I see someone has levelled up their spirit vision. I can tell by the way you look upon these words.

That’s good. Very good. It means you’re beginning to perceive the psychic parasites that surround us.

As you negated them, I’m sure you felt it.

That calmness draping over you. Like the delicate glow of a post-coital cigarette. Maybe you were lucky enough to even feel an energy rush. A vril boon from having reversed the flow the parasite failed to subject you to. Such is often the case when you squash one of these pests.

If you haven’t realized yet that this is one of the most important practices in life, you may be a lost cause. Any sensible teacher would agree, but I am not sensible in the conventional sense. I am a man of faith. And I have the utmost faith in you, my friend.

Believe in the me that believes in you.

There are some who would tell you to burn away your desires. I bet you think that was why we immolated your beautiful tree. If that’s what you think, I’d suggest a DNA test. I’m certain we’ll find strands of homo imbecillus in there.

Desires—true desires—are good and natural as long as we surrender our attachment to them. Our “need” to have them fulfilled.

Being is your primary state. If you’re getting cucked, it’s because you were being the guy who gets cucked. Everything outside of you is the expressed, the energetically dead. Whether you choose to remain there is your decision.

Desires are merely the winds of expression. Direct your sails accordingly.

For those fools who wish to burn their desires away, they fail to realize they have merely traded one desire for another. To desire is human, and we are living a human experience. When the winds are at the backs of your sails, they carry you forward. They’re no longer an obstacle. Everything melds together. Like man and woman in the divine boink.

But when you set the winds ablaze, it burns everything. Sails, ship, and the crew aboard. Unless you desire to be energetically dead and deep-fried, I’d advise against this course of action.

This is why defending ourselves from parasites is so important. They distract us from our desires. People who resent their desires have confused those belonging to the parasites for their own.

These parasites displace what our Self wants to express. They zombify us. Trick us into wasting our time and attention on them, rather than our tree.

You’ll recall that our attention is the sunlight and our actions the water which nurture our tree.

Life needs more than just food and water to survive. It needs a conducive environment as well. You wouldn’t plant a sugar maple in the tropics, would you? You’ll get no syrup that way. The tree would die, if it ever even sprouted.

So, how do we create a conducive environment for our tree?

Once again, dear reader, you are asking the right question.

Don’t be so Nervous

If our minds are the soil our trees grow in, our attention the light that shines upon them, and our actions aligned with our beliefs the water they drink, then the environment in which they grow is our nervous system.

What an appropriate name that is. Most people’s nervous systems are indeed nervous.

What scaredy little cucks they are. They’re full of bitch-energy. Jumping at every noise, every slinking shadow. That little mound in the ground there. What’s that? Probably a snake.

Quick! Get the fiery, direy flammenwerfer. Gute Nacht, Titten.

Oopsie.

That mound was your tree beginning to sprout. You just killed it.

We need to make your system less nervous, so this doesn’t happen, dear reader.

Your nervous system runs the physical shit show you call a life. When it comes to the kingdom on Earth, the nervous system is the king. It has one job: survival. It keeps your thumbs out of your bum and your hands on the wheel.

Unless that somehow keeps you alive.

You can be real with me. I won’t tell anyone.

Honest.

King Nervonius Systemus is neurotic. Paranoid. All change is perceived as threat, even when it’s positive. It could improve his kingdom’s circumstances, but the uncertainty terrifies him. When you invite change, you take control by the hand, walk it to the exit, and boot its ass out the door.

If the king is not in control, who is?

I think you know the answer.

The king is not a man of faith. He is a man accustomed to the faith of his subjects. He forgets he is a servant, no different than them. He serves them as much as they serve him, and all serve Him as He serves us. But because the king doesn’t realize this, he clings to what’s known.

It doesn’t matter that the women are unwashed and haven’t changed their panties in years. The kingdom could have no women at all. Is that what you want? You should be more appreciative of the pubic lice. That’s extra protein. Our kingdom is starving, don’t you know?

Without faith, you accept pain out of fear. The pain is comfortable because it is familiar. You think the devil you know is better than the devil you don’t. You reason your way to believing your fear is rational.

This is why the fool is wise and the intelligent man is a moron.

The fool recognizes the devil is just the devil.

Ye who claim to be of faith must have little. For if your faith was great, you would not accept any devil, but instead rest in His comfort.

And for those with dimmed dendrites who reject faith, I suggest you find some.

Without it, your kingdom will perpetually suffer.

Leaping into the Unknown

Faith is essential to the life of swagger. There is no negotiating this.

Without it, King Systemus will become a tyrant. Your kingdom will persist, but it will be a miserable place. Any and all attempts at revolution will be thwarted before they have a chance to begin. The future of your people will be dictated by a scaredy little cuck.

Ironically, all kingdoms are destined to fall anyway.

Change comes for all. Choose it, or it will choose you.

Life is filled with immense complexity and variation. I understand how paralyzing it can be to willingly undergo change when the abyssal unknown stretches before you. Not because I experience anything of the like, but because I am such an empathetic man.

Faith grants us the strength to make a choice and commit despite uncertainty. It is unwavering confidence in something larger than yourself. Loyalty to that cause, that idea, that One Most High. The deep knowing that whatever happens is to your benefit, even if you can’t perceive it in the moment.

Do you think I am dissuaded by the busy boss bitch’s frigid glare when I cold approach her at 12:18 PM in the middle of a lunch meeting with clients about some corporate partnership that makes the Black Cube sing with glee?

Of course not. I have faith that my incandescent smile will melt her icy heart. I know I will liberate her from the suffocating walls of the Cube (and her clothes in the restaurant bathroom) before lunch is over.

And if not, so what? I failed at nothing. It simply wasn’t meant to be. The J-Man was actually looking out for me. The time I might have wasted with this corporate jezebel would be better spent with an Asian baddie. After all, why else am I here if not to protect them in the dark?

Faith quells the chaos in the kingdom. A calm king swaggers through the realm and is loved in all the brothels. But when you’re starting from zero, your nervous system, your king, has a tendency to recoil from anything unfamiliar. It fears the very thing you want. Even when it’s just outside the gate.

It believes everything is a threat. Change means risk. Risk implies failure. Failure implies doom.

Faith opens the kingdom’s gates willingly. That stately barbarian is not an invader. He is your savior. He brings with him beautiful women and an irresistible swagger. We’ll call him King Jagger. He slaps Systemus, calls him a cuck, and takes the throne.

Under Jagger’s rule, Jesus has the wheel. Risks seem less dire. You don’t necessarily know how the kingdom will become the next Holy Roman Empire, but you know it will be.

Asking with Attention

Cultivating faith is a continual process.

Most people start with it. This is why life seems so wonderful as a child.

You are born helpless. Completely dependent upon others for survival in a hostile world. Somehow, people—your parents—provide. Despite all the dangers, you survive. All you need to get what you want is ask for it. You’re hungry, so you cry. You need comfort, so you cry. You want to snuggle up to the fine nurse’s massive jugs, so you… Well, you get it.

I’m a dumb baby, give me milk.

It is as the ego grows that faith wanes. We begin to take ourselves too seriously. We lose the bigger picture. We fall for the lie that the weight of the world is upon our shoulders. If that were true, we would be crushed.

In reality, God—or Source, the One, the Universe, whichever name boats you float—is always there, like your parents, supporting you. He gives you whatever you ask for. If what you ask for is a faithless existence with the weight of the world upon your shoulders, that’s what you’ll get.

You ask with your attention. Pay it single-mindedly to whatever it is you want, and God will hear you.

If the crying baby is distracted when his mother gives him a toy, she will merely think he wanted entertainment, not booby. Likewise, if you say you want the goth mamacita to hogtie and jerk you dry, but think only of her rejecting you, your appetite will go unsated.

With faith, it’s easy to ignore those doubts because you know God has your back. He’s always had it.

Your homework is to recultivate the faith you have lost.

Cultivation means taking action, especially in the face of your doubts and fears. Because when you fail—and you will have “failures” in pursuit of your desires—you will see that life continues on. You may feel badly about it, but you try again anyway. Do this long enough, and you start to see the picture of a new life coming together. If those failures were successes, this life wouldn’t have been possible.

Let go of events unfolding the way you think they should. Let them unfold as He knows they should. As you clock them, you will begin to see the connections. That is where the faith will truly build.

Now, scram. Go reclaim the Holy Land or something.

Saranghamnida.

Look who’s finally back.

Has it been a whole week already? I could hardly tell, tripping as I was through the Akashic Records (never mind that).

How did your experiment go?

I’m a gambling man, so I’d wager it was a mixed bag. Maybe you had some experiences that provided water for your little seedling. Maybe a voice chimed in to convince you not to use it.

“That’s just a coincidence.”

“This is nothing new.”

“Sure, maybe this is evidence. But you still have a little willy.”

That’s to be expected.

New beliefs take time to sprout roots, and your old ones are entrenched deep into the Earth of your being. Even though we chopped the tree down and burned it to ash, those roots are still there. With time, their influence will be forgotten. Just try not to sit down for a break on its stump. The goal is to rest under the auspices of your new tree once it’s grown. Have some rum while you’re down there. And a bit of coke.

What I’m sure you noticed most of all is that this work is about as easy as piercing your own junk with a cock stud.

“Just act like the guy in your desires would. I’m David Jagger, I make it sound so easy.”

My dear reader, I understand your frustration. My heart both goes out to you and weeps that you would mock my advice so. I offer you only love.

Know that I saw this coming. As with everything, it has been baked into the lesson plan. You needed to try first. I know how much you want me to tell you everything, rapidly, right here, right now, my ravenous, rapacious raven of a reader. But I won’t. It wouldn’t serve you.

Could you imagine knowing everything now and trying to cherry-pick what to implement when and where? You’re far too wayward for that. Even this weekly format (assuming you’re keeping pace) is a fast track. Too fast, perhaps. I’ve given you in less than two months what it took me years to attain.

You should be grateful. I’m such a wonderful and selfless teacher. You’re welcome.

What I offer you today is not the next key, nor directions to the next door. You’re not ready for either of those yet. Your tree still needs time to grow.

What I offer you today is insight.

Dear reader, I’m about to give you spirit vision.

Slimy Psychic Peckers

What you need to understand is that our world is overrun with and ruled by psychic parasites.

Does that sound like a bold, if not vague, proclamation?

My dear reader. Of course, it does. But you know by now that everything I say is truth.

You’re probably wondering exactly what I mean by psychic parasites. Is it a metaphor? A mental construct? Actual psychic entities?

Yes.

They are immaterial as far as we’re concerned. We cannot perceive them with our five everyday senses. As for what they are, pick whatever explanation pleases your palate. It’s less important than what they do. What’s paramount is recognizing the influence they assert over you.

Have you ever felt a sense of quiet desperation? Like a shipwrecked pirate, treading water at open sea, with no land in sight? You’re oh so tired, but if you stop, you’ll drown. You need to swim, but which direction leads to booty? If you choose wrong, you’ll swim your ass to your doom. With no markers, nor the slightest scent of sweat-seasoned wench on the winds to guide you, you resign yourself.

This is the work of a psychic parasite. Once they sink their slimy psychic pecker in, they pump you full of thoughts and emotions. Before you know it, they have spun a spunk web that entraps you. Once you believe the thoughts and emotions are your own, you have been dominated. Your energy now feeds the parasite. You go out into the world and do their bidding. You spread their influence yet further.

