Even when it’s gone, you don’t know what you had

Working nights now in a michelin rated restaurant. I thought michelin was a tire company but they also give out stars for fancy food. This place just won an award for best restaurant in DC. You pay 250 dollars to experience a tasting menu, and I’m such a low class rube I still don’t know what that means.

But I make the coffee for the end of the meal. I stand in the front in a vest and greet people and take their coats. It’s different from anything else I’ve done. I have to carry the drinks out to the tables. Memorize a complicated seating chart. Steel my nerves so I don’t spill a drop or set a plate or cup down awkwardly. Must be elegant and swift at all times. No noise or ill timed movements. No specks of coffee grounds or dirt or dust. Spoons always pointing in the right direction.

Serve women first, always on the left. In the world of fine dining women receive preferential treatment. This is different from nothing nowhere because women in every segment of society are pampered, protected, and propped up like helpless retards. It doesn’t bother me. Men are mostly redundant and we all know it. Men are drones programmed to kill each other over resources.

I work until after midnight and then open the other shop the next morning. Not sleeping isn’t so bad. In a better world I’d be sleeping 12 hours a night on luxurious down, waking up to slow, sultry blowjobs from a harem of 18 year old girls. In glorious reality I sleep 4 hours on a folded up ikea futon and walk a mile to work.

I work just enough in this cutthroat, meat grinder of a city to afford an occasional korean taco meal. When you combine the hard labor of mexicans with the anti social wizardry of koreans you get tasty tacos. Every three weeks or so I recommit myself to buying groceries and working out. I make two meals and hit the gym twice and then I’m back to eating a burrito a day and snagging leftover pastries from work. Good habits can’t be maintained here.

It’s the loneliness and stress of working constantly to avoid getting swept away by a tsunami of debt and expense. I had to ask my parents for money again and also my dad has prostate cancer. Sorry to hear about your cancer dad but I’m still an idiot. In the last ten years I’ve built myself into nothing.

Maybe I should move home. I want to be with my family but there’s no work in southern indiana. And good americans work themselves numb hundreds of miles away from their dying families. See you at thanksgiving and christmas, where we fail to relate to each other when it should be the easiest and most natural thing in the world. Count down to the moment we can break away from the tedium of human physical presence and go back to insulting people on the internet.

They caught the cancer early. They’ll take out his prostate and most likely everything will be fine. I’m sure it’s no fun having your prostate yanked out through your asshole but it beats getting eaten alive from the inside out. This is the fate that awaits us all. You grow old and worry about the ticking time bomb in your ass. You shrink and your skin sags, your dick wilts and your nut sack drags the ground.

Brittle bones and dementia. Marinading in the tepid milkwater of faded memories. Your grown children call for money but otherwise never visit or do anything for you. The nuclear family has undergone a radioactive meltdown and we’re living in the post apocalyptic fallout. Mutant sewer rat people scurry across the blighted landscape, foraging for scraps of food and sex.

Extended family networks are relics. We all vote for people that promise to take things from strangers and give it to our solitary selves. Who needs blood relatives when you can get lost in Kafka’s castle? I wish the prospect of death and collapse gave life more meaning and urgency, but we’re entombed in narcissistic reflection and electronic stimulation.

I’m going to stick it out in DC until my lease is up in August, and then I might move back home. It depends on how things go with my dad. Meanwhile I’ll be deliriously working and trying to forget about death and the lunacy overtaking the world.

The carnival continues

I was going to write on politics but what else is there to say? Leftists are lunatics who hate America. Conservatives are racists and hate gays and women. Everyone hates everyone with a blinding passion. Nuclear grade rage and resentment blight the land. Waves of acid and bile melt flesh and bleach bone. Estrogenic males take breaks from crying and shitting their pants to celebrate violence carried out by someone else. If you don’t like what someone says just punch them in the face when they’re not looking.

It’s not enough to fire someone. It’s not enough to ruin their livelihood or slander their name or make baseless accusations against them. Calling someone a nazi just isn’t thrilling enough. Like all addictions, you have to increase the dose. We’re strung out on outrage and desperate for a bigger hit.

