Lost in Manhood

I’ll admit it, sometimes I feel lost in this thing called manhood. There are times and days when I feel like I am on track toward becoming the man that I want to become. Other days, I feel derailed and demotivated. On those days I look back and wonder what the fuck I did with those 24 hours. The answer is disheartening: nothing, and a lot of it. That’s when I look deeply at the reflection in the mirror and spit at it in disgust.

There is no urgency for me to completely grow up. I don’t have crushing student loans, a mortgage, or car payments. I don’t have a serious relationship with the prospect of marriage in the foreseeable future. I’ve even managed to avoid the ultimate crux of being Mexican: getting a chick pregnant at a young age. No little Raul Jr running around draining money out of my bank account, crushing and shitting on my dreams with his mere existence. My working theory is that it’s because I specialize in fucking and dating white chicks who dislike their fathers enough to be with a dark skinned man, but not so much that they want to be with a black guy. Hispanic chicks can’t be trusted to fuck without condoms even in relationships; they’re insanely fertile and since a vast majority of them come from overbearing catholic families, abortion is not an option. Asian chicks never dig me because they know dating me will bring great shame to their family.

Raul Felix only has to only worry about Raul Felix. Since I am very self-centered and a bit aloof to what others feel, it’s a pretty easy task. I’m the only male in my family over the age of 23 who isn’t married or doesn’t have a little shit-machine ankle biter. However, that doesn’t mean I never want that. When I picture how my future will be like, I see a beautiful wife with ample breasts and an amazing ass who I will have hotter sex with than two bunnies in a wool sock. As fuck trophies, there will be a couple of Felix spawn roaming around wreaking havoc.

I’m 26, in a few days I’ll be 27, and all I can think about is: what the fuck is the rush? My generation, Generation Y, we’re expected to live well into our mid-80’s on average, even to our 90’s and 100’s. That’s a long ass time to be a responsible member of society.

Whenever I meet an older person, male or female, I always ask them what they would have done differently if they could do it all again. The most consistent responses are: get an education in a real major, one that actually gives you a real world tangible skill such as engineering. Hold off on marriage and having children until you discover who you are and what you truly want out of life. Travel when you are young and free of responsibilities.

I don’t have a college degree, so according to my boy Kendawg, I have no right to make fun of him like I constantly do because he made the ill advised decision to major in Archaeology. I just know that a vast majority of people who I know personally who have a humanities degree are not even working in the field they studied in and have no hopes to unless they get their masters and in some cases, PhD. While the people I know personally who have a STEM degree (Science, Technology, Engineering, and Math) actually are gainfully employed in those fields. With that knowledge, my other friend, Sleazy-E, and I, in our late 20’s now, have taken it upon ourselves to major in engineering. He in Civil Engineering and myself in Computer Engineering, though we’re both still a long ways off from graduating.

Just from being a writer, I’ve run across a few people who had to pretty much restart their lives after their kids left the nest and are currently struggling to discover who they are. Hell, the cougars I’ve picked up at the bars have shown me first hand how freshly divorced women who didn’t really get to enjoy their 20’s because of the responsibility of a husband and children behave when they get their hands on a half-decent looking man, such as myself. (Hint: if you’re an attractive cougar in the Southern California area, send me an e-mail.)

I feel it is a manifestation of making up for lost time. They want to live the life they never got to enjoy and in my eyes, they have the right to do so. Better late than never, tis grandeur to be a hot cougar on the prowl than a bitter old spinster. For the more ambitious types of men and women it can mean finally going after what they truly dreamed of doing, the thing that they had set aside, but always was lingering in the back of their head, because of the burden of being a grown up.

There is a world of difference between traveling with just backpack on a bums budget and staying in shady hostels and partying with people from all the different places of the world with questionable moral values than traveling with family. There is an insane amount of independence when you travel alone or with just one companion. There is minimal logistics, budgeting, and you’re able to be quite serendipitous with your time and what you do. I’ve traveled through thirty states of the United States on my motorcycle for 2 and a half months, spent three weeks traveling the entire country of Italy on a motorcycle, and backpacked randomly through Western Europe for a month. I can only imagine how lame and how expensive that shit would be with a snot monster to drag around.

Depending on your prospective, I can be seen as a failure or a young man on his way to the top. I don’t really have a hard set career path yet, I don’t make six-figures, I haven’t “manned-up” and decided to just pick a reformed slut who doesn’t meet my high standards for a woman and just get married. I have no stability in my life and I live in a hovel with four room mates who drink too much, curse too much, play too many video games, and have the most obscene sense of humor.

