Based
I am a gay man and a patriot. Skirmishes with the shitlords of Kekistan notwithstanding, I believe in Trump, and I believe in the white race.
4chan has got more shills and redditors than it had on November 16, which is why I am leaving the site and entering life.
I write in a house owned by my father until his death. Perhaps he still owns it in some sense, the dead man. It has not passed to me, and never will — that I know. And yet here I am, in possession of it, for the moment held by the same walls and floors that held me as a newborn fag.
Society looks at us, they discipline us, they fire us from our jobs, they think: Ah good, our little white cuck is learning his place, I can’t wait to see the levels he’ll sink to.
Which is why today it’s happening.
I have never seen so many whiners and cucks asking what is the purpose in life for young white men. Unless you’re a chad you can’t get a gf which means you won’t be able to get a wife? Seriously anons how do we fix this, I feel that I have zero purpose in life and I am totally unmotivated . . . .
I post: Not the fierce-fanged tiger in his heraldic coat can so stagger courage as the white-shrouded bear or shark — Herman Melville. And I log off.
I stay based.
My own scent is correct, sufficiently masculine, at last. I can fuck now. Most of my life: no. But these last weeks: I’m a human animal who can fuck.
I am a student of art. I study how empires decay.
My father coded — if you can code on your living room floor and not in a hospital bed — at around 3 pm yesterday, but I know the time of the code with less accuracy than the health app on his Apple Watch, and all the partners and processes parsing the data from it. So, Tim Cook, tell me: When did Daddy die?
My aunt has been texting, she wants to know why my father wasn’t at coffee this morning, where is he, why won’t he text back.
The dike is crumbling, they can’t sew up all the loose ends. You will see the pictures of me and this house, this basement, of my father and my aunt and the ones who will follow. We’re all part of this history, all of us joined together.
I am here for you, readers. For the opening of the world to come.
Sig Sauer P226, Barrett REC 7, Colt AR-15.
When they see what I’ve done, even the most disillusioned polfags will join the fight.
My own scent is correct, sufficiently masculine, at last. I can fuck now. Most of my life: no. But these last weeks: I’m a human animal who can fuck.
Still, I’ll die a virgin.
The white race must, if it is to survive — it has been my life’s work to show this — reestablish itself on a new ethical basis, one founded on a will to power and a rejection of naive essentialism.
