HOW TO BE A MODERN PIRATE: A Complete Guide To Living Piratically
Live Piratically: A Guide to Living Free, Fucking Loud, and Leaving Scars
The only people mad at the system are the ones getting doggy fucked in the ass by it.
Last night was not real. It was too perfect, too deranged, too soaked in sin to be part of anything sanctioned by polite society. I was slicing through a canal under a sky drunk on stars, the boat humming like a stolen Lamborghini made of sex and bad decisions, lanterns along the banks swaying like they were slow clapping my descent into beautiful damnation. And perched on my lap, naked from the waist down and high off victory, was my girl an unholy mix of Aphrodite and Grand Theft Auto her ass bouncing with each swell like it was clapping for the devil himself.
She moaned something foul in my ear that would’ve gotten us both banned from every mormon church on Earth, and I took a sloppy swig of mezcal mid thrust, letting it pour down my chest and splash across her spine and off her ass like holy water in reverse. The bottle hit the floor. My head hit the stars. I smiled so wide it felt like my jaw was dislocating from sheer euphoria. Smile spread so far lips touching on the back of my neck. Sweat and salt and lust and freedom mixed into a cocktail more potent than any bar could ever serve. The boat wasn’t rocking from the water it was rocking because I was rearranging her nervous system while steering with one hand and flipping off the devil with the other.
And right then, in the middle of that obscene little masterpiece of a night half drunk, half possessed, fully alive I knew it was time to write this guide. Because this isn’t theory. This isn’t some Pinterest board fantasy. I am living it. Day in, day out. Naked girl, killer views, no rules, no leash, no one telling me when to clock in, apologize, or die slowly.
You’re still trapped. But I’m out. And now I’m handing you the treasure map.
So sit down. Shut up. Buckle in. Or better yet, rip the seat out and light it on fire.
It’s time to live piratically.
Imagine this: Traveling recklessly across continents without a fuck to give, smashing through every pointless law and arbitrary rule as if they were made of brittle glass. Picture your hands, dripping with money you’ve yanked straight from the system's fat, ignorant wallet no struggle, no sweat, just raw audacity. Imagine draping your body, lean and bronzed from endless sun, in Ralph Lauren fabrics softer than sin, your presence loud enough to silence crowds. See yourself claiming only the crippest women, with the sharpest eyes, beautiful long hair, and skinniest arms. the kind who smoke cigarettes like they're plotting murder and fuck like the world might end before sunrise.
Picture yourself strolling unapologetically into the world's most decadent locations, no reservation, no invitation, just your cocky stride and a smirk that whispers, “I own this fucking place now.” Feel the pulse of your own heart louder than a cannon blast, drowning out the timid murmurs of mediocrity around you, fueled by a devil may care, volcanic FUCK YOU attitude that sends weaklings scurrying and earns nods of respect from those who understand real power.
I’m talking about living a life dripping in pure, unfiltered audacity. I'm talking about an existence fueled by ambition fiery enough to raze entire fucking villages, a soul so loud it shakes the foundations of the bland existence everyone else calls life. Taking whatever the fuck you want exactly like Blackbeard did, exactly like Bartholomew Roberts did, and exactly like the elite few degenerates among you will after devouring this unholy guide.
Through every age of human history, as long as there have been people breathing, shitting, fucking, and dying, there's been a system a gigantic, invisible, merciless machine built solely to churn out weak drones, predictable cogs, and easily managed slaves. It keeps us safe but at a price to many. You, and every other miserable human being before you, have fallen into one of two categories:
Getting dragged, whipped, fucked, robbed, beaten, drained, and squeezed dry by that system, spending your short, pointless life crying victim and gargling the bitter taste of someone else's boots.
Or, using that very system as your personal ATM, your playground, your carnival of chaos, your orgy of indulgence laughing like the devil as you plunder, pillage, and tear it apart piece by glorious fucking piece.
I proudly stand in the second camp. The latter. The rogue. The outlaw. The Modern Day Pirate.
