The Tragedy of American Culture and Morality (Feel the Bern)

Never in my life have I been so interested in a presidential election as I am now. It's become a sporting event; consistently and systematically refreshing my browser in a state of complete tension to see the up to date caucus and primary numbers. I read articles from various media outlets, each with their own biases and preferences with the goal being to see every candidate from every possible angle. It's an odd feeling. I've never cared before. Cue Bernie Sanders into frame... What a badass dude. So unlike this country.

Years have come and gone and this county has withered. We stand on the edge of a cliff with a fading future ahead of us. We stand on that edge; everything that could have been right in front of our eyes. We stand at a point of no return, and there is no one to blame but ourselves. Worst off, people seem to be blind to the overabundant reality that we suck. We are the self-proclaimed "greatest country on earth," we boast about the obscure idea that everyone on earth covets living here, and we complain about the issues swallowing our society as we stand idly allowing it to happen. Enabling it to happen. This country is collapsing like clockwork, and it's like there's no one living here to notice. And here's a more eerie idea: No one gives enough of a shit to notice. I mean, damn, there are more people interested in Kardashian ass, which gangster rapper is feuding with another, and whether Beyonce was cheated on by Jay-Z. Blah, Blah, Blah. Who. Gives. A. Shit?! Our home is burning down around us but there we sit lazily on a couch watching celebrity news, reality TV, and Transformers. And we're captivated by it. Hypnotized. How depressing. This country had had its best days. I was convinced of it. With 16 trillion dollars in debt, a crumbling educations system, and a shaky moral compass, I was sure that we should call the US a country and move on. That we should stand up from our reclining couches, put down the slice of pizza and bag of chips right next to our celebrity magazines and say: "We're not as amazing as we use to be. We're not the greatest country anymore. We actually suck. Being #1 is obviously too much responsibility for us. Someone else take the wheel and we'll stand back." But we're too cocky for that! We still think we're God's gift to the world! I mean, our confidence; that’s the one thing that never declined even if everything that requires us to have confidence has faded away. Quick fact: America is dead last in Math scores but “number one in confidence in math skills, even though we suck at it. Yes, we’re number one in thinking we’re number one. And when the numbers don’t validate that confidence, we know who the culprit is: the numbers. So we change them.” Isn’t this just the clearest mirror image for the American people? We think we’re phenomenally remarkable all while being a huge pot of shit. But, yes. If someone says we suck we’re so quick to highlight the few lasting things that still make us decent at best. Sadness ensues. Man. The perks of being rich and powerful bullies. That mirror image; that’s what we’ve become. And we seem to have fallen in love with that pretty face in the mirror masked in makeup.  

So, yes. We have a country that is uneducated, lying, selfish, narcissist, money, and greed driven. A “me, me, me” country. An ignorant country. A country where the rebellious youth is taking over slowly and this becoming no country for old men….. Cue Bernie Sanders into frame. Literally, if elected, the oldest president in the history of the United States. How ironic. How elegiac. How implausible. Tragedy.

Now, I’m not her to bore you with specific numbers or statistics about Bernie’s history. They speaks for themselves and can be researched if desired. I’m simply going to relate how Bernie gave me hope for this country. Hope for humanity. How he’s touched my heart, and why it all fell apart. 

I’ve written in that past that people are wretched things incapable of being naturally good. I’m not sure I really believe that anymore. He’s changed my mind. Now, let’s be realistic and clear: Bernie probably will not win the nomination. How the American people can be against what he is proposing is beyond me; however, the second paragraph of this post helps solidify this argument. Bernie is not us. Bernie is better than us. There’s a reason that The Donald Trump is a juggernaut in the Republican Party. He is everything the American people are. He is greedy, he is racist, he is selfish, he is self-centered, he is ignorant, loud, boastful, and hateful. Donald Trump is America looking at itself in the mirror. The people relate to him. He is all of the things this country is embodied in one person. And as I’ve stated before: America, as it stands today, we’re not that great. We’re not that good even. With all that being said, I will let Bernie’s policies speak for themselves. This is more of a personal analysis on how I view America, its political system, its culture, and the inevitable ramifications of that culture on an ever so decaying and decadent society.

