The Smallest, Greatest Purpose(s) in Life

I've never met any of you and I may never do so. Despite the fact that we all share very common threads, for many on the "alt-right spectrum," from alt-light entryists to the Weevs, this is as good as it gets. We may never go to a pool party. We won't be able to trek to TRStlemania. We may never get to don our spiffiest outfits to go to NPI or Amren. We may never ride in a Taxi with Mike Enoch through downtown New York City or toss back beers with Seventh Son at a backyard barbecue. But we find some value in going online and shitposting with others, and perhaps this adds some value to otherwise arduous, aimless lives.

It's not enough. Like Ghoul (F, PBUH) advocated, there has to be real life consequences for things to truly matter. That may come in different forms, but the point remains the same: Your life has to be more than what you do online. It has to have meaning beyond memes and podcasts and fighting the blood wars on social media.

I think the true meaning of life lies in finding purpose beyond the self. Because you are here, you do not worship your own asshole like the special-snowflake left. Call it trite if you must, but there is a deep spiritual truth in finding a purpose greater than your own self-gratification. Mine came in family, and by God, this is the most important thing I will ever do.


By the time I turned 30, I thought my opportunity to have my own family passed me by. I wasted most of my 20's in a pointless relationship with a woman who could not bring herself to say "I love you," and had no intention of ever admitting to me she never wanted children to begin with. She was a product of the diseased, decadent culture that is choking the life out of Western Civilization: she has a career, a home, and all the trappings of entertainment she could ever hope to consume. And she is entering the last years of her fertility with almost no hope of providing grandchildren to her parents. Thank God Almighty I left her. But the clock was ticking. When you're in your early twenties, chasing pussy and getting your shit together is, understandably, first and foremost in your mind. But too quickly you will lose months and years of adulthood to those endeavors which in reality don't bring meaning to life. Life is not the sum total of orifices into which or onto which you ejaculate. You are not your career. It's important to have a career, don't get me wrong. I enjoy being a lawyer, but at the end of the day, if I were to suddenly disappear, literally nothing would change. Being 30, making a decent income, but not having anyone to share it with is a meaningless life. I wanted children, but my female peers were either married or too career oriented.

I met my wife who is several years younger than me through a friend whom I represented in a family law matter. She was attractive, friendly, from a large religious family, and had a great sense of humor. She did have a child, but I wasn't concerned with that. As I fell in love with her, I concluded that while medically it was unlikely she would ever be able to have kids again, the child's father is so distant I would practically be able to raise her myself, and have the father subsidize the parenting via child support. It wasn't perfect, but it at least gave me a chance to be a father, and 6 years later, that little girl has grown into an amazing 10 year old. Giving that kid a chance of being a productive member of society by ensuring a stable two parent household was a purpose, and while I wanted desperately for my own, being her papa was a purpose more than myself and I was okay with that.


So after getting married, my wife and I bought a house at the perfect time, the summer of 2012. Interest rates were at historic lows, the housing market was just coming off the bottom, and we scored a two-story 1500 square foot home with a 1500 square foot yard on a lake for $120K. It's funny, while this house could now fetch nearly $200K, it would go for over a million in the pozziest parts of the country (Silicon Valley). Our lives pushed on in relative peace, and my wife and I took the position that if we were to have a kid, God would make it happen (no birth control). After 2 years, we started to talk about adoption. This is the sad part: adopting non-disabled white children is nearly impossible. The State will practically pay you to adopt non-whites or disabled kids. We couldn't take on a disabled child because of limited resources (mostly time.) Adopting a white baby would take well over $25000 and well over one year to accomplish and even then it wasn't a guarantee.

So this past Mother's Day the wife and I had a discussion, and we concluded that the baby project wasn't panning out. Adoption wasn't viable at the time. Maybe down the road when my student loans were paid off we could do it. So my wife asked if we could trade in her fuel efficient vehicle for a sports car she always wanted. I figured it was no big deal. Car payment went from 200 bucks to 400, and a sports car convertible is nowhere near 40 MPG highway, but at the time it was well within the budget. So off we went to get my wife's dream car and she was quite happy about it.

Two weeks later, I go to look my wife up for a little bit of personal time, and she comments how she is late. This has happened a couple times in the past, with negative test results, so I didn't put any thought into it. She went up into the bathroom, and then called me in.
"Honey, I'm pregnant," she uttered under her breath as she looked me dead in the eyes and handed over the small plastic CVS pregnancy test. I was floored, but then I wanted to be sure. I ran back to the drug store, got another test, and asked her to do it again. A pregnancy test like this has two spots on an indicator. When its negative, only the first spot shows a line. When it's positive, both spots show up. As the test results developed, the second spot lit up first.

"Uh honey, what does that mean?"

