My time left as a civilian measures in hours.  A year ago I made the decision to put my entire life behind me and join the Army.  If I had chosen to go Enlisted, all I would have had to do was hand over a copy of my DD-214.  The Army would have rubber-stamped me and stuck me on a bus.  That would have been fine if I was looking for a job.  I walked into the recruiting office, ID card in hand, and told them I wanted to be an Infantry Officer.

The last year has been a difficult one.  The lengthy vetting process included the obligatory trip to MEPS.  I stood in my underwear while a smarmy physician documented my tattoos.  I have had ten years to collect them, and my markings are numerous.  The doctor lectured me about my decision making, talking about safety and regret.

Considering the career move I was making, I had to laugh at the irony.

Officers are high-value targets.  As such, Infantry Officers are responsible for training all of their soldiers to be Platoon Leaders.  Combat doesn’t stop because LT is dying from a sucking chest wound.  The word “lieutenant” means placeholder.

Some people read Officer and think privilege, but that isn’t the case.  Officers show up early and leave late.  They don’t sleep until their boys are sorted out.  They do paperwork while the platoon smokes cigarettes.

Officers eat last.

Alcohol – specifically my consumption of it – is a running theme here.  I have decided to quantify my drinking habits to put them into perspective.  I have been drinking alcohol since I was 15 – roughly 12 years – but for the sake of the math I will be focusing specifically on the last 5 years.

During that period of time my consumption has remained fairly consistent, and therefore much easier for me to put into numbers.  My estimates err on the conservative side, taking into account both brief periods of abstinence and mind-bending binges, as well as high-proof spirits (over 100-proof / 50% by volume).

My estimates are measured in liters/ounces of liquor (80+ proof); they also account for per-volume equivalents in beer, wine, and other alcoholic beverages consumed.

The Science of Averages

Weekly consumption:  1.75 liters/59.17 ounces

Annual consumption:  91 liters/3,077.07 ounces

5-year total consumption:  455 liters/15,385.38 ounces

That’s 10,256.92 shots @ 1.5 ounces/shot

or 5.6175 drinks/day for 1826 days (there was a leap year in there)

Right.  Binge drinking is defined as 5 or more drinks in a single sitting (for men) or 4 drinks (for women).  Opinions on what frequency constitutes binging differ, but those “rules” are written by teetotalers.

At a rate of just over five and a half drinks a day, I would finish a liter of Evan Williams in 4 days flat.  This seems just about right.  Typically, a liter of Evan lasts me the duration of the work-week (Sunday night – Thursday night).  I do not day-drink, and generally prefer not to drink at all before at least 5:30, or until any other responsibilities are completed.

That leaves 0.75 liters for the weekend.

I can easily consume 0.5 liters in a sitting – roughly 11 drinks – and still function the next day.  By function I mean that I can work out in the AM, and put in a 10 hour day.  However, during the week I try to avoid this sort of heavy consumption as it is both expensive and physically taxing.

My typical weeknight drinking involves 2-3 “shots” – 2 to 4 ounces – poured in a rocks glass.  I’ll plug one of these down when I know I’m done for the day, sip another with dinner, and maybe another after that.

Hard partying on a Friday or Saturday night can easily eat up that 0.75 liter weekend “allowance”.  Adhering to The German Method, it is not unheard of for me to slam down 18-20 drinks over the course of a long night.  15 shots is a fairly heavy night for me, and 8-12 is probably closer to a normal night of partying.

This kind of drinking would hardly qualify as “above average” . . . if I were 300 lbs.

My Other Stats

I am 5′10″ tall.  My average bodyweight over the last 5 years has been between 188-192 lbs.  The lowest I clocked in was 182, and the highest was 203.  My % of bodyfat averaged around 14%, never exceeding 17% at my heaviest.

I have always worked out a minimum of 5 times a week.  This includes

Weight Lifting at least 4 days/week as well as running, swimming, hiking and submission wrestling/mixed martial arts.

My hardest days included a 5:30 AM wake-up, 90 minutes of weight training, 30 minutes in the pool at lunch and 90-120 minutes of martial arts that night.  I did that 2-3 days a week on top of my other workouts.

