I’m Mike Capatano. Thankfully, Hunter didn’t publish that last article I submitted to Occidental Dissent. For my first assignment, I was asked to write an exposé about the Northwest Imperative. Since I actually do reside in the Evergreen State, it seemed like a reasonable request.
Hunter was under the impression I possessed some pertinent acumen on the matter. I was asked to discuss what I heard and saw and insightfully comment on the breadth of my exposure among the racialist scene there. Straight forward enough. I should have been able to do it.
But after a few brief writing excursions sprinkled into my Facebook and reading time – a sentence here, a paragraph there (score, thesauruses are awesome!) – a transgender, Jewish Eskimo probably could of fabricated a more compelling synopsis of the Northwest Imperative. That child I birthed with the mangled limbs and the lazy eye was put up for adoption without even a quick read through.
Yet for some selfish reason I sent it to Hunter anyways. On receiving the draft for posting, I feel he didn’t have the heart to say how shitty it was. Oh well.
So, I am sitting here in OD revolutionary command ( i.e., a dilapidated mansion), and as the evening slowly wanes, I’m scolding myself for merely thinking that sub-par piece of shit could have set the tempo for my political journalism. Staring into this empty Dr. Pepper can on my desk, I’m approaching the pathetic conclusion that I might not be good at writing or… anything. The frantic keyboards pounding away next to me personifying the real writers with something worth saying is forcing me to draw comparisons.
Ever since high school, romanticizing about the bloody, glorious revolution was always my escape from trigonometry; fighting for the physical survival and metaphysical advancement of our people. With sword and shield in hand, I would charge the battlefield slaying every last filthy Zionist and colored dupe. Though how could this become remotely possible when mustering the most menial dedication and desire to write my first essay took a backseat to Citizen Renegade?
The unyielding drive for tragic perfection that defines the Aryan soul regretfully doesn’t dwell in my work ethic. My whole life, much as I hate to reflect on it, is littered with that fact. My GPA this last semester was a 2.0; must of taken classes in molecular biology, right?
Try political science. Koreans scoff at the bullshit. What about my dust encrusted guitar? The one that’s ensconced in the spare room at my folk’s house. What about the go-kart I gave up on building? The beautiful girl in geology I planned on having sex with?
Repeatedly, like a script to a porno, I have failed to do what I said I would accomplish. Now, sitting alone in the dark as the fan clunks away and the light from this screen blinds me, I think I know why I’ve squandered so many opportunities to do so many epic things.
I’m afraid of failing.
This isn’t some cheesy after school special. I’m deadserious. I’m actually horrified of complacency and that is why I botched the article. Had I invested my blood and sweat and it still sucked ass what would that of said about my worth in the grand picture of our cause? Almost instinctively, I rationalize my acts personifying laziness to shield me from the feelings of potential inadequacy.
It is a safety mechanism. It shields me and diagnoses a warped perspective of laziness as the problem rather than the inadvertent chance that I lack the skill or the innate intelligence to articulately convey my thoughts. That’s what really scares me
Ironically, the salvation I am seeking has come from a book that I have been reading. Written by a Jew, Neil ‘Styles’ Strauss, it is entitled The Game. In this semi-dated tome about a pickup artist, a surprisingly sincere thirst for the fruition of his dreams forces this Jew to get over his fear of rejection from women. He pumps every last ounce of his being (neglecting his family, friends and job) into his goal of becoming a ladies’ man; a chance to be a modern day Casanova that would leave everything on the club floor. He risks rejection, fear, and loss of face to make the pickup.
Not having any real problem with women other than the geology girl I let get away, I have found applying Strauss’ lewd stories chalked full of womanizing helpful, regardless of his ethnicity. In my older, haggard years, would I want to gaze into the mirror and wish I had slept with one more woman – or, more applicable to my situation – gave more than my silent support for the movement that others risked life and limb for all because I surrendered to my own feelings of personal inadequacy?
So now I’m left with how to put this Jew’s advice into practice. Lucidly put, I have three options: risk rejection time and time again in order to score with women and propagate the White race, write a decent article for Occidental Dissent, or establish a cosmic order that transcends our current mental and physical forms for ceaseless new forms of excellence.
I hope writing for this website will help focus this personal trek of mine. I would also like to overcome these Freudian feelings of inadequacy.