bumtickley:

Unintentional Loss?

Source: https://www.facebook.com/dowym/photos/a.300908869978563.68134.104590722943713/906873882715389/?type=3&theater

sadbeautifultragic-deactivated2:

oligopsony-deactivated20160508:

the first time it happened to me, it wasn’t even the scariest

i had woken up, naked, in the woods, surrounded by Burzum CDs and beer posters featuring women in dirndls with the slogan FEMINISM = WHITE GENOCIDE sharpied on them. my whole body ached; i felt like i had been stretching my right arm for the whole night

as the day passed, and I shared the confusion of the town, things slowly started coming together. the rabbi was busy scrubbing the wall clean of some sort of hands-rubbing shylock cartoon. the woman across the street had received a letter beginning: Dear Hypergamous Slut,. A large billboard had been covered by a painting of what looked like a sad frog in a hitler outfit. all my avatars on social media had been replaced michelangelo’s David.

it had become clear: sometime last night, our village - our cozy, innocent little village - had been visited by a Traditionalist, a number of us victimized, including myself, kidnapped to the woods for who knows what purpose. and also, banksy had visited our town the same night, to emblazon our billboard with his impression of george bush.

when the next full moon came, and the next, the horrifying personal truth of things became inescapable. one night waking up in the woods, but two, three? the David avatars, but also all my default fonts changed to the version of wingdings that most look like norse runes? The Bell Curve on my bookshelf I had been able to dismiss as simply intellectual broad-mindedness; Men Among the Ruins and The Culture of Critique as some sort of twopenny attempt to play van helsing, research the creature, discover its weaknesses; but all the devil horns, mephistopholean beards, and elongated noses scribbled on the inside jacket of Negative Dialectics, Culture Industry, and (i thought most incongruously) Ideology and Utopia? when it was finally clear that children were in danger - that the elementary school had been flyered with messages that “the powerpuff girls teach boys to be cucks” and entreating them to check out instead fanfiction dot net slash celestia hyphen reveals hyphen the hyphen secrets hyphen of hyphen ariosop - i realized that my cavalcade of rationalizations had become irresponsible, and had to come face to face with the explanation that had been obvious all along

i am only a man - no, i am not only a man, but the part of me that remains a man is only that - and so i spent some time wallowing in soul-searching and self-pity. why me? had god chosen to punish me for some sin? had it been just a careless mistake - was it that time I had tried to argue with the man with 12,922 posts on the local news site, every one of them “anti racist is anti white?” but the moon waits for no man, and i knew i had to prepare. at first i tried the traditional remedies, garlic draped around the house, pictures of multiracial crowds or female executives or plus-size models on the inside of the doors, windows, any avenue of escape - but that only seemed to make the creature angrier. (nay, make me angrier; i must take full responsibility for this…) binding myself in silver chains seemed to somehow summon a whole spectral dungeon-menagerie of nazi cosplayer fetishists, nerds and bikers and english aristocrats who would go out on the town and wreak havoc themselves. i sought the help of a priest, whose exorcisal ministrations helped for a month, but afterwards i found the house stacked with printouts of sedevacant manifestos, and the creature (no, I) was thereafter immune. in the meantime the victims, and the interracial porn in the folder labelled FOR RESEARCH, stacked up.

in the end, i retreated to the woods, far away from any human habitation; the continuing rumors, and wolfsangles carved in to trees at the edge of my “territory,” sufficient to keep all but the stupidest teenagers safe from an encounter. even now the moon is rising, but knowing that it doesn’t mean i’m going to hurt anyone, it’s almost peaceful. it casts its silver light over the forests and hillocks, the haunting beauty of Nature, on display for only a soul like me, whose isolation lets him better appreciate it. i wonder if this is what ancient germanic tribes felt, as they roved over the continent, planting the seeds that would blossom into Evropa. in my loneliness i imagine - oh, for I am only a man, and Men have their Needs, which by feminine alchemy can be transformed into highest ideals - a young such woman of mine own people, herself a fiercer warrior than the beta males of today but yet no virago, her golden locks strewn with flowers - oh, how beautiful she would look in a field of wheat, my children tugging at the hem of her dress! how bright her pale skin in the ghostly light of the Moon! how vile the Cultural Marxists to so jewishly steal her away from this world, to throw me out all alone and drowning in filth! I am a Regnum Philosophorum and you