At my heaviest, my 1 Rep Max on the flat bench exceeded 300 lbs, and my 3-lift total (Bench/Squat/Deadlift) was around 1000 lbs.  My cardio, at its worst, left me roughly enough gas for 45 minutes of drilling techniques and 30-60 minutes of 3-5 minute grappling matches.

The longest period of strict abstinence during this time was 15 days without caffeine or alcohol.  The worst night involved 2/3’s of a bottle of Booker’s (126-proof) and at least 1/3rd of a bottle of Jim Beam Black (86-proof).

That was the worst hangover I have ever had – two days immobile on the couch with alcohol poisoning – and the only night I’ve ever pissed the bed.

I have vomited from drinking less than 10 times in the past 5 years, .all of them due to nausea the following day.  Therefore, no liquor was lost in that way.

As for spillage, Mr. Black once took my stash of empty whiskey bottles (a year’s worth) and emptied out the tailings.  These miniscule portions netted him a gross (and I do mean gross) of 6 ounces of whiskey.  I am certain that my excesses more than compensate for any spillage, and I have factored that into my totals.

Dear Readers,

I owe you a debt of gratitude.  Your attention this past year has been invaluable to me.  These last twelve months have been very difficult for me.  The things I have shared with you are the result of a great deal of soul-searching.  Knowing that someone is reading, no matter what they think of me, has allowed me to look into myself to examine my actions and motivation.  My next journey I take with all the gravity due it.

However long or brief, what comes next shall be the defining moments of my life.

The details are spare for many reasons.  PERSEC/INFOSEC is a concern – I value my security clearance and my career – and thus I cannot tell you many things.  The stories I have shared with you are relatively tame.  Some things are simply personal – the kind of things I share with friends over a drink – or cannot be shared for legal reasons.

There are some things that I simply do not know how to express.  I cannot tell you how beautiful my ex looked, smiling into the distance with a flower tucked in her hair.  I can’t tell you what it felt like to lay beside her at night, curled together.  I can’t explain to you what that means to me.

I can tell you what it feels like to hate.  I can tell you what it feels like to cut the blood flow to someone’s brain.  I like it.

I can tell you that I am a lousy brother, and a lousy son and grandson.  I have neglected my family at points when they needed my attention, so wrapped up in my own problems that I failed to nurture those relationships most important to me.  I can tell you that I am an awful jackass.  I can tell you that you don’t want to know me.

I believe that my failures as a person will serve me well as a soldier.  I refuse to qualify that statement.

I make no guarantees about how much longer I will maintain this site.

Thanks,

Max

Mr. Black was at the apartment, sitting on the couch.  He had two female guests and the apartment to himself.  One was the lead singer of a local band, the other her friend.  Things were rapidly escalating things toward sex when he got my text message.  Judging by the speed of his arrival, the ensuing conversation could not have been more complicated than You bitches gotta go.

The street was jammed.  Cabs and cops crawled back and forth between the bars.  Sport bikes trolled down the street, blipping their engines in the slow traffic.  More bikes lined the curb, their riders standing in groups.  Guidos and club girls thronged the sidewalks.  Street lamps and neon signs cast a false twilight over the whole scene.

The Black Man wedged the Abrams into a spot up the block.  If he was displeased, he didn’t show it.  Mr. Black compartmentalizes stress for a living.  Extricating Willy Pete was Priority One – he could knock me upside the head later.

Willy Pete was just one drunk in a teeming mass of drunks.  Left on his own, in his current condition, trouble was inevitable.  My blood alcohol level had dropped over the last hour, and my frustration was mounting.  This was all my fault.

I knew the moment Willy Pete cracked that first beer at the video shoot that we were bound for trouble.  I saw the look in his eyes, like a truck headed downhill with no brakes.  There was a time when Willy Pete was the life of the party.  He fell apart, and a couple of slip-ups forced him to flee the state.  He was gone for several years – lost in South Beach – mixed up with a bad crowd.

He came back for the same reason he left – he was running from the law.  With no-one else to turn to, Willy Pete called the Black Man for help.  He was a changed man.  Meaner.  There was something predatory in his demeanor.  We were not his friends, just people to be exploited.  We were fools for trusting him and we knew it.  We were breaking The Rules.