I’ve decided to take the advice of those older people and take my god damn time because why the fuck not? There are a lot of things I want to accomplish before I settle down and become a family man. I want to travel the world on my motorcycle, fuck more women, drink more booze, spit more blood, take big risks, exceed my comfort zone, get my education, and make sure I pick the right career for myself. My bad I’m not a prodigy who has it all figured out by 26. I’m not the most mature and responsible person, but I know enough to know that I don’t want to make huge life commitments until I truly feel I am ready emotionally, financially, and eager to give my all to them without any resentment or regrets. I’m not fully developed, yet, are any of us?

~Raul Felix

“You traveled the US on a motorcycle? Tell me a story!” Alright: The Gay Meth Story

Taking the Hits

“The world ain’t all sunshine and rainbows. It’s a very mean and nasty place, and I don’t care how tough you are, it will beat you to your knees and keep you there permanently if you let it. You, me, or nobody is gonna hit as hard as life. But it ain’t about how hard you hit. It’s about how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward; how much you can take and keep moving forward. That’s how winning is done! Now, if you know what you’re worth, then go out and get what you’re worth. But you gotta be willing to take the hits, and not pointing fingers saying you ain’t where you wanna be because of him, or her, or anybody. Cowards do that and that ain’t you.”
-Rocky, Rocky Balboa

Just when you think you have the world by the balls, the world throws a quick, clean, bone shattering haymaker squarely into your jaw. You’re on the floor, dazed. It happened so fast that it seems surreal. The world is standing over you, spitting in your face as it yells insults and in your current state, you’re helpless to do anything about it.

You lay there for a moment or two. That was a powerful hit, probably the hardest one you’ve ever taken. Yet, you’re still alive, it didn’t kill you. In those moments, you think deeply. All the mistakes you’ve made come rushing into your mind. Each one, you analyze deeply and pick apart. What if I had done this? What if I had said that? What if I had understood that before? What if, what if, what if…

Another moment passes. You feel hopeless, self-doubt creeps in. How can you recover? That hit was hard as fuck. Your eyes are watering, your ears are ringing, and you’re coughing out blood. Maybe you’re not as tough as you thought. You’re rattled, scared, and unconfident. Your once proud demeanor has been routed. Still, you managed to gain what little semblance of will power you have and crawl on your knee’s.

The world has forgotten about you, left you in disgrace, and is off to destroy its next victim. You’re struggling just to barely crawl. You see your muscles still work and you’re not completely broken. You have a small spark of fire reignite within you. What can you do different? What can you do to better prepare? What can you do to not make the same mistakes? What can do, what can you, what can you do…

You linger on all fours. You talk to yourself, motivate yourself, and you push yourself. You’re beaten, but not defeated. You feed that little flame. Slowly, it grows brighter and hotter. You regain your confidence, composure, and you’re no longer rattled. That hit wasn’t that bad. You have been toughened by the previous beat downs the world has given. Your recovery time has become shorter and shorter. You’ve handled tough situations before and you’re still here. You’ve never given up on yourself, even in the darkest of times. You figured out what you can do. You’ve eliminated some options and decided what you will do. You know what you will do to be smarter. You know what you will do in order to never take the same hits again. You know what you will do so you will be a tougher competitor for the world. What will you do, what will do, what will you do…

With a mighty push you get up on your feet. There will be no more feeling sorry for yourself, no more negativity, and no more loser thoughts. You’re salty and hardened by your experience. You’re intense and you have a clear focus. You’re implementing the changes that you’ve thought about. You’re doing the work, you’re paying your dues, and you’re growing as a human. You’re becoming better and better, day by day. You’re breaching the threshold that at one point you plateaued at. That flame inside of you has become a wildfire, its radiance and power overwhelming your very being. The you that was downtrodden is long gone and the vigorous and invigorated you presently appears. You are ready. You think back at all the things you’ve done to prepare yourself. All the things you’ve done to create a better you. All the things you’ve done to never make the same mistakes again. All the things you’ve done, all the things you’ve done, all the things you’ve done…

You strut up to the world, ready to take it on once again, and look at it right in the eyes, “Hey mother fucker, remember me? You fucked with the wrong son of a bitch.”