Stop bitching about being fucked by the system. Stop crying victim. Start fucking it back. You are either chewed on or doing the chewing. The system isn’t your enemy it’s your clueless blind victim. It’s your fat piggy bank. Be grateful it exists because it’s precisely why pirates like us thrive. Life is brutally unfair: predators feast, prey bitch. So ask yourself are you eating, or being eaten?
So, what exactly is a Modern Day Pirate?
Welly, Welly, Welly, Well Let me show you.
Defining the Modern Day Pirate: The Outlaw Mindset and Why Society Secretly Worships Rebels
Deep down, society secretly fucking worships rebels, outlaws, and degenerates the bold motherfuckers who refuse the leash, who laugh in the face of authority and piss on the graves of tradition. Rebels are the violent echo of what men used to be before HR departments, antidepressants, and bi weekly check ins. Society doesn’t just fear the outlaw it craves him. They want to feel the danger without living it. They want the scent of fire without getting burned. That’s why they make Netflix shows about serial killers and movies about mobsters. That’s why your girl secretly fantasizes about the man she should never bring home.
And pirates? We don’t ask to be loved. We steal admiration. We take respect. Through acts so brazen and unholy that the safe little tax paying citizens tremble while watching us lick the flames.You want them whispering your name in boardrooms and bedrooms? Then stop asking. Start taking.
Black Bart Roberts: My Favorite Pirate
If you’re waiting for me to say Blackbeard, go back to your Funko Pops and shut the fuck up. You can keep your Blackbeard, your rum soaked chaos merchants with birds on their shoulders and heads full of smoke and screaming. And don’t you dare mention Jack Sparrow unless you’re actively lactating soy through your pores and wearing a bracelet you made at a healing retreat in Tulum.
The greatest pirate who ever lived my personal patron saint of savage elegance was Bartholomew Roberts. Black Bart. A man who didn’t just take ships. He took souls. Took them clean.
While other pirates swam in theatrics, Bart ran his operations like a goddamn luxury assassination firm. He didn't grunt. He didn't grovel. He wore crimson waistcoats and a diamond encrusted crucifix while dismantling navies like they were IKEA furniture without the manual.
He stole over 400 ships. More than any pirate in history. And he did it without flinching, without mercy, and without needing to scream about it. Silence was his war cry. That’s what killed them the stillness before the slaughter. He didn't drink. Didn’t posture. Didn’t even believe in luck. Only power. Precision. Presence.
This man sailed like a monarch, killed like a surgeon, and dressed like he fucked duchesses in candlelight after burning their husband’s fleet to the sea floor.
And that that is what I call a modern blueprint.
See, Bart never wanted to be a pirate. But once the ocean claimed him and blood stained his cuffs, he accepted the truth most of you still fight like cowards:
“Since I had dipped my hands in muddy water, it was better to be a Commander than a common man.”
That line alone should be carved above every man’s mirror in blood and gold.
Because the truth is, most of you have already dipped your hands in it too. You clicked on things you weren’t supposed to. You watched men get rich doing what you dream of and called it “luck.” You sold time for approval, wore masks for comfort, bit your tongue instead of breaking the room open with truth. You’ve dipped your hands in the mud. You’re in the game whether you meant to play or not.
But unlike Bart, you still beg for permission to lead.
I never did. I never will.
Because I knew before I had chest hair that I'd rather be exiled on a yacht with a pistol in one hand and a naked girl rolling cigarettes in the other, than ever be respected in a cubicle.
Black Bart didn’t run a ship. He ran a brand. A legend. An aesthetic. His pirate articles were corporate bylaws for outlaws. His code was cleaner than half the governments you idiots still trust. His crew didn’t just follow him they believed in him. They feared disappointing him more than death itself.
That’s what modern men don’t get. They think fear is ugly. They think authority has to be loud. They’ve never tasted the silence of respect.
Bart taught me that if you want to rule truly rule you don’t need noise. You need narrative. You need contrast. You need to walk through chaos in silk and steel, and let the wind spread rumors in your wake.
This is what it means to be a modern pirate:
Not a criminal. Not a clown. But an aesthetic weapon with leverage dripping from every pore and no leash in sight.
You want to be like Bart? Then get the fuck out of line.
