This is my own field report on the personal experiences, societal changes, and dynamics of relationships, particularly through the lens of red pill. Past generations, who endured external hardships and remained together. Modern generations, where easier lives result in fragmented families and broken homes. I will use an example from my time in the navy to highlight how tough conditions foster close bonds, while easier circumstances cause division. Similarly, within the red pill community, the shift from genuine discussions about relationships and personal growth has been replaced by abstract "meta" discussions and tribalism.

Which is how things revert back to the way things used to be, useless. Guys now focus on self-improvement with the expectation of changing others — namely, their wives — rather than accepting that change must come from within and you can navigate whats available, not manifest a utopia like it’s the Secret. Working on ourselves is about personal growth, not manipulating others. The current clown show surrounding the red pill is self-serving and performative, disconnected from the practical advice that once defined it.

Ultimately, the only message that matters is self-reliance and rejecting illusions of utopia are non negotiable.

♦

Fuccfiles Here

We are all somewhere, and somewhere is never utopia. I don’t think humans can handle utopia. Everything could be perfect and we would just work harder to find a catastrophe. My grandparents had it better. They didn’t have outdoor plumbing till they were 30, but the pain was obvious, the pain was external, and the solution was with each other.

Sailing with the flagship in my navy days taught me that the easiest time to connect with the people around me was during the hard times. Good times make everyone resent you, and you get angry at them for doing it. I was on a frigate, they were on the destroyer. The frigates had 12 people to a mess. The Algonquin had 50. You had to lock it up or it would go missing. No one in the mess was a thief, but it still went missing. The frigs were nice. The room had air conditioning. The water hate a heater. The plumbing worked. Algonquin didn’t have any of that.

The water pooled on the deck, the showers were ice cold. The walls creaked in tandem with the waves. Mold was in the walls and the hull reacted to every wave. It was built in the 70s. We didn’t know how to make hulls more stable on the water. The frigs were built in the 90s. They were the Cadillacs of the water, next to the tractor of the sea.

But the Jr. Rank mess was full. Everyone was in there drinking. Two bosuns would drag the captain into the mess, which is unheard of, just to buy him drinks. Their Captain was a lower decks captain. Our captain had a drinking problem. He stayed in his cabin and drank. He ordered the executive officer to keep him company. No one would have invited him anyways. He would see a small infraction. Why turn a blind eye when you can get a promotion off of the poor bastard that gets run over it?

Their crew was tight. Every foreign port they moved like a mass of people. In our ports we scattered. There was a 6 mile barrier around the ship that no one would enter. At 6 miles the odds of seeing a co worker were 0, so you could be free to do your thing without fear of reprisal. No one ever did anything brash, or illegal, or even suspect. Everyone on our ship had a side business, a family, investments. All the Algonquin had was each other.

Part 1, Frame

Part 2, Dread

I would write a shorter one, but it turns out there’s a lot to go over with the plight of men.

♦♦♦

This is a real story, these things really happened. But this isn’t about the ships, or the crew. It’s about relationships, marriage, and a loose collection of assholes who like to talk about our dicks so that we can use them more.

It’s better when it’s worse

My grandparents were married for however many decades, I couldn’t say. They were both remarried, widowed. They called each other mom and pa. I had 20 aunts and uncles. 10 kids from the marriage, 10 adopteds. I couldn’t tell you everyone’s name if you had a gun to my head, but if you put 5 of us into a room we could figure out the mystery.

Every one of those aunts and uncles were divorced. My mom divorced twice. One after 7 years the other after 20. Aunt Doris was divorced. Odie, divorced. Leon, divorced. Donnie, divorced. I think Barb was divorced, but she also had cancer. Tyrone was in jail when his son Harley got him arrested for fighting, I have no idea if he ever married. Orville would stop by every year for the reunion with a new native girlfriend and a new leased car.

Here’s the thing. My family is a devout family of southern Baptists. My grandfather used to train other preachers. For his funeral a dozen had come up from various parts of the US to sing and dance at his funeral. No one in that house would drop an N bomb, they would muffle an n sound while talking. They didn’t swear, there were no dice or cards in the house. Yet still, everyone of them was a broken home.

They all had indoor plumbing; there was no war to sign up for. Life was good. They were boomers. Sure, they all had stories of Alberta and racism in the '50s, but they were all doing well for themselves. The only thing they couldn’t do was stay together. It was like a foreign port… Scattered the first chance they got. All good people, all broken homes. I don’t know most of my cousins. The ones that weren’t in jail or broke left and never came back.

♦♦♦

When I was sailing, the ship that had the worst living conditions had the tightest-knit crew. When I was raised, the people who had the hardest life stayed together the longest. And when I had the most to offer, and the most was offered to me in the red pill, was when everyone was in a shitty marriage or a state of sexless bachelorhood, and you couldn’t make a dime by talking about your state of affairs.

