Reading Time – 6 minutes

It was September 1987.

I sat in the back of the room as a 15-year-old sophomore in high school.

It was a keyboarding class that my mom forced me to take that year because she knew how much I was into computers.

(It’s a decision I will be forever grateful to her for; back in the 80s, virtually no one knew how to type on a keyboard except secretaries.)

It was the first day of school, and my friend Rob and I had snagged the seats in the far back of the classroom. Those were usually my favorite.

Still a little bleary-eyed from getting up early that morning, I sat there, bored, waiting for the other kids to file into the classroom.

Then, I saw her.

She was short, about 5’1” at the most. She had long blonde hair, but instead of the blonde-hair-blue-eyes look portrayed by 1980s societal programming, she had dark brown eyes instead.

I could tell she was a freshman because I didn’t recognize her. She looked around nervously, unsure of where to sit in the near-empty classroom. Finally, she made her way to the back towards us and took a seat two rows ahead of Rob and me.

I watched her as she made her way to her seat. I was mesmerized.

She wasn’t sexy or hot. Her body was tiny and skinny but her ass was large, protruding outwards, pushing her skirt to the limit. Her natural lips were not large, but they also protruded a little, duck-like.

I had never seen a girl like her. She was magical. I couldn’t pull my eyes away. I was enraptured.

This was the first day of the biggest crush I had during my teenage years and of my entire life.

Little did I know it at the time, Christy (not her real name, but the name I assigned her in this series of 17 articles here) would haunt my mind for a very long time.

From 1987 to 1991, four long, long years (years seem much longer when you’re a kid or a teenager because you haven’t lived very long yet), I obsessed over this one girl.

It was oneitis on steroids.

I thought about her every day.

I avoided dating other girls (until the very end of my senior year) because of my oneitis for her.

Yet, I never talked to her. I was too scared.

I did all the stupid shit most high school beta male teenagers do when they have a crush on a girl.

I asked people who knew her all about her. I obsessed over her every move. I wrote her love letters. I never asked her out. I talked about her to my friends and my family all the time. I virtually never pursued any other girls.

A year or two later, my dad went to Christy’s house and asked her if she wanted to go to the upcoming Judas Priest concert with me. Yes, my dad actually asked a girl out for me. I didn’t know anything about this until my dad told me the next day he did it, and she said yes.

She said yes (probably) out of embarrassment.

I was furious at my dad, at the sheer embarrassment he caused me, but I was too much of a teenage pussy to do anything about it.

Christy and I went to that Judas Priest concert (a band she knew nothing about and wasn’t her style at all). It was one of the most awkward experiences of my teenage life.

We both sat there most of the time, barely speaking to each other, both uncomfortable and nervous.

She looked really good though, and my attraction and oneitis increased.

Nothing happened, of course, and we never went out again.

A year later, I watched with a deep sadness, almost horror, as she started dating another guy, one who (I thought at least) was way uglier than me.

(I did make a mental note about that, about how ugly guys can indeed hook up with cute girls.)

I still remember my last day of high school in early June of 1990, as I was kneeling, cleaning out my locker, turning and seeing Christy walk down the long hallway with one of her friends, knowing with a sharp pain in my stomach that would be the last time I ever saw her.

And it was.

For the entire next year, even being out of school and going into the work world (wisely skipping college), I still thought about her. Maybe not every day, but several times a week at least.

It took at least another 12 months of not seeing her for the feelings to start to go away.

In society, we are told that feelings like love, infatuation, longing, desire, crushes, caring, and wanting are positive feelings, at least more or less.

“It is better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all,” and so forth.

But I can tell you, as I looked back on this experience many years later, almost 100% of the feelings I felt during this four-year period were negative.

Having this one-sided beta male crush on her was a dark cloud that hung over everything else I experienced during the latter half of my teenage years, years that were otherwise good.

It’s been said, and I agree with it, that my generation (Gen X) was the last generation who actually enjoyed their childhoods and adolescence.

I’ve said many times that being a little kid and a teenager during 1980s, arguably at the height of America’s wealth, power, culture, and happiness, was a fantastic experience, a gift that I was lucky enough to receive.

So my day-to-day teenage experience was mostly positive.

Yet, having insane oneitis for a little girl I was too scared to talk to ruined all of it.

I’ve been hearing a lot lately that the term “alpha male” has started to become a pejorative. This is not surprising in the collapsing, left-wing, post-masculine society you guys in the West have created by voting for the lesser of two evils for 35 years.

The problem is that it implies that being the opposite, a beta male, is a good thing.

It isn’t.

True, being a beta male is easier. I’ve always been consistent about that.

• Doing what your parents want for you instead of what you want is easier.
• Getting a job is easier than starting your own business.
• Being location-dependent in your collapsing Western country is easier than setting up location-independent systems.
• Staying in your collapsing Western country is easier than setting up a backup plan or relocating to a better country.
• Staying home, never (or rarely) getting laid, is easier than going out there and dating.
• Being a slave to a dominant, bitchy, high-drama girlfriend or wife is easier than setting up an abundant non-monogamous Alpha Male 2.0 lifestyle.

It’s easier, but it’s far more miserable.

It’s easier, but it’s worse.

Being a beta male sucks in just about every way.

Looking back on this Christy experience today, 38 years later, knowing what I now know, I know for fact that back in September of 1987 if I had just talked to Christy like a human being for two or three weeks, then asked her out, regardless of if she said yes or no (and the odds are decent she would have said yes), then problem would have immediately ended.

If she had said no, as a 15-year-old boy I would have probably been sad for about a month, then I’d get over it, knowing there was never a chance for her and I, and then I would have pivoted to liking a new cute girl, of which there were many in high school (again, the 80s was a really good time).

If she had said yes, we would have dated for a few months, then we would have broken up (statistically speaking, she would have broken up with me), I would have been sad for about a month, and then once again, I would have moved on to a new cute girl.

In either case, I wouldn’t have suffered for four years during one of the most important, special, and pivotal times of my life.

It would have been such a simple solution with such a high ROI.

That’s what Alpha is about: simple solutions that take some effort but have insane long-term ROI in your life. It’s dumb not to do them.

But no. I chose, even if subconsciously, to be a pussy and to suffer for years on end instead.

I say this because most men in the world are doing this right now, only they aren’t teenagers. They’re men in their 20s, 30s, 40s, and God forbid, even 50s and beyond.

Maybe this includes you.

Most modern-day men choose to be beta males and suffer in silence (or worse, rant their anger over on Twitter), consistently, over and over again, for years and years, never fixing it.

Despite the severe pain and damage I suffered as a beta from age 15 to age 32, at least my story has a happy ending.

At least in my early 30s I finally slapped myself in the face and put in the time and effort to convert from beta to Alpha, and have lived that way for almost 20 years now.

At least my suffering had an endpoint.

But most men I see out the word are betas who just stick with being betas for decades upon decades, never having that come-to-Jesus moment where they scream at themselves, “Enough is enough!” and make the changes to become Alpha, and thus happy.

If this describes you, I want to tell you something.

My spiritual philosophy is that there is no afterlife. (As a matter of fact, the older and wiser I become the more convinced I am about this.)

If you buy into the false societal programming that disagrees with this, then fine, you can believe whatever you want.

But my philosophy means that you only get this one life one time, then you’re dead, then you NEVER get to do anything like this EVER AGAIN.

That means that this life is precious. You can’t waste it.

Being unhappy because you choose to be a pussy is wasting it.

I wasted my later teenage years and most of my twenties because I chose to be a beta.

I will never get those back.

I don’t know how many years of your life you’ve wasted, but it’s time to stop wasting them.

You only get one life.