Stop dressing like your opinions come from YouTube ads and your balls come with instructions. Wear what makes you feel mythic. Build a body that scares mirrors. Read books like you're studying how to burn down a system with vocabulary alone.
Start commanding. Start claiming. Start living like every woman you touch is going to write poetry about you and every man who hears your name is going to squint and ask, “Is he real?”
Because the modern pirate doesn’t sail the Caribbean. He sails taxes, laws, attention, commerce, chaos.
He doesn’t use swords. He uses silence. Uses charm. Uses optics. He walks into boardrooms like a ghost wrapped in cologne and confidence, and leaves with the deed, the girl, and your fucking spine.
He doesn’t raise his voice. He never begs.
He just wins.
And that’s why I light a cigarette in his honor every time I wire funds from one shell company to another while sipping black coffee in my villa and writing words that ruin people’s emotional stability.
Because Bart didn’t need likes. He didn’t need followers. He didn’t need your applause.
He just became myth.
And I plan on doing the same.
So now the only question left is Are you going to keep living like a taxpayer with a nervous cough and three passwords to your boss’s approval? Or are you finally going to wake the fuck up, steal your own soul back, and craft a life that would make Black Bart raise a glass from the grave?
This isn’t a guide for men who want to be liked. This is a blood soaked blueprint for those ready to become feared and free.
You don’t read this shit for entertainment. You read this because something deep inside you is already howling. You’re not here because you're curious. You’re here because you’re starving. For power. For silence. For the kind of mythic identity that makes women dream about you for decades and makes weak men hate you on sight without knowing why.
You feel it, don’t you?
That ache in your gut when you put on the same shirt for the fourth time in a week and realize it doesn’t mean anything. That stifled scream behind your morning routine when your phone lights up with another pointless calendar invite from a man you’d rather drown than listen to. That quiet psychosis swelling inside you every time a beautiful girl walks past and doesn’t even look your way because you forgot how to be a presence.
You’ve dipped your hands in the muddy water, brother. And now the only righteous thing left is to become dangerous. This is not a Pinterest aesthetic. This is a total fucking identity transplant. A rebirth so primal it makes your past self look like a hospice patient in business casual. I’m not here to motivate you. I’m here to detonate you.
Because we’re not building habits. We’re building avatars.
And not the anime rainbow lover bent over kind with glowing swords and blue hair we’re talking real, walking, breathing personas of dominance that bend reality, seduce experience, and walk into any room like the air owes them money.
Men like me don’t “manage time.” We rewrite it. We don’t “optimize our mornings.” We burn them into ritual.
You shall not be forgettable. You want women to worship you? Make them scared to forget you. You want freedom? Get strong enough to walk away from anything you don’t control. You want to be a modern pirate? Then step the fuck through this paywall like it’s the hatch to your warship. Because what comes next is the full system.
The rituals. The aesthetic. The morning warcries. The clothing, the workouts, the attitude, the unshakable frame that makes weak men twitch and beautiful women wet.
This is where the myth gets forged. So click in. Or stay so average, stay clean, stay safe.
I’m out here slicing through canals with a girl naked on my lap, sipping mezcal off her spine while planning offshore accounts and five star escapes and you’re still asking permission to feel alive. Enough. Time to build the Avatar. Time to become legend.
Chapters:
Modern Day Pirate
Crafting the Pirate Avatar
Seductive Piracy: Snatching Souls, Not Hearts
Pillaging the System
The Pirate Lifestyle: Boats, Beaches, and Bare Skin
The Brotherhood
Dark Arts & Psychological Warfare
The Final Frontier: Become Myth
The Daily Pirate Itinerary
Chapter 2: Crafting Your Pirate Avatar
I was never interested in being myself at least not in the boring, passive sense the rest of society seems to worship like a sickly religion. Identity, to most people, is a series of convenient accidents: their job, their hometown, their haircut, their weak preferences handed down like heirlooms from parents who'd never truly lived. But I knew, somewhere deep beneath my ribs, that identity was never meant to be something accidental. It was meant to be sculpted, sharpened, shaped like marble into a living work of art. My identity wasn’t something found it was built. A legend patiently crafted from sweat, scars, and carefully chosen linens.
