Duty is not something a person will choose when given the option to make their own decisions; by-definition “duty” is an imposition and a responsibility- duty is about limiting personal freedom for the best interest of civilization.
A dutiful citizen is necessary for a functional civilization- this includes duty to family, duty to community, and duty to country. Although duty isn’t necessarily enjoyable by the modern understanding of the term- flashing lights and lines of cocaine- it must be prioritized above personal pleasure. Duty must be foremost, and whatever enjoyment gleaned from life beyond duty becomes secondary.
Like getting all your homework done on a Friday night before hunkering down and playing Ikari Warriors; a life well-lived, and a little bit of fun too.
The sexy appearance of modernity has made the dutiful life seem boring by comparison. The modern Progressive will view humility as a kind of self-imposed naivety– the dutiful experience has become synonymous with missing out on life; life as defined by escalating consumption.
When Dorothy clicks her heels at the end of The Wizard of Oz (1939) repeating “there’s no place like home,”she is acknowledging that happiness isn’t something that must be found in extreme individualism and a highly stimulating landscape; happiness isn’t about consumption. There is beauty in humility.
Dorothy learns the value in calm stability, and a life with family.
Thematically,The Wizard of Ozwould be lost on the modern Progressive, confused as to why Dorothy didn’t stay in Oz, find a solid drug dealer, and a few dozen Alpha males to party with.
The very same modern Progressive is staunchly in favor of abortion.
The most efficient way of understanding the truth about Female Nature is doing a quick reversal of the kind of Feminist theory that has become mainstream thought over the last half-century.
Women do, in-fact, need men; womanhood is defined through manhood.
If we understand the Form of Masculinity as a man’s “efficiency in acquiring power, his comfort in holding power, and his ability to maintain power,” we can understand the Form of Femininity as a woman’s comfort in submitting to power.
The best horror isn’t low-brow schlock; the most effective horror plays on the subconscious anxieties of its audience. Most people need some degree of delusion to get to sleep at night; denial of death, denial of change, the affirmation of safety, the affirmation of identity. Without willful ignorance a person would be overwhelmed by life.
Horror pierces that nerve within the controlled environment of fiction; where the stakes are imaginary but the emotional ride can feel real.
If a child’s greatest fear is parential adbandomnent, and a woman’s greatest fear is sexual violation by an undesirable, a man’s greatest fear is his disposability; a man is only worth as much as the value he is able to contribute- if this value dissipates, the man is rendered worthless.
The unconfident beta-male lives in a constant state of fear that he will be rendered worthless to his woman; apt for disposal and replacement. The beta-male fears the confident, experienced Alpha male. He fears a future where the attractive Alpha may take fleeting interest in his woman, and he fears a past where his woman has experienced what it’s like to be with a real man– she knows the difference and secretly snickers at the beta-male’s pathetic little cock.
It was a few weeks ago when I left my desolate hellhole of an apartment and ventured out into the real world to see one of my teenage favorites, Screeching Weasel, live in concert.
So as I’m standing there waiting to rock-out to songs like“Veronica Hates Me,”and “Cindy’s on Methadone,” I overheard two adult-children chatting about Ben Weasel, the band’s singer. Before either of these dorks said a word, I knew exactly where the conversation was going: “Did you know he hit a woman?”
Imagine yourself having passionate sex before you were acutely aware how inter-gender relations really worked; before you understood that there were laws of nature governing why an interaction with a woman, who was formerly a stranger, ended sexually.
When there was an intoxicating magic to getting laid.
And while the wet-hole is still the same, while her attraction still makes you feel like a Greek god, and while an orgasm is an orgasm… there is something to be said for becoming aware of the smoke and mirrors; it makes the whole interaction a little less exciting.
Casey Anthony epitomized something that I couldn’t quite put my finger on as I sat on my couch, eating Cocoa Puffs and smoking a bong, watching the coverage of her trial during a comfortably warm evening in the Summer of 2011.
There was something missing from my life at the time… I wasn’t conscious of it, but felt its weight all the same. It wasn’t that I was unhappy, I was certainly comfortable; I had a passionless career with the faux-achievement of a master’s degree, I had a fat girlfriend who was acrazy bitch but Iloved her anyway, and I spent my free time feeling good… after all, life was about maximizing consumption while sleep-walking through minimal responsibility. The idea of ambition beyond this baseline, or the contribution of value to a community, were equally foreign and laughable to me.
But even still… alternating between video games, television, pornography, processed food, whimpering oxytocin, and marijuana left a fuzzy feeling on my brain that something wasn’t quite right, but I wasn’t quite ready to see it yet…