The hallmark of a psychic parasite, as compared to other psychic entities, is that the net result of the relationship is negative. It takes more from you than it gives, if it gives anything at all.

Consider for instance, the corporate cuck. He lives life on the wheel. Every day is the same day of the rest of his life. He’s up at six, ready by seven, arrives to work at eight, breaks for lunch by noon, leaves by five. He cares little for what he does. It’s all so pointless. His job could disappear and the world would keep turning. Nothing changes.

The corporate parasite rewards him. Not greatly, but enough to keep him compliant. It pays his bills, gives him some perceived security from the financial elements, and maybe even pays enough that he can buy some premium porn in his scant free time.

“See?” The parasite says. “I provide for you. You need me.”

Some believe it.

The corpo cuck certainly does.

But most comply out of fear. Dare to rebel and the parasite claps those psychic cheeks harder than a bullet train straight to Uranus. Show open contempt or dissatisfaction with the corporate monster, and it suddenly sends problems your way. Maybe it’s a coaching, a trip to HR, a write-up, or (Jesus help me) sensitivity training. God forbid a man try to tell his female colleague he admires her willingness to do the jobs that blow (and so does the boss man).

The method of attack is situational. The parasite does exactly what it is necessary to get an emotional rise out of you, get you back in compliance, or both. Sometimes, it will throw random problems your way for a little snack. You could be its goodest adherent. It doesn’t matter. If it’s feeling a little peckish, it will complicate your day to siphon just a little more energy from you. This is how it enslaves you.

These psychic parasites all serve the Black Cube. They keep you trapped within its big black walls. Learning to recognize them is as important as knowing their boss and their acolytes. They can be as mundane as a government or as sinister as a homeowner’s association. If multiple people match their thoughts and fee fees towards the same thing, chances are there’s a parasite at work.

Not all parasites are created equal. Some have ginormous peckers. Which means be cautious, or they’ll stretch your butthole to the size of Lake Erie. (Ooh, scary.) The more adherents they have, the stronger they and their acolytes are.

Know the pecking order.

Adherents are the slaves. They serve the parasite whether they know it or not (usually not). They simply suffer.

Acolytes are the parasite’s favorites, whether they know it or not. Watch out for these black birds. They’re happy where they’re at. The ones who are aware have the same tools and knowledge you do, but also the parasite’s backing. They will gladly peck your eyes out for their master. Whatever maintains their favored status.

It probably sounds like the acolyte’s path is the way to go, huh?

Maybe.

I’ll leave that for you to decide.

I’m teaching you to be a free bird. When the time is right, I’ll nudge you out of the nest.

If after you learn to fly, you want to tar your feathers, be my guest. Just know that the tarred bird can no longer fly.

Putting Out Fire with Gasoline

You know that saying, “Knowing is half the battle?”

What a stupid saying.

I wish I knew who said it so I could slap them and call them a cuck.

People win battles all the time without knowing a damn thing. Sure, call it luck. But if you ask me, they won by action, not by knowing.

Knowing is beneficial, no doubt. Beneficial in the same way as being a gorgeous specimen like myself. I wouldn’t teach you this knowledge if I didn’t believe it helped. But if we do nothing, all battles are forfeit. Without action, even I would never get women. I don’t need to know women are notoriously passive to shoot my shot (and later my load) with them. Many of you already know this and still believe one will try to pick you up. I simply shoot the shot.

Likewise, knowing about psychic parasites alone doesn’t combat them. They will still wriggle their parasite dog between your buns if you don’t change your behavior.

So, how do we clench those psychic cheeks hard enough to snap sticks?

Understand first that parasites want your energy, your vril. They steal it by hijacking your thoughts and emotions. Essentially, their desires become yours.

They start by getting an emotional rise out of you. This is usually bad—anger, guilt, fear especially—but it can also be good. The acolytes feel pretty damn good about their parasites, but they’re getting plowed the same as any adherent. They just happen to like it. If the emotions cloud your judgment and feel sticky, chances are they’re from a parasite.

Once they get their rise, then they gaslight. They convince you serving them is what you want.

If you please the boss, you won’t get fired. That’s what you want, right?

You tell me. You have the direct connection to your Self. What does he want?

The only way to be certain is to break free of the slave mentality. Once you do, you can be sure that what you want is yours. We do this with our attention. Whip that key out of your pants and slam it on the table. Show the parasites how it unlocks any locks, including your shackles.

Rather than react to their provocations, observe them. Recognize where they’re coming from and refuse the bait.

Refusal is the correct way of battling the parasites. They’re psychic entities, made of psychic fire. Getting angry and railing against them is like putting out fire with gasoline. Great for a light show, bad for survival.

The parasites don’t care how you feel about them, as long as they are the object of your attention. You must starve them of it. Choose not to engage. They’re expecting you to act a certain way. Deny them.

When they threaten to leak your dick pics on X, shrug and tell them okay. So what if they do? Seeing them is everyone else’s problem, not yours. Let them become victims of the parasite. You might even gain something as a result. (“Nice cock, bro.) Typically, you do when you defeat a parasite, even if it’s only your own energy back.

Sometimes, you can really rock them with an unexpected play. Like, for instance, I give ‘em the ol’ Jagger smirk and post the dick pics myself. Flipping the script leaves them flabbergasted. Most often, they’ll wander off confused by the whole affair, in search of someone who’s not wasting their vril.

Sometimes, neither of these options will work for you. If outright refusal is not an option, then play along at the shallowest level possible. Break out the psychic distance here. Did I not tell you these keys were going to stay in your inventory?

Those of you stuck in the wage cage will understand this well. You may be stuck inside it for now, but you don’t have to be a cuck slave for it.

Psychic distance reclaims your autonomy by separating you from the parasite’s mind control. This means you can distinguish your desires from theirs. As long as what you do serves your desires, your vril remains your own, which means you are no longer their slave. This, in turn, weakens them and they will slowly but surely come to ignore you.

Show up, do the bare minimum to get your money, leave. That simple.

For the clever fellers out there, find a way to take back your time. One of my acolytes automated his work to such a degree he does his gaming on the clock.

I couldn’t be prouder.

Look at him go.

I did that for him.

God, I’m amazing.

Tricking the Tricksters

If you read between the lines, you realized I’m saying you can not only protect yourself from psychic parasites, but also use them to your advantage.

Psychic entities are everywhere. Even with spirit vision, dealing with them is inevitable.

What defines the entity as parasitic is the nature of their relationship with the individual (that’s you) and society. Drop the hero act, cocksplat. There’s only so much you can do for society. Protect and enrich yourself. Leave the rest to Davey. Watch the selfless master work.

If you find that your desires—your true ones—can be fulfilled by taking advantage of a parasite, so be it. Work with but not under it. It will try to provoke you into a response. The moment you get emotional or thrown off balance, they drive their hooks in. They’re very much like bitches in that regard. They feed off drama.

It’s impossible to always avoid parasites’ tricks. You’re only human. I forgive you (maybe). Jesus definitely forgives you. So, if you catch yourself giving your vril away to one, laugh it off.

Sneaky, sneaky. You got me, you parasitic bastard. Joke’s on me.

The point is to merely notice when it happens and regain your psychic distance. If you allow yourself to get worked up about getting got, you’ll only feed the parasite more. Your spirit will cry out like a wounded animal, drawing in even more parasites. Before you know it, you’re a moose covered in ticks. Like bitches, parasites will drain you dry. Probably not the kind of draining you wanted, huh?

Your homework now is to practice your new ability.

Look with your spirit eyes, my dear reader. See the psychic suckers in your life and cuck them out of their energy by negating them.

Spotting them may be difficult at first. Your spirit vision is only level one. You’ve got to use it to level it.

If you need a hint, start with the things you suffer. You should have already identified some when I gave you the first key. They will reveal the parasites to you.

Remember, this is not a one-week assignment where you’ll never use your spirit vision again. Spam it often. It will serve you for the rest of your life.

Now, no more talkie. Go suck those parasites before they suck you.

Wait.

What I meant was...

You know what, fuck it. Go suck them dry.

Ik hou van jou.

I knew you would appear.

You did a little wish-granting this past week, didn’t you, dear reader? Played the role of djinn for a bit?

I know you did. That’s why I knew you’d be here. I summoned you.

It was my desire. I intended for you to be here.

I rubbed the lamp to bring you. I rubbed it with the passion of a hotblooded woodworker sanding smooth a wooden dowel.

I take it you’ve got some small dribbling of your desires now. You must at least think you know what you want, which is exactly where you ought to be. That means you’re ready for the fun part. You’re ready to start living them. You’re ready to start experimenting.

I want you to think of it as exactly that. An experiment.

You’re an intelligent and sophisticated person, my dear reader. I know this because why else would you be here?

But we’ll assume for a moment the neurally-challenged are also in attendance, or perhaps that your mind is still being an autismo. Framing this as an experiment is like handing your mind a fidget toy. The inner autist is quelled by the assumption of reason it provides. The mind is far less likely to have a freakout if it’s not being overstimulated when you introduce something new.

I challenge you to suspend your disbelief for this experiment. Whatever beliefs you assume going forward, I want you to fully entertain them throughout the entirety of it, to the best of your scant abilities.

Assume the world is your lab. As we talked about earlier on, beliefs are input-output machines. Your job as the researcher is to record the real-world results of the beliefs you hold.

For the doubter, what’s the harm? So many beliefs are stupid, right? Held by the smoothest of brains? An intelligent person would never fall for anything stupid. In fact, I’m sure you will prove yourself correct. Then you can return to your miserable existence, asshole having regained enough of its pucker to kiss the head of the Black Cube’s vile, cubic pecker.

But for those who already know the power of beliefs, you know exactly what I’m asking you to do.

Choose your beliefs wisely, but not yet.

Come. Take my hand.

It’s okay, no homo this time.

Let me show you the way.

Chopping Wood

We wander still through the darkness beyond the first door.

It is in darkness that seeds grow, dear reader. Your beliefs are the seeds you will plant to bring your desires to life.

I told you to think of three desires. Now you will choose one. Just one for now.

Imagine your desire is a fully grown tree, everything you wanted fully realized. What fruits does it bear? In the fruits, you see the labors.

Go ahead and pick that fruit. Take a good look at how ripe and succulent it looks, how it feels to hold it in your hand.

Now, smash that fucking fruit.

You heard me.

How does it feel?

Do you feel loss? Do you feel sad? Averse? Confused?

You shouldn’t. It’s only one fruit. The tree is full of them. They grow back.

Let’s assume I handed you an axe and told you to chop that tree down. In fact, here you go. Get to work Paul Bunyan. Don’t you dare look away. You will watch as your tree crashes to Earth. And now, we’re going to set it ablaze.

This is how you should look at your desires. Fully realized, then light them up like a bonfire, baby. Woo!

“I don’t understand, David! Why did we waste time with these desires if you just want me to burn them? When am I going to get girls?”

My sweet, but puerile reader. Do you not realize the kindness I’ve rendered you? If you can’t imagine letting go of everything you consider precious, you will have nothing. Especially not women. All in life is already yours, if only you’d realize it. You probably think I’m being cryptic, but I couldn’t be clearer.

