The middle-class trap: Why your "safe job" is a slow-motion castration.

You're trading your prime years for a boss who doesn't know your name.

Most men don't have careers; they have crosses they've learned to hide under a suit jacket.

Ten years ago: You went on a job interview at the company whose name made your parents proud. Two hours before you precisely ironed the suit that you were given for a prom in the 4th grade of high school. While dressing, you try not to pay attention to your shaking hands, unable to get the button into the hole. The day before, you heard about manifestation shit mixed with “the job interview tips”, so you tried to get into that positive emotions state.

One hour left. Your vision went tunnel, your hearing has become encased in your body. Sitting in the car, you hear your heartbeat and feel the blood flowing through your veins. You put the key in the ignition, praying that it will start… You turn it, and you hear the engine choke at a frequency begging for mercy.

It didn’t start; your brain sent a signal to your heart that you were dying.
You try to ignore the pang in your chest, as intense as a goodbye message from your ex.

You turn the key again, and the car starts, while sweat drips from your forehead onto the seat. You closed your eyes, felt your eyelashes wet with sweat, and whispered softly: “Thank you.”

You drove on autopilot while listening to Google Maps’ voice as a meditation guide.
You visualised yourself entering the room with a smile on your face, the perfect corporate handshake with your future executioner, which your father had drilled with you the day before, the trained signature on the contract about your slow, noiseless death, and finally escaping the room with the same smile as when you entered, thinking about the freedom you thought you would taste.

Your sweet dream was interrupted by your aggressive and hopless shoot: “FUCK”.
Because there were no free places to park your car, which represents a suicide march.

Twelve minutes to go. And someone is just escaping. You thought, “FUCK YEAH, NOW NOTHING CAN STOP ME!”

You parked, turned off your car, knowing that it probably won’t start when you get back.

You didn’t care. You took your CV, which makes you proud whenever you look at it. Keys that remind you of your depression time. and got off.

As your back unglued itself from the seat, you felt the physical reflection of your mental stress on your sweaty shirt.

“Deasn’t matter,” you said out loud.

You double-checked the most important things and went straight to the building that reeks of death, looking for the communist interrogation room, where the doctor is already waiting for you, holding a pen in his hand, whose signature is like a syringe with euthanasia straight to your heart.

You entered the room, and He was waiting. He is a corporate master.
Perfect corporate smile number three, same question for decades: “tea or coffee? - our espresso kicks as if it were under voltage, haha.”

You smiled and said, “Still water, please.”

He gave you filtered tap water with the face of “brave, resourceful, rich guy who’s about to buy your life” number 2, which he practiced this morning in front of the mirror.

While you were chugging the whole fucking glass of water, he smiled at your CV.

Good student - He said.

You smiled, and he dropped it. That one sentence that you were learning the answer to since the 1st grade of high school.

“Where do you see yourself in 5 years?” - With a dead serious face, number 5.

You straighten up, grunt, and begin to recite.

Two minutes deep in, from your five-minute monologue about how you love this company and how you’ll be the best at your thing out there.

Stop. He interrupted you.

He took a sip of his espresso, and in one move, he gave you the contract you had been waiting for, for years.

Read and sign here. He said in a dead and cold, daily corporate way.

Your eyes lit up when you read the monthly salary part. “10% less than the national average for 3 months, then a 5% raise annually.”

You didn’t read any further. You just signed while whispering, “Thank you, God,” under your breath.

And for ten years now, you have been sitting in this trap of a constant soul-sucking routine of a safe job.

Why your “safe job” is a slow-motion castration?

What you just read was just the nostalgia part, but the second piece, even though it would write the truth in dirty words, will wash your brain. Three chapters of “holy fuck, he’s right” just came out.

You didn't just sign for a salary. You signed for the slow removal of your teeth. You traded your Hunger for a Lunch Break. Now, let’s look at the ghost you’ve become.

PART 2: Dance of Death.

Chapter 1: The replay mode // I’m going to show you how most employees live on autopilot, which explodes after years. And why can’t they escape poverty even when they try.