Modern life is so disorienting and numbing that people only come alive in extremity. There is no middle range of thoughts or feelings anymore. Either we’re catatonically disconnected and passive or we’re hysterical, crying and snotting and screaming. Blubbering and wailing and reciting soul scorchingly embarrassing poems about menstrual blood.

Hordes of misfits, genetic outcasts and frankesteinian failures waddling and lumbering on the capital. Septic cunts seeping and weeping in the streets. The future is female. As if female nature weren’t under constant assault by these freaks. The future they want is protozoan. Single celled solipsistic self reproduction. Blobs of goo secreting themselves asexually in a fetid petri dish.

People are corpses without constant shocking and prodding. Social media is the defibrillator of the dying heart of actual society. Our shared being is dead but we keep jolting it back to life for one more skeletal shakedown. Physical space has disappeared, time is shrunken, desiccated, a flavorless raisin. All that’s left is the magnetic, hypnotic pulse of the binary. On or off, crying fit or coma. Boiling anger or autistic withdrawal. Nothing in between agreeing with me and being a fascist.

There is no average. No health. Appropriate or measured words aren’t even a concept anymore. A piddling comment is EVERYTHING. Someone pinches off an unfunny quip and OMG I’M DEAD. Jon Oliver just DESTROYED Trump and it was EVERYTHING. Did you hear? Samantha Bee murdered Trump’s entire family with a rusty sickle and burned his mansion down and salted the soil so that nothing will ever again grow on such cursed land. Really? Jesus. What happened? Sorry, I should clarify. By that I mean Bee said some mean stuff. 

Words hurt more than physical violence. That’s why it’s okay to crush someone’s skull with a stone if they say something hurtful. If there’s no god and the desolate heavens chime the vanity of existence then why not act like a flea ridden ape?

Everything is oppressive. Threatening. Terrifying. Even straight white men want in on the action. We’re oppressed too, here’s how. No one can just have power. They must criticize and renounce everything that makes their life enjoyable or comfortable. One person’s pleasure or wealth is another person’s pain and privation. How dare you have something I don’t. Justice is giving up what you have so I can watch you suffer.

If I’m a straight white man and I have so much power, why are people always telling me that I’m in the wrong and that I’m the problem with the world? I should be able to tell everyone to go fuck themselves with no consequence whatsoever. If I’m in power then why should I even listen to the mud people and the sickly perverts? If this is power, you can have it.

I want to see the mass of dysgenic and dysphoric shit sacks take the helm of this ship. Let’s see what they do with it. They have such a solid handle on reality I’m sure life will just get better for everyone.

We need to get out of each other’s faces online and get back to repairing the frayed bonds of family. Rediscover our connection to our brothers and sisters and forget about the refugees for a second. No one cares about refugees. They care about their image and identity as good humanitarians. Anyone who fights with or abandons their family is in no place to lecture other people on hospitality.

I don’t trust these slick talking types

Currently reading Paul Johnson’s Intellectuals. I’m just now getting around to reading about how Rousseau was a turd because I used to just read Rousseau. I used to assiduously read Marx and contort my brain trying to make sense of Capital. Now I read about how Marx was a filthy, layabout Jew who mooched, philandered, and wrote mountains of delusional, destructively influential drivel.

What I read now is much more fun than what I used to read. Also, I don’t read nearly as much. Looking back I can see that much of what I read was pure gristle. Compulsive reading out of insecurity and desire for distinction.

Maybe at heart I’m a redneck jock asshole, but straining to understand obscure philosophers made my head hurt and my soul weary. At this point in my life I’m not sure if I’ll ever get all the way through a huge philosophical tome again. My attention span is now nonexistent, so I’ll probably just continue reading facebook posts and suppressing my rage.

