For the entire forums, I am Goingthedistance, the mayor of loserville when i joined the forums a few years back. I had no women in my life, no friends, no career and nothing much. I was depressed but not thinking about ending it, i was just living life at an idle pace, not waiting for something, not expecting something to happen.

And then, i got my motorcycle, a stupid vehicle that forced me to get out of the house on a daily basis, I found friends, meetups, acquaintances, my stupid demeanor ended up being one of my highlights. The fact that i took no shit from people made me more friends, the fact i was kind and warm to people made me even MORE MORE friends.

And then, on a random tuesday, the mayor of loserville here, met his first girl, at age 30, and she was 18, yeah, yeah, age gaps womp womp. She was cute, and fun, and warm, and my level of crazy and childish. We did not click so easy, it took two dates but it was there, and once we clicked, nothing really mattered, she was my BFF she was my soul and for 7 months, she was my girl, met my parents, i met hers, lived with me, ate from the same plate as me, we were, good. And just how it started, then it ended, one random day i just got a breakup text, then got blocked everywhere. No closure, no talk, nothing, just gone.

I found out later that she regretted that breakup but it doesn't really matter. She dated some moron for 5-6 months after me, but he was not me, not on my level ( as narcissistic as that might sound ). And then, life decided to give me something that nobody prepared me for. Not the red pill, not Mark Manson not Jordan Peterson and not David Goggins.

She FUCKING DIED

Yeah, my little kitten, after being 19 years old for a few months, fucking died, splattered on a cold forest road. Because she was a pasager to some moron that thought was the hot shit. And they both, died, on that cold road.

And nobody, NOBODY, FUCKING NOBODY prepared me for this, not a single soul in my life, on this forum, or the books you recommended, not one thing saw this coming.

The night she died, they called me, not her "new" ex, they called me, fucking ME. I was the EX, I WAS THE FUCKING ONE THAT HAD HER

And I got cold blooded and i called her mother with tears in my eyes telling her she might not have a daughter anymore. Something snapped inside me that night, something broke and i don't think it will ever be fixed, for the first time, maybe, I was the man in charge of everything and everyone. I was the one, that did the unpleasant shit but did what was right, without even thinking.

How's this for a red pill huh? HOW'S IT DOING? Where's your game now? where's your fucking theory and shit, where's YOUR FUCKING GOD?

God was on my side at that night, showing me how strong i could be, how much of a man i could be, to let aside my feelings, my hate towards her, my sorrow and pain for her death, and just call her family, call her friends, and deal with everything on my own.

If there's something to learn from this is this: You have no fucking time, go do your shit, ask her out, tell her your feelings, fuck up at work. She was 19, she had time to make amends with me, until she hadn't. The only one doing the talking now is me, at her grave, and no matter what i say, she ain't coming back, i just ease her pain and mine.

I dunno if you ever remember what it was like dealing with visitors from the Soviet union in the 1980s, but my city had a sister-city relationship with an analogous place in that country and since I was learning Russian (as a hobby) I would sometimes go to these events as a teenager, where the committee would welcome their guests to town and you'd get a chance to shake hands and have juice and cookies or whatever. My parents were like "Oh, you wanna sit at a ppublic meeting and speak a little bit of Russian at the end? Well, at least you're not hanging out with motorcycle gangs or Puerto Rican youth. Go right ahead."

Anyway, one of the cliche things was that when Soviets went to a supermarket in the US for the first time, they would get stunned by the abundance. 40 brands of breakfast cereal, 20 brands of strawberry jam, etc etc etc. In a Soviet supermarket, there might be 1 kind of jam and that's what everyone used. And the reaction was this kind of paralysis "Do you NEED 20 brands of the same jam?? How do you choose??" and so on. And Americans, perhaps to each other, would rather smugly feel vindicated about their way of life, etc etc.

Well, that's the paradox of choice, isn't it: Too many options just overwhelm you. The difference is that the Soviets were brought up in a place of relative deprivation. It's understandible at least.

I have far less sympathy for a person who was brought-up in the society but STILL can't choose. They stand in front of a loaded refrigerator, complaining there's nothing to eat.

I have even less sympathy for the same person who simply opens their mouth, and expects the food to jump in. And when food tries to jump in, slaps it away and says "no, not THAT food. I want something truly delicious but I don't know what it is myself."

That's not the paradox of choice, that's just being such a fucking lazy and spoiled hothouse plant that you can't be bothered to reconcile your topmost flights of fantasy with the reality of what exists around you. REALITY isn't a goddamned Disney movie.