A “philosopher” (ohh!) takes a stab at Derbyshire

Pechorin already properly put this sniveling, self-loathing retard in his place, and I couldn’t bring myself to read the whole thing because I just ate a sizable chunk of lamb and want it to stay down, but I’ll tack on some additional thoughts:

“If they respond with sociological data about education and birth rates and all the rest, we only have to respond that like crime rates, they’re exactly the sort of consequences one would expect from a history of oppression.”

I would have also have asked him to define oppression, and brought up the Jews, who quite clearly have a history of it. How come they’re not low-IQ, violent criminals in disproportionate numbers? Must be all that kosher food in their diet.

Oh, and his arguments about education rates are laughable, considering the state of race sensitivity in the US is like one giant landmine, and affirmative action “push them through” programs and mentalities squeeze many through highly intensive courses, when under normal circumstances they would simply drop out, or never have been foolishly encouraged to take them in the first place.

“So here is the hard truth that advocates of enlightened racism need to face: their sociological data and ideas about black character, intelligence and morality are post-hoc rationalizations of their discomfort with average cultural differences between whites and blacks.”

I enjoy it when people who act out of character when they’re not lying to themselves, use phrases like “hard truth.” And since “post-hoc” immediately struck me as unnecessary, I read this as “I just used ‘post-hoc’ in a sentence, so you can trust me that the We-Are-The-World pixie dust we’ve all been snorting is healthy!”

Honestly, I see people like this, and I have a passing, smiling thought, that maybe God has a sense of humor and a drugged-up black will one day violently rape him in the asshole. Because the look on his face afterward would be priceless, his brain scrambling like a smoking motherboard to reconcile the brutal savagery that just transpired, with the years of bathing in multiculturalist dogshit that prevented him from believing it was even possible.

Will Mitt Romney bribe Rick Santorum?

Ever since Rick Santorum dropped out of the race, I’ve had this weird idea floating around my head the last few days, somewhere in between subconscious and conscious thought, that given how little we know about everything else in government and politics these days, I wonder if the guy who is looking like he’s going to win will bribe with money the other ones whose supporters’ votes they need in order to secure their “endorsement.” The only problem, I thought, is these people are so high-profile, especially during election season, that how could they ever coordinate it? What would be the “reason”? With the total lack of privacy in telecommunications, a phone call would be impossible, even encrypted VoIP, as the other guy could be recording it. No, the only solution would a face-to-face meeting. Then this came out, and my jaw dropped at the timing:

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/32545640

Maybe there are people who are like “well, obviously he’s going to bribe him,” but to me this is a shock. Think about it… these are people with no principles whatsoever, whose public opinions change like the wind based on surveys.

The sheeple will stay with Santorum (in “their” opinion that Romney “might not be the best candidate”), unless directed otherwise. It would simply be one sheepherder selling his sheeple to another sheepherder, for the right price, and especially someone like Romney, especially as rich as he is, would no doubt fork over the “market” price for presidential endorsement bribes, whatever that is. I mean this guy has probably been playing with Secret Service dolls since he was 5. He probably dressed up as President for Halloween.

It almost seems to me like all the anti-Romney rhetoric is just making Santorum’s asking price for his public endorsement go up. Maybe this is obvious to some who have been reading about politics for a long time, but my prediction is that the meeting described will result in an Academy Award-worthy endorsement from Santorum, because I think Romney will have paid Santorum millions of dollars for it. And, other than flip-flopping, hiding money transfers is probably Romney’s second best skill.

Yay, Democracy: Rule of the Sheeple.

A formal rebuttal of John Derbyshire

Wait for it…. wait for it… the overwhelming evidence refuting every one of John Derbyshire’s points is going to come, and it’s going to come hard.

How can I be so sure? It’s simple: supply and demand.

Given that since John Derbyshire dropped his racist rant bomb only a few days ago the vast majority (and – I – do – mean – vast) of the media has been up in arms — kind of like the hot, high-class girl who scoffs at the prospect of a one-night stand (“I am NOT that kind of girl!”) then gets pounded into oblivion by the bartender behind a dumpster —  you can fully expect the statistics to pour in from the same fine folks who bought you Climate Change: Death of The Universe!

