Whenever I feel down, I just imagine myself standing near my local river. Looking upon the water, reminding me of my homeland and patron deity (Mars) as I turn around and walk around the plains. With every step I take, an wh*te skull cracks and shatters underneath my steel-clad MED feet.
I look upon the trees and savor the wh*te corpses hanging from them. Every single square meter has an wh*te dog executed one way or another. Whether they've been strung to branches or their heads impaled on spears. I salute my MED brothers, their healthy tanned, muscular bodies, adorned with trophies, decapitated heads of wh*tes who resisted the conquest.
With every passing moment, I savor the cries of the last wh*te women as they are COLONIZED, as they watch their children and husbands murdered. I smile as the last keeb crawls away from me, stuttering incomprehensible garbage with his rotten snownigger tongue. I imagine myself grinning as I obliterate his skull with a single punch from my MED hand. I open my eyes, and my day has been restored. Even if I won't experience this, my Med children, my Med brothers will.