. . .

Mr. Black almost tripped over his missing roommate.  He must have jumped bars without telling me.  We found him out on the sidewalk sharing a cigarette with a girl I hadn’t seen before.  I informed him of the situation.

His face pinched in confusion.

“What are you talking about?”

“Duke Nukem kicked you out.  I couldn’t fucking find you.  You don’t pick up your fucking phone.”

“What!?  That’s bullshit!  I’ve gotta talk to my manager.”

“No, asshole.  We’ve gotta go . . .”

Willy Pete protested.  He was adamant that he could fix the situation.  I was not optimistic about him walking through six hundred pounds of Trenbolone-infused Security.  There were police patrols everywhere.  If he went back through that door, drunk and angry, he would be in cuffs in less than ten minutes.  I was past the point of arguing – I wanted to drag him down the street by the neck.

The Black Man was calm.  He talked Willy Pete down.  We crossed the street through traffic and were nearly to the truck when Willy Pete waffled and turned back.  My patience ran out.  Later that night Mr. Black chastised me for being too eager to take the Nuclear Option.  He could have turned Willy Pete around with reason if I had let him.

I got right in Willy Pete’s face, blocking him from heading back.  I growled at him, and a quick shouting match ensued.  I grabbed him and dragged him toward the truck.

“Get your fuckin’ hands off me!” he screamed.  He struck his hands out in a violent shove.

There were police right across the street.  I couldn’t see them, but I knew they were there.  The entire street was watching.  I stumbled back a step and felt my heart throb with a massive surge of adrenaline.  Fractions of a second turned into minutes.  I don’t know what Willy Pete saw in my face, but rather than engage as I’d seen him do so many other times, he turned to run.

I wanted to kill him.

I lunged forward, closing the distance.  He turned his body as I swung, catching a shearing hook that smashed his cheek against his teeth.  Everything went black – Mr. Black – as the big man shoved his way between us.  His voice sounded a long way off as he shouted for us to stop.  I dropped my hands.

I didn’t see the shot coming, but I felt it hit my brow.  Willy Pete reached around the Black Man’s shoulder and cracked me with a sucker punch.  My hat tumbled from my head.  The swelling was almost instantaneous.  The Black Man pushed Willy Pete back and there was a shout from behind me.  Cops.

Mr. Black turned and waved them off.

“It’s alright, they’re friends . . . I got this.”

I heard one of the officers speak, but I couldn’t understand him.  I heard their cruiser pull away.  I felt blood running down my face as I picked my hat up off the ground.  I pressed the top of it to my eye and climbed into the back seat of the Abrams.  Willy Pete took shotgun.  My hands trembled with rage as I struggled not to bleed all over the upholstery.

We were still parked when Willy Pete opened his mouth, firing insults at me.  Mr. Black shushed him several times, but the bastard refused to quit.  I was spooling, my temper flaring back to dangerous levels.  Then the motherfucker brought up my girlfriend.

I came over the top of his seat.  I grabbed him by the hair and beat him on the sides of the head.  I needed him to move, to expose his chin, so I could leash him up.  I snaked my arm down and howled like a madman as I dragged him halfway into the back seat.  I smashed him in the face with the inside of one forearm, trying to force him to lift his chin.  I wanted to strangle him.

I wanted to break his fucking neck.

I don’t know what made me release him.  It wasn’t fatigue.  I have a vague memory of Mr. Black repeatedly shouting STOP! Maybe it was a training reflex.  I can’t be sure.  I know I didn’t want to.  In the pit of my stomach I regretted not having been able to hit him again out on the street.  I wanted to beat him to the asphalt.  I wanted to pound his face into weeping, bloody mush.  I didn’t want to stop.

Willy Pete screamed and pulled himself back into the front seat.  The Black Man could say nothing to console him.  He leaped from the truck and walked away.  We drove back to the house in silence, my hands still shaking, all thought drowned out by the rumbling of the unrestricted exhaust.

