact was so strong that Marc took several pitty-pat steps backwards out of fear that additional blows would rain down upon him. Burt gets weakly hit by Marc’s pie at a glancing angle and responds with a devilish smirk.

Marc is dissatisfied with the duel and considers launching a sneak attack from behind, but again, fear causes him to hesitate. He almost slips on the floor. It’s clear that Marc senses he has been disproportionately attacked. He strains for ways to get even.

Burt, feeling his opponent’s humiliation, extends a sign of submission by hugging Marc, which is quickly accepted. Marc then experiences a surge of confidence and accepts another cream pie that was handed to him, but hesitates at the crucial moment.

The mood becomes more light-hearted as Burt helps clean Marc off, but he can’t resist giving one final display of dominance by pulling Marc towards him from behind (6:33). Marc appears happy that the embarrassment is over.

Burt shows dominance by thrusting Marc from behind

Three lessons we can learn from Burt and Marc’s confrontation

1. Confidence can only be faked until the unexpected happens

Marc, a veteran television personality, seemed confident and polished when his name was first announced. He was displaying a fake, learned confidence, something he is able to turn on when a camera is pointed at him, but as soon as he encountered a novel situation that diverged from his previous experiences, he reacted in a way that reflected his baseline levels of fear, anxiety, and submissiveness.

Burt also responded emotionally, as his water toss was clearly spur-of-the-moment. While both men are famous in their own right, one possessed a higher level of natural confidence that allowed him to dominate another man in a spontaneous encounter that neither of them had prepared for. By not submitting to the frame of a clearly more dominant man, Marc lost the battle and had to endure public humiliation.

2. If you give your enemy an inch, he will take a mile

The wolf on the right does not intend to put up a fight

The only three instances that Marc felt a surge of confidence was when Burt showed submission signs by apologizing, lowering his physical defenses by reclining on the couch, and offering a hug. Each time, Marc used the submission signal to retaliate. Luckily for Burt, Marc was too beta to successfully complete his counter-attacks.

Paradoxically, Burt’s signs of submission actually made him appear more human. Going for the jugular on national television, which he could have easily done, may have led to a public relations nightmare. Either Burt stopped short to not be perceived as a bully, or he is not the ultimate alpha, and could be defeated in a battle with a man who would not so easily show submission signals.

While Burt’s submissions played well on television since the scorecard was so heavily tilted in his favor, real-life encounters must be approached more cold-heartedly. If you don’t completely destroy or incapacitate your enemy, you merely give him an opening to take you down. It’s not wise to enter any confrontation unless you’re prepared to go all the way.

3. Don’t assume someone with more status (money, fame, women, etc.) is more alpha than you.

Even though Burt was the first guest on the show, he wasn’t doing well at the time. He just lost the love of his life, was having money problems, and as Marc implied, was having trouble getting movie roles. Objectively, Marc was doing better, but material success only weakly correlates to male dominance. In fact, it could be the case that the more financially successful a man is, the more likely he had to submit to other more powerful men in order to achieve his station. This becomes quite literal in the sexual sense with Hollywood actors, who agree to be sodomized for a chance at fame.

You can’t buy or win your way into alpha. Famous beta males like Jeff Bezos, Elon Musk, Anthony Bourdain, and Aziz Ansari clearly show that. Assuming you are not born alpha, which most men aren’t, you can achieve it only by unlocking it internally through your belief system and mental framework. Until you understand yourself, face your fears, and neutralize your anxieties, you won’t be able to properly size up or face your enemies.


Who’s the boss?

This encounter is a microcosm of how men of different power levels interact in day-to-day life. While most interactions don’t involve mugs of water or cream pies, a careful observer can pick out dozens of signs of submission and dominance in the most banal of conversations between men. It’s rather easy to appear dominant in calm and predictable scenarios, but when things get raw and spontaneous, like it did for Marc Summers and Burt Reynolds, the only strength that gets displayed is what’s already within you.

Read Next: “My Way” Is The Most Masculine Song Ever Created

Your Game Situation Is Not Special

I receive many messages from men asking me if they can still use game in spite of their very serious flaws or very impossible logistical situations, when in fact they are an exceedingly typical case that game was developed for.