When I thought I was smart I used to scoff at people who read biographies. I thought that taking an interest in the life of a person was lowbrow and tawdry. Furthermore, I thought that judging a man’s work in the light of his life and character was cretinous moralizing. Brilliance was all that mattered. As long as it was left leaning, of course.

Try hard halfwits like to obliquely congratulate themselves by saying things like great minds discuss ideas, average minds discuss events, and small minds discuss people. First of all, is that a statement about people? If so, only a small minded person would say such a thing. Secondly, people are fucking interesting, inspiring and revolting. Who doesn’t take an interest in people? Who doesn’t want to discuss what other people do?

Only stunted doofuses and callow youths pretend to care solely about ideas. There might be a few rare geniuses so absorbed in their theories and abstractions that they don’t notice the world and other people, but for the most part it’s a contrived, contemptuous attitude.

There’s nothing wrong with having an average intelligence. There’s nothing wrong with reading and thinking about other people. And it’s normal and natural that people talk about other people when they get together and talk.

Sure, sitting around and reading nothing but people magazine isn’t conducive to a flourishing inner life. But we can stop pretending that a man’s work has no connection to his life. We can admit that what a person says and thinks might stand or fall in relation to how he lives. And finally, sometimes it’s just a fucking good ass time to talk some old fashioned trash about people for no goddamn reason at all.

Intellectuals fill the vacuum of authority left by the withdrawal of religion in public life. People need direction and guidance. To put it as bluntly as possible, they need to be told what to do. Even if the message is do whatever you want, think for yourself, no one pretends to live that way until a charismatic and forceful intellect says it’s okay.

So it’s only natural to wonder how a person lives when they make their living telling other people how to live. If they derive their authority from their own life and mind and nothing higher, what other standard do we have?

And if it turns out that people who think they can identify and fix the problems of the world are corrupt egomaniacs who wreck their own lives and mistreat or abandon their loved ones, shouldn’t we reconsider the purity and goodness of their thoughts? Shouldn’t we be wary of their intentions to enlighten and assist people they don’t even know?

Here comes the parade

Now that the inauguration and protests are over, we can all return to our meaningless, mechanically repetitive lives. It was fun while it lasted. I know it was a good time for anarchists and antifascists. Those maladjusted dorks live for evanescent moments of senseless rioting and property destruction. Now that it’s over they have to return to their tents or highway underpasses or dumpsters or whatever shanty style home they’re currently befouling.

A legion of micropenises descended upon DC to battle the vile menace of resurrected Hitler. Courageous, anonymous, masked, spindle armed tranny porn masturbators fought bravely against trashcans and storefront windows. They smashed the windows of a limo because limo drivers are fascist plutocrats plotting to gas gays, gypsies and jews.

The targets were symbolic, the anarchists will tell you. Starbucks is a symbol of global capitalism, the hegemonic hate machine that churns people into paste for obscene, hoarded profits. And limos are symbols of the opulent and arrogant upper classes who cruelly flaunt their unearned privileges in the faces of the suffering poor.

Anarchists fight symbols because they are feckless losers with no power. Anything can be twisted into a “symbol” for these asthmatic, manic depressive goons. Their theorizing about capitalism and struckshures is autistic ranting, robotic repetition of inhuman, ugly jargon. Leftists and their ilk are typically the least charismatic and likeable people by default, so they retreat to a world of symbols and theories were they can console themselves for being social disasters.

Limo drivers and starbucks baristas make about 30,000 dollars a year. If anyone was affected by the symbolic attacks, it was people who wear hats and aprons on the job. Once again, protests did nothing to stop the powerful while harming the lives of average people.

Take that, symbols of capitalism, even though I thought the protests were about Donald Trump. Another characteristic of dipshit leftist protests is that they have no real focus and splinter into a million different pet causes and hobby grievances. Down with Trump. Fuck Capitalism. Fuck Corporations. White men, cis men, patriarchy. No blood for oil. Military Industrial complex. Slut pride, poor pride, gay pride, aids pride. Down with hate. 

