Sailing the Shitty Seas
One Man’s Anchor From Another Man’s Ass
Ghost Ship
There is something about the summer that brings out the freest version of me. Perhaps it’s these later days, which keep the darkness at bay just a few hours longer.
Once upon a time, I was like you, reader. More handsome, surely. And charismatic. And better with women. But like you in the sense that I did not know what I did not know. And I did not know that every moment of every day I was at war. A spiritual war, but a war nonetheless.
I know you’re shitting on the porcelain throne right now, but I want you to meet me here on the castle ramparts, while I wax philosophical. Use your mind’s eye. See the expanse of verdant land collide with cerulean sky at the furthest horizon. Feel the sun kiss the nape of your neck, the cool winds lick the sweaty crevices under your arms and between your legs. Behold my nude body, tanned golden from my days spent up here absorbing the sun’s rays. (I did say the summer brings out the freest version of me, did I not?)
Take notes, cocksplat. Vivid, sensory ones. This feeling that you have right here, right now, up high in this castle with me. This is my anchor.
No, you can’t have it. Stop trying to jump ahead and let me finish.
You see, there was a time that even I was a ship without an anchor. Carried about the world by wind and sea, constantly drifting, no way of stopping. I was doomed to sail past the shores of my paradise or crash upon them. And crash upon them I did. Crashing is its own kind of catastrophe; you might not survive it. But it’s far more fortunate than those who forever sail like a ghost ship, a crew of phantasmal ghoulies never to found the kingdom they set sail in search of.
I’m here to tell you, dear reader, that you don’t have to crash. I don’t want you to. I’m just that kind and caring. And humble. (Don’t forget humble.)
Last week, I taught you how to figure out what you want. The week prior, I taught you how to stop unconsciously choosing what you don’t want. This week, I’m teaching you to have what you want and what that truly means.
We’re going to get you an anchor, so you can post up, properly disembark, and swagger onto the shores of your promised land.
Butt Stuff
I would love to tell you that I hate to burst your bubble, but I would, sure as the cock a-doodles, be lying if I did. I love bursting your bubble. It’s how I break your self-cube. Now, bend over, stick that bubble butt out, and brace for explosive deflation. Here comes the prick:
You don’t know what it means to have. You only think you do.
“It obviously means to physically have the thing, David. Duh.”
Why thank you for that fatuous statement, buddy. This is the cleanest, no-nonsense representation of Black Cube programming if ever there was one. It merely skims the surface of the true meaning of have. You haven’t just missed the mark. You saw the target, turned around, and shot the range instructor instead. Great job.
If you knew what it meant to have, you wouldn’t need this lesson. You’d just be here for my glorious visage, and you wouldn’t have to split your attention between the two. But for a little bit, would you quit going goo-goo eyed and focus on the message? Dear Lord... It’s hard being this gorgeous.
Everything you could ever dream of, you already have. Even what you don’t physically possess. The experience is accessible within you. Everything you desire is experiential. Even to simply own a thing is an experience. For instance:
I want to have gorgeous looks like David Jagger.
First, let me say, I commend your ability to dream big. Truly. But you need to come back down to reality.
That being said, your desire is entirely valid. But the point of having those looks is not to simply have them. You want the looks for reasons. You want the female attention, you want the confidence, you want the love.
Uh-oh, more things. More externalities you’d like to have. Did you already forget, reader? The outer world is energetically dead. It has already been expressed. It is the expression that is living and real. To simply have things in the physical sense is to hump a corpse. You’re not a necrophiliac, are you?
What underlies each of those things is what you believe to be the experience of a handsome man. In this case, of David Jagger. And you’re pretty damn close, but it’s actually even better than you think. But let’s stick to what your imagination can conjure for now.
You’ve already imagined what it would be like to be someone like me. You can feel those emotions, experience that life, all as if it was your own. Right here, right now, in that stupid little brain of yours. Why, if you were to close your eyes, shut out the dead world, and let your imagination run nude with attitude, you would forget you were ever a lame-o little cuck. You would just be Jagger-esque.
