A writer at the leftist clickbait site Salon writes about the violent fantasies that both consume him and drive him deeper int self-loathing. (Safe link to Twitchy.)
At work, I’ve spaced out for 20 minutes at a time during meetings, daydreaming about committing violence, always righteously, in overly dramatic, obnoxiously heroic ways, with a very troubling overtone of white saviorism. In addition to saving the girls from a male predator with my brute strength and righteous rage, I’ve had another recurring fantasy of saving the passengers on a plane hijacked by “911-esque” terrorists. I tackle an armed hijacker, turn his gun on him, immediately inspire the other passengers to team up to distract the terrorists, and then deftly fire bullets into all three terrorists’ heads. Dark blood drips down their noses from the wounds on their foreheads. If the meeting is particularly boring, I’ll concoct permutations, new endings. Because it just feels so damn good. Like the dopamine rush of a sex fantasy.
He is coping with this by attending meetings of other white beta males who reinforce each others guilt and self-loathing, but it isn’t helping.
I sporadically attend an anti-racist/anti-sexist white male group (yep, those exist). I came into this week’s meeting, brooding. Emotional tumult, eyes boring into the ground, irked by the benign tone of the conversation. It’s time for my check-in. My heart pounds and I think I might cry.
Someone get him a tissue.