I just swiped the metaphorical credit card. I'm set on going, no pulling out now.
I've been seeing a local girl. She's 23, very attractive, wants to move slow (re: probably getting dick on the side) and I haven't been able to close the deal yet. Consider me a greater beta; despite my cavalier and ruthlessly scientific approach to gender relations and romance, there's a part of my psychology that I haven't yet been able to snuff out yet, and that's the enjoyment of 'love', whatever that is.
I'll skip all the details and cut to the epiphany:
"It can't be this hard."
Let's set aside the fact that this girl was by far the most reasonable prospect I've met in quite a long time; intelligent, attractive, interested, young. She's not perfect, but she's very qualified for the position. The sheer gap between her, and the other dozens of girls I've met in the last year, has me scratching my head. Is this really as good as it gets?
A few brief interactions, one with two girls from Austria, and one from Palau, had etched themselves into my memory. I couldn't put my finger on why I found the company of these girls infinitely more pleasant than normal. I felt good around them, validated as a man, appreciated as a human being. I legitimately enjoyed buying the Austrian girls a few drinks at the speakeasy I escorted them to. I reveled in their company as each took an arm. I felt none of the barbs, none of the challenges, none of the bristling that so characterized the vast majority of my interaction with American women. And when it came time to bid them goodbye, I had so enjoyed the experience that I didn't even feel bad that I didn't get them both into bed. I literally did not care.
When Roosh released Bang Poland, I was intrigued at the promise of a vast and sprawling country full of femininity. His confession at the end of the book, an anachronistic paean to love by a hardened veteran of the murderously cruel DC bar scene, came as brutishly honest as any of the damning critiques of American women he has penned. Intrigued; was it overselling? Underselling?
My plans to sell everything and move to Poland to pursue a career in writing and music fell off; I ended up getting a better job, and made the dreaded call to invest my cashed out retirement funds into real estate instead of taking a few years in Poland to try to make it as a writer.
But with that safety net cast beneath me, I still wondered about Poland. After all, what else is there in life but woman? Work grinded on, and with the sheer number of only marginally desirable women before me, I couldn't shake the idea of visiting a world where true femininity is still cherished. Was it a pipe dream, one ruined by the sheer inexorable tide of Western culture? Or was it even better than I imagined it, a pristine wildlife preserve amid the ruins of civilization?
I envisioned all of the possible outcomes. Failure? An now-uncharacteristic swallowing of my energies into the same depression I struggled with in my true beta days, where love came long-lost and opportunity malingered beneath hesitation. Jet lag sapping my energy to approach, to move, to love. Alcohol dulling the senses. Testosterone running thin, draining my motivation to do more than simply live. The resignation of money blown, opportunity lost, careers threatened for the long departure. What if the women were simply no better than American women? Even if a few lays came of it, what would I have proven?
And what would success be? The warm and slender body of a woman, of long gazes into dappled brown eyes. Promises to stay in contact, her tearful goodbyes at the airport, a Vkontakte inbox filled with aching messages. A newfound measure to weigh against the inferiority of American women, the resolve to accept no less than true quality. What should constitute success, after all? Roosh warned against the idea of a rapid turnover time in getting women into bed, a prospect I am only secondarily interested in. If I wanted to get laid, I'm a stone's throw away from Las Vegas, where my less skilled seduction techniques nonetheless find greater purchase and it's a hell of a lot cheaper to boot.
No. I've been studying women for years now. I need a reference point. It can't be this hard, not everywhere. Skrillex haircuts, tattoos, body hair, obesity. It can't be this hard.
I bit my lip, and clicked the button. Booked. Bloody hell.
Booked.
I've been seeing a local girl. She's 23, very attractive, wants to move slow (re: probably getting dick on the side) and I haven't been able to close the deal yet. Consider me a greater beta; despite my cavalier and ruthlessly scientific approach to gender relations and romance, there's a part of my psychology that I haven't yet been able to snuff out yet, and that's the enjoyment of 'love', whatever that is.
I'll skip all the details and cut to the epiphany:
"It can't be this hard."
Let's set aside the fact that this girl was by far the most reasonable prospect I've met in quite a long time; intelligent, attractive, interested, young. She's not perfect, but she's very qualified for the position. The sheer gap between her, and the other dozens of girls I've met in the last year, has me scratching my head. Is this really as good as it gets?
A few brief interactions, one with two girls from Austria, and one from Palau, had etched themselves into my memory. I couldn't put my finger on why I found the company of these girls infinitely more pleasant than normal. I felt good around them, validated as a man, appreciated as a human being. I legitimately enjoyed buying the Austrian girls a few drinks at the speakeasy I escorted them to. I reveled in their company as each took an arm. I felt none of the barbs, none of the challenges, none of the bristling that so characterized the vast majority of my interaction with American women. And when it came time to bid them goodbye, I had so enjoyed the experience that I didn't even feel bad that I didn't get them both into bed. I literally did not care.
When Roosh released Bang Poland, I was intrigued at the promise of a vast and sprawling country full of femininity. His confession at the end of the book, an anachronistic paean to love by a hardened veteran of the murderously cruel DC bar scene, came as brutishly honest as any of the damning critiques of American women he has penned. Intrigued; was it overselling? Underselling?
My plans to sell everything and move to Poland to pursue a career in writing and music fell off; I ended up getting a better job, and made the dreaded call to invest my cashed out retirement funds into real estate instead of taking a few years in Poland to try to make it as a writer.
But with that safety net cast beneath me, I still wondered about Poland. After all, what else is there in life but woman? Work grinded on, and with the sheer number of only marginally desirable women before me, I couldn't shake the idea of visiting a world where true femininity is still cherished. Was it a pipe dream, one ruined by the sheer inexorable tide of Western culture? Or was it even better than I imagined it, a pristine wildlife preserve amid the ruins of civilization?
I envisioned all of the possible outcomes. Failure? An now-uncharacteristic swallowing of my energies into the same depression I struggled with in my true beta days, where love came long-lost and opportunity malingered beneath hesitation. Jet lag sapping my energy to approach, to move, to love. Alcohol dulling the senses. Testosterone running thin, draining my motivation to do more than simply live. The resignation of money blown, opportunity lost, careers threatened for the long departure. What if the women were simply no better than American women? Even if a few lays came of it, what would I have proven?
And what would success be? The warm and slender body of a woman, of long gazes into dappled brown eyes. Promises to stay in contact, her tearful goodbyes at the airport, a Vkontakte inbox filled with aching messages. A newfound measure to weigh against the inferiority of American women, the resolve to accept no less than true quality. What should constitute success, after all? Roosh warned against the idea of a rapid turnover time in getting women into bed, a prospect I am only secondarily interested in. If I wanted to get laid, I'm a stone's throw away from Las Vegas, where my less skilled seduction techniques nonetheless find greater purchase and it's a hell of a lot cheaper to boot.
No. I've been studying women for years now. I need a reference point. It can't be this hard, not everywhere. Skrillex haircuts, tattoos, body hair, obesity. It can't be this hard.
I bit my lip, and clicked the button. Booked. Bloody hell.
Booked.
Check out my occasionally updated travel thread - The Wroclaw Gambit II: Dzięki Bogu - as I prepare to emigrate to Poland.