The Black Man and I stood in the kitchen.  Every light in the house was off.  He remained calm as ever, a fact that I found very disarming.  I knew him well enough to know that if he was upset, he would make no secret of it.

I quit bothering about my face, letting my eyebrow bleed onto my shirt.  I could feel it on the black fabric, but I couldn’t see it.  I didn’t care.  Truth be told, I was not upset about my eye.  Without looking at it I could tell it was nothing.  I could still see out of that eye.  What burned me, more than anything, was that Willy Pete had proven my suspicion correct – he held nothing sacred.

How many times had I bailed Willy Pete out of trouble?  How many fights had he started that I had to finish?  How innocent bystanders had I steered clear of him?  I put my hands on him twice before; once when he threw a frying pan at someone’s head, and once when he tried to burn me with a lit cigarette.  Both times I dropped him with minimal force and no injuries.

Mr. Black could write an epic of his adventures with Willy Pete.

Standing there in the low light, I told Mr. Black that the Willy Pete we knew was gone.  He never came home.  The asshole we knew now couldn’t be trusted.  He burned everything he touched, and he would fuck over anyone he knew without a second thought.  He was better off dead.

“When he gets back I’ll choke him the fuck out.  We can toss him off the bridge, into the gorge.  Who’s gonna know?  Nobody will give a fuck.  He was drunk, he fell off.”  I mused, aloud.

The Black Man considered it for a moment.

“That motherfucker is self-destructive.  The best thing to do is just leave him the fuck alone.  We’ve been bailin’ him out for years.  All we gotta do is leave him alone, he’ll do it to himself.”

I took a few pulls from the Wild Turkey.  We moved the discussion out to the front porch so he could smoke.  We sat outside for quite some time before Willy Pete came walking up.  The situation rapidly deteriorated.  I got to my feet, pacing the sidewalk.  Willy Pete sat down beside his roommate.  He blamed me for us getting kicked out.  In total self-righteousness, he proceeded to list my flaws, as he saw them.

I told him to get the fuck up.

When he refused I began shouting at him.  I was inconsolable.  It turned into a white trash circus.  I tore off my shirt.

“Look at my face, motherfucker . . . Get on your fucking feet!”

There were no police around to save him.  We were the only ones out on the street.  A gunshot would not have earned a 911 call unless the round hit a neighbor’s house.  I was ready to square off as mutual combatants and settle things for good.  Willy Pete sat hurling insults.  He refused to budge.

Mr. Black intervened.  He sent Willy Pete to his room.

After all that noise it was over with a wave of the Black Man’s hand.  I felt like a child being chastised.  Pathetic.  Willy Pete went inside and I collapsed on the porch, humiliated.

I desperately needed a drink.

(Chapter I / Chapter III.)

Shogun Marcus’ wife is a massage therapist.  She informed me that my ITB was tight enough to shoot arrows with, and that it was the likely culprit of my symptoms.  After almost two weeks with hardly a spot of cardio and no leg workouts, I am finally back to normal.  IT Band Syndrome is a common runner’s ailment, and with nothing more than ibuprofen and thorough stretching, I was able to rehab my leg.  My cardio does not seem to have fallen off much, but any time not going forward is time falling back.

Otherwise, things are plodding along.

I break up my workouts with “Feats of Strength”.  15-mile hikes in the heat.  Marathon sessions doing calisthenics.  This helps me to keep my morale up and breaks up the monotony of routine.

This morning I worked out at my old gym.  I worked out there for years, and I missed it very much.  I hadn’t touched a weight there in 5 years.  I stopped once, a year ago, to grapple at my old jiu jitsu school.  However, I didn’t have time to lift beforehand.

Last night I called an old training partner and made a plan to meet up with him for an upper body workout.  He complained through two hours of high-volume resistance training.  I could not move at my normal tempo, but I did my best to keep him focused and keep us moving.  I also ran into someone I played football with in high school.  He plays semi-pro now.  I finished my workout and we spent a few minutes catching up.

I rode through my hometown.  My high school looks nothing like it did when I went there.  The football field – a brutal patch of rocks and mud – has been replaced by a rubberized track, professional lights, and brand new sod.  It looks like a Division III college ball field.  I felt a pang of nostalgia.  It passed quickly, and I thought of how (emotionally) distant I am from that place, and that time in my life.