Chapter 2: The brainwashed mind // The VR mode they install to your operating system without you realising it.

Chapter 3: Frame Fortress // The escape plan, how not to wave the white flag under the environmental pressure.

Chapter 1: The replay mode

1:02 P.M 3rd coffee in.

The hope about the main character’s life? It dies by the end of Monday.

The expectations of improving yourself after work burn out with Tuesday.

The expectancy of traveling and a lifestyle full of freedom. It goes out like a cigarette butt under your recently washed sole at the end of the first month, when you received a late payment for the testing period of your soul’s strength.

The cycle of slow death.

You wake up at 6:30 A.M
First thought: “I fucking hate my life.”

You go to the toilet and still don’t turn on the lights. While crossing the mirror, you ask out loud with trembling, from scaredness voice, “Who the fuck is that guy?”

No answer. Gotta continue the cycle.

You make coffee and breakfast for the job on the run.

You drink half of the mug while scrolling your phone with silent hope you won the last Lotto draw. After 20 minutes, snap back to reality, and you pack your job uniform into your backpack.

This uniform is just a sign of who has already surrendered and is ready to be buried, and who has not yet put it on and is still fighting.

You stress about not clocking in on time while cursing your boss, and texting your supervisor about the fake traffic you’re stuck in.

9:05 A.M., you’re looking like you just killed somebody, but before you get out of the car, you fix your hair in the mirror, and your facial expression to corpo smile number 1 (you’re still learning).

5 P.M

Statistics for the first day of work:

Number of coffees made for the boss: 4
Number of courses from your soul while nobody was around you: 46
Number of “Sorry, I’m new” or “I don’t know”: Too fucking big to count.

You’re home at 6 P.M

You’re not “yourself”, you’re a corpse.

You sit on your couch, take your phone, and order a medium pepperoni pizza.
You don’t move. You scroll, you’re half asleep, the only thing taking you from the agony is your housebell that gives your subconscious mind a signal to feed time.

You ate half of it, and without even showering, you fall to the sleep,

Or either way, you ate it all, and fall into the 13-minute dopamine funeral finally: You jerk off, and then fall asleep.

You call it life? So, how is death looking for you?

Your day looks like you fell asleep in an incubator 20,000 years ago, and in your dream, you were watching what Dr. Jack Kevorkian’s wet dream looks like, about the whole city sleeping (euthanasia)

And the best fucking thing is YOU HAVEN’T NOTICED THAT.

And you know what?

-It’s actually not your fault.

This is a classic system designed to ensure you never wake up.

But you’re not like everybody.

You’re reading this, so God NEEDS you to wake the fuck up.

You can’t change your life (output) by running the same script (input).

Life is only an effect.

And the cause is an operating system.

You can’t change the effect by effect.

Chapter 2: The brainwashed mind

I didn’t go through your typical day frame by frame aimlessly. I didn’t do that for fun - it disgusted me. I did it because I need you to observe.

To observe how hilarious that is. How hilarious your habits are, and how egregiously stupid are your choices.

I was the same. Everyone was the same until they realized it was just an operating system, not the reality we were condemned to.

Until you wake up from the system sleep, you will be like an LSD addict who hasn’t realised that someone has put invisible VR goggles on his eyes, in which the film is looped.

And the film has a title: “The average life matters.”

You weren’t always like that.

You are like this because of the impact of the system.

You spent your whole life begging for a hand to pat you on the head before you dared to take a step. You’ve let parents, bosses, and strangers occupy the throne inside your skull, waiting for their blessing to move.

You have been raised by females for your whole kid and teenage life, which made you softer than you fucking should be.

Even if your father was present during your adolescence, he usually served as the final punishment.

They taught you to be kind, calm, and never step out of line.
Your teachers made you a scary little pussy to risk. Because every slip-up equaled punishment.

You said something “out of place”?
-You received negative feedback, along with screaming and anger on the face of a life loser who was your teacher.

