The thought that I might damage a woman by privately telling her the truth, led me to thinking about the combative nature of my speech.

As an anti-Semite, with my enemies being among the most cunning linguists, I mused to myself that I was like Neo in the Matrix. The One. I was the anomaly inherent in the system, that inevitably one would emerge who had the power to do verbal combat with them and that all of the agents of the System would drop everything to destroy me. But I'd not have to dodge their bullets. I might let them penetrate me and casually spit them out, or I might wave my hand and cause them to stop mid flight.

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My Words are Weapons - Tonight on the Radical Agenda

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I must at times resist the temptation to read my own words over and over again. Not often, but occasionally I know that I have done something really impressive, and when that happens I feel very powerful. That's what I want to do all the time. When I put out material that is not so good, which necessarily occurs when one operates on a schedule, I feel like a failure, or worse yet, a thief. My obligation is to write and say impressive things, and if I put out stuff that is less impressive I'm like a kid trying to pass off oregano as marijuana, knowing that sooner or later one of my buyers is going to kick my ass.

So, when something is really good, I analyze what I have done and I try to think how I can recreate this more consistently. Even then, I have to struggle to be analytical about it. There is the temptation to just marvel at my own genius. If I begin to think of myself as too prideful, this problem is quickly remedied by self hatred for that character flaw I so despise in others.

I'm no mechanic about words. My best work comes quite involuntarily. Most of you will never see or hear the best things I have written or said because they are private. Some, none will ever see, because they are private communications I opted not to send. I have written love letters and angry tirades against people in my life, and as I proof read before sending, I realize that to dispatch this message would have practical outcomes not worth the satisfaction of delivery. My drafts folders are quite the emotional roller coaster.

In recent months, I have come to enjoy printing things out and holding them in my hand. I never used to do that. I began this practice, largely in my correspondence with Rob Rundo. I really respect that guy and I wanted to make sure that what I sent him was perfect, so even after I read it a dozen times on my screen, I printed it out and wanted to make sure that the physical copy was presentable. As I did this, I felt the weight of my words on the paper. This was no longer a mere thought, it was now tangible. I realized that in this medium I noticed errors I had not noticed on the screen. I began to care much more about fonts. I thought, for the first time outside of sending out resumes, that I should perhaps acquire higher quality paper than the cheapest white copy sheets that have comprised nearly all my purchases.

I sometimes muse to think about what will happen after I die. Perhaps some enthusiasts will pour over all of this unreleased material and make select works available. Perhaps it will be lost forever. The paradoxical thought enters my mind that I should hasten my own demise, just to find out which.

Sometimes I think there are things I can release after the other person dies. The thought crosses my mind to wish death upon them, just for that reason, and I become overwhelmed with guilt at my pride and self centeredness for even considering that.

There is a letter printed out on my desk I composed to a woman which I've not yet sent. We were once very much in love and she wants me back, but this is not to be. It is not easy for me to say no because I could benefit greatly from a woman's presence right about now, and so as I composed this rejection I made the argument quite forceful largely for my own benefit, and what I had to say about it was quite the stinging indictment of her.

She is not doing so well, and this has caused her to reflect on her errors and apologize to me. I appreciated the sincerity of her regrets, but she still does not appreciate the permanence of the damage she has caused. Part of me thinks she needs to gain that awareness, and that I would be helping her a great deal to deliver this, but another part of me feels I'd be committing an act of violence to use this power I wield against an unarmed opponent who begs for my mercy.

I briefly chuckled to myself, hearing the announcer in Mortal Kombat say "FINISH HER!"

That thought, that I might damage a woman by privately telling her the truth, led me to thinking about the combative nature of my speech.

As an anti-Semite, with my enemies being among the most cunning linguists, I mused to myself that I was like Neo in the Matrix. The One. I was the anomaly inherent in the system, that inevitably one would emerge who had the power to do verbal combat with them and that all of the agents of the System would drop everything to destroy me. But I'd not have to dodge their bullets. I might let them penetrate me and casually spit them out, or I might wave my hand and cause them to stop mid flight.

It felt that way in a Virginia courtroom at the end of 2021. They would lie unconvincingly, and I would rise from my seat, speaking the truth with conviction. I would see the fear in their eyes, and the nodding approval of the jurors. It felt like total victory, until the jury returned their partial verdict. I had defeated them, in a meaningful sense, with no verdict returned on the central accusation, but they were nonetheless awarded millions of dollars in damages which I have neither the desire nor the capacity to pay.

In two weeks, I'll have my rematch, as oral arguments are scheduled in my appeal for the 25th.

And of course, as always, I am handicapped. Given my power, that almost seems fair. The Plaintiffs and the Defense have the same amount of time to make their oral arguments. Me, and all of my co-defendants, who are not all on the same side, and who do not have the same arguments to make, share the same pool of time. Our enemies, with one single unified front, have an identical amount of time to make their case.