"It means not only am I pregnant, I'm really fucking pregnant!" (The first line filled in a moment later.)

I was elated, but then I realized that we just took on a 20 thousand dollar convertible which my wife may not be able to drive soon due to her baby belly. God, once again, shows he has quite the sense of humor.


As an interested third party observer of pregnancy, I cannot for the life of me imagine going through it alone. The idea that a single mom can adequately carry and raise a child is ludicrous. When my wife and I first went to the obstetrician, we asked if he could just do a check to see the baby. During this whole affair, we couldn't see the babies enough. (Any reassurance that they were developmentally on-target gave a temporary reprieve from the myriad dangers and warnings bleated by friends, social media acquaintances, and well-meaning catlady relatives who chose never to have kids but live out their fantasies of being a grandparent through you. At any moment we were in fear of sudden miscarriage [a thing that happened to my wife in the past,] hydrocephaly, cleft palate, fused bones, prenatal cancer, the zika virus, you name it.)

In any event the doctor said he knew how to turn on the ultrasound and turn it off and that was about it. So in he went and lo and behold at just a dozen or so weeks, we saw a little flashing light in a sea of black and gray monochrome, and that was the beating heart of our little kiddo. Being on the outside, you don't see much physical manifestation of your child's development aside from spousal vomiting and discomfort. I fell in love with that little flashing light and couldn't wait to see it again in a few weeks with the proper ultrasound technician.

During which we found out how funny God really wants to be. My stepdaughter (daughter, really, her actual father has seen her maybe 7 weeks in total in the past 6 years despite having the time and resources to see her as much as he wants) laughed during the ultrasound technician appointment that we were having twins and just didn't know it yet. I frowned at the notion as ridiculous as we obviously only saw one flashing light. And then that's when the technician reminded us that the doctor didn't exactly do much probing along the Z axis. Lo and behold, behind the flashing light was another flashing light. Thar be two babies here, cap'n. My jaw unhinged and my wife started crying.

There are no instances of twins in my family. None in my wife's either. Statistically, 2 in 100 pregnancies are fraternal twins. For all the practicing with nothing to show for it, now we had a lot to show for it. And having two babies is a consecutive, not concurrent affair. You need two of everything. Two cribs, two car seats, a stroller for two, twice as many diapers, clothes, wipes, binkies, onesies, you name it. Thank God almighty our families stepped up to help on that side of the equation.

From the father's perspective, a pregnancy is a slow then suddenly advancing assault on your wife's well being. Not to say that pregnancy is by any means unnatural, but the trip from finding out to delivery is a tough row to hoe. With twins, you double down on everything. By week 30 my wife was miserable. She could not sleep through the night. Her joints ached all the time. Her back would spasm. The boys would give her cervix a beating feminists only dream about. She got to a point where she could no longer drive the sports car; it sat so low she couldn't get out on her own, and as her belly approached 55 inches she couldn't fit behind the wheel. My wife worked as long as she could before throwing in the towel and going on bed rest: 33 weeks. She didn't want to do it; the harpies at her office said she wouldn't make it past 25 weeks. Work was a source of pride for her, but when she had to make the decision, it got to the point that she was having a hard time walking. My wife is no small fry, but the added weight was nothing short of miserable. She lost 45 pounds the day of surgery when all was said and done.

I hated to see my wife devolve in this manner. I loved that she was carrying my sons, I hated that she was bedridden and miserable. But every chance I could get I had my hands on her belly, and the boys would kick and roll around. I frequently played classical music on my cell phone with the speaker pointed right over the womb, and the guys would react. Knowing they were just under my wife's skin and muscle, waiting for their time to come out, was total relief. It was always worth it to my wife, no matter how much she suffered. And helping her get up and out of bed, helping her to the bathroom, helping her put on her underwear and socks in the morning because she couldn't reach, all of these things strengthened the spiritual bond we had in ways I never imagined.


My wife and I were very blessed to pick a delivery date and hold to it. Most twins are born premature, gestating on average 35 weeks and spending considerable time in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU). We wanted the babies to come on December 1, a Thursday, allowing for a four day weekend for hospital recovery, but the obstetrician we wanted only did scheduled deliveries on Mondays, so December 5 became the day of reckoning.

Hospitals are amazing places when you're there for a good purpose. Aside from cutting off half of my thumb when I was a toddler, I never had to stay in a hospital. The woman's center welcomed us with fairly cushy digs, and in the lobby I discovered the blasphemous joy of Nescafe lattes. Once we arrived at our appointed time, nurses helped my wife and her 58 inch baby belly get dressed in appropriate hospital attire, and helped her apply cleansing agents to her body to ensure no chance of infection. The next hour was spent trying to find Baby B's heart rate; not that there was a problem, he's just an uncooperative cuss and had no desire to sit still for a heart monitor. Once the boys were green-lighted and my wife was prepared, I had to stuff my self, tennis shoes and all, into that flimsy green paper outfit, and off we went to the surgical suite.