It’s not too late to turn back. The first door is still open. If any of this isn’t jiving with you, Star Man, then hop on your UFO and gravitationally bend yourself the fuck out. Fall into a black hole for all I care. If you thought this was some New Age, hippy-dippy, high vibes nonsense, you were sorely mistaken. I deal only in the realm of reality, my friend.

But if you’re still here, look. The remains of your smashed fruit upon the ground. A seed.

Plant it.

Your attention provides the light it needs. Actions in accordance with the belief are the water it drinks. The ashes of your old tree provide fertile soil for the new. It will regrow into your new tree with time and care. And like all things, it will eventually die again too. Sometimes sooner, sometimes later. Sometimes it never becomes a tree at all. That’s life.

If you think all I’ve given you is a metaphor about a seed, you might have snacked on one too many lead paint chips as a child. I guess you’ll need me to spoon-feed you again, huh?

My painter’s chip cookie monster, I just revealed to you the second key.

Magic Trick

Let me ask you something, dear reader.

If you lost everything today, would you still be you?

If your answer is anything but yes, you still don’t understand who you really are.

Understand, I’m not asking if you’d be unphased by it. Loss hurts. That’s a fact. I’m no Stoic, and I don’t care much for Stoicism. If you need to cry like a bitch, be my guest. I would never judge you for it. (But don’t let the bitches see it. They’re ruthless.)

What I am saying is, if you confuse you with the things around you, you’re going to have a bad time. Not just with gaining swagger, but in living life. You’ll have no swagger, no bitches, and you’ll be miserable.

You must let go of everything. Anything you see is energetically dead, remember? To define yourself by your outer circumstances is to become one of the undead.

Now, hold up. Don’t you dare even open that soy hole of yours. I already know your complaints.

I’m not telling you to be an ascetic. If I look like one, it’s only because the powder burns lots of calories and these succubi keep me drained. I am a man in demand. They just can’t help themselves around me. They want to succ my bus.

Like the J-Man said so long ago, be in the world, not of it. Yeah, yeah, that’s not his exact quote, but it is the gist of it. Just shut the fuck up and roll with it, okay?

Letting go of everything is the ultimate goal for the man of swagger because it means you have what so few do—a rock solid foundation in the Eternal Self. But it’s also the hardest difficulty in this wacky game called life. It’s what we call David Must Die mode. (What an apt title.) You’re not ready for that yet. We’ll get you there.

Back to the point. The seed and the tree.

The seed is belief. The tree is the identity it grows into. This is because what you want—the fruits—comes from you.

You need to be the you who has the thing. Getting the thing and then becoming that version of you doesn’t fly, my guy.

Do you think I get girls, therefore I am David Jagger?

Puh-lease.

I am David Jagger, therefore, I get girls. Asian baddies, especially. I am him. I’ve got that direct connection to Him. He’s in my Favorites, tippity top of the list. We chat all the time. We’re cool like that.

Identity is not your Self. If it was, you wouldn’t be able to pin it down, now would you? It’s not even your mind. It’s simply a result of your beliefs and the actions that support them. In so much as you choose your beliefs and actions, you choose your identity. It is fluid.

What was it Bruce Lee said again?

“Be semen, my demon.”

Something like that.

Now, I want you to see how I’ve drawn this altogether, dear reader. I want you to appreciate my artistry.

Remember our first two lessons, the ones about attention? How we practiced watching thoughts and feelings come and go?

You were practicing letting go.

Open your hand. In it, you’re already holding the second key.

Psychic distance.

See how I did that? Magic trick, baby.

Psychic distance is necessary for getting chicks, achieving your desires, and communing with the Self. The latter is most important because the former two will come, without effort, by achieving it. Psychic distance reduces the seriousness of the situation. It becomes a game. You still want to win, but if you lose, it’s not the end of the world. You restart and try again, or find another game.

This is why we smashed your fruit. Chopped down your tree. Burned it.

There is nothing wrong with desiring or experiencing. The problem is when you cling to it. No one likes a clingy bitch.

When you stop clinging and achieve psychic distance, you’ll find that lady life chases you.

Love to Lose, Lose to Win

Life may be a game, but that doesn’t mean you can’t take the game seriously. As long as the element of play underlies it. It’s a deal, but not a big deal. You should play it like a true pro gamer. I play these Jezebels like a true pro player.

I don’t care if you’re a man of faith or a cognitively-constrained atheist. Life as we know it exists either because the Father, He Who is beyond our mortal reasoning, saw fit to create it for reasons beyond our understanding, or because nothing turned into a singular, fiery hot point that exploded into everything, even though nothing should beget nothing. The whole thing is a paradoxical joke.

You’ve got essentially two options with varying shades. Either you accept it’s all in God’s hands, or that there’s no point to anything at all. Both reduce the weight you carry, so your skinny boy arms can carry it. That doesn’t mean you don’t carry it, it’s just lighter. It’s okay, not everyone can carry the weight of the world like I do.

Accept that, whatever your endeavor, you may fail. And that’s okay. You may lose everyone and everything you ever love, but you will still have me. In your darkest hour, Davey’s here for you. Always here for you. I’m your valuable friend. You’re stuck with me till the end.

If failing causes you distress, you’re too focused on having things. I don’t hate to be the one to break it to you, but you’re a necrophiliac. You’re into energetically dead things.

You should be focused on being the guy. Be the guy, and you will always have what is his, while it is his, while you are him. See your desire, orient yourself accordingly, go through the motions for the sake of going through the motions, and let go of the outcome.

Love to lose and lose to win. As with chicks, once you stop caring so much, suddenly they get interested. Those who know know, but if you’re reading this you probably don’t. Not yet. But you will. If you do your homework, that is.

The sooner you start this, the better.

Take your one desire and make that your sole target. Nothing is too absurd. Okay, I take that back. It’s absurd to think you could ever be as great as me, but hey, shoot for the stars.

Now, walk a little closer to that target. No, no, even closer. Close enough that you can hit it, goat throater. You’re Bob Lee, but you don’t have the Swagger yet. You’re not getting that 2,200-yard shot. You can walk it back incrementally as your aim improves.

Fuck timelines. Days, weeks, months, years. It all feels the same when you’re tripping through the Akashic Records.

You know what? Forget I said that. Let’s just say you put too much pressure on yourself when you create deadlines. You take it too seriously despite it being arbitrary. Deadlines are for corpo cucks. No reader of mine is a corpo cuck, and if you are, we’re going to burn that tree and plant a new one.

Start acting as you believe the guy in your desired end goal would.

Start today. At all times. While you are shooting at the target, while you are slaving away for the Black Cube, while you are anally-vomiting that 4:00 AM Taco Bell you know you shouldn’t have eaten.

It will feel weird at first, but become more natural with time as swagger expels the cuckoldry from your being. Make good use of your attention. These keys aren’t one-use items. They stay in your inventory for the rest of the game. You can switch them off, but you’re shooting yourself in the dick.

In all of this, accept that failure is always within the realm of possibility, but carry on as if it wasn’t. Bravery isn’t approaching the girl absent of rejection. It’s approaching the girl despite knowing she may very well be disgusted by your hideous visage, pepper spray you, blow her rape whistle, and kick you in the cock for saying hello. (This is a you problem, not me.)

Trust the swagger. When it’s pumping your loins, you’ll know. You’ll know, too, when the cuck energy is castrating you. Use your lamp (attention) to stack the shiny things (evidence) you need to convince the autistic djinn the wish was worth his effort. Eventually, he will see things your way.

Now, go.

Reading will only get you far, cocksplat. Time to test the theory.

Return next week with the results of your experiment.

Wǒ ài nǐ.

Ah, my dear reader! You’re looking rather rejuvenated today.

Have you done a little healing lately? Gotten a little closer to your Self?

I would certainly hope so.

If the answer is no, you haven’t done the homework. And I could understand why.

It’s work.

You’re dealing with painful, negative beliefs you’ve held for years. Perhaps even decades. It forces you to leave your comfort zone. But you should also know, if that is your excuse, you are a loser.

A cuck.

Little cuck boy.

But it’s okay, it’s okay. No judgments, none at all. We’re just calling it like it is, that’s all.

Until you address those cuckolding beliefs, you will forever remain a cuck. Even if your outer world did change, you wouldn’t feel different. You would never feel like a winner. (A wiener, for sure.) If you don’t feel differently, external changes mean nothing. Succulent breasts will taste as ashen turd upon your tongue.

However, if you have started the work (and I know you have, you spectacular, sentient sperm-glob), you will have found that uprooting your limiting beliefs will only take you so far.

Will doing so improve your life, vril, and swagger?

What a poignant question.

If you remove your Bethlehem thorn-boxers, will your nads stop being eviscerated?

Healing is a wonderful thing. It enables you to enjoy life. But being healed does not mean living from the Self. You may be closer to It, but you’re not living from It. If you’re not living from the Self, you’re not living with swagger. And if you’re not living with swagger, are you really living?

You’re still merely reacting to what exists.

We are going to break you of that habit, dear reader.

Action Vs. Reaction

Anything you see externally is old.

Dead, energetically speaking.

That heat, that energy, that “life” it exudes, is merely the fading warmth of a corpse. It’s history. It’s created. What is created is already expressed.

Everything begins from and ends at the Source, connected by an unbroken causal chain. The Source is pure creative force, and connected to it as you are makes you a creative being in Its image.

Who you think you are is the expressed. Who you really are is expression.

It’s time you start acting, not reacting.

True action means expressing, honestly, the pure creative force as it flows through you. The better you are at this, the closer you get to your Self. The closer you get to your Self, the less the self hinders you. The less hindered you are, the more swagger you have.

You’re always creating, but you aren’t always creating consciously. The self navigates a dead world and yearns for dead things. If you act from the self you will create more dead things. This is why your life never changes. You’ve created a bunch of creatures, Frankenstein.

Take, for instance, the simp.

Such a pathetic specimen.

He models his every move on the expected response of the femammal whose hoagie he wants to squeeze his salami into. He never acts as he truly wants to. He laughs because she laughs. He texts emojis (XD rawr) because she texts them. He imitates ghostly emanations, converses with echoes, but yearns to participate in life’s dance. You don’t get to do the life making mambo if act like a corpse.

(Unless she’s a necrophiliac.)

The solution to this issue is to kill the self.

Whoa, whoa, whoa. Slow your roll there, fatuus.

I said, kill the self. Not kill yourself. We’re talking about the mental zombie-you. The idea you think you are, cocksplat. Not your body.

As you have gotten closer to the Self, you will have realized that Its voice has become clearer. As Its voice becomes clearer, so too do Its desires.

Now, here we will have to chop some morning wood.

“B-b-b-but David, you said last week that desire implies lack!”

Right on cue.

You are almost correct, dear reader. Let’s look again at what I said.

“Notice I did not say what you desire to have. Desire implies lack. Your mind understands this very well. We all want things. That doesn’t mean we get them.”

The desire to have is what implies lack. This is a desire of the self—either born of it, or a message it misinterpreted from the Self. A desire from the Self is a desire to express. To express is not to have, it is to give.

Just as I give to you so selflessly, my beloved reader. Just as Jesus gave Himself for the world. He didn’t come to be served.

