So, the psychiatrist reads the file. He sees the cat killing. He sees the massage parlor. He sees the rage against the “societal rot.” And he adjusts his glasses, purses his lips, and says, “That’s concerning. Why do you glorify this? Is this indicative of a deep-seated pathology?”
And I look at him, this soft, indoor man who probably never had to fight for a meal or a woman in his life, and I say:
“Doctor, you are confusing a symptom with a survival strategy.”
Let’s talk about the cat.
Am I supposed to go back to 1979 and yell at a nine-year-old boy? Am I supposed to write a sorrowful, tear-stained apology letter to a dead animal?
Fuck no.
That wasn’t cruelty; that was practice.
That was a boy living in a feral world, unchecked by society, unsupervised by parents, running on pure, unadulterated testosterone. That was nature. You want to call a guy who shoots coyotes psychotic? Go ahead. But ask the rancher if he’s a bad man. Ask the hunter.
Boys—real boys, before we medicated them into submission—are dangerous engines. We have energy that needs to destroy something before it can build something. If you don’t give us a purpose, if you don’t give us a father to fear and respect, we will find something to kill. It’s not “brain disease.” It’s biology.
The only reason you think it’s “horrible” is because you live in a world that values a cat more than a human fetus. You live in a world where feelings are the currency and violence is a sin, unless it’s the state doing it.
I’m not glorifying it. I’m reporting it.
I’m telling you: This is what happens when you take the lid off the jar.
The Massage Parlor Defense
And the massage parlor? The Craigslist ads? The “deviance”?
The shrink calls it “sex addiction” or “objectification.” I call it Market Research.
I was a man alone in a room. I was hungry. And I found a way to feed myself. Was it pretty? No. Was it “respectable”? Hell no. But it was honest. It was a transaction. Two people, in the dark, getting what they needed.
You want to pathologize my views on women? My “disdain” for the modern female condition?
I don’t hate women. I hate lies.
I hate the lie that says a woman can sleep with 50 men and still be a “prize.” I hate the lie that says a single mother raising a future inmate is a “hero.” I hate the lie that says I’m “toxic” for wanting a woman who brings peace instead of a vibrator and a list of demands.
I lived through the shift. I watched the culture rot. I watched the “HR Department” take over the American soul.
The Rebuttal
So, Doctor, here is my diagnosis of you:
You are scared of the animal.
You look at my life—the violence, the sex, the chaos—and you see a sickness because it threatens your nice, clean, orderly world. You want me to be ashamed. You want me to say, “I was broken.”
But I wasn’t broken. I was adapting.
I was a creature of my environment. When the environment was violent, I was violent. When the environment was sexual, I was sexual. When the environment was corrupt, I learned how to work the angles.
I’m not “glorifying” it. I’m putting it in a museum. I’m saying, “Look at this. This is what a man looks like when he has to raise himself.”
I’m not resentful. I’m not sorry.
I survived.
And if surviving makes me a “bad man” in your book, then hand me the pen. I’ll sign the confession myself.
But I won’t apologize for the teeth I used to chew my way out of the trap.