I ran for half an hour this afternoon.  I maintained a strong pace, increasing gradually to a gallop about half way.  I stretched thoroughly afterward and hopped on my bike for a warm-down ride (7.4 miles).  I have some minor aches, but my flexibility has improved significantly and I feel more positive and motivated tonight than I have in several weeks.

Side Note:  I ran into my old commander this morning.  He is retired now.  I thought it was an interesting coincidence.  We talked about my current “plan” and he gave me some thoughtful advice.  It was a very positive chat.

Bedpan had just finished an overnight shift at the hospital when he found me. I was sprawled out on the couch.  My boots were still on, hat rested over my eyes.  An empty bottle of Evan Williams set on the floor next to me.  My .45 was disassembled neatly on the coffee table, eight Federal hollow points standing in a row beside it.

Bedpan popped open his phone and speed-dialed his roommate, Mr. Black.

“Who’s the scary looking guy with the gun sleeping in our living room?”

“I don’t know,” he replied, “Ask Willy Pete.”

Willy Pete played dumb, giving Bedpan a nervous jolt.  Bedpan is the poster-child for suburban white America.  Easy going.  Non-confrontational.  How he came to live with those two is beyond me.

I woke shortly after the awkward phone exchange.  My head must have swelled.  Morning sunlight made my eyes water.  A dull throb filled my skull.  My boots thumped the floor as I struggled to sit up, knocking over the empty liquor bottle.

“Hey man.  So, uh . . . what’s with the Glock?”

Bedpan tried to sound conversational.  Uncomfortable was more like it.

“Glock?” I asked.

I slid the pieces back together, chambered a round and eased the slide closed.  I thumbed the decocker and set the gun back on the table.  I squinted up at Bedpan as I squeezed rounds back into the magazine.

“It’s a Sig,” I told him.

Mr. Black and Willy Pete came home soon after.  They laughed at Bedpan’s expense while I put myself back together.  They explained the situation to him and Willy Pete fired up the percolator.  I poured coffee on my hangover.

. . .

It had been five days since I left her.  That headache was the best I’d felt since.

The night I left, I grabbed a handful of clothes, my pistol, and my laptop.  She thought I was bluffing until she saw me heading for the door.  From across the room I could see her eyes go wide.  Her anger dissolved into tears.

I didn’t slam a single door on my way out.

I bounced from couch to couch, trying not to overstay my welcome.  I had half a paycheck to my name.  My options were few and far between.  Mr. Black and I were barely on speaking terms at the time, but he loaned me his couch without hesitation.

It was Saturday morning.  Mr. Black shuffled around the apartment, gathering his bearings.  His band was shooting their first video that afternoon.  He invited me to join them.

It was already hot as Hell.  The video was being filmed in a small space with no air conditioning.  Packed full of sweating hardcore metal fans, the conditions sounded ideal for riding out a hangover.

I rode up separate.  Willy Pete and I made a quick beer run – he had no money – and I wedged my car into a corner of the gravel driveway.  The film crew arrived next, unpacking their gear, followed by several carloads of inky metal-heads.  Last but not least came a Hummer.  The driver and his friend produced a couple of assault rifles from the back seat.

There was a photo shoot first.  The band posed outside holding various weapons, all of them empty.  I stood by quietly with my .45 tucked discretely beneath my shirt.  I locked it in my trunk when we went inside.

The premise was to pack the space with people while the band played.  We thrashed violently, shoulder to shoulder.  The crew filmed the whole thing from every possible angle.  This went on for hours.  I sweat out toxins in the heat while everyone else drank.

During one take, someone tripped over the camera rigging.  The guy next to him stumbled and stepped on his shin.  I heard the crack over the amps.

I left shortly afterward.  The shoot continued, but I made a side trek to her house to collect my things.  We’d hardly spoken since the night I left.  I shoveled my belongings into my trunk as quickly as I could.

