Late last night, since my roomate is back, I put some music on a dokey and danced in the livingroom. Shai helped me get set up, and stuck around for awhile to see my progress. He gave me some good tips and helped me to understand some of the Arabic and Moroccan in the songs, as well as the “tone” of some of them.

He also gave me some important feedback as to which moves have become “visible” for me already, and which ones I still have some fat to lose for. Lower abdominal movements are apparent now, but the upper ones are still too subtle.

Afterwards, he not so subtly sent me to the shower. That’s one thing I suppose I’m going to have to deal with dancing in front of people. I need to find some serious deodorant. The natural stuff isn’t doing the job after some time of moving like you mean it.

Another bit of important information from him was about breathing. He said that it’ll help me to move more gracefully if I regulate my breathing better while dancing. Sometimes I focus too much on getting a movement right that I forget to breathe.

It was nice to have him there. I’m considering buying him a darbuka.

Later, Cuz called to apologize for being drunk and disorderly, and causing me to break my bed. He’s offered to buy me a new one, but I’m not making any deals with the devil…not that he’s such a devil, but his situation is evil. Unless he frees himself, I can’t allow him to do things for me.





Dirty Jay is the master pick-up artist.  This is a video every guy should see…especially rules-nazis.



Every once in awhile, a commenter in Roissy’s blog gets it.  It’s the only reason I still bother with that site.  The commenters are more interesting than the blogger himself.  Most posts read more like cautionary cases, but from time to time, there’s a guy who sees beyong the pasture.  Here’s a copy of one of the brief, shining moments.

Outsider

I frequently see on this blog the neat assumption that people in the West have “choice” (frequently voiced by women) while other nations — we poor, unwashed suckers — smart under the absence of that blissful thing.

Note that those most vocal in emphasizing choice (especially in contexts of disowning any responsibility in duping betas) are basically women.

“Choice” is of course a very cute word, indeed. And a synonym for “freedom” — which most refrain from overusing since words that are direct instantly betray the intent behind (like calling killing an unborn baby “terminating an unwanted pregnancy”).

That wymmyn in non-Western societies don’t have much “choice” is generally coupled with another, equally juvenile, assumption that in those societies, since they are mostly ruled by patriarchy, it’s men who “choose.”

What a sociologically unimaginative speculation. A conceptualization of “dominance” totally corrupted by the ultra-affluent West’s natives: dominance equated with having higher number of choices, or — worse — getting “what you want.”

It’s suffers from the same silliness of thinking about individuals atomically, rather than molecularly.

Choice is a very modern, luxury term. It’s been made possible only in the West after generations of heroic Western males broke their backs to create the abundance you are now mired in.

For most of human existence, there was hardly anything like “choice” as an embodiment of the “meaning of life.” Life, as it was understood (pretty sensibly by people who had to fight practically every day of their lives with unrelenting elements), was more or less “fate.”

In patriarchal societies, it’s not men who get whatever they want. Hardly anybody — other than the richest — gets much of anything they want. They’d be lucky if they had the luxury to fantasize about things they want — and therefore develop a sickening addiction to fantasies or “things I want.” Men or women, everyone has to follow the traditional norms — norms that took millennia to evolve, through bitter human experience.

The weak’s survival strategy, as Nietzsche correctly observed, is guilt-tripping and manipulation. No wonder women obsess so much with “choice” because it’s a tacit way of supporting giving individuals more leeway in manipulating others.

Heck, I’d even claim “choice” is a womanly, effeminate concept through and through.

Dominance is not getting what you want. Only pampered American kids can obsess with getting everything you want. Dominance, in traditional societies, is measured in “getting things done” — which is hardly forcing others, with no regard to tradition, religion, morals, norms, etc., to do your bidding. Do you honestly believe, for instance, that a Pashtun warlord can just walk into any Afghani neighborhood, pick up any young and sweet thing, pump her and dump her and go her merry way? Without hell being literally raised as an all out intra-tribal, inter-clanal warfare?

If getting what you want was the measure of dominance, a 10-year old brat raising hell just to get the toys he wants and makes her parents bend to his will would be the most dominant person in the room.