The Self’s desires are your desires, but the inverse is not true. The self is assailed by zombies and other psychic nasties. Indulging its desires muddles your connection to the Self. Muddling that connection leads to lack.

You lack nothing. Everything you desire is already yours. The Self just needs you to express it.

To kill the self simply means to accept the Self’s desires. Ironically, the self will be happier for it.

Understand, the desires that exist within you are real. As real as you or me. As real as the air you breathe and the cheeks you want to clap. Even if they haven’t materialized physically in your lap yet. They may be whimsical, they may be fanciful, but they are not merely whims or fancies.

What your Self wills you to do is your purpose. Your Summa prioritas. It is unique for each of you.

Mine is bagging the Asian baddies. Find your own purpose.

This is easier said than done, of course.

Society is structured to strangle the Self’s desires. Do you think it’s a coincidence your teachers resembled old hags or saggy warlocks? Or the modern-day equivalent—blue-haired, spider-bitten, unshaven-armpit wiccans? Or how about your boss, who resembles a goblin, a vampire (not the hot ones), or some other wretched ringworm?

Did you think this was coincidence?

The Black Cube is responsible, obviously.

Stay inside the box, little cocksplat. Keep cucking it for the wage, wagie. Like your cagie, wagie? Cagie good. Forty hours, fifty hours, sixty hours more. Gimme gimme gimme your time upon the altar of my harvest, wagie. Cuck is good. Be good little cuck, wagie. Sacrifice your Self on my big, black, cubular altar.

Man, fuck that.

We need to get you making sweet love with the Self’s desires. Stat.

This cube needs to go.

Mr. Reader Man, tear down these walls!

How?

Dear reader, as usual, you are asking the right question.

I’m a Djinn

Allow me to ask you a question, my friend.

What do you think you desire?

Pretend I’m a djinn.

You have three wishes. Three wishes shall I grant. Corrupt them I shan’t, I promise, I promise! You can always trust me.

Did you say money?

How about fame?

Or maybe, power?

If you named something nebulous like these, I hate to break it to you, homo imbecillus. You may be fatuus.

“B-b-b-but Davey! Money isn’t nebulous. It’s a real thing!”

You sure about that? The powers that be print it faster than it takes you to spurt your yogurt. That’s not just fast, Minute Man. That’s supersonic. (And electronic.)

A real thing. How droll you are, dear reader.

Is money paper? Is it coin? How about numbers on a screen? How about the magic internet money everyone got rugged on?

Let’s humor your “desire” for a moment. Say that money is real.

Wish granted, no corruption.

You’ve got money, as many of the numbers on the screen as you wanted.

Are you happy now? Are you sure? Positive?

I’m guessing yes, yes, and yes, right? Then, I guess you were right, huh? You simply wanted money for money’s sake and no other. You can wrap it up and call it a life now, can’t you? You got your desire.

“Wait, wait, David. I don’t just want to have the money…”

Oh, really? You don’t say?

You mean to tell me you wanted money to do something with it? Did you expect me to understand that? You told me what you wanted, I just imadjinned up what you asked for.

Let me clue you in.

Your mind is the djinn you tell your wishes, and the djinn is an autismo. It will give you exactly what you ask for.

Money? Wish granted!

Do you understand what money is?

It is your time and freedom symbolized into tokens. That’s all. To demonize it is to demonize what it represents. To love it is to become attached to the symbol.

Both enslave you.

The only correct option here is to approach it dispassionately. You are always free and have nothing but time. The only thing that enslaves you is how seriously you take money.

If you are wise, you realized that the underlying principle has to do with more than just money. If you are wise, you already understand what needs doing and are already past the point of needing to hear this. If you are wise, you don’t need me to explain it to you like a soy baby.

But you probably need me to explain it to you anyway, don’t you?

Survival Mechanisms

You poor wittle soy baby, don’t cwy. Jesus stiww woves you, and so do I.

The J-Man and I, we got your back.

Money was the primary example, but power, fame, and anything of the like will never be desires of the Self.

Alright, enough. Dry your tears, soy one. Quit crying. It makes you look like a pussy.

Does it help to know that, amazing as I am, even I failed to realize this in my youth? Yes, it’s true. It’s so true. Even perfection has room to grow, I know.

The common element of these desires is survival. They are all tools in service of it. A desire for the tool is a dysfunction.

Maybe your actual desire feels unsafe. Maybe you have no clue what you desire. You think you’ll figure it out once you “have it all.” These desires are a trap most don’t escape. Most of the few who make them reality find it wasn’t what they wanted or that it’s never enough.

Is all you want to survive big? Are you are a husk? A spiritual eunuch?

Not my reader. No fucking way.

You are a unique being. A vector in time and space that can’t be duplicated. Pursue your unique desire to achieve your purpose and bypass these traps.

If you don’t believe in your uniqueness, you had better start. Your Self believes it. It wants you to express it. The real hack I’m giving you today is that the reality you desire exists literally within you already.

The material world is slow and lags behind. Remember, it’s energetically dead.

Your Self exists beyond the material. It is eternal. Changes there take place in an instant. You haven’t learned to tap into it yet, but you surely have before.

A true desire is what you would pursue if survival were no issue. Ironically, when you pursue it, you’ll find life provides what you need to sustain it.

Life wants what you’ve got. Whip that one-of-a-kind dong out and drop it on life. It wants the dong.

Litmus Testing

If you’re the type of reader who feels you’ve made too many mistakes in life, taken too many wrong turns, know that you are probably right.

But that’s okay.

Despite your immense shortcomings, the Self still wants you. It has always wanted you. It is the only one who will always want you. Return to It.

Know, dear reader, that you are going to make even more mistakes.

Some people will know their true desires right away, but most will figure it out through trial and error.

If it happens, it happens. There is no lost time. You are never younger than you are today, and there’s no point crying over melted butter.

A good litmus test is to ask, “Do I want to do this? Or do I think I will get something if I do this?”

If you answer the latter, you ought to reconsider. The survival safety net comes as a result of living according to the Self’s desire. But learn to accept you don’t control its terms. I let Jesus take the wheel doing one-fifty when I pass out from my special rum-yum sauce all the time. Works out every time.

Your homework this week is simple, I promise.

Figure out what you desire.

Think of at least three (it’s the magic number). I won’t corrupt them this time, I promise.

(You’ll do that yourself.)

Once you have those desires, carve out some time and try them on. Like a fashion show. Walk that runway, fairy.

Sit down and imadjinn what life would be like if those desires came true. You want to inhabit these scenes as if you were living them. In the first-person. Like an FPS shooter. Pew pew, baby.

The scenes should be a day in that life. That means the boring parts, the frustrating parts, the mundane parts. This is not a fantasy. Treat it like Barbie’s dream life, and it will mislead you. Of course, it seems perfect if you imagine it’s perfect. It’s perfect.

Life, however, is anything but. Think of it like a shit sandwich. But you’re a fly with a very refined pallet. You know what kind of shit you like. If you imagine the desired life as mundane and still want it, you are likely on to something.

This is your mission. Take it lightly, but not too lightly. This too is part of the Great Work.

Shine so bright the walls of the Black Cube balk.

Daisuki.

Ah, my dear reader! I’ve been waiting for you.

My nights have been long and sleepless as I eagerly anticipated your return. I could scarcely control my own attention, so excited was I to see you again! So, if you would be so kind…

Hand them over.

You didn’t think I’d forget about the Scooby fruit snacks, did you? Get real. You owe me something.

Now that you’ve laid tribute at the Altar of Jagger, let’s get into your report.

I take it you took a long dark look into that inner abyss. Unless you’re one of the hollow men, I’m willing to bet you found a little darkling or two. Perhaps more. It’s okay, it’s okay. I know you’re a bit unhinged. Maybe a bit dangerous. That’s a good thing. Women love their men on the wild side.

What exactly did you find?

Some strangleweed thought or emotion? Maybe tied to something you believe about yourself?

Boo hoo, the only girl I ever talked to rejected me. I’m a loser. Doomed to dying a virgin. My pee pee is small and I’m only 5’8”.

You really are a loser if that’s your psychic parasite. Psychic it is, and exorcise it we must, but don’t you know people are haunted by real demons? Pathetic.

Regardless! Whether demon or pussifying parasite, what you discovered surely was unconscious before we began, was a bit sticky, and has been dragging you naked by your nads through bile-coated Bethlehem thorns. Isn’t it wonderful to be aware of this?

Erotic as that may sound (you kinky beast), know that you’ve taken the first step towards recovery, dear reader. You scraped away the sticky stuff and found a wound. Now, the wound can heal.

Will it scar? Yes, you’ll be grotesquely disfigured.

But you know who loves scars? Bitches, that’s who.

Wounds, however, must heal before there are scars for bitches to love. As long as the wound is open, you are vulnerable. Never mind the women, we have to worry about you picking at it.

Until we close those wounds and get you back to health, nothing else meaningful can be done.

The healer you need is your Self. There is none higher.

Distorted Reality

We stand at the open threshold of the first door.

Dark and spooky in there, huh? I wonder what lies in wait?

So far, we’ve talked about shining the light of attention. Away from annoyances, contrivances, passing issues that don’t deserve your vril, and onto the things that need to bask in its delicate glow.

Within this darkness is the way to the Self. Your attention is the flame that lights your path, your mind the lantern that directs that light.

There is still yet another tool you need to know about, but not one that can simply be given. This is a tool you forge on your own, whether you realize it or not. Most people have unknowingly forged barbed tools. Those pricks are always getting pricked.

The tool is belief.

Belief is the globe, the glass of your lantern, little hermit. Depending on the hue, the clarity, or even whether it’s cracked, it changes the light of your attention. Distorts it. All beliefs are merely that—distortions. They are our perceptions of the Truth, not the Truth itself. To believe otherwise is to fall for the trap.

Whose trap?

The Black Cube’s, cocksplat. Are you not paying attention?

Appearances can vary wildly in different lighting. A woman understands this instinctually. She takes photos in soft, diffused light to hide her flaws. Shine her with a harsh light to dispel her glamours. You may find you’ve been romancing a hag.

Likewise, life takes on different appearances based on your beliefs. Is the appearance to your liking? Then your belief is positive. Is it causing you to be a cuck? I don’t care if you like watching, this is negative. You should be cucking life, not the other way around.

To stop you picking at your wounds, we need to change your beliefs. Recognizing an issue consciously is fantastic, but quelling the demon within is not the same as exorcising it. He is satisfied, temporarily, that you spent some vril on him. Enough that you can operate with a clear head. But he will return once your willpower fades. Once you go unconscious again.

You can’t be conscious all the time. Not even I can do that. It’s great that you aspire to it, but you will never be as good as me. Close, but not really. So, you must work while the glass is molten. Give that demon some harsh light. See your old crush for what she was—a hag—and send her running.

Little Thunder

Beliefs take time and effort to change.

You must uproot your negative beliefs and get moving in a positive direction. The sooner you begin this, the sooner you can escape loserdom.

“But Davey, I don’t have time. I don’t want to put in effort! What’s the magic fix?”

The magick fix is to make the demon your bitch, but that requires Solomonic seals and ritual and things that only Jesus and Fred Rogers and I have, like a pure heart.

But fear not. The wiser—and superior—method, is to go straight to the source.

Change the beliefs.

You know the wound. You can see it. Now, when you feel something pick at it, you must recognize it. That’s a belief tipping its hat.

