I Need Money Not Love

It wasn't until my parents passed that the fog finally lifted, and I saw things with the cold clarity of a man who's stared down loss without flinching. As an adult, stripped of those childhood illusions, I came to a simple, unyielding truth: money isn't just a luxury—it's oxygen. Love? That's a fairy tale peddled to the desperate, a distraction that drains more than it delivers. I'm perfectly content riding solo through this life, because anyone who drags in chaos, petty squabbles, or emotional quicksand gets shown the door without a second glance. Better off without them, every time. Their absence is peace; their presence is a tax on my time and sanity.Money, though— that's non-negotiable. In this rigged game we call modern society, you can't eat ideals, pay bills with hugs, or fend off eviction with heartfelt confessions. Without it, you're just another statistic in the grind, scraping by on scraps while the world spins on. My life? It thrives without the romantic nonsense. As an asexual guy who's long since outgrown the chase, I used to chase shadows—wasted years tangled in the absurd theater of dating, where every "connection" turned into a minefield of expectations, manipulations, and mind games. Women, with their endless scripts of drama and demands, became the first casualty of my awakening. No more. I sidestep that circus entirely now, eyes wide open to the traps: the subtle erosions of your wallet, your energy, your very autonomy. It's not bitterness; it's efficiency. Why volunteer for a war you can't win when you can build your fortress instead?Even with men, I've learned to curate ruthlessly. I've got a tight circle— a few solid brothers who get it, who lift you up without the baggage. But the rest? That pack-mentality foolishness, the endless one-upmanship, the loyalty tests that end in betrayal— I steer clear. Bros before... well, you know the rest. Life's too short for barroom philosophies that lead nowhere but hangovers and hollow laughs. True alliances are rare; most are just echoes of the same societal noise, amplified by beer and bravado.And speaking of noise, look around— our once-mighty West is crumbling under its own weight, a slow-motion implosion fueled by the very "progress" that's devouring its hosts. This cult of enforced sensitivity, this tidal wave of ideological purity tests, has infiltrated every corner: boardrooms, classrooms, even the water cooler. Zealots on a mission, armed with hashtags and HR complaints, ready to torch your livelihood over a wrong word or a fleeting thought. I've seen it—good men, sharp minds, reduced to rubble because they dared question the script. So I adapt. Intelligence demands it. I play the edges, not the center: calculated risks that compound quietly, alliances that shield rather than expose. No grandstanding, no tilting at windmills. Rock the boat? Only if it pays dividends. Otherwise, I navigate the currents, eyes on the horizon, stacking wins where others chase virtue signals.Don't get me wrong— I still care about the ship going down. America's soul, the West's fire— they're worth fighting for in measured doses. I'll vote my conscience, support the underdogs, whisper truths in the right ears. But sacrifice? Throwing myself on the pyre for a cause that's already half-lost, just to earn a pat on the back from strangers or a fleeting glow of "nobility"? Pass. That's the sucker's bet, the blue-pill delusion that martyrs make history while the opportunists inherit it. No, my priority is survival— not just scraping by, but thriving on my terms. Sanity intact, well-being fortified. Pour that energy into the gym, the side hustle, the quiet empire-building: skills that pay, networks that endure, assets that multiply while the world burns its bridges.In the quiet hours, when the distractions fade, it boils down to this: I've traded the hollow ache of "what if" for the solid weight of self-sufficiency. No more begging for validation from fleeting faces or fickle flames. Relationships? Optional upgrades at best, liabilities at worst. Society's unraveling? Observed from a safe distance, with a diversified portfolio as my lifeboat. Parents gone, illusions shattered— what's left is me, unapologetic and unbreakable. So here's the raw deal: I don't need your affection, your drama, or your applause. Give me your capital, your collaboration, your clear-eyed partnership. In return? You'll get a man who's all in on winning— for himself, and maybe, just maybe, for the remnants worth saving. Money over mirages. Every damn time.