~Raul Felix

Hey world! Fuck you and read this: Warrior-Scholar

Tough Love

“Men kick friendship around like a football, but it doesn’t seem to crack. Women treat it like glass and it goes to pieces.”-Anne Morrow Lindbergh

My best friends are assholes. Whenever they see an opening to berate me and talk down to me, they not only strike viciously, but effectively. They are well versed in the guerilla warfare that is shit talk. Innovative, ruthless, and accurate in their ability to destroy my spirit and ego, they stop at nothing to beat me down and bring me back to reality. For this I am blessed.

Anyone can pretend to listen to you and tell you the things you want to hear to make you feel better about your adorable little problems. It’s a temporary patch that heals nothing and just strokes your ego. Your best friends are the ones who will rip into you and tell you the truth and what you need to hear. They won’t sugar coat it, but there will be plenty of whisky to help out.

You could be moping around, feeling sorry for yourself because Betty Sue won’t return your phone calls. You thought she was darn special didn’t you? Your friends don’t understand the heart break you’re going through. She’s a fucking unique snow flake and the prettiest of them all. She may be the love of your life. Damn, are you reading that? You see how pathetic you sound? That’s bitch talk.

If your friends are true friends, they will listen to your little bitchfest, but probably give you three, four minutes tops until they tell you stop being a pussy. That they didn’t know you were on your period and you should probably go to Walmart and get the premium brand of tampons to stop your heavy bleeding. No, in fact, your crimson tide is so heavy that you need to go to Costco and buy in bulk. They thought Betty Sue was a bitch any ways and thus, you shouldn’t be grieving for her.

You’re being a lazy, fat fuck who is apathetic about his future? You lack the self-awareness to recognize the useless piece of shit you’ve become? Don’t worry, your best friends will let you know how truly worthless you are. They’ll let you know that the path you’re on is leading you nowhere and that you’re wasting your life.

Don’t even think you gaining those ten extra pounds will go unnoticed. You think your boys are going to pass up the chance to ridicule you for being a lard ass? It will be such exquisite treat for them to mock you as your once mediocre body spirals downward into something resembling a potato sack with arms.

There are two reason they do this. One: it’s funny and fun to pick you apart and break you down. Two: they care about you. They want you to toughen up and not let a simple woman have so much control over your emotions. They want you to be successful and live up to your potential as a man. They don’t want to see you spinning your wheels forever. They want you to move forward and make something out of yourself.

They’re your best friends because you have a deep connection forged by years upon years of shared experiences and tomfoolery. You’ve grown up together and seen each other at highs and lows. They know what you are and are not capable of. It pisses them off when you’re not living up to your true potential, so they do shame you into, hopefully, doing something with your meager existence.

When you do actually start doing something to better yourself, they’ll be your biggest fans and supporters. If you start taking writing seriously, they’ll read every piece of shit article you write, hoping that you’ll eventually write something readable. If you take your musical talents seriously, they’ll be at your shows alongside your mom and no one else. When you decide to go back to school, they’ll warn you not to major in a worthless degree like they did.

There are a lot of men out there who don’t have close friends. If you’re lucky enough to have a few key men you can depend on no matter what, you’re way above the curve. The tough love they dish out comes with it. You truly need and want men who are honest with you, even brutally so. If not, you may as well be friends with gossipy chicks who will be your best friends to your face and talk shit behind your back.

~Raul Felix

You’re a dumb ass and you need to read more. Educate yourself: Politically Incorrect and Loving It

Note: This post has been featured on Return of Kings

First Hater

I was in Toronto, Canada for 5 days and I gave my business card to people I would meet at a bars or randomly and thought were cool. Through this I got my first online hater. Which is quite funny. I’m actually proud of this accomplishment. Some girl I met posted this on her tumblr.

Promo

In case you can’t read it, it says: “I would love to introduce everyone to the most misogynist, woman hating, piece of shit man I had the misfortune of recently meeting.”

I don’t remember how I met her exactly, but judging by her pics, she is quite sexy and I probably wanted to bang her. All hope for that is lost now I guess.

~Raul Felix

Raul Drops The N-Bomb

Frustration can lead to a lot of shit. Psychological abuse compounded by years of sexual frustration can cause a man to become a serial killer. A young girl being shown little to no affection by her step-father can cause her to become a stripper who gives the occasional blow job. Raul Felix being tormented constantly by a fellow soldier about his shitty basketball skills can cause him to yell out nigger in a bus full of people.