Imagine you stayed that way for years. Locked in a dim little cave with Play-Doh, watching your shadows on the wall. If everyone else falls for the old shadow puppet play, why wouldn’t you? If you must believe in illusions, why not your own?
The fact of the matter is that physically having something is, at best, a lesser form of experience. Think of it like your ass. Things come out easier than they go in. Things can go into it, but most would agree this is not the intended function.
Do you enjoy sticking stuff up your bum? You can be honest. I’m not judging. I promise you (but not God).
Think back to my anchor.
A summer spent sunbathing, beneath the endless blue sky that meets the vibrant greenery below, my adoring subjects awaiting my return (that’s when the party starts).
Wherever I sail, this parks my ship. No sailing by my promised land. If I accidentally land on cursed shores, I can always return. My ship waits safely off the coast, no shipwreck landings thanks to this bad boy. Summer vacation comes with me. The land is promised because Jagger sets foot upon it.
Ask yourself, reader. Do you want to drop your anchor like a big man drops dong? Or do you want the Black Cube’s anchor shoved like its dong up your ass?
Swagger Like Jagger
I wasn’t always a god-king, reader.
Hard to believe, but true. I’m telling you because I’m honest and kind and very relatable, not because you witnessed my transformation just a few weeks ago.
Before I learned what it meant to have and how to have, I was a villain. A real barbarian. A very attractive one, no doubt. But despite all the love and admiration others showed me, I felt none of it. I was empty. Not just my balls, but my very being. There wasn’t enough rum to give me a buzz, nor enough coke to make me feel love, and there certainly wasn’t a woman who could tame my heart.
I was a man who externally had everything, but internally was hollow. I may as well have had none of it all. I was the captain of a ghost ship, picking up new members of the ghost crew everywhere I went. The soil would turn to salt where I stepped, the fruits rotted in my hand.
For as long as the Black Cube keeps its anchor up your ass, you too are a ghost captain on the astral seas. But not a cool one like me. You look like a guy wearing a dirty sheet. I looked like a badass undead, with green flames spilling out of my eye sockets, death on my breath, and a sick, skeletal narwhal that would fly out of the ocean and attack my enemies.
That ghost captain was Javid Dagger. I had to accept that bastard to destroy him, but fuck him anyway.
The truth is that having what you want is simple, but (I want you to say this with me, reader) simple is not always easy.
You can have whatever you want, right here, right now, because having is an experience. This is true even for all you cocksplats who are saying, “Nuh-uh, I just want money.” Oh yeah? What do you want the money for? So you can get baddies? That’s an experience. So you can be free? Also an experience. So you can shove it, like the Cube’s anchor, up your ass? You guessed it, that’s an experience.
When you know what you want, you know how having it would make you feel. The problem is that you cuck boys wallow in the wanting, in the lack. The Cube’s anchor hurts your ass, but you continue to hold it in. All things must pass, some painfully so. Some shits are come to Jesus moments. Cry to Him. Like a baby. He will help you through it. His wants are Your wants.
Instead of bitching about not having what you want in this material Black Cube realm, be the guy that experiences the having from his own inner kingdom. When I was shipwrecked, dying upon those shores, Big Jeezy came to me like a brilliant solar flare with a mirror in hand, burning the barnacle and brine from my saltine ghost form. In the mirror, I glimpsed who I truly was. From that glimpse, I was able to forge my anchor.
Find what you want in yourself and the line between you and it begins to blur. If you can imagine what it feels like to be god-king Jagger, if you can live from that feeling and see it in the mirror, the world will react. You don’t get to control how it reacts, but react it will. (And let’s be honest, controlling the reaction would be boring anyway).
All we’re asking is the same question since the very beginning:
Who are You?
Don’t answer me, cocksplat. Just ask the question and feel the answer. If the one you get makes you feel bad or you can answer it in words, it’s not you. If it’s not you, therein lies your answer. Let what is not you point you towards what is. Keep asking until you find what feels right. Use those things to forge your anchor.