oligopsony-deactivated20160508:

the first time it happened to me, it wasn’t even the scariest

i had woken up, naked, in the woods, surrounded by Burzum CDs and beer posters featuring women in dirndls with the slogan FEMINISM = WHITE GENOCIDE sharpied on them. my whole body ached; i felt like i had been stretching my right arm for the whole night

as the day passed, and I shared the confusion of the town, things slowly started coming together. the rabbi was busy scrubbing the wall clean of some sort of hands-rubbing shylock cartoon. the woman across the street had received a letter beginning: Dear Hypergamous Slut,. A large billboard had been covered by a painting of what looked like a sad frog in a hitler outfit. all my avatars on social media had been replaced michelangelo’s David.

it had become clear: sometime last night, our village - our cozy, innocent little village - had been visited by a Traditionalist, a number of us victimized, including myself, kidnapped to the woods for who knows what purpose. and also, banksy had visited our town the same night, to emblazon our billboard with his impression of george bush.

when the next full moon came, and the next, the horrifying personal truth of things became inescapable. one night waking up in the woods, but two, three? the David avatars, but also all my default fonts changed to the version of wingdings that most look like norse runes? The Bell Curve on my bookshelf I had been able to dismiss as simply intellectual broad-mindedness; Men Among the Ruins and The Culture of Critique as some sort of twopenny attempt to play van helsing, research the creature, discover its weaknesses; but all the devil horns, mephistopholean beards, and elongated noses scribbled on the inside jacket of Negative Dialectics, Culture Industry, and (i thought most incongruously) Ideology and Utopia? when it was finally clear that children were in danger - that the elementary school had been flyered with messages that “the powerpuff girls teach boys to be cucks” and entreating them to check out instead fanfiction dot net slash celestia hyphen reveals hyphen the hyphen secrets hyphen of hyphen ariosop - i realized that my cavalcade of rationalizations had become irresponsible, and had to come face to face with the explanation that had been obvious all along

i am only a man - no, i am not only a man, but the part of me that remains a man is only that - and so i spent some time wallowing in soul-searching and self-pity. why me? had god chosen to punish me for some sin? had it been just a careless mistake - was it that time I had tried to argue with the man with 12,922 posts on the local news site, every one of them “anti racist is anti white?” but the moon waits for no man, and i knew i had to prepare. at first i tried the traditional remedies, garlic draped around the house, pictures of multiracial crowds or female executives or plus-size models on the inside of the doors, windows, any avenue of escape - but that only seemed to make the creature angrier. (nay, make me angrier; i must take full responsibility for this…) binding myself in silver chains seemed to somehow summon a whole spectral dungeon-menagerie of nazi cosplayer fetishists, nerds and bikers and english aristocrats who would go out on the town and wreak havoc themselves. i sought the help of a priest, whose exorcisal ministrations helped for a month, but afterwards i found the house stacked with printouts of sedevacant manifestos, and the creature (no, I) was thereafter immune. in the meantime the victims, and the interracial porn in the folder labelled FOR RESEARCH, stacked up.

in the end, i retreated to the woods, far away from any human habitation; the continuing rumors, and wolfsangles carved in to trees at the edge of my “territory,” sufficient to keep all but the stupidest teenagers safe from an encounter. even now the moon is rising, but knowing that it doesn’t mean i’m going to hurt anyone, it’s almost peaceful. it casts its silver light over the forests and hillocks, the haunting beauty of Nature, on display for only a soul like me, whose isolation lets him better appreciate it. i wonder if this is what ancient germanic tribes felt, as they roved over the continent, planting the seeds that would blossom into Evropa. in my loneliness i imagine - oh, for I am only a man, and Men have their Needs, which by feminine alchemy can be transformed into highest ideals - a young such woman of mine own people, herself a fiercer warrior than the beta males of today but yet no virago, her golden locks strewn with flowers - oh, how beautiful she would look in a field of wheat, my children tugging at the hem of her dress! how bright her pale skin in the ghostly light of the Moon! how vile the Cultural Marxists to so jewishly steal her away from this world, to throw me out all alone and drowning in filth! I am a Regnum Philosophorum and you