By the way, has anyone ever been intimidated by an anarchist or antifacist? They all look like weak, malnourished, bullied gaylords and have the voices to match. They wear cumrag bandanas over their faces because showing your face to your enemy is something an actual man would do. With voices cracking and undescended testicles rattling, hormonal sideshow circus freaks squared off against symbols and inanimate objects while avoiding real confrontation and conflict.

One disorderly proletardian unleashed his inner spaz monkey and sucker punched Richard Spencer on camera during an interview. Richard Spencer is a no name white nationalist who got a little lift in notoriety from an Atlantic article in late November. He’s a total patsy and cheap foil. Perfect fodder for concentrated nerdrage.

I watched the video and what’s funny is that the antifacist couldn’t knock Spencer down with a full running start and the element of surprise. Richard Spencer is talking to a man with a camera. The attacker runs and leaps into the punch and Spencer is barely knocked back and remains on his feet.

When these festering little pussies work up the shattered nerve to fight, they hit with the force of a 7 year old girl. It’s no wonder their preferred mode of engagement is tossing bricks through windows and running away.

They celebrated their victory over decency, masculinity, and honor on facebook. It was a just act because Richard Spencer is a nazi and their grandfathers fought and killed nazis. In the delusional mind of an antifacist, there is a direct line of descent from men storming the beaches at normandy to sucker punching someone and laughing on the internet.

And then saturday rolled around and the pussy party kicked off. Like most women’s empowerment or liberation events, it wasn’t violent or threatening or dangerous, just embarrassing.

Women, who constantly remind men and the rest of society that they are more than their vaginas, made constant, crass reference to their vaginas. Behaving with dignity and femininity clearly isn’t an option. The whole “they go low, we go high” invocation is about as far from reality as you can get with these people. They don’t have to go low. They’re already there, perpetually.

It’s always about pussies and being a slut and fucking and nudity and menstrual blood and shit and piss with these sick weirdos. I frequently mention poop and rape because it’s good for cheap laughs and I know I’m a degenerate. I’m not building a movement or resisting power or pretending to be a principled person.

But I’m starting to think and feel differently. I’m too close to these people in lifestyle. I can mock their antics and beliefs all I want, but what about my own behavior? I know that I’d never sucker punch someone, so that’s a start.

Obsessing over sex and excrement is a spiritual dead end. I want a fulfilling life of purpose, beauty, and dignity. I want a healthy life shared with people I love. Watching hordes of malcontents and genetic outcasts this weekend brought these burgeoning desires into focus.

On an empty stomach

My roommates will be hosting several friends and family members for the woman’s march this weekend. Of course it’s the two gays who live up on my floor. There’s already two people too many up here and soon there will be six or seven additional degenerates crowding the space. The entire third floor of the house is the size of a staircase landing. Meanwhile, a single person lives in the cavernous, multi room basement with a private bathroom.

Also, the gay male told me to not smoke weed because it might make his parents and friends uncomfortable. At least our priorities are in order. Though his parents have accepted their son’s shitdick lifestyle, a guy smoking weed alone in a tiny room might offend their tastes.

Women are marching on washington. You can march if you’re a man as long as you agree with everything women say and do. Except for white women who need to be slandered for being white and oppressive. Women must come together to tear each other apart over their conflicting sub-loyalties.

Contemporary feminists can’t even put a march together without fractious squabbling over minority quotas. They are exhibiting the very behavior in organizing the march that brought about their perceived need for a march in the first place.

The white house is about to be occupied by a bigot, a hateful and disgusting racist, mysogynist piece of shit. He hatefully literally seckshoollee assaults women with hatred in his hateraping heart and we’re going to come together as one to voice our dissent. Hey wait there are too many fucking privileged white women running this march. Fuck these ignorant ass basic bitches dem doo be doo spice latte yoga sheeeit. 

At the same time, one of the lowest things you can do as a man is complain like an excluded weakling. “Hey, why can’t we have a men’s march? Feminists are the real sexists. We are the true champions of equality.” It falls under the “Why isn’t there a white history month?” style of ineffectual and insincere criticism.