It’s cognitive dissonance at its finest. The entire journalist shill industry is part of a giant piece of artwork, splatters of drying paint on the canvas of multiculturalism, left to crumble away once the paper ages… and it’s real old already. The great comedy of it all is they don’t recognize that their significant contribution to public debate is having a louder voice than the next retard at a public execution, and in the end, the joke’s on them.

In fact, I’ll go out on a limb here and say that if overwhelming refutation of John Derbyshire’s claims don’t inundate the media sewers now that the Truth cat is outta the bag, well… I don’t know what I’d do, because that just won’t happen.

However, the cat is in fact out of the bag. People are waking up. I don’t know who said it, but it’s especially pertinent as this continues to evolve: There are two ways to speak the truth, anonymously and posthumously. Folks in the blogosphere and their readership are starting to find that other living, breathing, rational human beings have had similar experiences.

They wonder, “Does having this experience make me a racist? Does seeing with my eyes make me a racist?” Eventually they can’t bear the thought of answering “yes” anymore. They know of a friend or family member who was mugged, or worse. Whereas before their mental prison prevented them from detailed inquiry, now all the pieces start fitting together. As ugly as the puzzle looks, you can leave it unfinished, but you can’t change the design. The crack in the ground is there. It will only widen, slowly at first, then… well, you know what happens.

It’s like this… you can wear glasses your whole life, and the picture you see in front of you is a distortion of what your eyes would otherwise see. You take them off for the first time. You may not like what you see, but it’s real. Facing reality head on can be scary initially, but it’s unparalleled in its ability to turn a sheeple into a real human being. Pinocchio comes to mind.

As more non-blacks start to take off their multiculturalism goggles, and look at the world through their own fresh set of eyes, it may be uncomfortable at first, but reality is refreshing, and addictive. I think this trend will only accelerate as the economy worsens, and the unexamined tendency to feel bad for the downtrodden black man will be replaced by a need to feed one’s family. It will be replaced by an insurmountable anger once you realize your caring and compassionate friend of many years is drowning in student loan debt and his black roommate, who he has nothing but nice things to say about, has a full ride. The floodgates will open as more realize that their experience with blacks is strikingly similar. This is tough for me because, as Stephen Covey says, “a double-minded man is unstable in all his ways.” I have black friends. You probably do, too. I’ll go first:

I have never met a black person I could have a “deep” intellectual conversation with, but God knows I’ve tried. I know they exist, but if you were to tell me it’s statistically unsurprising that I’ve not yet met such an individual, as someone who travels the globe, socializes and goes out quite a bit, and had been indoctrinated with multiculturalism dogma from an early age, that would still ring true with my first-hand experience in life.

I’ve had and currently have black friends — some more aptly described as pleasant and friendly acquaintances but some actual friends — who can easily be described as some combination of the following adjectives: funny, compassionate, positive, athletic, warm, loyal, trustworthy, and probably many others.

As much as I want to force myself to add it, I can not in good conscience add intelligence. Mind you, this is just my personal experience. Maybe there’s a Black Mensa group or something, but, try as they might, exceptions never made the rule.

Best case scenario, there’s friendship, but at some point I hit a road block past which there is simply no cranial penetration. Worst case scenario, other than a lot of positive vibes, “what up!” and general feel-good-ness, clinking of drink glasses, there’s literally no meaningful communication or exchange of ideas taking place. The fact that none of my black friends have been violent criminals is pretty well described by Derbyshire’s “educated, sociable” blacks. Call me nuts, but I wouldn’t walk into South Chicago looking to make friends with the crack dealing pimp, even though I know in my heart of hearts he’s only poor because of the white man’s greed. Cough. The fact that they exist in no small numbers is just that — a fact. Facts can be spun any number of ways, and the fact-spinners are clocking in serious overtime these days. Given that blacks are 3.5 times as likely as Whites to be on welfare, those fact-spinners are almost surely White.It’s a noble profession, as statistics are inherently racist.