Snatch that hat away!

“You fucking fat fedora-wearing neckbeard! Get out. Out!”

Changing beliefs also requires contradicting action. This means doing something that spits in the face of that belief and what it’s telling you. This action should support the belief you are trying to create.

Then, you need to narratize it. Reframe the context. Your tiny pee pee isn’t a little wee wee. It’s a thunder thimble. A mini-Mjolnir.

Only through doing this repeatedly will you forge new glass for your lantern and shatter the old.

Once you do, you change the illumination. The landscape is the same, but it looks different. A four who looks like a nine is a nine, dear reader. Now, without harmful beliefs picking away, the wound scars over.

Bitches will love the scars.

Can’t Spell Believe Without LIE

It’s important to know that none of this is easy as it sounds.

You’ve carried your beliefs for a long time. They’re there because they served a purpose. They kept you safe from something at some point. There is some truth in them, yes. But the best lies always contain a kernel of truth.

Trust me on that one.

Your mind loves sweet little lies. It loves the bitter ones, too.

It loves what feels familiar. Because that feels like control. I’m here to tell you that’s bullshit. True control is found in letting go.

Beliefs are the glass of your lantern. Glass can act like a barrier. Glass can also cut. One function protects. The other harms.

Is your glass broken?

Stop clinging to them because they feel safe. Embrace the uncertainty that comes with changing them. Does the room disappear because you turned out the lights?

As with women, if you become too attached to any one belief, it will run you into the ground. This is true of large belief systems and your personal ones. They are merely maps to the terrain. Simplifications by necessity. If they matched the terrain exactly, they’d be useless. Keep a rotation, my friend. If you find yourself lost in the woods, try a different map.

This is the essence of the Philosopher’s Stone.

It’s like the Rosetta Stone, but for philosophies.

Don’t muse on them. Use them. No one thinks you’re smart because you memorized some dead guy’s quotes.

Beliefs are metaphysical input-output machines. Information from outer world goes in, machine runs, you get output. Pick the machine that will give you the output you want and set it up. (Sorry, they all come from Ikea. Assembly is required.)

Once you get them going, search for evidence in your life that confirms them. This is like lubricant. Dump it onto those belts to make it run real slick and smooth.

Conversely, if you need to dismantle one, find evidence that disproves it. This is like taking a dump on it. This is why people lash out when you challenge their beliefs, like the hollow man-bots they are. They feel like the integrity of their reality is being threatened. They’ve confused the map for the terrain.

Do this enough and you will change yourself and your reality incrementally. With enough time, the changes become exponential.

The formula is simple.

Choose your belief, decide that you will entertain it, act in accordance with it, seek confirmation of it. If you hold the intention lightly enough, you will find it.

Let’s try an example.

I love Asian baddies. My luscious yellow women. Sometimes, I get this deep yearning that needs to be fulfilled.

So, what do I do?

I get it in my head that some Asian baddie somewhere wants—no, needs me. She’s going to die of heartbreak if she doesn’t get some Jag. Because I’m a selfless hero, I set out with my nads, wicked charm, and sense of derring-do.

I’m not going to find her. I’m already in the process of finding her.

I’ll start seeing the yellow cuties everywhere. In the Chinese restaurant, in the Eastside Asian market, at the laundromat, at the Buddhist shrine down the road. Each encounter is an unfolding of my damsel in lust. One gives me a shy smile, another bats her eyelashes, another fluffs her lady pillows as I walk past.

There are always signs my belief is getting truer.

Eventually, one drops her panties. She is found.

Your beliefs seek confirmation.

Give them that confirmation.

Once you have done the work, they require little upkeep. They will run subconsciously, looking on their own for the confirmation that supports them everywhere you go. So long as the belief supports you, you can and should keep it going. They require just a little attention every now and then.

You’ve got to do maintenance sometimes.

You’re Beginning to Believe

The one thing beliefs can do that you cannot is lie to yourself. This is non-negotiable. Lie to yourself and the mind will know it. Remember, there is a kernel of truth in good lies. This is why new beliefs require evidence.

For instance, you know you can’t get Asian baddies yet.

And you know that I know that you know you can’t get Asian baddies yet.

If you boldly lie to yourself, your mind will reject it.

“This guy is such a lying fuckwad. Does he actually think anyone wants to thunder his thimble? Get real.”

Do not despair, dear reader. This does not mean that you can never have Asian baddies ever.

It just means they’re mine for now. (And anytime in the future we’re sharing a room. Did you know, when David Jagger enters a room, women are 99% more likely to sleep with him than any other man? This is proven by extensive experience and erudition.)

What this does mean is that you must learn to bridge the gap between what is and what you intend to have. Start with a belief that moves you closer to your goal, but is still within reach. You don’t jump from the bottom to the top rung of a ladder.

Notice I did not say what you desire to have. Desire implies lack. Your mind understands this very well. We all want things. That doesn’t mean we get them.

Intention implies a certainty of having. I can desire rum, but if my intention is to get wasted, I will likely find myself very regretful in bed the next morning after a Four Loko binge.

But we’re getting way ahead of ourselves. Intention is a complicated lesson of its own.

I know you are an eager eagle, reader-san, but we must not leave the nest before our wings have feathers.

For now, be grateful. I have already given you so much.

I know how glad you are to have such a valuable friend.

The Great Work

This is where your real work begins, dear reader.

Up till now, you’ve been passive. Observant. But now that you understand how to use your attention, you can now act.

Action needs purpose.

You need to determine, based on your wounds, which direction to go. Listen to the call. It’s guiding you to the Self.

The closer you get to the Self, the faster those wounds will heal.

Only you can hear the call. Only you will know your purpose. Choose beliefs that align to your purpose and scour the darkness for those glistening shards of confirmation. You will smelt them to create your new globe.

This is your work for the week. Uproot the old beliefs, plant the seeds of the new.

You are now embarking upon the Great Work, dear reader. Assigned to you by a great man. In time, you will be almost as great.

Now, show me your mettle and be fucking metal.

Bis zum nächsten Mal, meine Brüder.

Ich liebe dich.

Why hello, my dear keyholder! Holder of the First Key, first of his name, Curator of Attention.

Did you do your homework last week? Did you pay attention to what you pay attention to?

My, oh my. What a silly question I’ve asked!

Of course you did, you breathtaking disciple you. The only type who would not have done it are the same type who shop Wayfair for the perfect cuck chair.

Definitely not my readers.

As you went about curating your attention you probably had a little problem. Maybe two. Maybe a few. You stepped in a little dog doo, and try as you might to scrape it away, it clung to your shoe.

What I mean to say is, you realized that curating your attention wasn’t so easy. Some thoughts you could ignore, yes. Some feelings you could wave away.

Others refused. They were a little sticky.

Maybe you succeeded in distracting yourself.

A bit of scrolling on the old Grammy? Liked a one, a two big booba’d goth babes? (Me three.)

That works for a little while. You override unpleasantness in the short-term by lighting up those pleasure centers, baby. That’s why I love coke.

The drink, I mean.

Definitely the drink.

It’s not like I’m into getting my face and throat numb.

I don’t even know what would cause such a thing!

But back to those sticky things—thoughts, feelings, musings, whatever.

Just when you thought you’d ditched them, they climbed back from the blazing depths of your mind like a hellfire demon. They seized you by the collar and shook—

You deep-fried ass clot. Look at me. LOOK AT ME!

Ooh, terrifying.

You’re a sick man, you know that? What kind of person is haunted by such horrible psychic creatures? Certainly not a saint like myself.

Now, let me guess, in your moment of weakness, you started to think, “This Jagger is such a lying fuckwad. I did exactly what he said and tried to curate my attention. And it didn’t work! Now life is even worse. At least before I was unaware of my problems. Now they won’t leave me alone! What a big phat phony he is.”

Why, yes. I am pretty phat.

But a phony I am not.

You gave it the old scoundrel’s try, my friend, and you earned the old scoundrel’s failure. Now, you’re upset because no one likes being a failure.

But there’s good news! My dear reader, you are, in fact, not a failure.

The failure is a failure. That’s all. You can see it; therefore, it’s not you.

You flexed your muscles, lifter boy. The weight was too heavy. Now, you’re sore, both in mind and in butt. You moved wrong and pulled a muscle. You got some feedback. Now, we can refine your form.

There’s more to the First Key than just handing it over. How heartless would I be to hand it over without showing you which door it unlocks?

That door is choice.

Allow me to show you to it.

To Choose, or not to Choose, that is the Choice

Isn’t this a beautiful door? Such a vibrant red, and yet you paint it black.

Let’s fix that.

(Unless you’re goth and into it. I likey the goth chickies myself.)

Everyone knows what choice is in the mundane sense.

Put simply, it’s selection.

Yes or no? To be or not to be? Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to put two in the pink or one in the stink? That is the question.

Choice, however, is so much more.

It’s your fate.

Whatever you give your attention to, you choose. This is true whether you like it or not. Reality doesn’t care. Your attention is like a mirror. Whatever you place before it will be reflected back. This is how you seal your fate.

True as this might be, simply saying so is unhelpful to the animi fatui.

“Animi fatui? What’s that?”

That’s you. The stupid minds. We’ve got to make you less stupid.

Becoming aware of your attention is great, but isn’t enough on its own. You can give your attention away without desiring to. While this is still your choice (everything is), it’s useless information if you’re covered in sticky stuff. The animi fatui may as well be choosing for you.

“Davey, this is great and all, but what does this have to do with getting chicks?”

Stupido.

You understand being well-groomed, right? (Maybe not.) Shower, shave, a little spritz of cologne, dress up nice and fancy-like?

Everything in your reality starts with your mind. Mental upkeep should be summa prioritas. All will follow its lead. The mental begets the physical.

If you clean only the outside of your home, but inside is a hoarder’s den of garbage, old crack pipes, and all kinds of vermin friends, do you not think the filth will eventually work its way outwards?

Lack of bitches is a symptom, not the problem.

The problem is psychic garbage—negative thoughts, bullshit stories, old habits that need to die. They’re stuck on you. Or perhaps it’s more accurate to say they’re stuck in you. Like a contaminated needle.

Think of me like the guy from that slop reality show where they help the hoarders clean their shit.

Together, we’re going to take out the trash and get you some shiny new crackpipes.

The Stupid Minds

The mind, while stupid, is an incredibly powerful tool. To use it effectively, you need to understand what it is and how it operates.

It is more than just your brain. It is linked to your consciousness, but is not your consciousness. The truth of it is somewhere between these two ideas. Kind of like my face between your mom’s thighs.

Did I say that out loud?

Whoopsie.

The mind is a problem-solver. A storyteller. It’s obsessed with control. And patterns. And productivity. And logic, and consistency, and blah, blah, blah. Boring stuff, though not necessarily bad. Great for keeping the sheepies alive while the shepherd is away. But left to its own devices, it inevitably does as stupid is.

If you leave food out where your dog can get it, do you trust your dog not to eat it?

The mind knows only separateness. This is white and this is black. This is up and this is down. David Jagger is a gorgeous man and you are… Well, you’re you.

If it was a person living in the real world, the mind would be a limp dick bureaucrat. Everything needs to follow the proper process. This paper has to be separated into this pile, that task belongs to that department, you can’t do this unless you file X, Y, and Z.