The real question is why in the fuck would any decent, well adjusted person ever want to participate in a march or protest? What kind of pathetic, personality vacuum character crater wants a protest or a special month or television series to glorify his downtrodden identity?

Protests are for dysfunctionally bored and shiftless people. It’s a lot like porn, where the problem lies not so much in an overactive sex drive, but rather a lack of fulfilling engagement with the world. You think it’s passion and churning testosterone making you masturbate for the fourth time today, but you just a need a hobby and probably a family.

Another weekend of chaos in the capital. I’ve written this over and over again but I don’t know why I stay in this cesspit. I hate politics and I have no family or friends here. Oh, I just remembered; there are no good jobs in my hometown and I’m too poor to move anywhere else. For the time being I’ll just try to work as much as possible and keep my head down.  Humbly serve coffee while malcontents gather to air their sour cunts out all over the streets of DC. Someday I’ll make my escape.

The dregs of time

That moment when you’re three fourths of the way through a meal; you’re already physically full but your psychological hunger begins to rage. And you feel as though you could eat until your stomach explodes like a dying star. No matter how many burrito bowls or strawberry streusels you shovel into your mouth, you remain unfulfilled. Something is still missing.

Then you masturbate because maybe a few dick tingles will soothe the storm of want. There’s a buildup of pleasure and then a stupefying blast of ecstatic electricity surging through your body. It begins in the deep roots of your dick alongside a trembling in your ballsack. You want to ride the wave right over the edge into everlasting bliss but you fall off right before you get there.

Now you’re coming down from that brush with sweet oblivion. The best case scenario is that you only wasted a few minutes pretending to fulfill your genetic imperative. But it’s also possible that you lost track of a solid hour wanking yourself into a delirium. You pull back the blinds and the incandescent light of the sun sears your bleary, bloodshot eyeballs. You can close your eyes to the external world but you can’t not see who you are inside.

Time moves on while you sit in a haze of weed with a bloated belly and a shriveled scrotum. You know that out there in the world, people are fighting for their lives. They’re loving and hating. Thinking and creating.  Coming together to solve major problems that affect us all.

There’s so much to learn and see and do. Your experience so far has covered a vanishingly small fraction of what is possible. Your current skills and talents don’t come close to exhausting your potential. With everything you could be and everything you could do out there waiting you repeat the same behavior that leaves you drained and demoralized.

For most of human history a man like me would have been ground hamburger in a war. Now I’m free to enjoy the wide open expanse of an extraneous life.

They don’t make titles like they used to

Up early again because the walls of my house don’t absorb sound. I can hear a spoon clanking against a bowl in the kitchen from my bedroom with the door closed. If anyone moves or talks or breathes or blinks anywhere in the house through six closed doors and up two flights of stairs, I can hear it. When the layabout gay next door tinkles his wrinkled old dick on the piano, the halting, awkward, inept sounds he produces go straight into my earhole.

Someone is fucking in the basement. Farting in the next room over. My gay male roommates voice booms in a skype conversation. Even if he weren’t offensively loud I’d still hear him because everything is audible in this house. But he also happens to be the most carelessly, sloppily loud human being I’ve ever encountered. Theatrically, performance of a lifetime, oscar award winning loud every moment of his life.

He walks like a drunken elephant. When he first moved in I thought he was falling down the stairs or tossing cinderblocks around but it was just him walking. The man must wear anchors for shoes or have serious motor control issues. He left for a week and it was a paradise of sweet silence. Now he’s back and we’re right back where we left off.

I’m surrounded by loud, inconsiderate gays, polyamorous freakazoids and tranny hookers. I sleep on a futon every night and walk to work in a cafe that serves trust fund kids, instagram models and fashion bloggers. I have no health insurance or savings. Visions of future toil, debility, and isolation haunt me in the darkest, loneliest hours of the night. My bones ache in the cold dawn.