Back to violence. While I don’t personally know any violent criminals and luckily haven’t been assaulted/mugged by one, a female friend I knew well in college was raped by a black athlete. I know, I know, he could have just as easily been white. But he wasn’t. And no one else I’ve known has been raped or mugged by a non-black, either. Coincidence, I know… these damn coincidences.

Eh, what am I saying…where am I?! … *puts goggles back on* Eek, excuse my rant above, I was clearly on methamphetamine. Back to the point: John Derbyshire is going to look like a fool when the world’s best and brightest come together to knock him down off his racist pedestal, and I’ll be the first one to laugh when it happens. All of his ridiculous arguments are going to be turned upside down when the real facts about race come out.

“Thought control > murder rate” -Race Profiteers

It’s times like these I wish I had a readership to help confirm my assessment on this one. This is how I viewed the communication taking place:

O’REILLY: I don’t understand how I’m supposed to look at this situation. I watch a video, and all I see is a bunch of black people looting a store. But I know I’m gonna be in some serious shit if I don’t find another way to explain this away. Help?
GUEST: People shouldn’t be looting. That’s not what this case is about. It distracts from the real issue, which is black people being unfairly prejudiced. Looting aside, black people don’t commit crime. Ever.
O’REILLY: I like how you said that with a straight face. Please, continue.
GUEST: As I was saying, video footage of black people committing frenzied crime undermines the conversation we should be having, which is that black people never commit crime, and it’s therefore obnoxious to profile us in order to prevent it.
O’REILLY: Whoopi Goldberg Deluxe?
WHOOPI: Black people around the country are now united against racial profiling after many years of it. This unfortunate incident allows us to have the conversation.
O’REILLY: The overwhelming majority of murders committed against blacks, are committed by blacks.
GUEST: Yes.
O’REILLY: In New York City, “Stop and Frisk” has dramatically reduced crime.
GUEST: Yes.
O’REILLY: …for blacks.
GUEST: Yes.
O’REILLY: This has occurred partly by profiling those statistically likely to be committing crimes. Namely, minorities.
GUEST: Yes.
WHOOPI: You raciss’!
O’REILLY: We’re talking about a drastically reduced murder rate here, and I have no reason to doubt the statistics. What does that imply about the role of racial profiling in preventing murder?
WHOOPI: My eyes open really wide to distract people into thinking my incoherent rambling is a result of a physical deformity rather than low intelligence. Anyway, I don’t know if you’re aware Bill, but we finally had a police officer in LA convicted of racial profiling. This is huge for our cause.
O’REILLY: That had literally nothing to do with my previous question. The fact that a professional race peddler is at best is blatantly disingenuous, but at worse possesses marginally functional intelligence, doesn’t speak well for your cause. Moving on…
GUEST: I enjoy statistics when they serve my purposes. In this case, they do not. Let’s quickly change subjects in a way that seems like a natural transition rather than me avoiding an 800-lb. gorilla.
O’REILLY: Agreed. If I harp on the topic, it will expose you and the intellectual fraud you perpetuate for a living. Your credibility will be destroyed, and fervent cries of racism will cause me to lose my job, as recently happened to Pat Buchanan. This is a lose-lose scenario for both of us.
GUEST: Indeed.
O’REILLY: Well, I agree that racial profiling in and of itself is negative. What’s the proposed solution then?
[silence]
GUEST: …You raciss’!
O’REILLY: [looking at the camera] America, if you’re too dumb to see what’s going on here, you deserve what’s coming. Race Profiteer 1, Race Profiteer 2, thanks for your time.
BLACK WOMEN: Raciss’ Old White Man, thanks for having us on. Having the courage to sit in the same room as one of you without vomiting will surely boost our credibility with Black America (and yuppie SWPLs, most of whom will undoubtedly watch this clip in masturbatory self-loathing as they sip free trade organic lattes in Starbucks). We’ll be sure to add this appearance on your show as evidence of our willingness to show our faces whenever the Nuclear Football of Racism next makes its public appearance. Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson set the bar pretty high, but when we see all the free publicity they get and money they somehow manage to squirrel awayhope they give to so many, and injustices they bring into the public debate, we just can’t bear the thought of sitting around and doing nothing.