(How about you suck my P?)

Separate, separate, separate.

Through separation, it constructs a false self. An illusion. Its greatest trick is that it convinces you the false self is your real Self.

It is the enemy of intuition. By rejecting intuition, it believes it is being logical. Intuition is too whimsical.

You can’t follow hunches! Or feelings. It’s not logical!

The irony is that intuition transcends mortal logic. Intuition, understood properly, is wisdom of the highest order.

We can think of the mind as a choke valve for attention. It controls the flow and direction of it. Concentrates it. It creates a logical story based on observed patterns, keeps you consistent, productive with your goals, and zealously attacks anything that threatens this false self and reality. Those things are deemed problems. In this way, your mind turns on you. It makes the Self an enemy.

You should understand that none of this is inherently bad. Collapsing your reality based on beliefs and assumptions can be beneficial. The reason the flow of attention is narrowed is so you can maintain stable operation. It’s only when the current paradigm stops serving you, or worse, starts hurting you, that you notice there’s a problem.

If your own mind would make you out to be a problem, then I say give it a problem. Just as the mind turns against you, you can turn it back against itself. A proverbial bitch slap, dealt by its own hand.

Your mind has done to you what Set did to Osiris—it has fractured you, cut you off from You.

Not truly, but it convinces you it has. This is the game we must play.

You must simultaneously be Isis and Horus. Reclaim the scattered pieces of your Self and “defeat” the mind.

Once you do this, the Self is reborn.

Sticky White Stuff

Remember how we discussed that anything you can observe is not you? It’s not like I haven’t repeated it for the humpteenth time now. (And I’ll keep repeating it till it cracks through that concrete cranium of yours.)

Not only are your thotty thoughts and fee fees observable, but so too is your mind.

Think of it like a little mindception. You can watch yourself thinking about thinking about thinking.

How voyeuristic.

No matter how far out you extend this chain, the only thing you can never observe is your Self. There is always an observer beyond the observer, who sits there, observantly, in an observatory, observing.

That’s how grand you are. Almost as grand as me. You’re on your way, dear reader.

This realization is the first step to dealing with the mind and its noise.

The second step is realizing the mind loves problems. It perceives life as a never-ending chain of problems—you solve one, it invents another. Problems are the mind’s crack.

Remember those things you couldn’t ignore? Your mind believes these are problems. Whether they are or not is up for debate, but the fact remains that, for the mind, they are unignorable because they threaten the self—this is the mind’s identity, not yours.

Ignoring most thoughts and feelings works because most of them are nonsense. I can’t begin to count the narwhals in my daydreams and diamonds in my eyes. They come, they go, I watch my lovely narwhals surf on past, all coked up on life. I have no strong attachments to them. They simply pass by me in this metapsychic ocean.

Those sticky ones, however, are different. They spurt suddenly, white and globby. And so very sticky. Sometimes they make you feel gross.

(I was talking about glue, pervert. Get your mind out of the sphincter, reader!)

Ignoring those won’t work. They’ll keep on harassing you.

So, what do you do?

It’s simple. You give them the attention they so demand.

“Rah! Make up your mind. You told me to ignore them last week!”

Of course I did.

This is a structured lesson, dear reader. You needed to experience this to understand. Don’t you know I know what’s best for you? Would I ever let you down?

Give the sticky white thoughts your attention in the same way that you do a child throwing a tantrum—somewhat detached. It’s not that serious, they just want to be seen. They want to be acknowledged. They want to be understood. Even if the tantrum is about me stealing their candy. It’s not my fault babies make it easy. Maybe hide your fruit snacks, little loser. Your mom told me I could take some.

These thoughts, these feelings—you can’t ignore them because they’re trying to tell you something. Are they messages from your soul? From God Himself? From the collective unconscious?

You take your pick.

What’s important is you acknowledge them and let them go. Sometimes, it’s as simple as that. Other times, it’s a call to action.

Do what you have to. They’re trying to tell you something about you. Don’t let the mind box you in because it can’t accept possibilities.

On the other side of that unpleasant thing is an expansion of you into the greater Self. The Black Cube desires nothing less than your failure to do just that.

Stop Eating the White Stuff

Your mind loves eating the white stuff.

The glue, I mean. Yeah, the glue.

It loves problems. But it hates not being able to solve them.

If these sticky things are truly that sticky, you need to now ask why? Because for reasons only you can answer, you either haven’t accurately identified the problem, or you are unwilling or unable to solve it. Yet still you cling to it, like a baby (or me) to a single mother’s teat.

Once identified, the problem often ceases to be a problem. The mind flags it as a problem because of the truth it reveals:

The false self is a phony. It has far less control or problem-solving ability than it likes to believe.

Sometimes, it’s simply because you’re fatuus. But even then, are you afraid to admit to yourself that you’re an idiot? If not, why are you still stuck with this “problem”? If yes, then now you know. Work towards being less stupid. Or just be happy being stupid. The choice is yours.

In most cases, the problems are beyond your control. While these may be tragic, it’s important you sack up and drag those bowling balls along with you. A little acceptance of these is often enough to catapult you into that expansionary realm of the Self, which is exactly what you desire, whether you realize it or not. Maybe you’ll find the problem was never a problem at all. Sometimes, it’s a wakeup call. You may even find that once you stop resisting life, it comes to meet you.

Now, we need to put this into practice.

Unless you are like me, a perfect being, haunted by no demons, blessed only with narwhals and diamonds, you’ll need to find where you’re coated with the sticky white stuff (many report finding it in their hair, or their eyes, on their stomach, or even in their rectum).

Once you find it, acknowledge its existence, but remember it is not you.

Is it a thought? What feelings are associated with it?

Is it a feeling? What thoughts are associated with it?

Explore it.

Maybe it’s as simple as, “I’m lonely and no one likes me because I’m a loser.”

My dear friend, of course you are. But only because you keep allowing beliefs like this to run in the background of your mind! It was there all along, you simply weren’t aware.

This is exactly why you must acknowledge and integrate. Because once you have made these sticky things conscious, you can now begin scraping them off.

Do you see now why this has everything to do with getting chicks?

Capisce, amico?

Fantastico.

Now, off with you. Come back next week with fruit snacks and your report.

(Please bring the Scooby-Doo ones.)

Ti amo.

I know exactly what you cocksplats are so eagerly expecting of my teachings.

You want the secret to sneaking that cookie crumble.

Don’t play dumb. You know exactly what I mean. It’s exactly what you think it is.

Every guy wants it. It’s natural. Anyone who says otherwise is a liar, or prefers the Long John Silver, which is exactly the same thing but a perversion. It’s hardwired into our man-malion brains.

Monkey see, monkey wanna do it.

There’s no need to deny, nor to be ashamed of this. That desire, dear reader, is indicative of vril.

What is vril, you ask?

Chi, prana, aether, mana, odic force, orgone, kundalini—fettuccini, my linguini. More words for the same thing. Maybe you simply call it energy (you damn New Age hippie). It is the primary life essence underlying and permeating all of existence.

(I swear to God, if one of you nerds makes a Star Wars reference, so help me…)

We all want to stuff the strudel. We all want to flip it over and spankitopita.

That’s a sign that the spirit still has fire. The man inside still burns, regardless of how dim the light may be. With a little gas, the fire can intensify. Quickly. But if it’s true that the man has no desire, he is, more or less, spiritually dead. The body lives, but is a husk. There is nothing left of the man. He is a eunuch.

What you’ll have to come to terms with is that the secret to women is simple. It’s the simplest thing in the world, and yet, it’s simultaneously the hardest thing to embody. At least until it’s not. I could give you the secret right here, right now, and it wouldn’t matter. You wouldn’t understand it. Even if you did, you wouldn’t be able to make any use of it at this point.

Why?

Because it takes wisdom, and wisdom comes from time and, more importantly, experience.

“B-b-b-but David, I know old people that aren’t wise at all!”

Which one of you fools said that? Maybe you didn’t say it, but you thought it. Allow me to break it down like you have no time or experience.

Imagine, if you will, a man who lives his life on autopilot.

As a child, his parents provide for him. His mommy picks out his nice little booties and makes sure his outfit matches, and makes his lunch which forms his tastes, and his father teaches him to be conscientious, so that he goes to school every day like a good little slave.

As he matures, they gradually take away the training wheels. He picks out his own clothes and his own little booties, and he makes his own lunchies, and school eventually gives way to work. He maybe develops some hobbies and makes friends with some people at school or work, who do and think as he does. He does this for sixty years, all his life’s events swirling into a gray soupy mess he can hardly tell apart, except for a choice few events that made just enough of a mark to scar.

I bet you think this man is independent. I bet you think he thinks for himself. I bet you think he is experienced.

He has lived the same day of his life for most of his life. Does he sound experienced to you? What did he experience exactly?

Inversely, you can have a life of wild variety. Lush life fruits of all shapes and sizes hanging just overhead. Some even fall on your head—and you get angry!

Goddamn those fucking fruits! Can’t they see I want cake!

You stomp the fruit. You ignore the garden around you and single-mindedly resume your crusade for that sweet icing.

Are you getting it now, reader?

(I know you do, dear reader, but not everyone is as smart and amazing and near and dear to my heart as you are. Have a little compassion for the less fortunate, why don’t you?)

Time on its own means little. A rock has more time than you and I and many other humans combined. I’m not asking the rock to share its wisdom. Are you?

Maybe you should. I’m sure the rock at least has a lot to say about what it means to be a rock.

But that old man and the cake fiend?

What do they know about anything? They amble through life mostly—if not completely—unaware. Just like the Matrix-malaised sheepies they are. This is the trap of the Black Cube.

I’ll quit beating around the meat and give you the secret, my dear reader.

The secret to women is to just be yourself.

In fact, that’s the secret to life and to swagger.

Just be, like my dissolution into the creative space.

I told you you wouldn’t get it. Did you think I was lying?

That’s because there are secrets to the secret.

The problem is you’re unaware. Unaware about the secret, about yourself, about your swagger, about your vril. So, we need to make you aware. Now, hold still. I’m gonna grab you by the collar and shake—

Wake up. Wake the fuck up! Wake up, you stupid sack of…

Sike. Tee hee.

You don’t realize you have a superpower, do you? Everyone has it, but they’re all ignorant of it, including you.

That superpower is Attention. Once you are paying it, swagger becomes easy.

The Center of it All

What you see is everything.

Understand this: you are the center of the universe. Everything in your life revolves around you. It happens through you. But if you can’t see that, my words caress deaf and dumb ears.

“The center of the universe? How conceited. Only a selfish bastard would say such a thing! Don’t you know there are other people living on this planet? Don’t you think they matter too?”

Like I said. Deaf and dumb.

This is why I said you wouldn’t get it. Jesus also spoke the truth, and look at what they did to him. I’m pretty grand, but if He couldn’t get through to you sheepies, how could I?

I know! Let’s try an exercise.

Are you ready?

Take a look around. What do you see? Now, that you’ve spotted it, tell me, is it you?

Of course, it’s not.

Imagine if you saw me. I can only imagine how orgasmic it would be if I was someone else, saw David Jagger, and then experienced being him. I would probably feel like I’d stepped into heaven. But alas, no one can ever be me, and I’m not here to tell you lies. I would never do that. I’m here to deliver the truth. Don’t you know how selfless I am?