I remember just enough to feel sad about everything I’ve forgotten and all the life that’s already behind me. Why can’t my memory disintegrate? Why can’t I live the life of a snail, a streak of slime on a damp rock? Memory is a dagger that stabs my brain without warning. Remembering the past is like picking up a shattered mirror.

Still not getting to the gym. Still not sleeping enough. Yes I know that not exercising and not sleeping murders people. Are you aware that not getting 10 hours of restful sleep a night, on a quantum mechanic engineered tempurpedic bed with foam memory mattress and down pillows in a room with secret service SUV tinted blackout curtains and a sleep mask and dehumidifier and white noise generator playing sounds of the rainforest or whales making delicate sweet love, your organs will rapidly liquify and seep out of your anus? And you will die slowly.

Yes, I know that not getting enough sleep makes me inattentive and forgetful. I know that in the fog of my fatigue I’m going to distractedly walk in front of a speeding bus and create a pollack painting on the street with my blood and entrails. I’ll lose a finger or a hand or get my dick ripped off by a thresher or combine or ice machine because I can’t focus on anything other than keeping my eyes open. My heart will fail and my brain will shrivel up and I’ll just be an irritable asshole until the swiftly approaching day of my untimely demise.

No one ever lived a decent life, a life of love or connection or achievement without enough sleep and the right diet and supplements and yoga and meditation routines. A mountain of self help manuals.  Ted talks and life hacks and empowering blog posts. Never forget that you’re alone in an unfeeling, chaotic universe but you have the power to give meaning to your life. God abandoned you and you abandoned your family but you can pretend that you’re connected to something greater than yourself.

With enough meditation, yoga, testosterone jacking weight training, low carb dieting, nootropics, vitamin D, fish oil, epsom salt baths and contrast showers, stirring blog posts about making money and fucking people you don’t even like, you will forget that your life is a snot bubble about to pop.

No one ever smoked cigarettes, ate pizza, stayed poor and celibate and ever had a brilliant thought that redeemed the squalor of their lives. No one found dignity, goodness, or love with bad posture or shallow breathing or if they sat for more than half an hour straight. People are only funny when they are full of esteem for themselves and love for the world.

Everyone is sleep deprived, overworked, underemployed, stressed and depressed. Escaping into video games and porn and booze. Unfulfilled at work and unlaid. Except for the demi god race of advanced humanity that eats everything organic and grass fed and does introspective drugs and hosts podcasts. You can’t and won’t be like them but you love taking that quick fix hit of inspiration when you’re feeling especially defeated.

I’ve been focusing more on my breathing and posture and it seems to be helping. I’ve also forced myself to feel less angry and anxious and more relaxed in the present. Who knows where these exciting developments will take me.

Between boredom and terror

I hate closing shifts. The boredom is crushing. Especially at a coffee shop that also wants to be a cocktail bar. Even more especially at a coffee shop in a part of town in the early stages of gentrification. In the first floor of a mammoth apartment complex that used to be an historic theater.

Because fuck old theaters. Fuck people gathering for a live performance. Why have a theater when you can piss away millions of dollars on a star destroyer luxury apartment building? Can’t let one square inch of the city be wasted on poor blacks. They stand on street corners in tattered loony tunes t-shirts and burlap bag pants, smoking crack, pcp and weed, yelling at no one. Harassing white women and begging for change.

Get them out of here. Push them farther out into Maryland where they can continue their downward spiral of drug abuse, crime, and dereliction. There will be expansion. Always pushing farther and spending more and building and investing in gated commities for the rich. No apartment building is expensive and lavish enough. Tear down these old buildings, these take out restaurants and theaters and barber shops and gyms. They’re ugly and poor people can afford them, which means they don’t make enough.

Open up a building with 500 studios and apartments and just wait for the white women and gays to fill them up. They will bring Whole Food’s, soul cycles, and yoga studios. Then all the people who were already barely hanging on, scraping and grinding to pay rent and working for next to nothing will be priced out of the neighborhood.