The logical conclusion of this exchange is that — assuming the guest is not an affirmative action nitwit and can follow basic logic — the black women, ostensibly representing the interests of Black America, believe that a haphazard, impossible, and wholly Orwellian attempt to control what people think, is more important than reducing murders… of black people themselves.

Though since these race profiteers are likely doing pretty well for themselves, they’re probably as far removed from the average black person as the politicians are from the average US citizen.

Clotrimazole 1% (10g) @ RMB¥1 (US$.16)

I’ve had some minor Athlete’s Foot for a few weeks now. Red lines in the grooves between the toes, little bit of itchiness, that kinda thing. It’s been a royal pain in the ass, as I’ve had to work out a system for soaking my socks in vinegar and then washing them with bleach, and drying my feet with a heater, in order to try and contain it. Other than psychological, it’s unclear whether it’s had any effect .

Finally, I gave up and Googled how to solve it, and came up with Clotrimazole. A three-minute walk to my local pharmacy here in China, and I now have the above in my possession. For sixteen measly cents.

Now, while I admit that Amazon.com has some comparably-priced generic Clotrimazole, from what I’ve seen, the shipping charges are many multiples the cost of the product. Furthermore, having lived in the United States most of my life, assuming some parasitic government bureaucrat hasn’t already made it illegal without a prescription, last I checked medicines of this kind in the US were $10-15 at the local pharmacy.

It’s times like these I’m jealous of all my friends and family in the US, y’know, living in the freest country in the world and all.

EDIT APRIL 22: After seeing little to no progress, I ended up Googling some more, and buying Terbinafine 特比奈芬 for RMB17.50, about US$2.77, at the same pharmacy. Some people just don’t respond to certain medicines, or maybe all the Yahoo! Answers people were full of shit, and Clotrimazole ended up being useless for me. My Athlete’s foot is now completely cured, having used only a small fraction of the tube.

It wasn’t a pick, it was a scratch!

A world-class soccer player and inspiration to millions, 2010 World Cup champion Spain’s team captain Iker Casillas will henceforth be remembered for picking his nose and wiping it off on some random kid’s face.

Even as I write this, I can barely contain the water in my eyes from ten minutes of nonstop laughter. The nonchalance with which he commits this savage pickstrosity is nothing short of epic. The joy this video will bring to so many around the world fills my heart with warmth and gives me hope for a brighter tomorrow.

A detailed experience with frigidity

I recently took a week-long trip to Taiwan with a girl I just met. I left after two days.

I first met her in Hong Kong about a month prior… I spot her from atop the Central-Mid-levels escalator, walking towards Lan Kwai Fong on Queens Road Central. It’s quite a distance, so you know she looked good. The hot chick powerwalk, the high heels, the superstar swaying of the hips. Up close, fantastic. She just turned 22, 5’4-5’5. Beautiful face, and a body that if she just worked out a little bit (or started eating better food, as her diet could have used quite a bit of improvement), would be slamming. Cute, feminine personality. Coy, but a bit of a firecracker, too.

We chat on the street for 10, 15 minutes. I get her number, we both do the head turnaround as we part ways. If you both do it, you obviously did something correct in the interaction.

A few days later, I text her:

Me: 1/24 21:34: “Hey Firecracker it’s Gladiator on my China # ,[sic]how’s your Chinese New Year? 這邊一直下雨，崗亭了[It’s been raining here, it just stopped]”

Her: 1/25 13:24: “Haa happy Chinese new year~we always have rain too~^^”

A few weeks go by, I don’t call.

Me: 2/12 21:50: “Hey Firecracker it’s Gladiator I just tried calling you and got some Cantonese message, maybe you can translate :)”

2/15 I called, we spoke briefly, was not sure if I got hung up on. An hour later, called back, got hung up on again.

Me: 2/15 21:54: “It’s Glatiator, wtf are you hanging up on for?”

