The twilight zone…

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then run this for audible reading pleasures…

What abilities do you need to be good at this game? None, really. Your birth certificate is your ticket to the battleground. The trenches, beyond which resides the ever-elusive twilight zone. A smile comes across my face at the mere thought of it.

This place is the holy grail of the Game, the Nimbus, the glory, the desire deluxe. I have seen it, I have lived it. It’s like crack, an almost suffocating feeling of euphoria. Like when you hear your favorite song on the radio or embrace the lip glossed girl under the halo.

But these privileges, these spoils, are reserved for the elite.

NOT the button pushers. Those willing to play the game to the bitter limits. Those willing to let go…

How can any guy ever expect to score if he’s not going to play… not going to fully engage the game?! The trenches are a tough place. To the victor go the spoils.

Maybe most guys reading this will be coming from a place of fear and scarcity. Deploy your episodic memory to that fateful night as your index fingers descended on your keyboard: double-u, double-u, double-u, dot, google, dot, com. Enter string: ‘how to get girls’.

And before your eyes appeared a myriad of companies and products, promises and prophecies, you too could be a pimp-pornstar-playa. Just like the abs machine stowed away in your garage or closet.

Skeptically, farcically you engage these ‘magic pills’ why not? You have nothing to lose. Except your virginity. Your real virginity. That movie Hitch couldn’t be real could it?! Who could possibly help a guy like Albert?!

So you hit the field, like that first day at school all over again, you channel your excitement, you vodka and you peer over you left shoulder and initiate the conversation. And like the plunging handle of the TNT ignition your game spontaneously combusts!

The girls are actually talking to you!

You think you totally rock!

You talk to all your friends about the numbers you got and how she was totally into you!

You begin to think of yourself as the guy who gets the girls. Impervious to the bad reactions that you never risk exposing yourself to.

But then, in a ‘heart skipping a beat’ moment you realize that you might not be as good as you thought you were… after all you haven’t even read all the other companies’ guides on how to get girls. You could never be complete until you have consulted every stitch of published ‘Poooah’ propaganda.

But, does anyone ever stop to think that you already have all the content you ever needed, the biology and the desire. Sure this stuff has some great insights and even ‘training wheels’ but I can assure you it is not the answer… it is the motivation, it is the guidance or catalyst.

Don’t be the metaphor of the bucket with the content hole in it.

IT IS A GAME. THE GAME! Humans have been playing it for millions of years.

Like to blur of stars in the jump to light-speed propel your imagination forward to 8pm Saturday night…

The apex of the social week. People go out for the sake of going out, the crowds are getting drunk to ‘try their luck’ screw, spew and fight. It’s hectic, there’s lines, lines, covers, dancing, lasers and smoke. Stargate your ass into a battlescape between social-sexual good and evil. Some can’t hack it, some save their altercation for the aisles of the local DVD store. Adam Sandler or Jenifer Aniston? Yuk.

No.

Why do men play sport? It’s a celebration of your masculinity, a release and exertion of yourself onto the world in all of its grandeur. What happens when you get the door of the venue? The venue clerks confirm you chronology, take a moment to confirm your gender.

No really, what does it say on your ID?

Why do men all over the world go to the gym, jog, compete whether win, lose or draw? The fun is in the process! The sweetest victory is the one hard earned. Some don’t even get the chance to play. Forced into early retirement. Till death do they part. Cue the solemn eulogy.

Ten PM Saturday night. Bitch shields are operating at full capacity, you bounce in and out of sets. Like a kamikaze pilot you continue head-on into your destiny. You don’t know what will happen but you persevere. The glory is not in the number… not in the kiss tally. Not in the pseudo IOI’s. The glory is in the quest. The twinkling twilight zone.

The close.

As you get deeper and deeper entrenched into the battle, you plow through, your very identity being tested, suppressing fire is heavy and tests you to the very tether of your masculinity. You’re on your path no one can reroute your intentions.

They try, your ego-social-persona is bruised beyond repair. Your abandon it indifferent to future circumstances, bullet-proof you subscribe to no structure no one can contain you, control you or predict you.

The injection of the energy is your purpose…your momentum builds and others are drawn into it. Just enough momentum to compensate for your weary and failing efforts, enough take you over the threshold…

Like matrix ‘bullet time’ you see yourself in third person slow motion, your heart beats audibly in your own ears, your calibration is tight, you are executing the most difficult of maneuvers as though they had been pre-wired into your consciousness?!

You connect with your unstifled natural self. Where have your adversaries gone? The suppressing fire was too much, driven back to the wall of shame they look on, ego’s diminished, taciturn and wide eyed.

Those on the battlefield acknowledge your gallantry, valor and masculinity. Sets are blowing wide open all around you, everybody knows you, the social standard. The fixed axel of reality’s whirring wheel. The fruits of your passion and path: You are the femininely chosen one.

One AM. You are ushered surreptitiously and deservedly deep into the twilight zone.

You move slowly and calculated through your zone. Your party is siphoned onto others, in gratitude you’re hydration is assured. Bitch shields erode, rendered feeble in light of persistence, in light of your path.

You can do no wrong, verbal communication fades to black. The sparkle of your eyes and the authenticity of your smile communicates your intentions and internal state to all whom are engaged by it.

The sweet and unmistakable smell of gorgeous cosmetics, the long flowing two-toned blond hair of the lip glossed, lightly freckled aerobically toned goddess. Her warm embrace, sparks flutter to the ground as you draw her in. Her soft lips on yours, the dissipation of endorphins, the banquet of glory.

It didn’t used to be this way…emotional scars, leverage and bitter memory of the trenches are a distant but fervent reminder of your ghost self.

You made it. You are the naturally attractive guy.

You are the Hero.

No?

Perception is projection.

Alexander~