I don’t know who is still struggling out there. Everyone knows of the Marriedredpill subreddit now. It’s full of newly minted sexless Christian men talking about rites of passage and giving each other tough words of wisdom. No one shares embarrassing things because they may lose the esteem of their anonymous peers. They create second accounts for added anonymity. Throwaway420.69 says things that Trumplover1983 never could. Everyone is busy trying to redefine Frame so that they have one, arguing about the morality of Dread while they don’t use it, and arguing over rules, structure, and high-minded ideals of what things could be if we band together like merry men and step up to the King of England.

Attitude reflects leadership.

What do you get from people who talk about the red pill? You get meta discussions, defenses, apologies, and posting links around the same way the men’s rights advocates used to pass around infographics of statistics. We are winning hearts and minds, one inconsequential argument at a time. I have an idea why, but I don’t want to say yet—the soapbox has some life left in her.

If you’ve been following me for the last 5 years, you’ve seen just about everything I know, everything I’ve seen, and a bunch of things I haven’t. You’ve seen everything I did in my life to polish off the rough edges that [insert boogeyman] put there. Mom made one a promise keeper. Feminism made one flaccid against women. TV made shitty sitcoms that had men aspire to being a schlub. There wasn’t a single change to any movie that made this possible for me, and I doubt it did for you. Getting mad at mom or women didn’t really make them act any better. If I’m being honest, it never made any of us feel better either. It was cathartic, though. Some feminist got fired for being a cunt last week, and the world didn’t change.

The only thing that mattered was what I did. Glover talked often about covert contracts, so I focus on covert contracts. I could write now and forever about covert contracts. When guys first start red pill, they see them everywhere. Why won’t the wife sex me when the ring cost $10k? Why won’t she listen to me when I finally read Rational Male? Why does no one know that I am now aware of the red pill and start acting right?

Then, as I move on, there are the second-level covert contracts. ‘If I get in great shape, learn good game, then she will definitely act right.’ Everyone does these ones too. Their wife turns out to be the same cunt that’s tired of her man’s whiny shit that she was before. The only difference is a meal plan. Then I get past those—we all do eventually. Peppered into every social media site are hundreds of the same argument that articulate how:

“So you’re saying if I work out, eat right, dress better, learn how to have charm, that my wife will start sexing me again and not be such a bitch?”

No. None of that is guaranteed.

“So wait. Why am I doing all that if she doesn’t change the way I want her to?”

Because you can’t manipulate people like that. That’s a nice guy behavior. You covertly do things to manipulate them into doing things for you. And people react negatively to being manipulated. So either your wife doesn’t know you’re doing this for her, or she does, and refuses to go along with it.

“So then. Why do any of it if she won’t act right?”

Well, is she acting right now?

“Of course not.”

Then why is she still around?

“Because she’s a great mom to the kids, she makes good food, and cleans well.”

A maid is cheap. She is a mom in your house or hers. Cooking is easy too.

“So what’s your point?”

Well. You can hire a maid. You can hire a babysitter. You can cook your own meals. You work out, eat right, and are pleasant company for a bored woman who is looking for sex. Sex is easy in 2024. Girls just give it away and treat it like empowerment.

“That’s immoral!”

Whose morals?

“Mine!”

Who gave them to you? Your mom? She divorced your dad and accused him of abuse. Your church? They pushed you into marrying a single mom when you were 22. TV? They just wanted to sell car insurance ad space. Are they morals, or are they feelings of abandonment?

“What do you mean?”

Well, if you leave your wife, then you’re alone. You will be abandoned, and that feels bad. You will feel like a 5-year-old who lost his mom and will die in the woods. That’s why you fear it. It’s like spiders. They can’t actually hurt you, but you lose your shit when you see one.

“No, I’m not!”

You don’t think so, but that’s how instincts work. If you could articulate it, it wouldn’t be instinct. And even if it wasn’t, would it look any different?

“But the statistics say children do better when…”

A line goes down on a drawing and you change your whole life? Bro. You get better, look better, and act better because you don’t like yourself. You’re willing to put up with shitty behavior because you’re afraid of being alone. You’re not working out and eating well to manipulate your wife into liking you. You’re doing that to manipulate you into liking yourself.

And when you like yourself, you don’t put up with bullshit. When something goes wrong, you look at yourself and wonder what you could have done to never be in that position. You learn that your kids will be better off if you’re a good dad every other weekend than if you’re present and a shit dad. Is it ideal? No. But this is life—you don’t get to pick utopia, you get to pick from your best options. So does your wife. And if you’re not her best option, that’s OK, because you’re going to quickly find out she isn’t yours either.

“What?”