It’s kind of tedious to recount these minor details, but here’s the interesting part: After all this, she re-initiates contact with a phone call that Saturday night. It turns out she’s in Shanghai, though of course the hanging up was a test to see my reaction. Apparently I pass with flying colors, because she’s like butter on the phone, especially after hearing my nonchalant reaction (read: NON-reaction). I explain that I thought she was with her boyfriend, and that was it. I think I can hear her hiccup with schoolgirl-crush attraction at such a congruent display of non-neediness and willingness to walk. We chat for about twenty minutes. A few hours later:

Her: 2/18 23:57: “Hey I miss u”

We make tentative plans for her to come visit me, and over the next two weeks speak a handful of times. She invites me to go with her to Taiwan. As I enjoy our conversations, know she is very attractive, and have a free schedule with my work, I accept, and she buys the ticket for me.

Thursday I meet her at the MTR station. She looks great; not as great as I imagined, but very attractive, for sure. After years in the game, little phases me anymore, even physical attractiveness. I really believe if it were Kate Upton I’d still be the man, since I’ve dated girls in that league, minus the celebrity, which I find undesirable as I enjoy privacy.

We get food, get some component for her cell phone, walk around, head back. She lives in a glorious pad in a super pimped out area in Hung Hom, across the river from Central. I’m imagining all the future glory times that will happen here. The sweet place I’ve got to stay any time I’m in Hong Kong, and the pimp pool I’ll get to use during the summer. Gladiator, you’re so smart.

Night: She asks/tells me to take a shower. I insist I showered that morning, and there’s no need. She insists. So do I. I hold my ground, but grudgingly wash my feet, musing that it’s cute she’s so fussy. Our flight is in several hours… the whole time I’m assuming that the two of us as an item is a done deal already. I get into her bed to sleep. I invite her. Smooth as ice.

She pulls out her cell phone and starts watching TV. I watch with her… it’s Chinese, interesting, and I don’t want to be too eager. Time passes, and I don’t want to be a schmuck, so I politely instruct her to turn around and stop caring so much about the TV. I kiss her a bit. She lets me, sort of. Other than perhaps some muscle movement in her lips, no response. It kind of fizzes out like that, and again devolves into cell-phone-TV-watching hell. I figure it’s par for the course since we’ve got another week together, and I don’t really react or care too much. Time passes, and, without sleep, it’s time to get ready for the flight. We’re still having a great time together, and the flirty banter is on full swing, as it has been since Day 1, really. We have a good vibe.

On the plane, I help her a bit with some English words in a Chinese book. I read Don’t Vote – It Just Encourages The Bastards and lol hard, sometimes obnoxiously so. We’re both tired.

As I had lived in Taiwan for some time, I know exactly what to do. I find our correct bus, and, once on it, figure out our correct stop. After disembarking, I navigate to our hotel, a little before check-in time. She’s tired, and cranky. Like a warm paternal figure, I firmly instruct her to relax as we walk around for an hour or two while they prepare the hotel rooms.

Upstairs, we both get ready for bed, and get in. I put my hand on her side to pull her around, and, half-asleep–how did she manage to sleep so quickly when she’s got such chemistry with this glorious hunk of man?–she firmly throws it off. I don’t push the issue, or do anything. I just kind of go to sleep, wondering what the hell is going on. We obviously like each other a lot, and it’s clear I’ve effortlessly demonstrated my strength of character, dominance, etc… basically, that I’m the man. So… what gives?

I somehow manage to get to sleep, despite this attractive girl lying in bed next to me. I have a dream that I turn into a raging beast and rape the shit out of her, and go to jail. Later, I would wonder if this had been a dream, or a passing throught. Lightest sleep ever. It’s now Friday night.

We get up, and vibes are great, as always. Flirty banter abounds. We plan to go to the Shilin Night Market. I do some quick searching and mapping, and plan our route from the hotel. When we get out of Jiantan station, we hold hands walking toward the market. Once there, we don’t hold hands anymore. We enjoy a couple hours walking around, eating food, sharing experiences. She is amazed when I negotiate the price down to almost nothing at one of those toy gun shooting range booths. I playfully explain that she’s dumb, and you can negotiate just about anything if you’re strong enough in your belief about it. The pulsations of her gina tingling are almost palpable. Eventually, we gear up to head back. I reach my hand out for her to hold it as we cross the street; I make it seem like I don’t notice when she doesn’t.

