The number one killer of your game is a function of time, but it’s not time. Time — a merciless decay directive that commissions the end of everyone — is too crude and imprecise an agent of character change to rely on for guidance. We need to measure a new reality closer to the heart.
Around age 11 or 12, preteens experience a significant reorganization of their brains. New neural connections are made while gray matter is “pruned”. This process continues throughout adolescence, and doesn’t fully end until the mid-20s, when the brain reaches its final resting phase. The adult you is, in a mental sense, forever 25.
The biggest brain change in the early teen years is the shift away from prefrontal development and the shift toward emphasis on the amygdala, the brain’s emotional center. We become limbic creatures, more feral and impulsive, once we hit our teenage stride, because our decision-making ability, especially under conditions of stress, is then relegated to the control of the amygdala.
There is a sound evolutionary reason for this brain change. If teenagers were overly risk-averse and worried about the consequences of their actions, they would never take those first vital steps to establish their identity by trying new things. Instinctive bravery, or stupidity, is what pushes baby birds out of the nest to fly. Without that neural window of risk-attachment encouraging teens to bust out of their comfort zones, they would never leave home, rightly calculating that life is perfect under the auspices of their hearth managers.
After those heady teenage years, there’s a slow loss in the mental capacity for satiating curiosity and for risk-attachment. This, too, likely has evolutionary origins. Adults who remain wild and thrill-seeking like teenagers do their own children no good, because what those little shits need more than anything is a stable family environment. We are as hard-wired to step into the comfort zone as adults as we are to step out of it as preteens.
There’s another word for the risk-attachment that defines the teenage/early 20s experience: Passion.
Game is all about taking social risks and withstanding blows to the ego. It’s about reckless experimentation. It’s about an inner energy that drives a man to seek new or better lovers and romantic experiences. It’s about denying the soothing siren song of comfort zones with a force ten tenacity. Game is, in its essence, the exalting of passion over passiveness.
Unfortunately, game has a mortal enemy, and it is the brain itself. The loss of risk-attachment — the pure energy of passion — for the gain of risk-aversion — the serene submission to contentment — will kill a man’s game more completely and with greater finality than physical shortcomings, than financial ruin, than even marriage and its punitive bindings.
The number one killer of your game is the same inexorable biomechanical algorithm that killed your passion and replaced it with placidity: Your changing brain.
If you are a man of keen mind, you may even feel this loss of passion. You’ll sense the changes partly in your day to day behavior and partly by way of the nostalgia fuel your living memory provides. Ironically, although the tragedy when viewed from an unbiased distance is immense, you won’t feel the pain of passion loss as much as you should because you won’t have the passion left to mourn it. Kind of like how I imagine a very old man gazes wistfully at a young beautiful woman while his cock remains undisturbed by the commotion.
Regrettably, there’s nothing on offer that could guarantee you avoid this date with dispassionate destiny. But there are weapons that may help you beat back the gathering storm of brain-reconfigured apathy and keep you seducing women in top form for decades to come.
If you can sense it, you can slow it. The first step begins with self-awareness. Instead of bleakly shuffling into that fading light like a gelded automaton, turn your mental howitzers against inevitability and embrace the fight. Go into battle knowing full well your defeat is assured but that you’ll have a blast blowing holes in as many passion-killing droids as you can center in your crosshairs.
2. Understand that experience can make up for some loss of passion.
You will get better with women as you get older. This is a natural result of mastering the dating market learning curve and accepting the psychosexual foreignness of the female mind. Improvements in your knowledge and self-control will mitigate some decline in your baseline passion level. To put it more succinctly, you won’t need as much animating passion to seduce new women at 30 as you did at 15.
3. Weightlifting/Testosterone replacement therapy.
Testosterone is the fark matter of the pooniverse. It’s soul juice. It’s the git ‘er done drug. It’s the molecular chakra that unites man’s head, heart and hogzilla. Weightlifting has been proven to raise T levels both temporarily and permanently, and this is true for most men who follow the Law of Iron. So does eschewing the modern high-sugar, high-carb fattyfest. Refusing to allow your T to sink into oblivion is a clarion call for more intrinsically summoned passion. (Recent evidence finds that estrogen inhibitors may work better than testosterone boosters. I leave it to the reader to research the issue.)
WARNING: Experimental territory. Enter at your own risk.
Read this comment. It’s anecdotal, but the associations he draws have some founding in the scientific literature, not to mention similarities with the conventional wisdom. Boost your sperm production and that wonderful I’M ALIVE blue ball feeling through the interventions of no-fap, HCG, and something called LJ100. Scrotum pressure is a pathway to scoundrel passion.
5. Set an expiration date on all your long-term relationships.
If you make it a principle to escape LTRs before the two year mark, you’ll evade comfort zone entrapment and artificially reignite that dreamy teen passion for new experiences and thrills, and screw the consequences. Your brain will rewire itself to accommodate the new stresses you put on it. Call it, whoremesis. Of course, as great as this is for your love life, it’s as bad for the continuation of the species and a prosperous society. Maybe you’ll figure you can contribute in a godly way to society later in life, after you’ve had your fill of the best kind of pleasures and passions, in which case you’ll want to save some of that archaic energy for your sequels.
A killer is coming for you. Heed the immortal yearning of Roy Batty — I want more life, fucker — and follow him into that rain to die kneeling as you were meant to… but not before proving to yourself and the world you’ll damn your destiny on your feet.