Dangerous by Milo Yiannopoulos
SO, ABOUT THAT
WHOLE DRAMA…
You didn’t really think I was going anywhere, did you? I am far too hot, popular, and quick-witted to be disappeared by outraged op-eds appearing in every major news publication in the world. Darlings, it’s Milo we’re talking about. I don’t count media coverage by the inches, I measure it with a wooden yardstick. The only thing that can stop me is a well-placed mirror. Social justice warriors, the conservative establishment, and mainstream media have thrown every label in the book at me: sexist, misogynist, self-hating homophobe, self-hating anti-Semite, Islamophobe, transphobe, racist, fascist, “alt-right,” white supremacist, Nazi, and, finally, “pedophile advocate.” The only thing left is to accuse me of torturing kittens. So, preemptively: I do not torture small animals. I kill them quickly.
It was never my intention to begin my first book by discussing the differences between pedophilia and hebephilia, and how those words relate to my own childhood. And yet, as Father Mike always said, “God won’t put anything in front of you that you can’t take.”
Let me make it abundantly clear: no matter what your news sources have told you, I do not condone, in any way, pedophilia or hebephilia. I believe you know this, otherwise you wouldn’t have bought my book, and for that, I thank you. Sincerely. These have been trying times and I have been tested. There were a few days when I almost gave up on my mission. But thousands of fans reached out, my friends and family had my back, and the people of this world I respect the most kept taking my calls. I couldn’t let you all down.
My enemies thought I had been vanquished, that I would go into hiding in the hills of Dartmoor with my dick between my legs like some weak ass pussy faggot. They couldn’t be more wrong. All they’ve done is piss me off.
As for the infamous podcast, the one which lost me three jobs, effectively putting a dent in the percentage of employed black men vs white, I will openly admit that I was inarticulate and imprecise with my language. My ego is massive but I am not so far gone that I can’t admit when I’ve said something stupid. I make my living by speaking openly, bluntly, and often. I do not plan out or memorize arguments before appearing on a show, because I think that’s boring. I said that a grown man having sex with a thirteen-year-old is not pedophilia. This is a factual statement. Pedophilia is an attraction to children who have not gone through puberty. The men I had sex with when I was thirteen were not pedophiles, at least, not with me. They were hebephiles. It’s a silly semantic to discuss, and not one I would generally harp on, except when I’m speaking on a podcast at 2 AM, when a nuanced semantic point is all you need.
After the podcast was “leaked” to the media, I was disinvited by the octogenarians at CPAC and the utter pussies at Simon & Schuster canceled my book deal. I then resigned from Breitbart during a press conference, during which I stated I myself was a victim of sexual abuse, and therefore mistakenly thought it was okay to discuss these issues any way I wanted to. My critics loved it. Huffington Post even had some unpaid hack gloat about it. I, who have made a living bringing reality to victim culture, calling myself a victim, was too rich for them.
The truth, which they are too simple to understand, is that I never saw myself as a victim. I didn’t do anything I didn’t want to do. I was thirteen and the internet was a new thing. There weren’t other out gay kids in school like there are now, my limp wristed routine was the only show in town. I had few options and a high sex drive. If my abusers had been women, I’d be getting high fives all around, not having to start my first book like this.
Looking back now, I can of course see that what happened to me wasn’t right, even if I was literally asking for it. I was a victim of sexual abuse. However, I want to make this perfectly clear. The whole thing takes up less space in my head than the time David Bowie called me out on a shitty Louis Vuitton knockoff. I responded by throwing up in his sink, but I’ve never bought a knockoff bag again. Having sex with a priest when I was thirteen didn’t stop me from having and enjoying sex for the rest of my life.
The only way I can truly be a victim is to wallow in what happened and let it define me. If you’re reading this, and you have been abused, and you are wallowing, I will give you the most important piece of advice I have: get over it. Move on. Even though it seems like victim status is the best way to earn a living right now (hi Shaun King how’s Twitter been), I assure you, it’s not. You are far too fabulous and smart for all that. It’s easier said than done, I know, but that’s my advice. Get the fuck over it. No matter how bad your experiences, victimhood and self-pity are for the people who won’t buy this book. It is their prison. We must challenge the forces of oppression in society, and we can’t do so from a therapy session.
Sometimes tragedy can produce greatness. It can make you stronger. Madonna got raped in New York and made Erotica, and she never griped about being a victim until the 2010s, when it became in vogue. Tori Amos made a whole career out of being raped, and I should know, I’ve plagiarized freely from her in this book. Getting over it doesn’t mean forgetting it ever happened. It means not being stuck in place by it.
That’s not to say I never did any wallowing. My twenties were spent partying, drinking and fucking my way through Western Europe. During this time, I developed my love for all things anti-establishment. Lenny Bruce, Bret Easton Ellis, Marilyn Manson: these were my heroes. If you told me not to swallow a pill I’d mash it up and snort it. If you told me not to have sex with your boyfriend I’d sleep with your brother and send you a recording.
And then one day, while attending Manchester, I was told I could not read Atlas Shrugged. I thought, this is poppycock, fuck anyone who tells me what I can and cannot read. I finished it three days later. Everything became clear to me then: my need to rebel against the establishment hadn’t changed, but the establishment itself had morphed, right before my eyes. If Capitalists are to be hated then I will champion their causes. If being anti-drug is the new anti-culture, I’ll never smoke or snort anything ever again. And if everyone else is kissing Amy Schumer’s lazy, untalented ass, I’ll write an article called “Feminism is Cancer.”