What Pete Buttigieg is doing is not real life. It is what I call "drag domesticity" — a crude joke that doesn't land the same during daylight hours when everyone is sober. No one with an IQ over 50 could mistake it for the real thing. But that doesn't stop contestants from playing until they're ready to make the final, soul-crushing commitment to hopelessness and go through the motions of raising a child. That's when the despair really kicks in.
Homosexuality begins not only because a young boy is molested but because he feels pressure to lie about it. This is when a "false self" emerges. False selves are curtains drawn by a frightened child; they metastasize into shields that rebuff criticism and excuse bad behavior. Reforging these fragments into a cohesive personality takes a lot of painful introspection and a radical commitment to truth. But it's worth it. Buttigieg will never know the wave of relief that comes when you emancipate yourself from all that futile pretending and enjoy total manumission from all the tawdry fibs.
Drag domesticity isn't just telling a lie — it's living a whole ecosystem of untruths. It's the kind of elaborate, lifelong deception that requires you to construct multiple bogus new versions of yourself. Performing complex, interrelated lies, in perpetuity and at scale, isn't sustainable forever. But conjuring fictitious realities and then brazenly inhabiting them is the calling card and eternal yoke of the homosexual, whose disorder arises symbiotically with a defensive arsenal of false selves and fake personalities. Frantic, empty pageantry is the essence of homosexuality, which is how you know America, the country, is same-sex attracted.
The adoption of a child is drag domesticity's crowning achievement and highest honor — a sign of its victory over the sinner. It is a purity test from Hell, a trophy that is really a torment, reserved for the actors most committed to their fake lives — for the inconsolable and the unreachable. A gay man is never the same after adopting a child — after performing this outward sign of inward desolation. It's becoming hard not to notice how miserable gay people look these days. No wonder. Just look at them.
So as not to appear threatening, Shady Acres gays dress and behave as though asexual or neutered, especially once they have acquired a child. They aren't functioning homosexuals anymore, but they aren't straight either. To all intents and purposes, they have been turned into lesbians: sexless, cross-stitching foster-care fatties in polyester-blend cardigans and sensible shoes. For a while, the Herculean effort required to blend in even might even feel worth it. For a moment, Shady Acres gays might even forget they are damned.
But I think they know, deep down, that the simulacrum will kill them. I think they are miserable behind the tight smiles and sweater vests. I think having to buy a baby humiliates them in ways they can't articulate. And I think each of them is silently screaming to get out, dreaming of escape from their McMansion of denial, right up to the day they throw in the towel, abandon all hope, wearily give their heart over to the fantasy and start Googling adoption agencies.
It has become undeniable that woke America's thoughtless, sadistic outpouring of acceptance and tolerance for gay people has been ruinous to the community's mental health. The one thing you don't want when you know you're broken is a world uniformly insisting that you're not — that kind of gaslighting will turn a person mad. The truth is, a little homophobia benefits everyone. It's healthy for gays to encounter resistance, and even public shaming. (Some of them even get off on it: They've trained their brains to be titillated by anything forbidden or socially proscribed. But don't let that put you off.)
A big fat lie at the heart of drag domesticity insists that gay people can get married and live next door and be just like everyone else and be healthy and happy and maybe even get a kid and die happily ever after. But it's deranged to suggest anyone could find fulfillment performing such ersatz takes on orthodox domesticity, especially with the genuine article right across the street. No one can ignore forever what these manicured lawns, neat homes, parish newsletters, racquetball clubs and residence associations exist to protect in the first place: the nuclear family. Such an enormous lie is crushing. It will consume anyone who tries to sustain it.
When a gay man is eventually overwhelmed by the weight of the lies and plummets into hopelessness, it is sometimes the first authentic relationship of his life. He doesn't notice how one-sided the partnership is. He accepts despair as his emotional arbiter; he no longer trusts in the transformational power of Jesus Christ. Physical decline follows. I don't just mean he puts on weight, but rather that his spiritual infirmity begins to manifest physically. People who find themselves trapped in despair are no longer entirely at home in the world. They begin to look like what they've done, which is recklessly divorced themselves from the supremely nourishing life-giving power that sustains the universe.
Lately, when Pete Buttigieg speaks, he sounds thinner, meaner, emptier, don't you agree? He hasn't won a big election, which is when Democrats usually do the blood magic rituals that turn them into cold-blooded sociopaths. No, it must be the despair. Despairing men wither until they become ghoulish, haggard and slightly mad — the sort of person who spends a lot of time at bus stops. Someone who feels as though they are nothing will eventually dissolve into nothing. Because Buttigieg has done this awful, incomprehensible thing at such an unusually young age, he has decades of this silent decay ahead. He will endure years of slow desiccation.
In fact, the little mayor with big dreams is already dissolving into a cruel vagueness, a gray, the color of his capitulation. I know that soon, when the erosive effects of fatigue and resignation and untruth have done their work, he will be left a sort of wraith, at once here and not here, a wretched thing whose soul becomes unreachable, even to God. Try six months of changing diapers at 2 a.m., stupid faggot! Men weren't built for that stuff — all the vomit and poop and endless crying. Shrugging off bodily horrors is an exclusively female superpower.
I think a lot about the babies — Penelope Rose and Joseph August. Perfect little beings, with corpses for parents. They will be raised by men who have abandoned their own fates to the vacuum of space, men who shrug off the terrors of the abyss. What a trauma, to be nurtured through adolescence by those who welcome death, to be reared by vampires and spirits. I have wept for those perfect ones and the hardships they don't yet know are coming. Will they know joy? Who will teach them kindness, charity, generosity and grace? Moreover, how will they come to know love? This one weighs on me heaviest, for we learn how to love God when we encounter love in those closest to us.
Would I be oblivious or deeply wounded, raised by mendacious poofters? What effect might there have been on my character, if I'd been acquired so flippantly, a decorative lifestyle choice driven by self-indulgence — by delusion and desperation? What a burden, to be born a bauble. I was a precocious child and can easily imagine the pain of intuiting early, in that wise way children have, that I existed to provide emotional comfort to a weirdo who insisted through tears and in a strained, high-pitched voice that he was my father — even though I knew he wasn't.
Although he may still draw breath and speak and bleed and ache like a human being, when you look into Pete Buttigieg's eyes in the future, should you ever come to be in his presence, perhaps by accident, or because you lost a wager, you will never be able to say for sure whether there is anyone still in there. The effect I'm talking about is present even in photographs: He has a grieving man's empty eyes.
Will it be like the movies, the first day Pete can't sustain corporeal form? Will he freeze in terror as his hand passes straight through a coffee cup, like the lead in a 90s horror film who doesn't know he's dead? How soon until he starts feeling like an impostor in his own body? We must pray that Almighty God puts an end to it before Pete fully transitions from person to phantom. (If you don't know what a phantom is, imagine Lori Lightfoot if she could walk through walls.)
On a clear, bright afternoon, it may already be possible to see Pete's purchase on reality loosening, his flesh a casualty of perjury — only for a moment, and only when he stands in front of the sun. And subtle, so you don't notice it unless you're tuned in to the right spiritual frequency. Just a hint of too much light getting through. A translucence. If you look closely enough, you will see it too. You will see him fading away.
Mr. Yiannopoulos welcomes correspondence from readers. He can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org.