I admit the (slight, slight) possibility that since I was going to her and not vice versa, this triggered the same effect as if a girl invites you out with her friends… in other words, since she’s leading, and you’re the following puppy dog, you’re toast, cast into the depths of outer space, forever relegated to “orbiter” status, or male groupie. However, the fact that I kept the pimp hand strong, and was unwaveringly dominant and decisive throughout — I took charge of virtually every decision, from which bus route to take, to how to handle the hotel staff, and even the decision to go in the first place since I actually wanted to go to Taiwan — I consider this scenario highly unlikely. The self is always coming through, and I a strong, dominant, decisive person, so I find it hard to believe that the mere act of agreeing to go on a trip would influence things to such a degree.

I don’t regret it, because I base most of my personal growth on testing boundaries and exploring new territory. If you ever find yourself in a similar situation, take the trip, first-hand reference experiences are how you grow.

Banned Kate Upton Zoo York ad leaves a bad taste

But it’s not for reasons you might think. I’ll save you the trouble (and disappointment): skip to 0:28 to see why it was banned.

Cockroach: “You fuckin’ cocksucker! I’ll take this fuckin’ antennae and shove it right up your ass you piece of shit!”

I found it quite amusing that the media executives at Zoo York thought they could get away with this, given that the ad is far less risque than Paris Hilton’s  burger commercial from six years ago, and the decline of moral and aesthetic standards in the US is only accelerating these days. Apparently others thought the same.

The two top comments (as of today):

At least the fraudsters at the Kony 2012 scam that’s been floating around these days had the good sense to disable comments, lest the thin veneer of humanitarian goodwill be stripped away to reveal the ugly face of war propaganda and massive corporate profits of the so-called “Invisible Children.”

It’s going to be interesting to see how sales revenues are affected once customers start getting wise to how some companies treat them; namely, as sheep whose ability to think for themselves was stripped from them long ago, if it ever existed in the first place.

Or: Now, I’ll proactively avoid buying a Zoo York product, and if the subject of Zoo York comes up, I’ll happily disclose to anyone who will listen the PR fraud that was just perpetuated on the public in the name of cheap YouTube views.

How I removed alcohol from my life forever

drug |drəg|
a substance that has a physiological effect when ingested or otherwise introduced into the body, in particular
• a substance taken for its narcotic or stimulant effects, often illegally : [as adj. ] a drug addict

Alcohol, by any metric, is a narcotic drug. In almost three years — April 2009 to be exact — I’ve consumed, I would guess, approximately fifty cocktails worth of alcohol. Though a poor excuse, as one who (very) frequently goes out, sometimes I feel I’m forced to consume alcohol (it’s a birthday and everyone is doing shots and I’m standing next to the birthday guy, and so forth). As with everything in life, you pick your battles. So, in light of my lifestyle that number should strike anyone as staggeringly low.

How is this possible?

If you re-read the last paragraph, the answer is in the phrasing: “…forced to consume alcohol.”

The answer is a paradigm shift. Whereas society would have one conditioned to believe that quitting alcohol, or anything addictive for that matter, is a long and arduous process — indeed, the image of a sixty-year-old at an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, still “struggling” decades later, resonates with most people — the truth is that it can be very simple.

The old way of quitting, battling willpower, is an exercise in futility; for some, an exercise in masochism, even. If your deepest self truly desires something, how can you ever win that battle?! But desire precludes willpower: if you have no desire, your willpower is never a factor. For those like me, because we recognize that alcohol is a harmful drug that has zero benefits whatsoever, it actually pains us to drink in the same way it pains others not to drink.

You see, someone struggling with alcohol addiction is aware on some level that alcohol is bad for them, but they still want it; this creates an internal duplicity where the self is always struggling to find a balance between harmful effects and the satisfaction of cravings. And, as with all addictive substances, the drug usually wins. But for people who have internalized at the deepest level that even though 90+% of society does it*, alcohol is just another harmful substance to be avoided, quitting is straightforward; in fact, not quitting is difficult. Within a few days of reading the late Allen Carr’s modestly-named “How to Stop Drinking,” I had effortlessly removed alcohol from my life, permanently.

