Sometimes you can go home again

So long, washington dc. My dad drove 700 miles to come and get me. And then we drove 700 miles right back. As we left my neighborhood my dad spotted a black teen sporting the sagging pants look and remarked on it. I told him there were far worse things to glimpse around these parts. But we didn’t see any trannies teetering in the heat or unhoused bumblers sprawled across a sidewalk before we left.

We drove down winding highway 68 as the sun set, through the mountains of maryland. Steam rose from the valleys and mingled with the clouds, which were reflecting the waning daylight. I took in as much beauty as I could at 65 mph and felt serenity spreading over me. It was the perfect exit. I wasn’t looking back.

When we made it to washington, pa, we stopped at a days inn. I wanted to keep driving through the night but my dad was tired.

John Wick played on the tv in the hotel room. I remember skimming some jerk off return of kings article about the masculine message of this movie. Something about how John Wick doesn’t cater to women and always dresses well. Violence is a way of life and men kill each other because that’s what they have to do and blah blah blah. It was standard issue manosphere retard dribble but I still read shit like that on occasion. ┬áThe movie was brainless fun and I couldn’t sleep anyway. I liked how there was no backstory or character development. Just stylish slaughter.

The morning came and I hadn’t slept much but I was ready to go. The second half of the drive didn’t have the scenic splendor of the first. We drove through pennsylvania, ohio, and indiana. The mountains turned into hills and then the hills turned into flatlands. We sped past small town desolation, the cultural and economic deserts. Every exit was a dried out network of fast food, gas stations and big-box retail. I felt the despair and inertia emanating from these places. I heard the cries of the abandoned populations, mocked and scorned by coastal elites and big city strivers, left with nothing to do but work in gas stations and cook meth.

Every Taco bell was hiring. But these natives, for some reason, don’t want to make diarrhea tacos for the rest of their lives. We need to bring in a million more mexicans a year so we can open more mcdonald’s and gas stations and keep expanding the service economy. If the old white stock is going to waste away on opium and reality television then we will replace them with a hungry, hardworking people genetically and culturally suited for soul stunting drudgery.

After tedious hours of driving through cornfields we made it to southern indiana. Back to the rolling hills and lush forests of my homeland. Back to the house I grew up in. I unloaded the car, rested for a bit, and then my parents and I went to eat at denny’s. In one day I went from east coast fast casual dining to a denny’s in the midwest. It felt right.

Last night I slept in my old bed in my old basement room. It seems that sleeping on an actual bed improves quality of sleep. I’ve learned that sleeping on a futon in a room the size of a shelf drawer isn’t conducive to physical or psychic comfort.

Now I’m drinking tin can coffee and reacquainting myself with my old surroundings. The years and experiences are stored up here, in the walls, the furniture, the rooms. My memory is in the material. I can’t access who I was until I’m where I used to be. Moments are coming back in waves as I pour over pictures and notebooks full of scribblings from my childhood and teenage years.

I’ll need to find work soon, but for now I’m going to hang out with my retired parents and read and write as much as I can before I’m strung out on opium.

Author: The Empty Subject

Born curmudgeon

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