So all of my power must be narrowly focused, like a centerpunch. It must be a sharp blow that shatters the entire structure by taking out the most vital supports. I will not have the ability to analytically dismantle it beam by beam.

In martial arts, you learn this. You do not strike with the widest part of your hand or foot generally when fighting. Concentrating all the energy into the smallest point possible delivers the energy to the smallest possible point for the greatest impact and the most damage. This is why knives and stabbing weapons are so lethal. The smaller the point, the more kinetic energy is placed upon the least amount of resistance, and thus the penetration is devastating.

A bullet functions similarly.

When you look at a cartridge, you see the bullet, the casing, the primer, but when that bullet comes out it is much smaller than the full cartridge. Hollow points enter the target one shape, and emerge or disperse within the target quite differently. They expand and break apart to shatter bone and shred flesh and organs for maximum effect.

I do this with my words. I have learned over the years that what one does not say is sometimes more powerful than what one does. The loaded phrase enters the mind, and expands. Instead of saying it all, deliver only the implication which causes the target to connect the dots involuntarily. In this way you control their thoughts as the words rattle around in their brain like Pac Man, even as you are still penetrating them with yet more words. If you can deliver repeated blows like this, they don't have time to recover between impacts, and the effect is devastating.

The other day I published some members only content on ChristopherCantwell.net titled "Fun With Online Dating Scammers". With only the slightest bit of embarrassment I disclosed that I had begun speaking to a single mother on an online dating website, who asked me for $46 to pay for her autistic child's medication, although we had not yet met. I talked to her on the phone to make sure that she was in fact a woman and a native English speaker, and that her phone number was in fact local and I checked to see that it was not some kind of Voice over IP service. I sent her $60 via Cash App and she thanked me for this profusely.

It was by no means lost on me the potential that this could be some kind of con. Part of me in fact hoped it would be. The most important part of my social life these days is weeding out bad actors, and $60 is a small price to pay to avoid the dangers involved in letting bad people, women in particular, get close to me.

This was on Wednesday right before the SurrealPolitiks member show was to begin, so we agreed that I would text her when I was done and we'd talk more then. After I was done I did text her, and she did not respond.

The next morning, she texted me back to apologize, stating that she had some other sort of medical emergency with her child, but that she was looking forward to speaking to me again soon.

I notified her that roughly 30 minutes after my last unanswered text of the prior evening, I logged into the site where we had met, and it showed that she was online, indicating that she had made a conscious decision to ignore me, and that if she really did have a medical emergency with her child, it said something that she was perusing a dating service as this went on.

Her response was conspicuously defensive, and since she is no match for me in verbal combat, it was to me the screaming of a cornered prey animal. I had her right where I wanted her.

I took a satisfaction in this not entirely dissimilar to that which I would have gained if she had removed her clothes in my presence. She was equally vulnerable in that moment, and I was about to penetrate her for my own selfish satisfaction.

She began with denials and accusations against me, that I was of such poor character for being suspicious of her, what kind of monster accuses the mother of a disabled child of exploiting her son for such a petty sum of money?

She was to me a cockroach who had stumbled across a glue trap. With the effort of folding a piece of paper, I took her most vigorous and lengthy defenses and disposed of them. Though she herself is White, she then resorted to mocking me for being a White man, saying that we have small dicks and this is why she only dates blacks.

I responded by saying I suppose that explains the absence of a father figure in her mutant offspring's life, and her need to beg for $46 on the internet to sustain his pathetic existence.

She was so damaged by the truth of this, that she lost her composure. She lied, stating that in fact, the black man who had sired her burden was sitting right next to her in that moment, and that they were laughing at me for being so gullible as to give her money after meeting on a dating site.

Then I went in for the kill.

Ah, so you confess that, far from being gullible, I've been right all along about you, and for the price of $60 I have avoided all the trouble you would have brought into my life, and not only this, but you are sitting next to a black man, who does not mind you talking to men on dating sites, spending your nights on the internet trying to hustle $46 from strangers on the Internet, and you think this makes you superior to the man who has $60 to give you without it impacting his lifestyle? That's amusing.

Silence followed, as tends to happen in death.

Had I fucked her in the ass without a condom I'd have been no more satisfied. She was mine. I had taken possession of her more thoroughly than whoever put that mutant inside of her.

I mused that the realization of what had become of her life in that moment would stay with her for at least as long as that child would. If the child died before her, she would remember this moment at his funeral. The guilt she would feel about her relief in his passing, and the deep shame she felt for having been stripped of her defenses by my text, would be as the fragments of a shattered hollow point scattered throughout her brain and her heart.

I took a great deal of satisfaction in the cruelty of it, and this mixed curiously with my guilt. Sure, she deserved it, but she was no less a helpless victim of my superior force. I was like a cat playing with a mouse, and she like the torn rodent not seeing the fun of the game, panicked trying to find any combination of words to stop the penetrating force of my language, until she just stopped moving.

And like a cat might bring the mouse to its owner as a gift, I took the screenshots and brought them to those who feed me, proud of what I had done.

 

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