Choice is an effeminate concept since it’s people addicted to their own desires who use it as a tool to achieve ends. It’s a time honored adage what an old (and brave) Roman general said: If I can’t rule myself (my desires, my fears) how can I rule others?

Genuinely dominant people are least obsessed with their “desires.” Every desire is a weakness for a man, a security breach that can easily be exploited to corner him.

Which is why those “alphas” in traditional societies are almost criminally cold and aloof, callous and unrelenting. Exactly because they know that the lives of countless dependents depend on their iron rule which cannot be squandered by fluff like “getting all the women you want.”

Elvis can be an “alpha” only in modern, effeminate West. In Waziristan, they’d hang him by the balls on the nearest tree and unload their AK-47s on him.

In all traditional societies, even in polygamous ones, alpha males and multiple women do not marry just so they can have all the fun they want. That’s sadly the figment of the circumcised modern Western male’s imagination. To the contrary, all marriages are arranged to control social rank/status, to manage scarce economic resources (so that they stay within the family/clan), to make truce and end inter-tribal warfare, etc. Fun is the bottom item on the list.

A side note: Every wannabe Western evolutionary psychologist seems to make the assumption that since women are more status conscious, they must have always been *the* agents of choosing. It never seems to occur to anyone that I breathe oxygen not because I choose to but because I have no choice. Same thing for women in all traditional settings.

Which means, throughout the human evolutionary path, women hardly ever chose males. Rather, they were chosen. Which is why the moment the traditional control mechanisms were lifted they run amok and became so creepy. Exactly because unlike men (who, with their “hunters” brain, are way better at “calculated decision making”) their decision-making wiring is defective. Once the traditional mechanisms — which provided safety to everyone — are gone, they started self-destructing by seeking what-they-perceive-to-be the big shots in the room. And they are failing — as you all can see. Miserably. That’s because, in a social environment where traditional structures have disappeared, the biggest shots are Pashtun-like warriors but parasitic dipstick dippers like Elvis — since their success is measured in not how much they can get things done but how many women they can fuck. (End of Detour.)

Finally, the saddest thing about this blog is even though Roissy is very realistic debunking modern, liberal myths about women, most discussions don’t even raise the real issue. Almost every poster (but particularly males) is still obsessed with the typically modern Western thing: how to get laid as many times as you can.

What modern liberalism and feminism did wasn’t just that it reduced the fate of betas (the majority of males in every society) to a pathetic state — that’s the issue between men and women. The worst thing it did is IT DESTROYED CAMARADERIE BETWEEN MEN.

The whole purpose of so-called “oppressive” sexual norms is to reduce inter-male rivalry so that they can collaborate more effectively to deal with “hunting” challenges. A society drowning in “affluence” (most of which is masturbatory entertainment created by Keynesian, consumerist, debt-/spending-driven policies that mis-allocate scarce and valuable capital to short-term oriented, unproductive endeavors), one where “choice” rules supreme, is one that inevitably becomes deluded that most men are not needed any more — since under normal weather conditions, choice is a joke, and you need men to fight the elements, a purpose to which intra-gender rivalry of males is fatally detrimental.

Your fathers, many of them such daring and hard-working men, have created this wealth, this illusion that “choice” is your birth-right for you. Nice work you’re doing now, thanking them by eating your corn seed.

There’s one thing you can do to kill a man without so much as pulling the trigger of a gun: reduce him to uselessness/redundancy level. Make him lose his job, productive status, and all else will follow. He’ll first lose his woman, along with her his kids, and… well, that’s all it takes. He’ll find a way to slowly finish the job himself.

The most effective way of creating the atmospheric conditions to destroy ordinary males in a society is corrupting its women.

The civilization wreckers of the West seem to have pulled that off. What a feat.

What they don’t understand, of course, (like those ultra-liberal Jews who support Muslim immigration to the West since they still equate “White” with “Nazi”) is they are wrecking the very system that made their ultra-powerful elite rule possible. When the whole structure becomes so rotten — like a house eaten away by bugs inside out — that it can’t support its weight anymore, it’ll finally hit them what they’ve done with all this liberalism shit the flagship of which is the crap called “wymmyn’s rites” and “choice.”
A Theta male (theta being the “unknown angle” in trig)

One might not agree with it all, but at least the guy is thinking like a man, and not like a sheep.