They initially wouldn't let me in. My wife had to have a "block," which terrified her as she is deathly afraid of needles. She begged for them to let me hold her hand and distract her from the spinal injection, but it wasn't to be. I had to sit in a hallway by myself for 20 minutes, waiting for them to call me in for the big moment.

I prayed like a sinner on his death bed. During the pregnancy, people we know lost theirs. My wife and I never thought we would be able to have children. The fact that she got pregnant, much less with twins, was such an against-the-odds event that to this day I consider it yet further proof of God's existence. It felt like forever, but I probably only prayed for 5-6 minutes. Having promised God all but the Brooklyn Bridge, I was left with silence, save my pounding heart. I pulled out my cellphone and put on my New Vegas playlist. Ain't that a kick in the head.

After Tony Marcus ended his Lone Star serenade, a man came in and said "Are you ready, Dad?" Nobody has ever asked me anything of that importance before. "Please rise for the verdict" is a pittance in comparison to that feeling. I was about to walk into a room and have my entire life thrown on its ear.

I've been to every major league sporting event there is. NHL, MLB, NBA, NFL, all under the most brilliant illumination. And I thought I've seen every shade of white before. The surgical room was unnaturally white. Every surface seemed to possess an interstellar luminosity, recursively reflecting off each other in a blinding flash. It jars you. Your eyes cannot adjust fast enough, and when you regain focus, your wife is splayed open on a table, her innards hanging out of her midsection covered by a green gauze restricting your view of the gore. I remained seated at her side clasping those hands as so many times before while tears streamed down her face, numb from the neck down, waiting for our sons to come out into a beautiful, horrifying existence where Trump is the president-elect and a great many people on Earth would rather them be vivisected into a medical wastebasket by a Jewish abortionist.

Modern medicine is simply put jaw-dropping. Technology like this only exists vis-a-vis the white man and his civilization. Within a few minutes of holding my wife's hands and wiping the tears of pain and joy from her eyes, a nurse loudly calls out the time "12:08!" and suddenly up over the precipice of the surgical draping comes BABY A, mewling his disgust at being forcibly evicted from his /comfy/ fetal environment and thrust out into a cold, bright, sterile surgical planet where Donald Trump is president and I am evil for not wanting people who look like me bred out of existence.

You will never in your entire life experience a sensation as singularly awe-inspiring as looking into the eyes of your newborn child.

It was all I could do to hold back tears of joy. A newborn child is covered in an ashy white substance. It's skin has splotches of red and shades of purple, a slight tinge of blood from the uterine sac in which it once lived. The child cannot open its eyes and screams to the high heavens, it is a wet, dirty, loud thing and it is the most beautiful sight in all of God's creation.

And then I got to experience it again 3 minutes later at 12:11pm.

A screaming newborn is one of the most heartwarming sounds you can hear. It tells you that your baby was born healthy and alive, and those lungs were working very hard that day. A little too hard.


NICU lay just down the hall across the MBU (mother-baby unit). As I proudly led the Y-chromosome train back to the MBU suite, pushing the medical cart holding my boys in a bassinet, one of them was making little cute noises as he breathed. I didn't think much of it, the soft "Aaaa's" just being part and parcel of adorable infancy. After my wife was rolled in and helped into her bed to begin the recovery process, the on-call pediatrician came in to examine the boys. He was a little concerned about the Aaaa's. He called it "grunting."

Twins never go full term (40 weeks.) All along, the obstetrician said if we made it to 36 weeks we were champions in his book. The boys were born at 37 weeks 4 days. Still, this is technically premature. Most twins don't go past 32 weeks, and they have to spend time at the hospital finishing the development they would normally get as a singleton in their mother's womb. The larger of the two babies was born 7 pounds 7 ounces, and the smaller was 6 pounds 9 ounces. These are not small by any standards, and for twins they were giants. Still, their lungs had fluid in them. Combine their slight underdevelopment with the fact that birth was non-vaginal, there was a lot of squeezing they missed out on. As the doctor's explained, the babies are like wet sponges, and when they are pushed out, the fluid in the lungs is expelled, which is why they aspirate babies immediately upon birth. None of this mattered to me though. As they wheeled my two newborn sons off to the dreaded NICU, my wife ordered me to follow and not to leave until answers were had.

