The other day I did a column for Taki`s Magazine about taking apart the Derb family shotgun. Not long previously I had done a different column on end-of-life decisions for helpless old people, in which I`d declared my intention to quit before I get fired:
I have a good selection of guns and have made up my mind that if it comes to diapers, I shall see myself out with a gun. I will not wear diapers—that’s the end point for me, the milestone I am determined not to pass.
I absolutely am not. The family shotgun worked perfectly well. If planning to use it mischievously, why would I disassemble it, with a starting-estimate probability of no more than seventy percent I`d be able to put it back together correctly? (It`s still in pieces, and the current estimate is down to about thirty percent.)
It is true that, being irreligious, I don`t believe there is any large point to human life, nor anything following it. It is also true that I am afflicted with the rather melancholy temperament all too common among the English.
On the other side of the scales, I am very well-socialized, with a strong sense of duty, honor, and responsibility. I adore my family and would not knowingly bring any distress upon them short of the diaper scenario, at which point it`s a matter of weighing different distresses. I am also cheap, and experience pain when I think of all those life insurance premiums going up in smoke, which they would ? my policy does not pay out on suicide.
And then: Why give satisfaction to one`s enemies?
So please set your minds at rest. I hope to continue making myself useful to the immigration-patriot and race-realist movements, and to continue making leftists squeal with indignation, into the indefinite future.
(And if anyone wants my thoughts on suicide in general, I once did a column on the subject. At this point, I have done a column on pretty much everything.)