Prior to deploying to Afghanistan, we had to conduct a painfully long process called SRP. An acronym whose meaning I never learned nor cared to learn. It probably stands for Sucking Raging Penis or Serious Rectal Pummeling. During this process, you have do all sorts of paperwork about your will, medical records, pay, power of attorney, next of kin, and other logistical crap to make sure that when you deploy, your records are not fucked up. Being a single, childless 20 year old whose only assets consisted of a beat up 1986 F-150, 20 gigabytes of porn, and $3000 worth of credit card debt, it was a relatively speedy process for me. I boarded the bus and waited for the others to finish.

Earlier that morning, my squad decided to play basketball for our morning physical training. I may be 6’2” and athletic, but I’m severally lacking in the coordination, talent, and skill needed to play basketball in way that doesn’t resemble old people fucking. I probably made one shot, if that, the whole game. Throughout the whole farce, my half black half mexican Ranger buddy “Resident” was talking smack on my pathetic b-ball ability. Once the game was over, I thought that would be the end of it.

I’ve been wrong before and I was wrong this time. As I’m sitting on the bus, being my young, sweet, and innocent self; Resident hops on.

Resident: “You suck so bad, Felix.”

Raul: “Fuck you.”

Resident: “Like, really, you’re just plain terrible. This is how you look.” He then begins to mimic my disgraceful shot form in slow motion while sticking his tongue out.

Raul: “Fine. Whatever. I don’t care.” I attempt to end the subject. I’ll give you a little insight into men: when we find something that we can use against another man, especially one we know well, we’ll exploit it. We’ll drive it so deeply into their skin that it will pierce their soul.

Resident continued his verbal assaults on my lackluster performance. Laughing, boisterous in fact, that he was pissing me off. I begin shaking, I can’t take this shit anymore, not from him!

Raul: “I DON’T GIVE A FUCK ABOUT BASKETBALL! THAT’S A NIGGER SPORT!” I boom out.

Silence.

The bus once filled with the ambient conversations of soldiers, now stood still, crickets chirping, and had all eyes focused on Resident and I.

One-second: He and I are locking eyes. He was dumbfounded that I so bluntly said it, in fact, so was I.

Two-seconds: Still locking eyes, I clench my fists and prepare myself to get into a fight. A little backstory on Resident: he looks like Malcolm X, has angry young black man syndrome, and grew up in some shit hole neighborhood in Houston, Texas.

Three-seconds: Resident begins to show his pearly white teeth and starts laughing. Interracial violence averted, America.

Resident: “You just said… it’s a nigger sport…” he laughs uncontrollably. Just then, another one of the black dudes from my company boards the bus who missed the scene. “Felix! Tell Bee what you just said.”

Raul: “No.”

Resident: “Come on… say it.”

Raul: “Basketball is a nigger sport.” I say reluctantly.

Resident repeats this process with a few other black guys in our company. All them just shook their heads and laughed.

That should have been the end of it right? If you didn’t know, soldiers are bigger gossips than college girls in a sorority after the big Spring Rush Hootenanny. Eventually, the Company Commander and First Sergeant got wind of it.

We were told the following day during morning formation that we were going to have an Equal Opportunity Briefing at 0930.

“Staff Sergeant S” was in put in charge of giving the breif and started with this.

SSG S: “I bet you’re wondering why we are having this briefing. It’s because Felix said something fucking stupid on the bus yesterday.”

Everyone pauses and looks at me.

SSG S: “What did you say, Felix?”

Raul: “Something racist, Sergeant.”

SSG S: “I know Felix isn’t god damn racist. But, thanks to him, the First Sergeant wants me to reinforce to all of you why don’t say or use racial slurs in the Army.”

He then went on to give the standard Army propaganda about how racism undermines the cohesiveness of an effective fighting force. It compromises the esprit de corps of the Regiment and can lead to being punished by the Universal Code of Military Justice. Essentially, telling us to love each other and live in racial harmony since we all bleed red.

As I think back on it, it’s one of my personal favorite moments. My obscene mouth caused my company to have an Equal Opportunity Briefing, now that’s something you can hang your hat on.

~Raul Felix

You are insensitive and must now read this: Every Race is Worthless

Heartbreak

We men are strange creatures. We’ll take an ass kicking, break our bones, or even take a bullet without shedding a tear. We’ll just take a salt tablet and drive on. Men don’t cry for that shit. However, give us a beautiful, charming, and witty woman who inspires us, fulfills us, and makes us feel emotionally secure, and then take her away, we’re crying ourselves to sleep every night. Eventually, she’ll get tired of your bullshit and insecurities. She’ll get tired of your vices and lack of maturity. She’ll get tired of you. Then before you know it, she has been pushed to her limits and decides to end the love affair.