Back at Mr. Black’s apartment, I heaved a sigh of relief.  I took my boots off for the first time in two days.  Four years together, five days apart.  I felt hollow and awful and alone.  I lingered in the shower, letting water wash away tears and sweat and grief.

Willy Pete and I made a run to the liquor store.  I grabbed a liter of Wild Turkey and a sandwich, my first real meal all day.  With food in my stomach, I took a pull straight from the bottle.  Willy Pete followed suit.

The day was fading fast.  The windows dimmed, and I could barely see inside the apartment.  Mr. Black pulled me aside.

“Listen, I’ve got some bitches coming over.  If he gets fucked up and turns into an asshole, it’s on you.  Don’t call me looking for help.  He’s your responsibility.”

“I know . . . I’ve got it.”

I took another swig . . .

I woke up on the couch with a searing headache.  My boots were still on.  My shirt lay across the room.  The bottle of Wild Turkey sat on the coffee table, nearly empty.  My left brow was tender to the touch.  My hands ached, my fingers hurt to move.

My memory was completely blank.

One look in the bathroom mirror spoke volumes.  My left eyebrow was swollen.  Blood had glued the gash shut.  It caked in my eyebrow and down the side of my face.  My cheeks were sunken and unshaven, my eyes jaundiced and bloodshot.  The night came back to me in fragments.

I looked like ten miles of rough road.  I felt worse.

Willy Pete was standing in the hall when I opened the bathroom door.  He looked like I felt, minus the blood.  He was holding his head in his hand, and he squinted at me for a moment before his face twisted in surprise.

“What the fuck happened to your face!?”

“You did,” I croaked.

My voice was so whiskey-scarred I could barely speak.  Dirty grey light filtered into the kitchen through a make-shift American flag curtain.   I choked down two aspirin, desperate to alleviate the pain in my head.

I heard the toilet flush and Willy Pete came shuffling in behind me.  I leaned against the counter, chugging water from a coffee mug.

“How’s the head?” I asked.

“Not good.  I feel like someone hit me with a two-by-four.  I can’t remember a fucking thing.  The inside of my cheek is shredded.”

Willy Pete tried to pry open his mouth to show me the extent of the damage.  I could see nothing in the dim light.  I held up my right hand in response, flexing my fingers slowly.  It was going to be a bad day of picking up the pieces.

. . .

We primed ourselves the night before with ephedrine, caffeine, and whiskey.  It was a twenty minute walk to the first bar.  The night was young and the bar was dead.  We lingered for a while, nursing beers.

We debated the second round.  Willy Pete made the executive decision to hike to the bar where he worked.  It was several miles away, and neither of us had money for a cab.  We ordered shots for the road and headed out.

“We are too white to go that way,” I observed, pointing toward the port.  Willy Pete laughed.

We were on the edge of the ghetto.  Going around would mean a lot of extra walking.  We cut through the park instead, shaving time and distance off our trip.

Our destination was at the end of a street full of sport-bikes and neon bars.  The bouncers waved Willy Pete and me inside without a cover and we elbowed through the crowd.  The front bar was jammed up.  A cover band played downstairs.  We headed for the service end of the bar.  Willy Pete introduced me to the manager.

I didn’t pay for a single drink the rest of the night.

Things began to blur.  I throttled back my consumption, ordering water to chase down more go-pills.  This was not a night for chasing tail.  Willy Pete tried anyway.  He told girls that I had just broken up with my girlfriend, and made repeated attempts to get me to show off my tattoos.  I refused.

By two AM I stood alone at the back of the bar.  Then I lost Willy Pete.

I took a lap through the bar.  Then another.  He wasn’t outside smoking.  He wasn’t anywhere.  One of the bouncers approached me.  He looked like Duke Nukem, right down to the buzz cut.  He stood half a foot taller than me, and probably 60 lbs heavier.  He informed me that Willy Pete had to leave.

“Do me a favor.  Get him out of here . . .”

“No problem,” I said.  ”Thanks.”

I flashed him a thumbs-up, my face twisting into a frustrated sneer.  He just nodded at me and climbed back onto his perch above the crowd.  I searched the bar high-and-low again, with no luck.  He wasn’t answering his phone.  None of the bartenders had seen him.

