Matt Forney
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Our Only Defense is to Gather as an Army

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On this trip so far, I’ve met two people via the blog. When I was in Chicago, one reader bought me lunch at a bar near Lincoln Park, and I had vodka Sprites with another guy off State Street in Madison. Both were cool, interesting dudes: I haven’t run into any Stydie-esque spazzy morons, though that may be because I’m not yet popular enough to attract them. (For those who don’t get the reference, in Assholes Finish First, Tucker Max relates his experience meeting one of his fans, who went by the online handle “Stydie.” The guy was a socially inept dweeb who spastically dropped cups of beer, made weird mix-CDs, and wore a trench coat out to bars.)

It’s both reassuring and strange to talk about this stuff in real life.

Christ, my life has become so surreal it’s almost incomprehensible. Between getting handcuffed by Canadian border police, passing out drunk in a hostel bathroom, and getting high to an Olivia Tremor Control performance, talking with another guy about the suckiness of American women, the pointlessness of the 9-to-5 grind, and about bloggers like Heartiste, Roosh and Frost is the cherry on the weirdness sundae. I’m hoping to meet another big manosphere figure after I hit the road again, and of course there are a bunch more guys, including Jack Donovan and Bronan the Barbarian!, in Portland.

Social networking is all well and good, but when you come face to face with one of the guys who’s been affected by your writing, it’s on a whole other level.

While we were chatting in Madison, Mark (not his real name) told me how reading Frost’s Freedom Twenty-Five Lifestyle Guide, along with other blogs like Chateau Heartiste/Roissy in DC and In Mala Fide, encouraged him to quit his shitty, underpaid job at the Chicago Stock Exchange and survive by playing online poker. He makes a decent living in Madison and wants to buy a motorcycle and travel all across America. He doesn’t have the prestige of a big, fancy financial job, and he’ll probably never get married and have kids.

By the standards of mainstream society, Mark’s a loser, and so am I. But neither of us cares.

Mark’s happy, despite failing by “normal” standards, because he’s living life on his own terms. He’s not beholden to a demanding boss or a cunty wife. He doesn’t have to work 80-hour weeks for a pittance. His “workday” begins and ends when he feels like it. He can go out and enjoy himself whenever he wants. And when he decides to go on his cross-country motorcycle trip, he won’t have to beg for two weeks off from work; he can just hop on his bike and go.

Unmoored, unencumbered, and only taking on those burdens that help you progress towards your wants and desires… that’s how a man should live.

I’m not exactly a big fish in the manosphere, but it moves me to see that I’m part of an intellectual movement that’s having a noticeable impact. All across America and the West at large, men are giving up their crummy cubicle jobs and their fantasies of wife, kids and a white picket fence in favor of what they really want to do. Mark’s playing online poker and saving up for a Kawasaki; I’m hitchhiking to the other side of the country to start a career as a writer, start a rock band and make money by underestimating the intelligence of the average American affiliate marketing.

If you want to see the future of a nation, a people, a culture, look at what it’s young men are doing.

It’s plainly obvious that the traditional path of Monday to Friday employment, love, marriage and a baby carriage either isn’t working out or impossible for us to achieve period. Society is oriented to serve women and morons at our expense. So where are the young dudes going?

I can tell you where they ain’t going.

They ain’t flocking to the men’s rights movement. The MRM is a whiners’ lobby comprisedof bitter middle-aged guys who got burned in divorce court coupled with virgins who wear their aversion to women with pride. In other words, it’s comprised of men who’ve either lost their balls or never had any to begin with. MRAs are so gelded they can’t even piss on the corpses of their enemies without feeling guilty. The MRM’s biggest use is as a cautionary tale, an example of how not to live your life.

Young men aren’t flocking to conservatism/traditionalism, ideologies headed by clueless old men (and young fogeys: marriage and fatherhood prematurely age a man) whose response to the tribulations men face today is, “I don’t care, get married anyway. It’s your DUTY to knock up some broad and squeeze out 3-4 children for God/America/the white race. You better man up, or else we’ll… keep wagging our fingers at you. And you wouldn’t want THAT.”

Young men aren’t going to their parents. People are inherently self-absorbed, and the older they get, the worse they get. Your parents mean well, but they have no clue, absolutely none, about how dramatically the world has changed. They think it’s still 1979 and the American Dream is still achievable, that well-paying jobs are still plentiful, that the dating scene still makes sense. Trying to explain any of this to them is as pointless as trying to explain Picasso to someone born blind.

Young men are going to the manosphere.

They’re going to Heartiste to learn about the true nature of women.

They’re going to Roosh to read up on the best countries to visit.

They’re going to Frost to learn how to shuck off their self-imposed chains and live life on their terms.

And they’re coming to me to get inspired, fired up and entertained all at once.

You can call us whatever names you want: “degenerate,” “misogynistic,” “woman-hating,” “losers,” “negative.” It doesn’t matter, because we aren’t simply on the cutting edge, we are the cutting edge.

Western values mean nothing to us.

“Traditional” values mean nothing to us.

Societal expectations? We laugh at them.

We live for hot girls, cold beer and fun times. We live for ourselves and no one else.

The future isn’t decided by women. It’s not decided by old or middle-aged men. It’s decided by young men, and right now, young men are angling to become like Roosh, Frost, Heartiste, Mark… or me.

If you’re not concerned, you should be.

Because a world in which a guy who plays online poker for a living, or a guy who hitchhikes and lives out of a backpack, are role models is a world that is on the precipice of collapse.

Read Next: What Would Your Mother Say? What Would Your Father Do?

  • Brigadon

    Well, if it makes you feel better, the ‘MRM’ has started calling itself the ‘MHRM’ in order to distinguish egalitarian leftists from us freaks that like to go hunting, eat meat, keep a full-time ‘slave girl’, and eagerly encourage the fall of America. I still call myself ‘MRA’, but that’s because I don’t think anyone has ‘rights’ he doesn’t earn.

    I think they refer to us as ‘caveman MRA’s’ or some such.

    Still fucking hate cops though. Yeah, they may be brave and think they are doing the right thing, and I will respect my enemies.