It is Friday, October 3, 2025. 8:30 am exactly. I slept a great deal last night, waking up a few times to take a piss. Over the past month I’ve been drinking too much fluids, but that’s okay, in some nameless way it helps me.

Yesterday was easy for me, in terms of mental wrenching changes. The next few days should see the end of my lengthy period of growth, adjustment, and re-formation. More importantly, Storm should make progress.

For the last 24 hours I have neither texted her nor left voicemails on her system. I hope to continue to observe radio silence. I want her motivated and I want my silence to be a prod on her butt. She must continue to strive to make a breakthrough — and she will. Entirely thanks to me.

There is a part of me which wants to wait a minimum number of days, and then flee to Downtown Toronto where the women with money are, and seduce one, and dominate her, and live with her. But that is a mistake. For an incredibly long time now, I have been holding back in so many ways, ways that could markedly benefit me in one way, but which would doom the greater-priority enterprise.

Everything is about the greater-priority enterprise. Storm thinks I am going through all this suffering just so I can be her boyfriend. She actually believes that. As if any female on Earth would be worth all the holding back and the anguish and the testing that goes along with making a connection with a defective piece of shit like her. Yes, Storm is a defective piece of shit. I have fixed her up as much as I can, but she remains wonky in all her extremes.

It is ironic that my favorite genre of music — Eurodance — has a female singer almost always. I love the synth sounds, and it has to be strapped to a vaginal orifice for some reason. It is equally ironic that my future is dependent upon Storm, an old hag. Life is playing tricks on a male-supremacist like me. There is no God to interfere with my plans, no force in the universe that is watching and barring me. Men set up their own legal systems because they know, intrinsically, that there is no justice in hard reality beyond that which they make for themselves. And then they worship God and pretend He exists. What a joke.

Even smart men believe in the supernatural. This is an expression of their ultimate weakness and their need to find a cushion for life. Brains aren’t that uncommon. Balls are. Hitlers in this world are very, very rare with their willpower. It is not surprising that in the Willpower Olympics of the 1920s and 1930s, Hitler won the gold medal in Germany. My willpower matches that of Hitler, probably exceeds it. It is one of my great advantages.

I am good looking. That is usually a curse. It makes life too easy. I have ignored my looks, eschewed and shunned them, and acted as if I were a nothing, or even ugly. When in reality I am in the top 1% of males, even at my age. I could have been an incredible seducer of chicks, fucking them in every way possible, dominating them psychologically, and taking “their” money. Instead, I dabbled minimally. I knew that if I became a seducer, it would ruin my future by making me unapproachable to a certain kind of female. Even then I knew about them. My ability to see around corners farther than anybody else was working in high mode then, informing me on what was the real deal and what to do about it.

My journey is almost almost almost at an end. I am so close now, I can taste it. It tastes like strawberries with whipped cream on top of it. Soon, I will have no need to be patient. Patience… has been necessary, but how I hate it. I want to be aggressive and fast, striking, striking.

Right now, Storm is out there, in the city, practicing, as per my instructions. The little girl obeys. The old hag obeys. She is doing this for love, for sex, for hope, for companionship. Out of sheer obsession. Storm is flexing her limited mind. For a girl, she is a genius. Her kind has been surreptitiously breeding with the elite, top men for 4,000 years now. It has produced the hottest, smartest girls — and they are all trapped. I could free them completely, but I am not going to. I am only going to open the gate enough for me to slip inside. Then it will slam shut behind me.

Storm will never suspect that her life could be made good by me. She will blindly accept that she is doomed to be a kind of outcast forever. But she will be grateful just to “have” me.

I will give her sex and I will give her love. And I will wait until the emotional bond hardens, solidifies. Then, when the time is right, I will request what I really came for, why I’m really with her. If she resists giving it to me, I will savagely punish her by withdrawing my hard erection of pleasure and, even worse, my radiant warmth of affectionate love and companionship. She will fold like a deck of cards. But I don’t think it will come to that. It’s likely instead that she will happily share her gifts with me, and I will become something incredible, one-man-in-a-trillion, if I am a man. I’m male, but I have severe doubts whether I am a man.

There is something too good about me. I can do too many things super-well. I have too many advantages to be a product of chance. It’s almost as if the universe is speaking through me, as though I am an avatar of destiny, working to change the timeline in ways that will make it more beautiful, stronger, cleaner, powerful — better.

This could be a great world, but it is a meh one instead, and in some ways actively crappy. I want a great world. It needs a lot of pruning and modifications. A certain kind of North American and European man will love me, will benefit enormously from my existence. That is why I am going to make the elite work for their benefits. I refuse to suffer for decades of existence, and deny myself over a lifetime, just to make others benefit. They will have to sacrifice and experience emotional discomfort in large amounts. They will have a great life, it is true, but they will not get off scot-free in the achievement of it.

I want friends. I want cool guys in my life. I want to be close to men who can seduce chicks and get blowjobs standing up from hotties who serve on their knees. I want guys who laugh. Guys who tell interesting stories from their neat expansive lives. They exist, and there’s a lot of them in metropolitan Toronto. Men who sneer at liberals and have no patience with the religious right. Free men. Men with some degree of power. Tall men, European-descended men. Champions of the interesting.

I have held back in getting friends, as well. I’ve had false friends, maybe 6 of them in my life, and they all abused me in one way or another. Amazing. That a giant like me was picked on by pygmies.

So I’ve been short of true friends and I’ve been short of the pussy and titties I deserved. A few more days and I can begin to remedy all that. This is the end of a long journey. I am about to begin, FOR REAL.