Not our president

10 years ago Donald Trump said he could grab women by the pussy. He said that when you’re rich and famous, women will let you walk right up and kiss them. America’s delicate sensibility was irreversibly traumatized.

America elected and then reelected a serial sexual predator, a man caught lying about getting his dick sucked by an intern while he was in office.

American movies and music are brimming with sexually explicit scenes, images, sounds and references. If you suggest that this is toxic and corrosive, you’re dismissed as a prude, if not a tyrant imposing his morality on others.

Comedians, male and female alike, rise to fame on the strength of jokes about masturbating. Every other ‘funny’ thing someone says on tv is about a dick, pussy, or fucking.

Pornography floods almost every home in America. People check out of their lives and jack off to degrading, contrived behavior filmed by opportunistic reprobates. Teenage girls shave their pussies and boys think that a fitting end to a selfish, one sided sex act is spewing semen on a girl’s face.

I’m not even trying to come up with examples. I’m not reading deeply into the fabric of the country’s moral fiber. This is all obvious, open, admitted, taken for granted.

It’s amusing how we immediately adopt a regressive, victorian attitude towards women, like they’re defenseless, innocent creatures. Like women don’t disgusting things about men when talking amongst themselves. I goddamn guarantee you plenty of women have said things like, “you can just grab them by the dick” in crass good humor.

It’s always about what men do to women. Men are always responsible. What’s glossed over is the role of female choice. No one talks about the fact that women like it when powerful men are sexually bold and aggressive. Trump can act on his impulses in the company of beautiful women because this is what beautiful women prefer.

Ugly, barren, portly, sexually confused women with various eating disorders and mental problems don’t like it when powerful, rich men give beautiful young women what they want. Weak, effeminate, struggling, socially inadequate men don’t like it either. It’s too natural and healthy for their perverse, botched constitutions.

I’m reaching my main point here. For women, words and actions are always secondary to identity. Who you are determines what you are allowed to do. If you’re on the right team, all is permitted, all can be justified.

Women don’t like sexually aggressive men, unless they’re handsome, rich, or famous. The public is morally outraged when a successful man talks about his sex life in private. The same public cheers and celebrates a dumpy, dour feminist when she talks about her exploits.

You give women the vote, you take them too seriously and everything turns into a matter of identity. It’s okay to be a racist, sexist piece of trash if you’re a member of the protected minority class.

Otherwise, nothing you do is acceptable. They will find some way to make what you do “problematic”. There is no morality or consistency, only the most convenient tool at the time for bashing the enemy.

Small talk

How was your day?

It brought me a little closer to death, was made of moments I’ve already forgotten.

Why do you live like this?

Every day is a segue way one nothing to another. My awareness is a hiccup, a burp, a bit of air passing through an obstructed tube.

Why choose life over death?

Hope and fear bundled together keep a dwindling flame alive. I’ve hacked away at my capacity to care, and I’ve failed to kill it. Something in me wants life, the ongoing, the eternal. A little fleck of forever stuck in the center of disintegration.

Life is what you make of it

True, even as we are what life makes of us. We are worked on and worked over by unseen hands, airbrushed into existence. Shaped clay in an abandoned potter’s home.

A modern person thinks of tragedy as something bad that happens, often to large groups of people all at once. But tragedy is more subtle than that. Tragedy is the structure of human life. It’s the knowledge of death. It’s the fatal recognition of the self as mortal.

Useless knowledge of the end, of the end which can’t be avoided.

But you like thinking about this;  You enjoy contemplating your own disappearance

You’re probably right. I can always steal a little pleasure from a bleak meditation. A grim, comic spirit keeps me animated.

There is something seductive about the idea of disappearance. Funerals, commemorations, preservation, all unsettle me. Please don’t gather around my husk and cry for hours. I want to slip away without anyone even realizing I’ve left. Keep the party going and don’t worry about where I’ve gone. Don’t miss me; there’s plenty of beer and you’ll be leaving soon, too.