This weekend my youngest son told me he would not be having children. He is a man who sticks to his plans and is loyal to the women in his life to a degree I find unfathomable. So, since that nice girl he married doesn't want kids, he won't have them.
That is that.
My oldest son is adopted, so my name will survive and hopefully my grandson will read something I've written, for I know his father and uncle will not.
I am only concerned about the masculine line. I do not care if my granddaughter hates me.
This leaves me with a choice if I wish not to become entirely extinct.
Do I write and hope that something of my life experience will echo in an as yet unborn mind?
Or, do I father more children?
Fathering children in this nation of evil witches is something that would take enough financial assets that I would have to take my work out of publication, cease writing and recant about 2 million words of dissidence. This would enable me to find an Eastern European wife and house her in traditional style.
Ugh, I am so weary of women and their time-eating triviality that I think I shall stay the course as a writer.
But how I write will have to change since the Unite-the-Right assholes shit the bed for all dissenting white men and wound up the clock to four minutes to midnight for free thinking apes of the pale kind.
That is the subject for a piece on contingency writing, which is beyond the scope of masculinity.
The Hunt for Whitey
Recognizing and Surviving the Condition of Anarcho-Tyranny
The Hunt for Whitey on Kindle
Recognizing and Surviving the Condition of Anarcho-Tyranny