I frequently have to tell clients who have never been to court not to get upset and overwhelmed at the whole thing. Going to court is like taking a dump, a familiar, instinctual thing complete with shitty smells. I can't get some clients to avoid being terrified at the prospect, though. Well, here the roles were reversed. I was the one shaking in my size 13's. It was unfamiliar and frightening. My sons were deficient somehow. They had to be in "intensive care." I held my own in the room, alone with the boys, for only a few minutes. When my Aunt came in, I broke down in tears, crying into her shoulder. I shed 4-5 tears when I found out my wife was pregnant. Prior to that, I shed a tear at our wedding. Prior to that, I hadn't cried for years save for the occasion of my mother's death in 2003.

But at that moment on December 5, 2016, I was a bawling fool. The emotion of it all, the unnecessary fear, seeing tubes going into hands and mouths to help the babies breathe while keeping them fed and hydrated, resting atop warmers like wrapped burgers at a fast food joint. I needed to cry. Sometimes a man is entitled to it, and I think this is a qualifying instance. After a couple minutes I regained composure and set in for what turned out to be two nights in the NICU.

In the end, it was all in the margin of error. This NICU stay was entirely expected, and as the pediatrician told me, the boys would have fully functioning lungs in a matter of a few days. I felt somewhat ashamed at my emotional display. Elsewhere in the NICU, there were babies in far worse a situation than mine. I didn't know the specifics, but looking in on them gave me pause to reflect on the fragility of life.

Our first night together as a family in the hospital was a harbinger of what was to come once we got home. There's plenty of time to sleep when you're dead, or so they say. Newborns don't know anything when they come out. See, I cut off their food supply when I severed their umbilical cords. They don't know about milk and nipples and how to eat. They have to learn. They also don't know about sleeping 8 hours a night. They have to learn that too. And the former comes a lot sooner than the latter.

Sleep has become our most treasured commodity. At best, the boys sleep in 2-3 hour blocks. Beginning that night, as we desperately tried to get the boys to nurse past the colostrum in my wife's bosom, I have averaged about 5 hours of sleep a night, in 1-3 hour blocks. I was nearly killed in a car accident last week when I caught myself about to doze off in traffic just in time to slam on the Camaro's brakes, somehow missing the stopped car in front of me by what must have been centimeters. You have to come up with a strategy on how to get babies to sleep. Here's a tip: only feed them formula at night when you want to get that first block of sleep. Babies eat a lot. Every 3 hours they're starving to death and usually soaked in their own piss and shit. They immediately let you know that the situation needs remedy, and that notice normally comes several times a night.

My wife breastfeeds and bottle-feeds as much as she can. Breast milk is perfect because 1. It's free, and 2. It's packed with nutrients and antibodies and everything a baby needs. However, with two, you never really develop the stockpile you want, and if my wife doesn't pump every 3-4 hours her chest is sore and painful. Still, the breast milk doesn't cause the gas as much as formula, and it's lightweight. It looks mostly like 1% or skim milk you might see at the grocery store. Formula, however, looks more like thick whipping cream. So the strategy comes with giving them a good dose of the heavy stuff late at night so it weighs in their bellies like lead, and keeps them down a good length of time. My wife came up with the idea (I'm sure she isn't the first) and damn if it doesn't work well; I got all 5.5 hours last night in one block from 12am to 5:30am.

And you combine this constant need to change diapers and feed and burp and put back to sleep with my wife's healing. The surgical wound needs cleaning, and due to the surgery she is essentially having a 3 week period at this point from the internal healing and readjustment. It's a team effort. You cannot be shy about any of this. You have to learn to change a diaper in 45 seconds. You have to watch out and not get fire-hosed by your newborn son. Your wife is going to turn super bitchy when you hold the baby slightly wrong. You will not get sleep. You will beg for sleep and it will avoid you. You won't have time for golf or vidya or anything because when you're not busy feeding or changing the baby, you will be trying to catch up laundry or housecleaning or making sure the bills are paid. You will catch yourself napping at 6pm when you get home from work, and then dealing with the baby situation until almost midnight. Your entire metabolism will change. You will lose your appetite and drop a drastic amount of weight. I have lost nearly 20 pounds in less than 3 weeks since the surgery. Food doesn't interest me nearly as much as it did, and I am more obsessed than ever in making sure my men are coming along as they should. It's a parental instinct kicking in. An internal voice that makes you want to protect your children and your family and make sure they have what they need. My Christmas will consist of packs of underwear and socks and some new shoes from wal mart. My boys will have a closet full of every stitch of clothing they will need for the next 9 months. Their nursery is filled with thousands of diapers of every size. I may not get to play a full round of golf for months. I will do with less to make sure my wife is comfortable and my kids are clothed, fed, and happy, and now, more than ever, my life is fulfilled. I have more purpose than ever, and by making sure these guys grow up to be proper white men, I am doing my part in ensuring a future for all whites, whether Trump is president or not.

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Professor Emeritus of law and shitposting
Soon to be dadville