Part two of our little exercise: take a look inside you.

(Put the mirror away. Get your pants back on, stop spreading your ass cheeks, and stand up straight. I didn’t mean look inside you literally.)

Now, what do you “see”? What thoughts are flitting about that deranged mind of yours? What fee fees have you feeling down on the ground like a clown with a frown?

Go ahead, give them a name. Call those worthless sons of bitches out like the leeches they are.

Do you see what just happened?

Anything you can see—objects, events, your thoughts and feelings, my glorious visage—is not you. You’ve spent most of your life believing it’s you because you are homo imbecillus. It’s time you wise up. It’s time you start paying attention.

Naming things gives you distance. It gives you power. It allows you to separate it from you. It becomes an object or an event, which means it’s something you can either control or something that will pass. Sometimes, it’s a bit of both.

We will call this psychic distance from now on.

When you start paying attention to things, you achieve psychic distance. The reason why you have spent most of your life thinking things that aren’t you are you is precisely because you have not been paying attention. Now that you understand what it means to pay attention, truly, you can determine what not to pay attention to. What to ignore, in more specific terms. In doing so, you start taking an active part in what you are.

“But Davey, this is kind of scary… If anything I observe, anything that can be named isn’t me, then who am I?”

This, dear reader, is the right question. And if I could answer it, then it wouldn’t be you now, would it?

Speed of Life

Yes, yes, I understand.

You’re freaking out a little bit.

You do know the Tower is the card of awakenings, right? Does that card look fun to you?

I know it is for my dear reader and I, but not everyone can be us. We’re a couple freebirds, surfing those floors down to the bottom, baby. Woo!

Regardless, it’s a necessary step on the road to swagger, so you may as well get it over with now. If you’re freaking out, stop paying attention to it. You’ve already named it, now fucking ignore it.

Easier said than done, huh?

I told you. You’re not ready for the secret yet. That’s why we need to work you up to it with the smaller secrets first. Your pyramid needs a strong base. You don’t build the damn thing upside down.

Life comes fast and it hits hard. There are all kinds of ghouls and gals, astral parasites, demons, and (worst of all) the black prison walls of the cube looking to steal your attention for their own ends. When things are moving at the speed of life, it’s easy for them to do that.

You peacocks go to the gym, don’t you? I know you like to puff yourself up for your gym hubbies.

“Whoa, bro. Looking swole! You been hitting glutes lately?”

Yeah, Chester. Your mom’s.

The point I’m trying to make is that the same way you go to train your bodies, you must also do for your attention. Left unexercised, it becomes loose and flabby and splays out every which way.

When you master your attention, psychic distance is easier to achieve. And when you have psychic distance, two things happen:

1. You regain energy all those vril snatchers were harvesting.

2. You gain a sense of you.

Both of these are essential to swagger.

The Only Currency That Matters

More vril means greater capacity for swagger.

The more you embody a sense of you, the more swagger achieved.

It’s enough to know this for now.

My friend, I know you want more. You ravenous raven you! But if I don’t stop you here, you’ll only gorge till you’re obese, stuffed so full of information you can’t move. You’ll want to sleep, feeling satisfied that you know it all, even though that would mean you’re David Jagger, and we’ve already established you can’t be me.

And that’s okay (acceptable)!

Now is not the time to sleep. You need to exercise. (Strut that stuff, peacock!) You need to start paying attention because it’s the only currency that matters. This needs to be done while life is in motion.

Understand this: you are going to fail.

For starters, you’re not me.

More importantly, life is a steamroller going 120 miles per hour in a school zone at eight o’clock in the morning. You’ll be halfway through squatting your first coffee and drinking your morning shit before you realize you had it backwards.

That’s disgusting, but also not you. So, let it go and reclaim your attention. The moment you get upset about it, the astral nasties swoop in and start slurping you up, and (believe me) it’s not the kind of slurping you want. All you need is to become aware and redirect your attention.

To what?

To being fucking metal, of course!

At least, that’s the goal.

Over time.

For now, it’s enough to direct it to something that sucks a little less. You’re a loser right now. Accept that, and you can start putting your attention on being less of a loser. Do this enough, moment by moment, and eventually you’ll climb out of that hole you’re in. Once you’re out of that hole, then you can start thinking about getting into the fun ones.

Don’t confuse this with self-improvement. Don’t confuse this with some bullshit grind.

Stoicism! Embrace the suck. Some dead philosopher said you have to suffer to achieve anything!

Wrong.

All wrong and all fatuus.

I’m telling you you don’t have to suffer. You only suffer because you put your attention on the suck.

Do you like to suck? Did you not come to me because you’re trying to get sucked? Unless you’re trying to suck yourself off, I suggest you curate your attention.

Guess What, Friend? You Got Homework.

So, what have we learned today, cl(ass)?

Vril is your life essence.

Swagger is life essence plus the authentic expression of you being you. Unabashedly, so.

Attention is one of the weapons in your arsenal against the otherworldly powers that conspire against you. What you feed your attention will grow; the inverse is also true. Use your attention to preserve and, ideally, increase your vril. Separate you from not you to develop your swagger.

This is the foundation to your pyramid. Build it well and you will age like Giza. Fail and you will age to be a geezer.

As you go about your week, check in with yourself. If you intend to do it, you will.

(We will talk more about Intention in the near future.)

You think I’m holding back, dear reader, but I promise you, I couldn’t be telling you straighter. These are the keys to it all.

The powers that be would never tell you what I’m telling you now. Because if you take it to heart, if you put it to practice, you will become ungovernable. No man will hold dominion over you.

If my eyes weren’t like diamonds, my heart gold, would I hand over such secrets when I could keep them all for myself?

You don’t have to believe dear Davey here (but I know you want to).

Give it a try for yourself. A real peacock’s try (strut, baby, strut). Fake ones won’t do.

You’ll see for yourself.

Te amo.

Adios, muchachos.

If you’re reading this, know that you are blessed.

Jaggerisms almost didn’t happen.

You might be wondering, “What is Jaggerisms?”

Not knowing is a sin, but I forgive you, dear reader. What kind of savior would I be if I did not?

Jaggerisms is a wealth of untold knowledge your life would be dismal and pointless without, provided by yours truly.

It is a map to authenticity in this barren net-hellscape where everything is shadows on the wall.

A return—not to a place, but to the Self you abandoned because society said it was a problem.

You can feel it already, can’t you?

Your vril returning.

Let it happen.

Get comfy. Grab yourself some white rum. Have a little sip-sip. Unzip-zip your pants, take your man in hand, and allow me to help you understand. We’re going to get hot and heavy as we travel back in time a decade (Yes! A whole decade!) to explore the beginnings of that which almost never was yet is.

Feel free to stroke, just don’t spill your vril. It’s hard to replenish the Cup of Hermes. It might even take a whole decade…

A Big Bang

October 6, 2016.

The world was still mostly shadows on the wall, but the shadows were a little fainter. People still had a little swagger in their step.

I was as metal then as I am now, straight raw-dogging life—and chicks who have no business getting raw-dogged by a schlong as impressive as mine. (What can I say? Everyone deserves love, and I have an abundance of love to give.)

I had an unfortunate tendency to get drawn into the wrong crowds when drunk or high. Consumed by love (and an eight-ball), I found myself spending time with a truly deplorable lot. Absolute pathetic dweebs. How it happened was a blur, but happened it did—I picked up a pencil and paper, rolled a D20 tie, and played a roleplaying game with nerds. If I were a lesser man, I’d be ashamed to admit it.

Was it Dungeons and Dragons? Pathfinder? The fuck is the difference? It was nerd fantasy shit, and I was high as shit. I remember only feeling astounded. This was fun. Truly. I was merely playing myself in a fantasy world.

How spectacular! Even in a fantastically different setting, I was still exactly the same moggin’, raw-doggin’, tour de force.

Fantastic!

More amazingly, this game factored in a character’s charisma. Not merely as a stat, but a function. Your effect on the world is derived from your mere presence alone, an effect one might only experience in the real world if you are, say, me, or David Bowie, or Casanova, or Fred Rogers!

These nerds could have experienced being socially irresistible—the exact opposite of what they were—and yet they refused this ultimate power. The power to do and be so much more in a world that enabled them to be anyone or anything their imagination could dream.

It should come as no surprise this lot was particularly smitten with me. I brought a roleplaying dynamic they clearly weren’t accustomed to. So quick were they in the beginning to charge, blades drawn, into every conflict, even when there were none.

I showed them another way: how words could be more effective than any blade—and more fun.

Why force someone to do something you could convince them to willingly do?

Why fight the guards blocking the entrance, when you can convince them you’re a band of travelling troubadours come to play for the king?

Why kill the big baddie when you can so thoroughly twist his oh-so-tragic backstory against him so cruelly that he’d rather end himself?

Why pick the lock? You can seduce it!

It wasn’t long before I was running the show. I may as well have been the Game Master. Social encounters became the dominant mode.

I had become the main character—not because I was the brave and powerful hero. No. If anything, I was the devilish bard, eyes like diamonds and words worth more than gold.

They couldn’t help but be entranced.

The lines between reality and fiction began to fissure. Sure, their roleplay was what you’d expect from dweebs who think real world interactions play out like in Japanese porn cartoons, but it was more social than they’d ever been in their lives. How could they not be, basking in my presence as they were?

People truly underestimate the seductive nature of fiction.

I can already hear the protests:

“B-b-b-but David! It’s make-believe. What power can it have? It’s all in your head!”

Dear reader! How do you not see it?

Everything is in your head.

No one experiences objective reality. All of it is filtered through your oblivious little brain.

Everything you think happened to you, even just a moment ago, is merely a story you’re telling yourself. You relive it the moment you conjure the memory. It even changes each time you do, colored by your current mind state and perceptions. People let these memories dictate their identity with acute consistency and unwavering faith.

How many people, do you think, choose to live miserable stories and play loser characters in life? Make no mistake, dear reader, it is a choice.

This is exactly what these dweebs had done until I graced them with my participation in their basement ritual. Worlds began to collide, their characters—real and fantasy—to fuse.

One of these poor unfortunates was a was rotund and red-faced shemmoth, misted with perspiration. She began to giggle. And I mean, giggle. Like a lovely, elven maiden looking to be bred by the debonair heir of house Jagger…

Of which I was all too happy to oblige!

Yes, it may have been that I snorted another bump (I was really feeling the love now), but mostly it was because she had become that elven maiden. The worlds had fully merged, and I was the bridge between them. Through me, they could achieve social salvation.

I paid a respectable 2gp for a private room at the inn (the GM’s bedroom) and began to deflower my bloated purple elf. (I finally realized she was saying she was a drow, not a cow.) She claimed her race performs better in the dark, which made the deed easier.

She felt loose. I wasn’t sure if I’d slipped in or slipped between two sweaty, belly rolls, but she seemed to like it all the same. It was only after I’d finished loving this beached beluga, her cankles still perched on my shoulders, that an explosion occurred.

Not the one in my nethers.

There was an explosion in my mind. A big bang after banging something big. A realization that made me weep.

Literally.

It wasn’t that the lights had come on, or that I’d come down from my high, or that I was covered in stench and sweat that was more hers than mine. It was because I’d stolen what should have been the lay of my one-session brothers of the table. How many years had they spent adventuring together, pining over her, the sole femalien of their troop? The only girl low enough on the totem pole to ever consider sharing her cookie with them?