Your anchor is whatever you need it to be. I showed you mine, now you need to make one that evokes the feeling of who You want to be. Cast it when you’re ready to disembark. It will keep you rooted in the feeling despite where the waters may pull. As long as you have your anchor, your ship will always be waiting for you to return, to shuttle you wherever You want to go.
The astral sea is the realm of possibilities. When your anchor no longer works, ditch it and make a new one. But understand that sailing to your promised land takes time. Can you maintain the feeling? You’ve been a cuck all your life. I may be a god-king, but I’m no miracle worker.
Take it in degrees. If you can inhabit the feeling long enough, you will eventually have the swagger like Jagger. You don’t need to have it all at once. Grab what you can reach for now. You will climb higher one step at a time.
When you find yourself feeling cucked and the shit is raining, simply ask, “What would Jagger do?”
Dropping Anchor
As your god-king, I want you to know that I have the utmost faith in you. But my faith in you goes about as far as I can throw you. Which is pretty far because I’m such a sick beast, but probably not as far as you would like.
Foreplay aside, what I’m trying to say is that even though you can have what you want instantly, you won’t. You will ignore this and forge your anchor according to your most delusional dreams regardless. Your king commands it.
To forge your anchor, you first need to cast the mold. The mold is what you want to have. Get specific about it. If you want to be my mini-me, go for it. Really define those parameters. I want fantastic hair like Jagger, I want pussy every day of the week like Jagger, I want to exude sex appeal like Jagger, I want insane charisma like Jagger.
I’m not here to judge your dream. In fact, I’m flattered (and a little frightened) by your obsession with me. Have at it.
Once you’ve got your mold, you need to fill it with your molten metals. Let it cool and all that jazz. Your metals are the stuff that make the anchor. The feelings, the visuals, the sounds, the words, if there are any. You saw mine. I give myself a little scene. In this scene, I am already god-king to the people and, more importantly, last and greatest Holy Jester to my Lord, the big JC, the Alpha and Omega.
Your anchor is not my anchor, but as the gracious and infinitely loving king I am, I will allow you to use it for inspiration. It may be a tall order, but at least try to be wise about this. The most important function of the metals is the feeling. If it’s not yours, if it doesn’t evoke the feeling, then it’s no good. If the anchor can’t still your ship, then what the fuck is even the point? However you achieve that, be it a scene, a picture, a sound, doesn’t matter insofar as it matters to you. I pick a scene with lots of kinetic feeling. I like to feel the wind in my crack and the sun on my balls.
The most important fact of my anchor is that it’s made of the goal achieved. I AM the last and greatest Holy Jester. I’m enjoying a little alone time before I entertain my subjects and my Lord. There is no orgiastic celebration. My scene takes place in the mundane recovery period between visits to the brothel (don’t tell my peach).
Once your anchor is forged, you need only cast it. Keep it in your inventory. You might see the shore of your promised land just out yonder, but if the seas are stormy, it may not be safe to disembark. Drop anchor and wait for the storm to pass. It will keep you in place until it’s time. When you feel the current pulling you anywhere but your goal, reach within and whip out that anchor dong.
Your homework now is to forge that anchor. Your anchor. If the anchor is not yours, it will be useless at best, harmful at worst. It must be made of your goal, your feelings. Not mine. There’s only room for one last and greatest Holy Jester, and that is me. I will destroy you worse than Javid, cocksplat. Do not try me.
Once you have your anchor, test it. We do not meditate on it in this kingdom, we act on it. See if it does the job. When life sends a shitstorm your way, can you maintain the swagger like Jagger? Do you think I’m fazed by shitstorms, reader? I eat shit for breakfast. I mog that storm with a shit-eating grin. (Don’t say a fucking word. I’ve already committed to the metaphor.)
Do not think about how you’ll get to the promised land. That’s for God to know and you to find out. If your anchor isn’t doing the job, cut the line and make a new one. It’s a tool and should be treated as such.
Now, get to work. I’ve had about as much of your shit as I can stand for one article. But even so, never forget...
Bayin-akhen.