*Remember, the majority of society used to smoke tobacco, and now it’s condemned to such a degree that the tyrannical government of one California town is considering outlawing smoking in one’s own backyard. The implications of a police state government initiating such a law aside, will society ever evolve to condemn alcohol in the same way?

I’ll never forget the Friday after I finished the book. I was invited by an acquaintance to a party at a bar. Wine collectors, beer enthusiasts, and even the wide range of preferences for this or that beer, this or that cocktail… with all traces of desire for alcohol now removed, I could clearly see that beneath the thin veneer of alcohol “culture” was just a bunch of alcoholics, only differing in the severity of their addictions. I know, because just a few days prior I was one of them.

Along the way, I’ve had many conversations about my lack of alcohol consumption. When others can see in my eyes that not only am I serious about having stopped drinking, but more importantly that I have no desire whatsoever to drink, I typically got one of two responses: the glazed-over look, because most people who talk a good game about being in control of their alcohol consumption feel threatened when they see someone who actually is; or, a knee-jerk, accusatory interrogation: “What were you before, an alcoholic?” Every time, without fail. I got so well-versed in these identical conversations, that within one minute of bringing up the subject I could tell whether my conversation partner was going to ask the above question, word-for-word.

When I was having these conversations — now, to avoid a vibe-kill, I usually just say “I’m taking antibiotics” and move on — I would have to explain, no, I was drinking a pretty typical amount for a young bar-frequenter such as myself. But the truth is, these classifications are pointless. The bottom line is if you can’t avoid alcohol wherever and whenever you choose, then alcohol controls you, and not the other way around.

If you’re serious about quitting alcohol forever, I highly recommend Allen Carr’s book. The process basically works like this, though the book is vital to fill in the details:

1. Recognition and internalization that alcohol is a drug no different and in many ways far worse than the so-called “hard” ones out there, and that there are no benefits to alcohol whatsoever. NONE. Zero. You need to really believe this, and see for yourself that it’s 100% true. Oh and the health benefits of red wine, which, just like typical listener described above, grasping at the straws of rationalization, come up every time like clockwork — are a complete fabrication. Or: “it’s the grapes, stupid!”

2. Just like you wouldn’t continue to take arsenic, even if it tasted like a delicious steak, if you’ve successfully internalized 1, you wouldn’t want to continue putting the poison known as alcohol into your body, either. You have no desire, and “willpower” becomes a non-issue. When you go out, you’ll feel like others are peer pressuring you into taking arsenic. In practice, you politely turn down alcoholic drinks, silently wonder how anyone could put it in their body, and buy water or juice for the physiological effect of having something in your hand. It’s effortless, really.

3. Strengthening 1 and 2 through first hand experience; witnessing others who claim to be in control but really have no control whatsoever is easy once you’ve broadened your perspective a bit, and eradicated your own desire. Just like someone born in a leper colony wouldn’t recognize the disease until he had left the colony, now you can see that what you were doing all those years wasn’t good; you just didn’t know it because everyone else was doing it.

A teachable moment

Long since the photo of Rhianna’s bruised face battered at the hands of beau Chris Brown went viral, it’s worth nothing that she and Chris Brown are back together.

“The Chris Brown case transformed our approach, but at a national level, it was a teachable moment without the follow-through. That was clear from Brown’s outbursts when asked about the attack, and the troubling responses of his female fans. During his Grammy comeback, young women tweeted comments like “Chris Brown can punch me wherever he wants.”

Not only that, it was, unsurprisingly, initiated by Rhianna herself.

The thing Ms. Mendez Berry and her ilk won’t and can’t ever grasp is that what she naively describes as a non-follow-through, is in fact the only teachable moment of the entire ordeal. People like her are at odds with observable reality, namely the fact that the vast majority of girls would rather take a slap in the face by an unstable alpha prone to outbursts, than a thousand roses meticulously laid at their bedside by a needy, supplicating beta; of course, few will admit this, even to themselves. While I’m by no means whatsoever advocating physical abuse–there are both light and dark sides of the force–the evidence in favor of dark triad traits as primal attraction triggers is overwhelming. Even Kim Dotcom has groupies.

The teachable moment is there, and pretty hard to miss, unless you’re an unsightly feminist hack way past her sell-by date.