I tracked down the manager.  He explained that Willy Pete had been mouthing off to the wait staff.  He made some rude comments to one of the waitresses.  Her boyfriend – Duke – was not happy.

I was on the verge of abandoning him when some awful part of my brain kicked in.  No matter what kind of trouble Willy Pete found himself in, I never left him behind.  I had to find him before someone called the cops.

Willy Pete had outstanding warrants for his arrest.

I knew it was only a matter of time.  I knew all along.  I pulled out my phone and thumbed Mr. Black a message: EMERG.  In the back of my head, I thought of his warning.

Don’t call me looking for help.  He’s your responsibility.

. . .

]]> http://www.fkinonline.com/we-spread-thought-cancer/downward-spiral-pt-1/feed/ 3 http://www.fkinonline.com/rude-notes/technical-difficulties/ http://www.fkinonline.com/rude-notes/technical-difficulties/#comments Thu, 17 Jun 2010 01:33:26 +0000 Max http://www.fkinonline.com/?p=3984

My computer has been smacked with a virus.  I will be operational again soon.

I have a bad temper.  Anger has lead me to do awful things.  I am candid about my anger – and my compulsivity – but I am not flippant about them.  What was once “Boys will be boys” is now Felony behavior.  I have come away unscathed, but not uninformed.

Anger isn’t a raised pulse or a histrionic fit.  Anger is a gate-way drug to rage and hatred.  Anger is poisonous and intoxicating.  Anger is not an aphrodisiac.  When I read Roosh’s article about anger as a female turn-on, I understood exactly why he said it.

But I disagree with what he said.

Roosh observes that, under certain circumstances, women are aroused by displays of anger.  There is a correlation, but that certainly doesn’t mean causation.  What Roosh is tapping into is the Make-Up/Break-Up sex phenomenon.  This isn’t about anger, it’s about fear of loss.

Once Upon A Time I knew a nice girl.  I was fucking the cokehead at the time.  Aimee was very smart and sweet.  I wasn’t looking for a serious relationship, so I rejected her advances.  We remained friends, but when she found out about the cokehead, and a handful of other girls I was sleeping with, she grew bitter.  One night, she raised her voice at me and I lost my temper.

I called her out on her jealous, possessive behavior.  We weren’t even dating!  What did she care who I was fucking?  I cut her off.

I knew exactly what I was doing when I did it.  I had never raised my voice at a girl before, but I knew how she would react.  I wasn’t trying to manipulate her, I was legitimately upset, but she immediately crumbled.  She left me a voicemail, pleading with me not to cut her out of my life.

Not long after that Aimee and I had a week-long sex romp.  She doted on me liked a prized stallion.

Roosh compares various sources of anger.  He says that he can cope with traffic and illness and unexpected nonsense.  What he cannot cope with are women who play games.  While this is somewhat ironic coming from a Pick-Up Artist, it isn’t hard to appreciate the sentiment.

Traffic and illness are not malicious.  A person who plays with your affection is.  They are being cavalier with something they don’t own: your feelings.  Being angry about this is understandable.  However, using that anger as a tool of manipulation is not fair play.

“While I definitely don’t recommend you use anger as a ‘move,’ I advise you not to hold back. If you’re being disrespected or slighted then you need to let her know as soon as it happens. Your dick will thank you later.”

On one hand, Roosh attempts to deny angry outbursts as “Game method”.  Then he immediately reverses himself, endorsing well-timed anger as a valid way to keep unruly women around.

Being in love is a Hell of a thing.  It teaches you about yourself – about how much you value yourself.  People look down upon those who let their spouses beat them and cheat on them because we know that those people have low self-worth.  If they hate themselves, why should we love them?

At the same time, if a person does not value you and treats you poorly, why should you value them?

A man on his game does not need anger.  That kind of Stanley Kowalski bullshit works, but not without a cost.  You can tell a lot about a man by what makes him lose his temper.  If you lose your composure over a girl simply because she does not call you back, or flakes on a date, then it shows just how emotionally invested in her you were.  If not because you genuinely value her, then because you are a shameless cooze-hound whose sense of self-worth is wrapped up in his ability to knock over pussy.

