Looking back, I wouldn’t call myself desperate; I needed a calling, a reason to pass my time on this earth, for virtue was my cause, for virtue I place as my end goal in which the end result was me getting laid.

It was at this period in my life that I had came across a woman named Lauren Southern on YouTube. Her ideas resonated deeper than any alt-right journalist I knew: alt-right I say, because do you know what kind of life it is to live when one has no cause, something that excites my passions, to wake into the world, for a cause, for a cause I devote myself.

When things started to fall into a confusion, that was the time when I came across Meister Dugin. He was interviewed by Lauren Southern, you know. This certain Dugin fellow had quite excited me when he said, along these lines:

“…a return to the Roman Empire, return to the Christian tradition, maybe to pre-Christian tradition…”

Ah, such beauty. But is it not true, a return to a golden age? Yes, a golden age that I will be a part of, for I have a cause, for it is in my genetics, all I really need was to specify, visualize, actualize, and manifest. Specify, visualize, actualize, and manifest.

Well the next day, I decided to venture out of the suburbs into the city. Looking for a place to park my car, my eyes caught the sight of an odd shop called the Witches’ Closet. I felt a feeling that a calling had destined my body here. Upon parking, I had to walk a few blocks before I got to the shop. Christ! I had to walk past a bunch of homeless niggers! And a few Mexicans. Though I didn’t mind the Mexicans too much, so long as they kept to their work and stayed with their own kind. But those smelly niggers! All they do is drink 211s and dance to imaginary music. Those blacks and their damn dancing!

As I arrived at the shop, there was a woman at the counter wearing yoga pants and a tank top; she was quite flabby. I said nothing to her. Upon the bookshelves, I came across various titles by Aleister Crowley and neo-pagan authors. It was one book that caught my eye. It had a symbol similar to Meister Dugin’s Eurasian Youth Union: multiple arrows emanating from a center. The book I held was called The Chaos Magician’s Handbook. “Chaos magick,” I repeated to myself.

Returning home, I spent the whole night reading through 150 pages. I felt empowered: this chaaaaos mmmaaagick, it gave me free will; my reality is very much moldable by my thoughts and there is no truth but our own will.

Now, my comrades, I became quite obsessed with this, more obsessed than my interest in the Alt-Right. I began performing the different rituals involving the setting of intention, drawing a pentacle, and calling upon some Greek deities named Thanatos and Eros. Though I will not say the specific steps, for I would rather not have my readers experience what would eventually happen to me.

Every night, I would envision my desires and follow what the book told me. Certain people would pop into my head at random; I’d rather not say, for I believe some thoughts are just nothing more than glitches in chemical and neuron function. Also, why dwell on useless desires, for my cause is my desire!

After a month of doing this ritual, nothing seemed to be happening materially. I began having fits of rage and depression. I believe I developed bipolar disorder. About a week into stopping these rituals, I had received a forwarded message from an alt-righter. Apparently, Richard Spencer was going to give a speech at a venue. I would receive the address the day it happened. All I knew is that it was in a city two hours from mine.

Arriving four hours early, I decided to go to a dive bar at the center of the city where I had easy access to the transit system. Upon stepping into the bar, I saw a woman with blonde hair in a red dress. I felt such a strange pull, so automatic and so purposeful: it was that feeling of a cause! A cause meant for me!

Now, my comrades, I swear what was happening in the bar was all automatic, I had no choice. Upon standing behind the blonde at the bar, I said:


She turned around and, to my disappointment—yet I was still somewhat aroused—it was Ashton Whitty. She lifted her chocolate martini and said:

“Are you trying to say I’m a thot? Because I’ve lost so many people in my life for this cause.”

“That’s not what I was thinking at all, I meant—”

She interrupted:

“I’m just as much a journalist as Paul Joseph Watson or…”

She stopped suddenly and then chugged her chocolate martini.

“You know what, fuck it. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

She grabbed my hand. I felt a tingling sensation; I felt a rush of happiness.

Ah, this chaos magick, what does it all mean?

After a few moments of her leading me down the street, I asked:

“Where are we going?”

She replied in a frustrated manner:

“We have about three hours before Richard Spencer’s speech…I’ve got some beer at my Airbnb, we can pass the time there.”

I was quite excited, for in all honesty, I had had only one sexual encounter before, and it consisted of me eating out a 30-year-old barista. But that was when I had no cause. I’m different now.

As we arrived at the room, I sat down on the couch while she went into the kitchen to bring out the beers. When she came back, she brought, to my surprise, a bottle of Grey Goose and two shot glasses. She poured her and myself a shot and said:

“To the New West and God!”

She then poured another shot.

“To tradition and motherhood!”

And lastly:

“To the alt-right and God!”

I added:

“And that alt-journalism may flourish honestly!”

She suddenly turned to me all pissed, red and eyebrows slanted.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

This caught me off-guard. She continued:

“You think I’m a thot or some shit!”

“That’s not what I meant, Ashton, I was trying to say—”

She cut me off.

“I didn’t fuck Paul Joseph Watson just so I could get a job with Infowars. I did it because I truly shared something special with him and really wanted to be a good wife. Now everyone seems to hate me, as if I did something wrong!”

At this point, tears began to flow and her hands went over her eyes.

“No, that’s not what I meant, you know, I think you’re a great journalist, better than Laura Loomer.”

Her face lit up, she began to smile, and she suddenly hopped on my lap. She started sticking her tongue down my throat and then took off her dress.

…At the moment I was inside, she went cross-eyed; it looked quite strange and I started losing my hard-on. So I kept my eyes concentrated on her blonde hair over her tits while I thought of Lauren Southern.