Red Pill Overdose, part 2

It’s useful to compare Pechorin’s reflections from my last post – “fearing ridicule I buried my finest feelings deep in my heart, and there they died” and “I became a moral cripple; I had lost one half of my soul, for it had shriveled, dried up and died, and I had cut it off and cast it away, while the other half stirred and lived, adapted to serve every comer” – with this post by Roosh on the perfect woman:


I was 23-years-old when I met a beautiful girl. I have no idea how I got her but I did, and I didn’t have the “game” that I have now. She liked me for me, an eager guy out of college trying to relieve whatever inadequacy he thought he had.

She crushed me, but that was okay. But I did something that wasn’t okay. I overcompensated, to the extreme. I had to get even better at the game so not only could I find a girl like that again, but I could keep her as well. You see there was an end goal of a happy relationship somewhere along the line, but it didn’t work out like that. The game was the end itself. The perfect woman I thought I wanted slowly slipped away. She morphed into this monster of easy sex and unrealistic expectations. Sex on demand, no later than the third date, and if you’re not exactly what I want then fuck off.

Part of me wishes I got swooped up by her. Maybe I would see women as more than just numbers and stories. Maybe I’d be in a happy relationship. Sure I’d be whipped and still working in some soulless job trying to pay a mortgage, but at least I’d have this woman who cared for me and loved me, and I would do the same to her. I think I was capable of that.

Instead I went down this rabbit hole… deeper and deeper… and darker. I see less than I used to. Too much experience, too used to easy attention and cheap thrills. You can’t undo your experiences, especially when there is just too many of them, their naked bodies, their smell on your fingers as you drive home racking up another score… your fantasies of their moans and kisses as you smile yourself to sleep. The way they laugh at jokes you’ve said a hundred times before.

It gets worse every year, the happy relationship with my “perfect” girl just gets farther as I become more incapable, as I become “better” at getting sex that has meaning but really doesn’t. I don’t even notice differences in girls anymore. But I can’t stop. I notice most other guys can. Am I… a validation junkie? An attention whore? Like the girls I criticize?

When that girl dumped me I cried. I went to her place to get my stuff, hoping I could keep it going. But it was done. I left and parked in a gas station and sat there and cried like a little baby. If that happened today, I wouldn’t even give a shit, and I think that’s my problem. I’m a machine with flesh, no empathy or love… another night, another performance.

She wasn’t perfect, not even close. But she was. Anyone decent looking can be made perfect. You already know it takes very little effort. But I haven’t done it recently.

So… she’s gone. Experience killed the perfect woman. It means nothing to me.

I have nothing to add. Remember, this is a diagnosis. How to cure it, only the lord knows.

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About Pechorin

A Hero of Our Time
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2 Responses to Red Pill Overdose, part 2

  1. Unamused says:

    Life is slow torture, and death the only release.

  2. Pingback: A Hero of Our Time: Introduction | Pechorin

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