You’re Not Lost in a Library—This Is a Shoot-’Em-Up
You want your love lines parallel, not a damn braided rope. That ain’t weakness—it’s strategy. The second someone says you’re Doing It Wrong? They’re not in the war for your heart. They’re circling like vultures waiting for you to break.
Ditch the Map and Build Your Own damn Road
Here’s the truth: Poly’s a wild west. Kitchen table? Garden party? That’s just two sides of the same bullet. You ain’t a bad actor for choosing garden rows and refusing to clink glasses with your partner’s ex-flame. You’re not ‘not fully poly.’ You’re just done letting other people’s chaos drown your rhythm.
The problem ain’t you. It’s the crowd sniffing around the same meat market. They’re too busy preaching ‘transparency’ to read the damn room. If they hit you with the ‘selfish, mono-minded’ line again? They just signed their own death warrant. You don’t date people who treat your blueprint like a crime to commit.
The Poly Pulp Fiction—Real Talk
Listen, you want to run, you got to outrun the pack. Start branding your profile with "parallel poly" like a gang tag. Let them know you ain’t here to join a damn cult where the password is "metamour bestie." The ones who don’t get it? Block. Ignore. Pretend they’re the trash you step over on the sidewalk.
And don’t let these mouthy liberals convince you to apologize for your truth. You don’t owe ‘em a damn explanation unless they’re holding a knife to your throat. You’re in this game to survive, not to win a popularity contest. If the community you’re in feels like a one-way ticket to a lecture—trade up. Find the crew where your style don’t start a blood feud with the homies.
They’re Not Nerds—They’re the Drunks on the Sidewalk
You’re not “nonbinary.” You’re not some anime character. You’re a hunter with a rifle, and you’re done sniffing for dates in the taverns where the drunks belch dice codes and call it culture. D&D fanboys? Their hygiene’s a red flag so obvious even a blind man could see it. You ain’t got to hunt for poly folks who dig films and music—if you’re not seeing them, it’s because you’re looking in the wrong damn alley.
Now I see your hand cramp up every time some twink on Grindr flexes about their Scorpio rising or Meyers-Briggs letter. But here’s the kicker: You’re no better. You’re just pickier, bro. You don’t care about their hocus-pocus? Cool. They don’t care about your cold stare when they spew their garbage? Then you both just signed for war.
Stop Playing Executioner with a Resume
Here’s the deal. You’re not a square peg in a round hole. You’re a soldier who’s learned the enemy’s language, and you won’t fight on their turf. But every time you scroll through profiles, you’re already judging. That ain’t strategy—it’s a death wish. You’re not dating people. You’re picking fights you don’t want to win.
Solution? Swap the digital playground for the grindhouse. Go where the real poly folks lurk—bars where the music’s loud and the talk’s louder, art shows where people don’t have time to care about your family tree. You don’t got to convert strangers. You find the people who already walk the tightrope your way. And if you gotta walk them through the door, you do it like a general briefing the troops, not a college seminar handing out participation trophies.
You’re Not the Product. You’re the Bounty Hunter
Let me call you out. You’ve made a religion of your preferences while calling everyone else’s a cult. You don’t want to be a martyr for your style. You don’t want to be the guy who only dates people who agree to be silent, low-key, and scientifically literate. But you’re acting like you’re owed it. You ain’t. You’ll get what you fight for—not what you demand.
The market’s full of losers. But there’s always room for a man who knows his corners. You want people who won’t care how you structure your chaos as long as you don’t trip up their own. Go find ‘em. And when you do? Don’t thank them. Keep your gun holstered, but never off the hip. Because if they ever ask you to change the game—run like hell.