I’d spoiled that cookie. It could never work for them now, not truly.

I had set her standards too unbelievably high.

She would never love another man. Maybe never even ever like a man of their station ever again, even as friends. She would only ever dream of, only ever yearn for David of House Jagger.

I had barely stuffed my junk back into my leather pants when I barreled out of the room and straight for the exit. I didn’t bother to answer them as to where I was going, didn’t even think to say goodbye. I couldn’t bear to look my brothers in the face, lest they see my cry.

Where was I going?

Anywhere but there.

What was I going to do?

This, dear reader, is the right question.

The Word Made Manifest

Half-past midnight. A dimly-lit internet café somewhere in East Asia.

Or maybe just K-town. The spell of the session still clung to me like the rose-tinted scent of a sphincter (my fault for chancing a shocker on the cow—I mean, drow), and I’d lost count of how many edibles I’d consumed over the last hour.

Lightning flashed through the windows and rainwater ran in rivulets from the overflowing gutters. I slipped a little white rum (yum) into my coffee. (Sheer heart attack, baby!)

I glanced over my shoulder. Everyone here looked the same, all of them watching me. They all had narrowed their eyes so intensely. I trembled and faced my computer, the Word document still blank.

They’re not squinting at you, David. They’re just Asian.

A flimsy lie. I knew they were, and I knew why they were squinting. They were trying to read what I was writing, judging the lack thereof.

I had so much to share, a dragon’s hoard of thought-treasure. I’d never struggled for words ever before.

I stole another glance at the watchers, seeing all of Asia in a single man.

Perhaps it was the chemical cocktail of rum and gummies bubbling in my guts, but I felt like everything was slipping away. My sense of time, my memories, my purpose.

Why had I come here again?

What had I set out to do?

Panic set in. I cried out to the heavens, “What was the point of all this?!”

In that moment, I was absorbed into the blank white page. There was no me, no cow-scent, no Asians. Just a space of pure creation. I watched the universe dissolve and reform and re-dissolve and re-reform again. And I was the one doing it! There was communication. Not in words, but a subtle knowing:

Just be.

How could I have been so stupid?

I was trying to tell others how to be just like me.

An impossible task, as I’m sure you can guess, my brilliant, beloved reader—even for me! For to tell you would be a reduction, and in that reduction, it would simply cease to be me. The conceptual mind is too limiting; what’s required is a direct experiencing of the thing to be understood.

When I returned to myself the rain had subsided. The Rising Sun now shone red and honorably over glorious Nip Town. And in the word processor before me, seven (how synchronistic!) pages of something like principles. My Do, my Way, condensed for the Twitter-brained troglodyte.

I thought about calling it David-do, Way of David, as a way of thanking the Asians whose dragon-energy pushed me beyond my limits, but that would have been cultural appropriation, and I would never do that to my yellow friends, dear to me as they are.

I settled on the title of Jaggerisms: How to Have Swagger Like David Jagger, by David Jagger. I thought it more humbling and appropriate to adhere to a western presentation, even though I’d have loved to use that Asian influence to woo even more Asian baddies. (I love Asians, but not as much as I love you, my dear reader.)

Where that Brings Us Today

Now, you’re probably asking, “David, surely this thing was a massive success. Why, then, haven’t I heard of it? You’d have to be gay and retarded not to have read this.”

Have no fear, you are not queer, my dear friend. You may be retarded, but it’s unlikely given that you’re here, reading this. Not impossible, but I’m like ninety five percent sure.

The truth, dear reader, is this:

I fucked up.

You could be the greatest writer in the world, but if you know jack shit about the publishing world and who runs it, then good luck enlightening the masses. The powers that be don’t want you enlightened, and they definitely don’t want me reaching you, or even those nerds I had so desperately wanted to save from themselves.

I picked the first publisher of self-help books I found in the two minutes it took to Google it, sent the manuscript with no explanation from my personal Hotmail, and expected they’d recognize the emerald monkey I’d delivered that would fart and shit gold.

What more was there for me to do?

I had no intention of making money off it. No designs on fame and recognition.

All I had was a desire to help those unfortunate enough to be born as someone other than me.

Everyone would have gained from this. The publishers, the readers, the non-readers who would benefit by proxy of having these Jagified individuals in their lives.

So, I forgot about it. He who lives life with swagger doesn’t dwell in the past—he engages fully in the present.

Was my manuscript overlooked? Marked as spam? Or was it received by an agent of the Enemy, who was all too aware of the levels of power and awakening the sheepies might receive should they lay their eyeballs on it? (Almost certainly the latter.)

Regardless, I failed to follow through, and as a result, the world has suffered immensely. I look around and am struck by the obvious and undeniably sorry state of the world.

It’s getting worse.

When I got to really noticing that, I got to wondering why the world hadn’t pulled a one-eighty.

Shouldn’t the world have radically transformed for the better? Where are the flying cars? Why hasn’t the original Coke recipe made a comeback? Why haven’t micro-bikinis become the standard attire for women?

My mind raced. I felt a strange sensation in my loins, like the sinking of Atlantis all over again. I raced to the nearest bookstore, peeling through shelves like a roach on meth.

I couldn’t find it any section. I even searched online. There was no mistaking it. My book had never been published.

You may find it hard to believe, but even I can become disheartened, dear reader. It takes a lot because I’m not bitch-made, but it can happen nonetheless.

To my dismay, my Hotmail account was no more. Inactive accounts are deleted after a couple years. With the email nuked, Jaggerisms effectively had been too.

(Exactly as the Enemy intended, I’m sure.)

I stumbled listlessly down the street, and the heavens tore asunder to weep with me.

All that wisdom, lost to the cyber-graveyard like tears in the rain. I couldn’t recall a damn thing I wrote, but I knew it was gold. How could it not be? I wrote it. Could I do it again?

Divinely-inspired creation is a culmination. A crystallization of several factors into being at a given point in time. My will, my words, my desire, my emotion, my place in time and space all made love and birthed Jaggerisms in that moment. It could only have been created as it was then. Even if I restored all the original words, it would have been something inferior:

An imitation.

When I came to, the rain had stopped. Or rather, it was separated from me by an awning. The rainwater overflowed from a gutter, running down in rivulets. Thunder shattered the silence.

I was back in Ancient China, standing before a familiar café where identical, narrow-eyed faces sipped coffee and squinted at screens.

Could it be? Had the answer already come? I wanted to believe, but didn’t think I could handle being blue-balled if it wasn’t.

I entered and paid my fare.

Anticipation rose as I approached the same open spot as almost ten years ago. Not a damn thing had changed, save for wear. The computer was slower than a special-ed kid, but it was the same exact one.

I searched the documents, pleasantly surprised I wasn’t the only one who saved their documents to a public computer. (I was high when I did it. These guys were just dumbasses, heh.) My anticipation reached climax. My pants had never been creamier.

Praise to the J-Man.

It was there. It was fucking there.

I loaded Jaggerisms, so prepared for the elation I would feel upon reading it after all these years! Except, elation never came.

Only post-nut disappointment.

As I mentioned, Jaggerisms was a divinely-inspired creation, a product of the very moment in time that it was captured. Some of it timeless, yes; but some of it, not so much. It was a mere seven pages of short principles that tried to illustrate the je ne sais quoi of my being.

Now, don’t get me wrong, these are a dense seven pages. To truly understand even one principle could take a gifted man years. But I’ve lived another decade since the writing. Ten full, vigorous years of invaluable experience and growth (even perfection can become more perfect).

What I’m driving at, my marvelous reader, is that I realized just how incomplete this work was. It would never be complete, not so long as I kept living.

I made a copy for myself and deleted it from the computer. Not because I was ashamed of it. Anything I produce is sheer magnificence. I may even still share it in its original form someday!

I deleted it because this work has a purpose:

To uplift readers the world over, restore their swagger, and grant them salvation.

To succeed in that goal, the work needs to be alive, as I am. As you are.

A book is a done deal. I’m not the submit it and quit it kind of guy, I swear. I want to keep on loving you. I would be inconceivably selfish to not share my decade of character development with you.

We’re living in the internet age, baby! Why does it have to be a book? Why do I need a nosey publisher to gatekeep me from reaching you? I just need somewhere to post it, so you can read it. Now you get ongoing updates to your game of life.

Hell yeah!

Where We’re Running To

You’ve probably got one last question joggin’ that noggin of yours, my brilliant reader:

What exactly can I expect here?

That, dear reader, is the right question.

What can you expect here?

Me, of course; but enough about me! What about you?

You can expect life to get better.

Yes, a little bit of Davey in your life will do that, but I’m talking about something more tangible here, man! I’m talking about ideas I’m going to share with you on a regular basis, so that you can live life with a little more swagger. (Hopefully, a lot more swagger, but Chiraq wasn’t ruined in a single day.)

Where I went wrong with Jaggerisms the first time was that I created something not unlike the Tao Te Ching (probably due to the dragon-influences under which it was drafted).

And there’s nothing wrong with that! The Tao is a phenomenal text, and those who get it definitely get it. The problem is, when you look at all the sheepies of the world, it’s quite obvious that hardly any of them actually get it. Jaggerisms would have much the same problem.

The approach here will be different. You’ll notice the title of this Substack is different from the original body of work:

Jaggerisms: Living the Life of Swagger with David Jagger

It’s subtle, but do you see it? I’ll give you a moment…

…

…

Okay, I don’t have all day! I’ll just tell you.

Living the Life of Swagger with David Jagger.

With, my friend. With!

Not how to have it like me. No one could ever be like me. Not that that should make you sad. No one could ever be you either! Which is almost as good. But we can both live the life of swagger. Together!

How this differs from and will succeed where How to Have Swagger Like David Jagger failed, is that this is a collaboration. A community.

You and me.

Me and you.

We’re walking this road together.

(No, no one is holding anyone’s hand. Yeesh.)

I’ll introduce you to ideas and build upon them. Take a little time, woo them, get them wrapped around my finger before I bring them to climax, squirting their juicy insights directly into your fertile mind. As is the modus operandi of the greatest seductive artists, you’ll be so wrapped up in the happenings you won’t realize what’s happening. You’ll be left dazed, astounded, maybe even a little confused, but exuding a soft, warm glow that radiates outward, forever changing your being and that of those and the world around you.

We will all be as nodes, inextricably linked in an ever-extending chain of causality—and when we flip our state, so too will we flip the states of our surrounding nodes. Not because we are forcing them, but because our glow is so delicious they can’t help but mirror it. Who wouldn’t want to? It’s sublime. This, you sexy bastard reader you, is how we will save the world!

And you…

You can fire back! I’m no book. My words are not commandments, forever etched in stone. We have a comments section. We have a chat. I share my Gospel, and you share yours!

So, my friend, I encourage you to unbuckle your chastity belt, get comfy, hit subscribe, and prepare to get wet and wild. This is not for the faint of heart or the weak-minded. Your dick must be this long to ride this ride.

I know, dear reader, that you’re up to the task. You wouldn’t still be here, reading this if you weren’t. But since you are, consider this my heartfelt handshake. (Heh, that was my masturbation hand.)

You and I? We’re bringing swagger back, baby.