Thursday, 28 February 2013
Finding A Purpose
Something's changed in de Roosh V as of late. Posting a video in corollary to his hanging up de boots The Beginning of The End piece, Roosh talks about having the complex, the drive, that obsession with just getting laid, his ego, his worth as a man, tied up with how many notches he managed to amass over his life. Is all of this a sort of augery? That the drive, the complex, it, the spark, the cigarette light in the dark room, is extinguished, rivers dries up as time goes on? It is a fascinating concept all the same, certainly makes a cunt ponder and wander and gasp in awe as the formerly timorous fiend has flowered, risen from the ashes and ended up as a sort of social paladin.
I guess this post is a sort of response to the question that Roosh posted in the video. Give me a complex, the lad asks. Well, ok then. Here's me, grasping the impetus of the situation. With great power comes de responsibility en aw. Roosh, in light of being quite propitious in his life, has sort of become one of the unofficial leaders of this side of the interwebz. This is not because anyone and everyone wants to be a fucken player or anything, but because Roosh and the forum linked with his website, is the equivalent of the Age of Enlightenment coffee shops where skeptical lads and lassies bang noggins together. Moreso, Roosh and whatnot provide, and do a good job at it as well, many of the tools required to traverse the modern sexual market place. Essentially, game is the Achilles Heel of this whole house of cards. If Roosh wants a complex, a cause, here it fucking well is. Work towards destroying and ending feminism, completely. Work towards eviscerating those who advocate no fault divorce, dumbed down education, egalitarianism, degeneracy, the whole fucking lot. Work towards those who are the embodiment of what it is like to be a man. Work towards creating sheer bloody pandemonium. The west is finished, we are dancing on its rotting corpse. Whoever controls the past controls the future.
Time decays en fucken aw. Suddenly, Lincoln wasn't such a fucking bad guy and all and BAZOOM, hey hoe, history is siphoned through a funnel and the revisionist narrative is complete. We know that. We need this fucking bitch to hit rock bottom, we know this as well. But we need advice. We need a fight club. We need to give people the tools to accelerate and improve on The West. This. Sheer. Bloody moorder which can be fun as well, yes yes. It's great to milk the decline for what it is worth, and fuck even I'm doing that meself. But it will only last so long. In short, anything that feeds into the antiuniversity is to be welcomed and encouraged. This is a race against time. When shit hits the fan, we've got two paths. One, is the antiuniversity. The other, is a bastardized, socialist dystopia.
So what will it be ken? Shit bro, we need plans. Ideas. Action. Meatspace. Bring out de fucken flaming decks and lay out your hand. Go for a few scoops in between. We need to get into The Cathedrals, and throw their beliefs in de fire, and hope the thing starts to spread.. This is my recommendation.
Speaking of finding a purpose, a brief aside and all: I've always admired that about people, yous know, those utterly determined cunts who will pour all their energy into this one task, this one drive. Free Northerner had a post about this, and fucken hell, this really resonated with yours truly. For the most part, I've been a complete coaster, whether it be in the de schooldwork, fitness, earning moolah, university, or anything akin to that. I have little to no drive or feel or ambition in anyway, in any aspect of my life. The advantage of all of this is that I've been better at not losing the rag when shit be hitting de fan, but that is more due toos a strange kind of indifference, hollowing out than anything else. Perhaps the complex is something that only comes to a certain kind of person, a special kind of person, one with the potential to thrive as a master, can ever come to possess.
I have a hypothesis: that the internet is a sort of ersatz for many an activity for the complex, for the persona of man in sorts. Instead of making friends, the socially maladjusted cunt gets his buzz off of de Facebook. Instead of goals, problems to be solved, you have mindless entertainment, listening to more music, comedy, keeping up with the fucking Jonses etc. Instead of writing a novel, you write blog posts to get the writing bug expunged from de system. So, the hypothesis is that the motivation to kick arse all over the shop, to expiate the process, is to take the internet out of the equation so you go cold turkey, and thus, are forced toos fucken pursue your goals and whatnot.
Or maybe I'm talking lock stock and smoking shite and Roosh is asking a question there is no answer to.