“Dean’s a contractor and we have a good life. We are very compatible. May I ask how old you are?”
“Fifty-seven, I think.”
“Oh, you look good. I’m thirty-seven. Dean doesn’t want to have children.”
Bam, just like that, bitch? the elder runt thinks to himself.
Bad City says nothing to comfort the Nordic womb in distress.
“Can I ask you, have you had children?”
“Yes, and grandchildren. I love kids. But it seems like most men of our race do not. I hardly know a white man in his twenties or thirties who has or is willing to have children. It is not unusual. It is the norm.”
Hellen fidgets and hesitates and blurts in a half-whisper, “I know, I know—its terrible! Would you have more children if you could? I mean if a young, still-fertile woman who really had a—I’m so sorry. I’ve gotta get back with the drinks. Dean is very good to me but he doesn’t want to have children with me.”
You wanted equality, bitch? You got it. No special privileges for your womb and its ticking ovaries.
Aryan men don't want children because one noose is enough. Marrying is a bad enough legal enslavement, but at least it's compensated by sex. To add children reduces the value of the sex, at least squares the enslavement, and typically accomplishes nothing more than adding insult to injury by seeing one's own children becoming creatures of the System and one's enemy, instead of merely one's kin, race and country doing so.
Denied the right to a patriachal legacy, the only reasonable response is to fight to the death. Calculate thy lifespan and avenge thyself sevenfold.
My plan for techno liberation of individual from institution is working. Textmind has its first students.
Robbed of its thralls, the System will be ripped apart by the monsters and victims of its own creation.