Whatever forces of nature control menstruation, I humbly thank them.  I got my period just in time for Slick to remember my number.  So when he messaged, I was in a deep, lavendar and rosemary sachet assisted slumber.  I barely opened an eye while drooling on the purple case of my sobakowa pillow, dreaming that the ringing was just the wishful thinking of my inner slut.

In the afternoon, when about to call back a friend, I saw there was a message from him, I thought, “Well, the man does have some balls.”  Sadly however, they’re not heavy enough to inspire him to free himself from the multi donor spooge stained velvet glove of his she pimp.

In a perfect world, women would like casual sex as much as men do, and I’d buy him from her and send him out to make me some money.  I even know how I’d dress him…tight black spandex shorts and a half shirt with a poodle on it.  My “brand” would be an “N” on the right ass cheek.

Ah…fantasies…

I haven’t answered.  I don’t really know what to say to him.  He can’t be hurt since obviously he doesn’t value me much.  So I’ll just leave it.  Maybe in four more years he’ll grow a clue.



Normally, this sort of thing would make me smile, but this time it was a platonic break.

Last night, Cuz came over drunk and randy.  After he threw up in my bathroom, we had yet another argument about him wanting to shag, and me not being into monogamously married men.  The conversation shifted to the fact that he needed to not drive in his condition.  I must have been angrier than I thought because while kneeling on my bed to reach for a bag on one of the shelves, the frame bent.

I thought to myself, “This never happened when I was 80 lbs. heavier, and it has to happen now???”  I’ve broken two other beds in the course of mating.  This is the first effortless bed break for me.  Obviously, the bed is a piece of expensive crap.  I miss my futon.

Anyway, my orifices are intact, and I don’t think Cuz is coming back.  Part of me is happy about that since he needs to make up his damned mind what he really wants, but part of me is sad because I do care for him.  He just went back to that hoe.  I understand that it’s asking him alot to give up his life for me, but that’s just the point: it would be him giving up his life for me, and not getting a life by having me in it.  I can accept that I’m not worth it to him.

If I’m not worth it to him, then he isn’t worth it to me.



As friends and foes alike tell me, I need to get out more.  So Friday night, I went to the Ultrasound at Kibbutz Yagur with Shaniqua, Kahuna, and Gadget.  Kahuna promised to be good, and didn’t have any sugar, so I decided to cut him some slack.

It was pretty fun.  Some people I saw there haven’t seen me in awhile, and were impressed with the changing form.  That was nice.  Things were going well until some dude started getting overly pushy with Shaniqua.  She’s a suburbanite American and doesn’t know when to say when, which for drunk or high Israeli guys is as soon as it starts.

So he starts getting to where he’s touching her wherever skin is showing, and such, and I’m looking to see if she’s enjoying it.  Not, she starts pushing him away, so I tapped him on the shoulder…the butch friend warning.  I forgot that since I’m a bit smaller now, that doesn’t have the enforcement vibe that it used to.  So he starts in again, and she pushes him and waves for help because he’s holding her in place.

At that point, a show of strength was necessary since looks are apparently deceiving.  I literally picked him up, took a step back, and put him down.  Then he tried to look innocent, and I gave him another warning chin-up and head tilt with the mild crazy eyes.  Then he realized his best chance was to get her away from me.   So when he started in again, and started trying to move her towards the wall, well…

***SNATCH!***

Like a bad kitty, I got him by the hair at the scruff of his neck, pulled back and down, and twisted his arm at a bad angle behind his back.  Bent over with the naughty kitten (almost a foot taller than me, and probably stronger but just stupid) underneath me, I brought his ear to my mouth and asked, “Do we have a problem?|

      “No…no…” he says.

      “Good!” I replied, stood up, and let him go.  I was sure security was going to carry us both out, but as I looked towards one of the guards I know, he gave me a nod and a smile.

…and we kept dancing.

At about 0430 both Shaniqua and Kahuna’s stomachs hurt from the terrible cheap vodka they used in the drinks there.  Never drink Keglevich.  EVER.