Did you fail the exam?
The teacher is making fun of you in front of the class.

“Tell us what you got?

An F? hahah- That’s a prime example of how to become a failure in life.

This is a lesson for you, kids: don’t do like HIM, or you’ll be digging ditches.

And remember, good grades = good job in the future.”

Did you cheat on the exam?
The teacher is now threatening to fail your class, or worse, expel you. He’s telling you to go to the principal and apologize on your knees for your insolent behavior.

You were raised on permission like milk.

Each question, “Can I go to the toilet, please?” type shit, sucked the soul out of your little body, dragged it along the ground, slapped it, and gave it back to you.

You see?

Your parents put the corset on you, teachers tightened it, and your bosses pulled the strings so hard that you spat out your soul along with your broken ribs.

Chapter 3: Frame Fortress - The escape plan.

The frame is the most important thing in men’s life.

For example, buildings:

Weak frame? - a hut made of shit, sticks, and leaves.

Everybody can break it. Everybody can enter, but no one would touch it.

Strong frame? - A fortress, with a moat, guards, and iron gates that no attack can penetrate.

People can’t enter without an invitation. People can try to burn it, but it’s only a waste of time, because their fire can’t reach you.

How to build a strong frame? // Actionable steps

It’s mostly about the environment.

You won’t be fit if every one of your “friends” is fat bitch, and you have “hidden” snacks in your room.

Start with your “friends”.

Test: tell everyone about your super-fucking-ambitiones goals, and if someone responds with a realism essay - cross him out.

Then think about their improvement: If they are in the same fucking spot for years now, and they’re doing nothing to enhance their life. Stop thinking about memories from your youth and cross him out.

If someone is viable - keep this relation.

Don’t spend time with losers, because you’ll end up like them.

Now your house.

If your room smells like your own cum, your bathroom is leaking dirt from dark corners. And your kitchen is looking like a horror scene in a movie titled: The tale of a dead life.

There is no hope.

Clutter in the house = Clutter in your mind.

Clean it.

The final “Fuck you” to your beliefs.

Safe equals forgettable.
Safe equals boredom.
Safe equals death.

Your wife doesn't hear your words; she smells your cowardice. She can taste the safety on your breath, and it tastes like a funeral.
And believe me, she feels it; women can sense boredom from a distance of 10 miles.

She’ll stop respecting you and will never want to follow you again.

Even if she wanted to, she couldn’t unsee what her intuition saw.

Women fall to their knees before dangerous, unpredictable men with interesting stories.

You’ll start seeing more and more one-word answers.

You’ll constantly hear that she “doesn’t feel like it” or that she’s “on her period,” while cheating on you with your therapist or her yoga instructor.

I’m not telling you to be job-less broke bitch, this is very close to the level of unattractiveness as predictability.

I’m telling you about the purpose.
About the mission.

If your job or business isn’t your mission.

If you don’t want to do that anymore.

You started the rotting period.

A man without a mission is like a soldier without a rifle.

He’s useless.

Without a mission, you become the devil’s easiest target.

The devil doesn’t need to hunt you if you’re already behind a desk. He just sits back and waits for the 40-year clock to run out on your corpse.

Most men die at 24; they just aren’t buried until they’re 64.

How to reprogram your operating system? (bonus)

Reprogram / heal / “work on yourself”.

SAME SHIT that your therapist is selling you for YEARS!

And you still believe that you can heal your trauma or mental weakness.

“Healing” = Endlessly scratching the wound to make as much money as possible from the sucker, and finally giving him a sense of understanding.

Men don’t need to be “understood”.

They need fire, a mission.

But before that. You must BURN your old identity.

Burn it to the fucking ground until you hear his shrill voice.

Before you build, you must destroy.

Before creating the Avatar, you must kill your-old-”self”.

But it’s too much for today…

It’s a topic for another couple-thousents words guide.

The man you are right now is a corpse in a suit. I don't want to heal him. I want to bury him and build a god-king over his grave. If you have the guts to watch the old “you” burn, message me.

-Ruth