“This is it.”
Tor said it with a bit of flair. It came off more like, “this is it”. He gestured around him with his hand and a faint look of disgust. I shared his feelings and knew exactly what he was talking about.
Last night, Tor took me to the trendy hipster part of town in Budapest, on the Pest side. We found the trendy Hipster complex (owned by Jews ofc) where the fashionable Millennials and foreigners spend most of their time. It was packed to the gills, even though it was a Thursday. These people don’t really work so it’s not that surprising.
“We were promised degeneracy at least,” I replied.
We had a chuckle at that. I’m pretty much convinced of the need for White Sharia at this point, and Tor agrees with the concept as well, even though the term ranckles him. But both of us understood the strange situation that we and people our age find themselves in.
All around us are tables full of numales and a smattering of cute European girls, local and foreign. They aren’t having fun. Or maybe they are, but objectively speaking, they aren’t doing anything fun.
There’s only a distinct ‘death of civilization’ feeling in the air.
It is as if having fun, getting drunk and having sex is too passe, not ironic enough or something. Try approaching the girls and running a routine that would have worked 5 years ago and see how far you get. It comes off as too forward, and not “with it” probably.
Tor and I both agreed that “hook-up culture” was a myth. Our generation isn’t having mass orgies or throwing sweaty, sex-sodden American Pie house parties or hitting da club for a night of ‘omg last night was so fuckin’ crazy’ fun.
Our generation is doing this…whatever this is.
But let me set the scene a bit better for you so you know what I mean. Maybe you have experienced something similar yourself.
There are christmas lights adorning the wooden doors and wooden barstands at every single bar in the complex. They are all arranged in a circle around a courtyard where the patrons sit on high stools around small round little tables. There is a second floor with balconies and a super cool bridge that cuts across the courtyard diagonally. Party-goers look down on the people below them while leaning on the railings and sipping their cocktails.
There is the dance section, cordoned off by glass and the music coming out of it is muted. The people there are mostly swaying with the music like zombies do when they shuffle around aimlessly in the post-apocalyptic flicks that were all the rage a couple of years ago. Occasionally one of the few girls there busts a move, her purse swinging as she does…whatever it is that she does. (Fun fact: no one in our generation knows how to dance).
And then she runs back to her friends giggling as if she’s done something naughty. The phones come out as they keep swaying, their faces bathed in tired white light and backs firmly turned to the legions of thirsty, fedora-wearing, scarf-totting numales swaying right behind them.
If only the Boomers could see us now. For all our criticisms of them, they certainly knew how to party. Ripped dudes with long hair playing crazy riffs on electric guitars. Hot girls with flowers in their hair, nice bodies and sexy dresses. At least thats how I imagine it. Maybe I’m confusing the 60s with the 80s. Doesn’t matter really, its all ancient history to me anyway.
But our generation is so…exhausted and ironic that we can’t even do that.
There seems to be a belief among some younger and older members of our movement that we live in “degenerate” times. But that is a misunderstood term.
“If there actually were crazy sex parties going on non-stop with hot girls, I might even understand why people would be liberal,” I told Tor.
He nodded emphatically. “No one is getting laid, none of it is fun, and everyone just pretends!”
“I was promised degeneracy, and I want my degeneracy.” I yelled out and banged on the table. Softly, mind you. We didn’t want to get kicked out. Though there were hundreds of people there, the noise level was akin to a tiny murmur. Music played from all the different bars. But it all sounded like elevator muzak. It was so incredibly bad, and the various electric boops and beeps blended together to weave a symphony of mediocrity that stunk up the whole complex.
“Maybe we’re in the wrong place?” I asked Tor. He shook his head, “this is the place.”
I didn’t argue, because I had basically experienced the same thing in just about every European city that I have visited in the last 3 years.
All of it is identical. The same fashion trends, the same decor, the same atmosphere and even the same physiognomy. It is like everyone is becoming a fish-faced numale hipster everywhere at a frightening speed. And its all so un-erotic, so unsexy, so bland and fuckin’ gay.
Nowadays, there is almost no benefit to being a generic libshit, fashionable numale. Literally no benefit that I can discern at all. And yet they still do it. Maybe they just can’t help themselves anymore. Too much soy or chemicals in the water turning the frogs gay perhaps.
The thought occurred to me later in the night that we were in the exact same sort of venue as Bataclan. No bomb went off though because we were in Hungary and although there are brown people, they aren’t the allahu akbar kind. So Budapest has that going for it. The hipsters can sway to their elevator music in peace.
And really, isn’t that what we’re fighting for?
Ha, no. I’m kidding. We honestly need some sort of total overhaul of the spiritual kind. Some sort of revitalization of the life instinct that many White people seem to have lost. Otherwise, what’s the point of stopping the next bomb?
These people are already dead anyway.