Although I’m happy to have survived the situation, it’s not something I’d like to go through again anytime soon.  It reminded me why I started taking martial arts when I was younger and much smaller.  I didn’t like being more physically vulnerable than was imposed on me by nature, and a woman can be pretty strong and combat ready if she just works at it.  I saw no reason to purposefully hobble myself through inactivity.

It’s also one of the reasons I couldn’t let myself give up on myself just because for a time I was always tired.  If I was going to heal, I had to keep working at it.  To me, being called a fatass for almost 14 years has been worth it to prevent lifetime dependency on drugs and have the ability to go on with my life.

Now though, it seems that I’m having to regain that little bit of extra pepper that I had to have before the fat, to warn people not to mess with me.  This is going to be interesting.  I won’t have the bad attitude I used to have as a teen, but I might start dressing overtly butch in club/pub outings again.  I’m also taking the time to develop my arms for more than strength too.  I’d like my muscles to “pop” more.

I don’t mind looking feminine.  I just prefer a stronger version of femininity than the mainstream.



I finally found a photo of Sweet (Ashraf).  Now y’all will know who I’m talking about when I say, “the most beautiful man in Haifa.”  I don’t know if he’s still here.  He probably moved to Tel Aviv, or maybe to the U.S.

Anyway, I miss him.  We were the kind of friends who didn’t even need to exchange phone numbers because we’d just happen to run into each other all the time.  Then he said he was leaving Haifa for work, and I didn’t see him again.

You see girls?  You can get just lost in his eyes.



“…Romanian folklore asserts that, as God had made the humans out of clay, and clay was perceived to be black like soil, the first humans were black-skinned. It was later during the time of Cain and Abel that God did punish the murderous Cain by bleaching his skin.” — Wikipedia

Well, that’s…I don’t know what to say.  I’d heard people say this, but I thought they were just saying it to flatter me or jokingly explain my ROdar or something.



When you don’t actually have alot of sex, stuff like kisses mean more.  As the memories prick through the membrane of half asleep haze during which the event took place, I’ve decided to write the first entry to my new Memorable Kisses category.   Later I’ll backtrack to “near death experience” and “airport”.

Last Thursday night/Friday morning at about 0230, Slick messaged as usual.  Also as usual, I gave whatever reason would work not to get shagged, only this time I had a really good, messy reason.  Normally, if he knew no sex was on the menu, he wouldn’t come over, but this time he surprised me.

So, not being a fan of the downlow, I came to the door still looking like absolute hell.  I smiled.  He smiled, looked me up and down, and raised an eyebrow.  He’s seen me many times without makeup, and many times four years ago in the morning aftermath.  What he’d never seen was me in my winter pajamas which were a salwar that I’m swimming in now because I got it when I was 35 kg heavier, and a sweatshirt and a sweater over a pink granny nightgown.

I figured he’d be put off by it, but he entered the lobby/office area, and stood watching me close the door, and take my “safe distance” stance in front of the refrigerator.  I said, “Well, now you’ve seen me at my worst.”  He laughed.  I asked, “Shall I turn around for you?”

     “Please do,” he said with that smooth Romanian danger-tone that makes every sentence a mini slow jam.  So what could I do?  I turned and started to describe my outfit in a whispery F   T   V  voice.

     “…and under this delicious vintage sweater and sweatshirt duo, we have a quaint grandmotherly style nightgown.”  I gestured towards the bottom half of it.

     “Really…let’s see that.”  So I lifted the shirts so he could check out the old lady in winterness of it all.

Forgetting that I was face to face with a man who has seen every Lambs movie ever, multiple times, my position in front of a refrigerator made me far more vulerable than I assumed.  Just as I’d readjusted my clothing, I found myself pinned against the refrigerator, having my tonsils examined by taste.

During the course of the night, between kisses, we decided on an appropriately demonic pet name for him.  I think he’s earned it.

However, what he hasn’t earned is reinstatement as my bitch, much less boyfriend.  I’m not holding my breath for this.  Now that I know the real story behind his legal marriage, I’m not so sure if he can manage a discreet but stable affair.

Guys who like whores are like those fetishists who like to be covered in fleas or mosquitoes.  It’s an orientation that makes them love parasites.  Since I’m not one, I can see why he would think I’m not worth the effort to call more than once a week.  It’s a simple matter of compatibility.

Ah, but it was a very hot kiss.