I remember back in my Beta days this bitch I had Oneitis for told me that she would listen to the Radiohead song "Talk Show Host" on repeat. She said it was her favorite song and it was the only song she listened to that much.
The last time I saw her I was in the throes of intense cognitive dissonance. She wanted to fuck me but I didn't even care. I didn't want to fuck her, I wanted to LOVE her, and my carefully-constructed Beta reality was coming crumbling down. I had spent years idealizing this bitch and thinking about how we were gonna fall in love and shit and then when I finally saw her she was just so fucking boring. It was the most intense moment of disenchantment and disillusionment I've ever experienced. I had wanted so badly to fall in love with this person, so it was incredibly fucking painful to realize there was barely any "person" to love. She wasn't smart or independent or funny or any of the things I had imagined her to be. We were sitting in her studio at her art school and she was painting these fucking shoes with pink paint and I was wondering how the fuck I could have spent so long idealizing a bitch who spent her time doing something as retarded as painting pink paint on shoes.
I had spent years thinking that I was like Jay Gatsby and she was my Daisy. I had built her up in my mind to be something that she could never be.
After I left her that night, disillusioned and disgusted, I listened to the song she told me about, "Talk Show Host," and I didn't get it. It seemed like a shitty slow song. Why did she like that song so much?
A few years later, I've swallowed the Red Pill and I listened to the song again. And now I understand why it was her favorite song. Thom Yorke is singing from a female perspective, and he's saying what my former Oneitis didn't have the balls to say:
"You want me? Come on and break the door down. I'm ready."
Women don't want a Jay Gatsby. They don't want a man who will spend years plotting and preparing on the exact best way to open the door.
Women want a Tom Buchanan. They want a man who will just break the fucking door down.
So that's what we must do. We gotta let the idealizations of women that we've been so carefully constructing in our heads vanish into thin air and blow away in the wind like sand-castles of false thought. There is no Madonna, no perfect bitch who will come along and make everything better, no mother figure who will open the door and let us in to a warm and cozy reality.
There's only you, and the door. Look at it as long as you want. You don't have to open it if you don't want to, but some part of you will always know that life as a woman-shunning MGTOW is somehow incomplete. It's somehow vulgar not to use your God-given gifts of sex and love, to leave the door unopened for eternity.
Even MGTOW look at the door. They still jack off to porn and shit. Hell, they look at the door more than anyone else because they spend so much time thinking about women and their faults.
So you look at the door and you resolve to open it. You know there's a whole fucking feast of happiness and oxytocin-drenched sunshine that lies just behind.
And the bitch behind that door will not give herself to the man who opens the door quietly and expertly and artfully. She belongs to the man who breaks the fucking door down.
Red Pill is the long and strange process of becoming that man.