When you’re already sitting on millions of dollars in investments, you can afford to lose money on grandiose, gilded construction projects and pet passions. Might as well build a pyramid and push your slaves to the brink of death. When you’re the working poor that buffs the floors or makes the coffee or cleans the toilets, you miss one week of work and you’re sitting in the dark without food.

Now I’m just going to bitch about the basic responsibilities of life. I’m going to focus on people who have more than I do and feel bad about myself. That’s the American way. Everyone has a grievance, an axe to grind. Wherever you are, someone somewhere is taking something from you. As you sit alone in your poorly heated matchbox of a room, a rich guy is getting blown by two instagram models in a solarium.

At least we all meet the same end. At least people who have more than us still don’t have enough because there’s no such thing. Not only do wealth and success not protect you from the grim reaper of annihilation, they don’t even spare you a moment of torment in the stark here and now.

Those greek myths of torment in the afterlife were really guides to life here on earth. We are all sisyphus, rolling a boulder up a hill only to watch it roll back down again. We are all tantalus, perpetually straining for nourishment we’ll never reach. Everything you build will collapse. All your accomplishments are dust. Did something great last week? Well what about this week?

Clean your room and in three days it’s a wreck. Eat a rich meal and in a few hours you’ll be hungry again. And that means spending more money on groceries and then washing, chopping, cutting, sautéing, grilling, baking, and seasoning another meal until it’s perfectly mediocre just like everything else you’ve ever done. And then you have another round of dishes, of plates, bowls, skillets, measuring cups, forks, spoons, knives, ladles, spatulas, strainers and graters to wash.

If you don’t do a perfect job and leave one speck of crumbled sausage or a leaf of spinach, then your kitchen will be overrun with swarms of ants and cockroaches. Alien species of insects from the unholy outer reaches of deep space will colonize your kitchen. Your roommates will resent you because they’re vegans and subsist on oreos and popcorn and never cook.

They know it’s all your fault. That’s what you get for trying to thoughtfully prepare healthful meals for your solitary self. You replace the ache in your stomach from eating pizza and grinders every day with the pain in your ass from all the work of making food yourself.

One of the things that makes me consistently dysfunctional is my impatience with day to day maintenance of life. I know it’s at least theoretically possibly to tap into a kind of zen contentment as you toil your life away, but I’m not there yet. Not even close.

Everything is work. There’s your actual job but that’s nothing. It’s the rest of your life that really takes it out of you. Clean your room, the kitchen, the bathroom. Do the laundry, pay your bills, pay your debts. Go to the gym to grind out tedious sets so you don’t look like a bag of slop even though hot women won’t fuck you anyway.

And having fun is work too. It’s also expensive. Track down a reliable drug dealer. Convince an attractive woman to sleep with you. Go to bars and lame ass events in a futile attempt to make friends. The universe is arranged for maximum tedium, cruelty and suffering. It’s a lesson in pain and boredom taught by no one to no end.

It’s a trap

What your friends say about Trump. What your dad says about the democrats. Articles entitled “Dear White People.” Dumb christians saying hateful things about gays. Dumb gays saying hateful things about christians.

Atheists and their playground concept of god. Non scientists pretending to understand science. Climate change. Skeptics and believers. Fluoride in your toothpaste. Estrogen in your water. Lead in your pipes and asbestos in your attic.

The reckless behavior of Putin. The totalitarian nightmare of North Korea. Trade deals with China. Do we need more brown and black people in America or fewer. What would the founding fathers think and what would jesus do. The hypocrisy of everyone around you.

This group of people believes one thing about this issue, but they also believe this other thing about this other issue. It’s like, a contradiction or something. This guy said one thing ten years ago and now he’s saying something different.

The true, hidden meaning behind people’s words. This statement sounds okay on the surface but it’s really a rallying cry for fascism. If you disregard people’s stated intentions and indulge your paranoia then it’s absolutely terrifying what they’re saying.

Turning a noun into a verb and thinking you have a concept. They’re normalizing fascism and it’s terrifying. They’ve weaponized economic fears and people have become radicalized and it’s terrifying. Power structures and power relations. White supremacy. People who problematize the power structure.

