I just had an eighty-dollar-an-hour Beta boy in a clinical chair try to tell me that my heart was “hiding.” He sat there with his soft hands and his degrees, telling me I’m sabotaging “the best thing ever” because I won’t sign up for a year of “working on it.”
Working on what? The plumbing?
He wants to blame the residue of my mother, the ghosts of the yesteryears, the “battle gear” I put on when the bill comes due. He says it’s my fault I don’t have empathy. He says I’m missing the “quality of life” that comes from opening your floodgates to a woman who just walked into my world two months ago.
Listen to me, and listen close, because the psychologist won’t tell you this: Relationships aren’t an investment; they’re a subscription service.
You come to a place like Vietnam, you let your guard down because you’re an “old fart” seeking a flicker of that cinematic glow, and the second you light the fuse, she asks for a scooter. Or a house. Or a monthly retainer. And the moment you flinch—the moment you realize you’re being traded like a sack of grain—the world calls you the “bad guy.” They call you abusive because you recognize a commodity when it’s staring you in the face.
I remember that line from the movie The Quiet American. The girl asks, “Don’t you have a wife?” And the man realizes he can get the cleaning, the cooking, and the kids anywhere. Why marry the institution when you can just pay for the service?
The soft-hearted fools will tell you that you’re lying to yourself. They’ll say you actually care. Sure, I care. I care about all people. But caring doesn’t mean I’m blind to the currency exchange. There is a cultural canyon between us, a money gap wide enough to swallow a fleet, and a value system that doesn’t even use the same alphabet. Right now, the only bridge between those two worlds is the bed. And that bridge has a toll booth.
If you want loyalty, get a dog. Buy a jar of peanut butter and let the beast be happy to see you. A dog doesn’t ask for a upgraded lifestyle or a long-term equity stake in your survival. It just wants the simple things.
Women in this modern graveyard—especially the ones carrying the baggage of two divorces and three kids from a man who couldn’t keep the lights on—they aren’t “blue chip” stocks. They are junk bonds. High yield, maybe, but the risk of default is 100%. They’re in the same department as the stripper opening her legs for a twenty-dollar bill; the only difference is the stripper has a better honest-to-god business model.
The counselor thinks it’s “okay to feel like a commodity.” I say it’s better to know you’re one. Because once you know the price of the game, you stop being the mark.
I’ve got thirty days left with this beautiful little distraction. I’m going to ravage the time, eat the meals, and enjoy the scenery. But I’m not “working on it.” I’m not resurrecting my soul for a two-month-old match. I’m an engineer; I look at the record. And the record says that when the money stops moving, the “love” stops breathing.
So, let the Beta boys talk about “floodgates” and “hiding hearts.” I’ll stay here in the ring, cigar in hand, watching the junk bonds trade. It isn’t bitter—it’s factual. If you’re going to invest, know what you’re buying. And never, ever mistake a monthly subscription for a lifetime achievement award.