Simple displeasure will suffice.

If you suspect a girl is going to flake out on you, go on about your business.  If she doesn’t call, then the next time you speak to her voice your displeasure.  Your time is valuable, it was rude of her to blow you off.  Then cut her off.  If she values you, then she will recognize her mistake, apologize, and attempt to reconcile.

If she doesn’t, then save yourself a case of the Clap and don’t call her again.

I make one more attempt at sleep, eeking out a precious half an hour, before more noise jolts me out of bed.  Persistent, aggravating noise.  My response borders on panic for a moment until silence is restored.  Fully awake now, I realize that I have been robbed once again of a full night’s sleep.

How I long for that drowsy pleasure.

As if by some limbic macro, I slap a pan on the stove and shovel espresso into the coffee maker.  I gain height slowly as I arch my back, my spine popping like pine boughs on a cold morning.  I bend one knee, then the other.  The stiffness in the left leg, where the therapist thumbed and prodded my irritated fascia, seems to have abated.  I choke down breakfast, tasting only coffee and hot sauce.

Time for CNN.  Outside noise.  Move with a purpose.

Every heterosexual male has a system for rating women.  More often than not, it is the Base 10 system, or some variation of it.  It is difficult to innovate over the Base 10 because it is simple and functional.  The existence of Hot-or-Not proves this.  Unfortunately, what Base 10 fails to capture are differences in taste.  One man’s 8 is another man’s 6, and vice versa.

Most of the seduction community wants to believe that there is a hard-and-fast metric for physical attraction.  Apparently, evolutionary psychology tells me what makes my dick hard.  There is a valid point to be made about the correlation between quality breeding partners and physical attraction.  However, I’ve already laid into the narrow standard by which pick-up guys judge appearance.  As as for evolutionary psychology, I don’t think homosexuals got that memo.

There is a fetish and preference for every quirk of physical appearance.  Cultural and sub-cultural standards queer the meter.  I have had women sneer at me in disgust, while others grope and catcall me.

My taste has evolved over time as my sexual experiences color my preferences.  Being a fitness-minded man, I pay attention to different details than another guy might.  Personally, I like athletic women.  Preferably ones with big tits.  Preferably fake.  However, a little cushion is good for pushin’, and I’m pretty good at spotting whether or not a woman is a motivated fuck by the way she moves.

I don’t care how pretty she is, I refuse to fuck an inanimate object.

I had this discussion with a friend and he told me about his personal rating scale.  He rates women by time of night.  The earlier you would be willing to go home with someone, the more attractive they are.  This clever system takes several factors into consideration: alcohol consumption, quality of trim, and relative value to the circumstance.  It is also objective enough to be a standard.  A 10:00 PM girl is always hotter than a last call whore.  If she’s hot enough to actually cancel plans for, you’ve got yourself some premium trim.

My system is equally simple, and based on that other great passion of mine – Alcohol.  My metric doesn’t rate women based on particular physical characteristics (i.e. measurements), but rather by their rarity, the intensity of their desirability, and how good you would feel in the morning.

Top Shelf (9-10)  It’s nice if you can afford it, and you’ll go out of your way to get it.  Rarity means being hard to come by, not to mention the added cost.  However, most men will pony up if given the opportunity.  Top shelf girls are 10:00 PM girls.  Hell, these are three-martini lunch girls.

Call Brand (7-8)  These women have distinctive character or good marketing.  Fortunately, you can find them in almost every bar.  Not a bad way to start off the night.  Or end it.  Call girls are midnight girls.  Good luck even finding one after 1:00 AM, let alone one that isn’t about to be dragged home by her friends to vomit

Well (5-6)  If you’re looking to get fucked (up), they’ll do.  If you’re drinking out of the well, it’s probably late or you’re really hard up.  You probably looked right past them when you first walked into the bar, and your opening line had something to do with bumming a cigarette at Last Call.  Cheap and easy has its penalties, and you will probably feel awful in the morning.

Gorgon (<5)  Absolutely unfuckable under any circumstance.  Not even to further the species.  When you look on them with sober eyes, you will probably turn to stone.