I’ve yet to talk to a divorced guy who hasn’t found women a decade younger than his wife, more willing, more pleasant, and more adventurous. It’s just how it works. And when married guys look, they see it too. You have to, otherwise, you don’t realize that you have options. You don’t have to put up with things you don’t need to, and that changes everything.

“What if I don’t want things to change?”

Then why did you even bother working out or eating?

“To be better.”

Unless it’s better for you at the expense of someone who doesn’t really care for you?

You work out, eat right, learn game, do dread, have frame—not because you want your wife to love you more, but because you need to accept that you cannot change people, and you cannot have utopia. You have the options you make for yourself. A nice side effect of that is the people in your life treat you better when they see you don’t need them. I can’t explain it—it’s just what people do.

“So what you’re saying is that if I do the work, my wife will treat me better?”

She may, but by then you won’t care.

Meta

So much of the red pill, its mental models and strategies involve getting from point A to B. A seeks validation from women, A is supplicative, A is conflict-averse, A is fat, A dresses like shit, A is a good little boy angry that he isn’t allowed to have ice cream after dinner. B is a man, B gets what he wants, B isn’t afraid to cut the cancer from his life. B is the man that people act better to have in their life. A is nice to have, until he isn’t. Frame is getting from A to B. Dread is getting from A to B. Game is getting from A to B. The sexual marketplace is about understanding what A to B even is.

No one talks about A, B, or the path between. Everyone loves to talk about the metal to draw lines in the sand and battle out enemies while praising our friends. It’s gay, and not in the good way.

Every content creator will talk about the Meta. Some engagement-farming retard will blame (or burn) the muffins, the weather, on the red pill. Red pill counter engagement farmers will counter by calling them a cunt, or arguing, or sending photos of charts, statistics, and infographics, by laying out a great argument as to why what red pill guys are doing is good and right and useful and ‘if you only knew what we were attempting then you would agree and I win this argument.’

Have you ever had a fight with a woman before? You could be arguing over water being wet, and she would rather die than cede one drop. You can’t argue with women. You can’t win with women. Just by trying to win, you’re admitting you’re as big a piece of shit as she is. Worse. At least other people want to sleep with her and are willing to lie to her so that she can feel better. No one is the defender of the red pill. No one is the flag bearer. There is no leader. Calling @rational Male the godfather was meant as an insult that he went with because it was ironic. Trust me. I am the couch, I should know how stupid it is.

Everyone is so worried about image. Who is the good guy, who is the bad guy. Who is the in group and the out group and the best marketing demographic except we need mass appeal, and this content creator or the other content creator is making us look bad for taking things out of context but we can’t kick him out because there’s no membership dues and Twitter just paid me $70 this month, so we are fighting the good fight.

When was the last time someone slept with a girl, and wrote about it? When was the last time someone reflected on what they did and came to a conclusion about its efficacy instead of preaching like it’s a cargo cult of guys who are the good guys fighting the bad guys and doing the Godfather’s work?

I’d say 2016. That’s when everyone lost their mind and went full tribal identity politics. Feminism won, pack it in. Dodgeball is at 7 or be a cuck.

I wrote Fuccfiles and Frame and Dread from 2018 to 2023. I don’t think they are anything new or novel from the red pill space. They are more books of history than they are instruction manuals. If I hadn’t, no one would know what a covert contract is, or a nice guy, or dread, or anything like that. When I stop arguing with feminists and Matt Walsh online, people will then slowly forget about it now. I have to accept that covert contract: no matter how much you learn, apply, share, or write, the only person any of us can fix is ourselves.

But I hate the meta. Bored, pregnant neurotic chicks and their spinster armies throwing shade to stave off boredom and top off the wine fund against the second-wave MRA posing as red-pilled. I just hope the rest of you fuck and that online is fake and ghey.

In fairness, I know a lot of you do. I talk a lot about my Patreon and the guys in there. I don’t charge as much as I should, and I don’t advertise it as much as I should. It could be a good revenue stream, and it could be a lot larger. But it’s not there for making money. It’s there for the actual work, you know, fucking and being good at it. What they give me is more than I’ve given all of you. They give me hope that people still swap notes, still learn from each other, still try things, and either sleep with their wives or replace her with someone more willing.

I can live with that. I think I’ll write another book now, because what’s left but to play a song while the Titanic sinks? I’ll add an excerpt from the new book (after the book coming out this fall) coming out next year, working title The Dog Walker.

In the first draft, I get the ideas down. I don’t want to spoil it, but it’s a character study, with a plot. In this case, I’m taking the reader on a journey here. So many guys do everything right in their eyes and are thwarted by the women around them.

So it’s the ordinary experience, made extra ordinary. In this case, a piece from the middle where the character learns to let go and accept people for what they are. The setup is while buying a new set of sheets that were ruined the weekend prior, the protagonist meets a girl in a more wholesome way, expecting to have a different outcome than the usual, but is in for a surprise.