I have been lucky enough to have had a few loving and heavily passionate relationships with some very pretty women in my life. Each one, ended with the woman ripping my heart apart. Some were gentler than others, but the end result was the same: A very angry, heart broken Raul Felix full of self-loathing and despair.

Being heartbroken, depending on your perspective, can be a spectacular comedy or tragedy.

First order of business: Drink heavily, indiscriminately, and execute the task with extreme prejudice. This act of self-destruction is highly effect at showing your ex-girlfriend what type of high-quality man she has let go. Through each drink conquered, you have shown her that you are truly a winner and an unrelenting go-getter who is unswayed by insurmountable odds such as the lines that defines socially acceptable, reasonable, or safe amounts of alcohol consumption.

As you sit there, alone in the dark, wallowing in the pile of shit that is your existence, you’ll begin to brood. You’ll start thinking about all the good times. The way she laughed, her wonderful scent, all those times you fucked and how hot she looked with your cum dripping down her face. How conversation with her seemed to effortlessly flow and your cute little inside jokes. The way you would smack her ass randomly. She was the person you told all the little and big things to and the first and last person you spoke to each day. She even sent you nude pics of her so you can masturbate to them when you weren’t spending the night together. Gives you a warm and fuzzy just thinking about it.

Then, anger will rush through your veins as you can’t seem to fathom why its over. You were good to her! You told her you loved her and bought her flowers that one time. Never mind all the times you were extremely selfish, unthoughtful, and just plain mean. Or those times that you pushed the envelope too far with your drunken bullshit. Or those times you flirted with other women shamelessly. Or those times you made her feel insecure and not worth while. Yeah, never mind those parts, you were a good a boyfriend 95% of the time.

“Fuck this cunt,” you think to yourself. That 5% of you isn’t that fucked up is it? You’re not a drug addict or a broke, unemployed loser with no ambition who lives with mama. Sure, you’re a bit of a slacker and procrastinate on shit until the last possible minute. But she isn’t perfect either! You then begin to list of the personal traits of her you don’t like, after calling out two or three, you can’t really think of much more. You’re an idiot, you let such a fine woman hate you because you acted like yourself.

You know what sounds like a great idea even though it’s 3 a.m.? How about you compose long winded e-mail professing your undying love to her. She will be greatly impressed by your mule like stubbornness to talk to her even though she has already blocked you from Facbooking and texting her. After composing a masterpiece of romance and eroticism that is sure to rekindle the fire of her love again, you press send. That line where you told her that she was as special as a retarded, dancing Hyena wearing a clown costume is a soliloquy destined to be placed among great cantos.

You know what isn’t going to give you a sense of nostalgia? If you look at all the pictures you have of her. No, that isn’t a sharp pain you feel in your chest as you notice how pretty her nose is. No, your heart didn’t skip a beat when you realize how perfectly she looked by your side. No, your eyes aren’t watering as you realize that she was right for you. Nope, you didn’t feel any of that shit. Your heart is not bleeding. Feeling feelings is for pussies.

You wake up in your bed the next morning. Your laptop on your chest and shut off because the battery ran out. There are several empty beer cans scattered about and an almost full one next to you on your table that you took one or two sips out of, after which you promptly passed out.

You take a huge beer-shit, shower, and begin to drink water. You replug your laptop and dread to find out what you wrote last night. You check your e-mail, a new message from her. Apparently, as your message history shows, you decided that she didn’t respond to your sugary prose quickly enough and you decided to turn sour and mean. Saying all sorts of things that no lady should ever have to hear and thus reminding her why she left you in the first place. Economists like to say that people always behave in a rational way with the information they have. At that time when you wrote to her and called her a “wretched cunt who destroyed your heart and is probably fucking some other dude right now cause she is a fucking whore.” You probably had some legit source of information that would make that seem like the right call, and not an act of drunken paranoia.

You chat and argue with her for a while. She then tries to plea with you to leave her alone, let her be happy, and that she wants what is best for you and you’re a good man in your own regard, but you’re just not right for her. That she will always love you and never forget you. You being of sober mind set, agree to leave her alone and not talk to her. A few nights later, fueled by booze and bitterness, you decide that if you can rally up the troops of lost love for one last push, you can come out triumphant.

~Raul Felix

Only certain type of women are worthy of my love: The Feminine Aficionado