Roosh, I have autism, will game still work for me? Roosh, I’m 55 years old. Roosh, I live with my parents. Roosh, I live in small town. Roosh, I’m only 5’5″… I have an abnormally large nose… I have a big pimple on my back… I have a high-pitched voice… I have a crooked benis.

I’ve read dozens of excuses from men around the world, and they all boil down to the following: “I’m an imperfect human being like anyone else. Will game still work?”

Game is a tool that will raise your existing station if you implement a program that improves your value and increases your access to women. While some men get more mileage than others, game brings you closer to whatever sexual or relationship goals you have. This outcome of improvement is as dependent on the mental and physical effort you put into it as your existing value. Men who ask if game can work are falling short in understanding game as a tool, and usually have not even attempted more than a handful of approaches. There is no way you confirm that game will help you until you dive in.

No man asks if going to the gym will work, because there is a direct relationship between gym effort and an increase in muscle size. You can even feel the soreness a day after you work out—proof that it’s working. Game is different in that the favorable result you seek comes randomly and often after a long delay of implementation. I first started using game as a socially awkward 21-year-old with zero dating experience. It took me about ten months to get my first bang. I had many intermediary successes during those ten months, but if I gave up beforehand, I would have concluded that game doesn’t work and thrown away one of the most useful tools available to a man today.

It’s also important to understand that game was originally developed by nerdy men who had trouble meeting women through the more traditional means of social circle, often due to their personality and social flaws that often stemmed from a lack of confidence. In other words, game teachings already assume you have flaws and compensates for them by increasing your value in other ways.

In the end, there’s no man who is not helped or enlightened by game, even if that game means getting on an airplane to Thailand and renting a nice apartment in the center of a city. The doors it has opened for me, in terms of pursuing fitness, receiving physical pleasure, experiencing modern simulations of love, and understanding the truth of hedonism, women, and society has made it the most important discovery of my life, and now in today’s extremely difficult dating environment, it has become more of a necessity than a mere curious hobby.

I released my final game book, Game, in September 2018. It helps men implement game in the most healthy way possible. Click here to learn more.

Read Next: What Is Game?

Roosh Hour #34: “Man Up”

In this stream, I talk about how women are telling men to man up, the normalization of cuckoldry, the subversive lyrics in pop music, how the globohomo meme is becoming reality, and a lot more.

Listen to it 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 #33: Destruction Of Women

Get Away From Me

I remember the same spot from last year, a short breakwall that protects the small marina. Benches were placed along its length every twenty feet, providing just enough privacy from your neighbors.

I walked to the last bench and sat down. It was peaceful. I watched the small waves break against the rocks and wondered where was the family of friendly cats I saw around here last year. I suppose they moved on.

It was nighttime. In the distance to my left were hotel lights. In front of me was infinite darkness. I closed my eyes to listen to the notes of the light breeze. Heaven under heaven. I breathed slowly.

Then I hear female voices on the walkway. A group of young women pass me, cackling in Russian. I already took the last bench; where will they go? They decide to sit on the rocks, not far from me. They’re laughing, enjoying their friendship. I don’t own the breakwall. I will share this slice of heaven with them. Maybe their laughter will infect me, and I will laugh too.

What’s that noise? I hear music coming from the speaker of a cheap phone. A Russian rap song. The girls are bobbing their heads, loudly rapping along. Why are they ruining it? Maybe a thought was about to enter their heads, one of the infinite darkness, of the notes of the light breeze, and that was too much for them. They blocked out my tranquility with violent noise. They canceled heaven under heaven.

I had been trying in vain to find silence. The beaches were too crowded with tourists. There were too many Bluetooth portable speakers with extra bass boost. There were too many friends and families talking in languages both beautiful and stringent. I won’t find peace here.

But wait, my hotel room! With windows closed, barely a sound can enter. The sun has drawn out thousands to the beaches, but in my room there is nothing to hear, and nothing to look at. Peace at last.

Read Next: The Ball On The String