Gender inequality. Wealth disparity. Wage stagnation. Raising minimum wage. Abolishing minimum wage. Welfare and reparations. Black lives matter. Blue lives matter. Black on black crime. Lynching and jim crow and redlining and the glass ceiling and voter suppression. Cultural appropriation.

Disproportionate anything is a crime, a scandal. There’s a woman shortage in tech. A woman shortage in science. Philosophy. Math. Too few women getting their tits blown off in combat. Not enough male nurses and caretakers and stay at home dads. Why aren’t men breastfeeding their children yet. Why aren’t women pissing in urinals.

We need more blacks winning awards for their soaring performances in movies about discrimination. Why didn’t that black guy win an award for playing a black guy who didn’t win awards because of racist whites.

The return of nationalism. Normalizing nationalism. Neo Liberalism. Pathologizing what they’ve normalized.  The gold standard and the federal reserve. Jew bankers and their progressive pawns. Manufactured consent. Manufactured dissent. Automated opinion. They’ve opinionized the masses and turned clods into critics.

Beauty standards and the patriarchy. Hateful heteronormative policing of women’s bodies. Rape culture and slut shaming. Slut walks. The right to have abortions and stds and bastard children and no shame or judgment coming from anyone ever. Celebrating wart ridden wombs and ending the stigma of spreading incurable diseases.

You’re going to die. You’re growing older by the second and you can’t do anything about it. Take a deep breath. This will all be forgotten. This will all come to nothing. Take a walk and feel the beating heart of emptiness at the core of the world.

When you have nothing better to do

We are masters of our destiny and victims of circumstance at the same time. There are steps we can take to better ourselves, but most of us can’t or won’t take them.

And even if we do, a more powerful entity will block our path. Break us down over time. Apply pressure from every angle. Make money, stay healthy, look good, be good, be excellent.

It also comes from within. The relentless demon of dissatisfaction pushing you to earn every day, stay fit, stay strong, stay forever young as your organs decay and your cells dream of death.

The only thing worse than being exploited is not being needed at all. First you work for less than you’re worth, then you become worthless. Join the ever expanding company of the economically redundant. For one vanishing moment of human history, your dumb, gas leaking meat bag was needed to rivet, stamp, weld and meld.

They needed you to produce a maniacal excess of goods. Then they needed you to consume those goods. The floodgates of credit were opened. You can’t afford your life but you’ll pay it back later. Someone will pay it later.

Mechanization weakened your body. Automation retarded your brain. Hardship is no wifi at the cafe. The slightest discomfort is an affront to human rights. Your wants and needs expand as your ability to meet the wants and needs of others contracts. You expect more and more as you deliver less and less.

The poor religious people of the southern hemisphere keep reproducing. They thrive on eating dirt and drinking disease. Suffering is nothing to them. They don’t have birth control and instagram. Nothing to do but eat shrubs and fuck. They don’t live in the shadows of other’s success. There’s no hesitation before the infinite menu of possibilities.

Meanwhile westerners rob themselves of their happiness. Condemning their past and questioning their future. What happens when the economy doesn’t even need you to buy products anymore? Your final occupation will be to die without leaving anything behind. Don’t have children because the brown people are taking care of that.

It would be cruel to reproduce an increasingly obsolete and threatened way of life. Persisting with vanity after the eclipse of humanity. Generations will be born into a world without light and hope. Mutant post-people will subsist in sewers and dwell in ditches, reciting myths of an ancient race of demi gods with remarkable powers.

Our ancestors dominated the skies and the waters. They tamed the beasts and glimpsed the mind of God. They grew fat and arrogant and brought ruin upon themselves. Now we live in the vacuum of their impossible promise, in the hollowed out rot of their greatness. 

This is a snapshot of a dark moment stretched out into a still life. I’m waking up in cold obscurity without work and money. The only way to release this dread and unease is by writing it out. I hope this was only an exercise, a piece of trash art.