The sad Truth?

Bernie won’t win, and quite frankly, no one like him will ever will. How unfortunate. He is the beginning of what we need. He is love, kindness, fairness, determination, will, humbleness. He is everything mass America has lost. We held these values up on a gold pedestal, but over time America has created a new and more primitive set of values and beliefs based solely on selfishness, greed, and money. Bernie is virtually Superman and the nation is Bizzaro. With these polar oppositions in the forefront, Bernie is poised to lose.

Examples:

1.       He is preaching against war and violence in a country that has always been at war and that craves bloodshed.

2.       He is for free education in an uneducated country in which education is steadily losing value.

3.       He is for universal healthcare in a vastly unhealthy country.

4.       He is for the middle class and the poor in a country controlled by the rich.

5.       He is for the betterment of the environment in a country that believes that global warming, if even happening, is a natural occurrence not one resulting from human activity.

6.       He stands for selflessness in a self-centered country.

7.       He stands for sharing and helping others in a country of hoarders and “’I’ earned this” mentality.

8.       He fights for equality in a racist, misogynistic, and homophobic country.

9.       And most importantly: He preaches peace and love in a county full of hate and hostility.

What he is proposing is how people should act and the rules we should abide by. I mean, what year are we in? What country is this? I would’ve liked to believe that we had evolved past egoism, money gluttony, cruelty, and racism, but we’ve devolved into the poster children of it. Perhaps we’re not ready for these values to be at the forefront again. Perhaps we’re too far gone. Bernie’s morals and principals are not what we value in this country anymore. And this is the worst tragedy in American history. The country that was conquered by its own loss of morality, education, health, and ethics. The country that saw it’s one chance to change in the form of Bernie Sanders and turned a blind eye. Perhaps it is as I once thought. This country is done for. Anyone have them white flags? Yeah? Start waving them. 

Thoughts on the idea of Hell... Later to be expanded

               The Origin of Hell

 We define hell in the context of imagery. A place they say. A place of gloomy darkness engulfed in mountains of flames inhabited by lost and violent spirits. A place deafened by screams and cries. A place in which the wrathful, gluttons, envious, prideful, lustful, sloths, and greedy go to suffer for their wicked lives on this damned rock we call home. Some even say that hell is other people. How weak. Blaming other individuals for their lack of self-confidence and worth. For them feeling as if they were ants under a magnifying glass. For their sleepless nights and salty tears. Pathetic. But boy, how utterly wrong they are. How can a place or people be more of a hell than what is between these ears? Capable of imagining just about anything. These fantastical formulations are far, far worse than any reality however grim or grotesque. This kettle of bone is the home of all things hell. It dreams the worst nightmares, it judges, it exudes greed, envy, narcissism. It is a virus in a hard drive contaminating the rest of the otherwise healthy machine. It loathes, feels wrath, and kills. It is the origin of every dreadful event in the history of mankind. The cause of the crusades, the witchcraft trials, the birthplace of religion. It is the birthplace of the holocaust, the seed of elitism, racism, and sexism. It's viscous and savage. It craves blood. It forces us to slow down at the sight of a car accident; our eyes scanning the surrounding street in hopes of witnessing a diseased body covered by a white cloth. It covets cruelty and brutality. If society had no rules in place that would punish wrong doing you best believe we would’ve already eaten each other. Perhaps it is because of these rules and the result of breaking them that entice us to listen to violent music, watch violent movies, play violent video games, watch UFC, football, and boxing. “If I can’t hurt someone myself I’ll watch someone doing it to let off my want of it.” These events and forms of entertainment, in essence, feed into our primal nature. We are wretched things. Our brains shielded by the mask that is our face, and that face further concealed by the mask that is the facade we wear in order to fit into a society that forces us to go against our very nature. The human mind is capable of so many wondrous things. Man, can we love. But it is also where selfishness, ego, and elitism grow. We can blame society and it's beliefs; call ourselves victims of a society disconnected with reality, yet those horrid and heinous ideas were developed in the mind of individuals. No, society isn't a monster, and hell isn't a place. Our minds are hell. The inventor of all things odious and hateful. We created a hell to fear? Our brains are much worse. What have we to fear now? 

Thoughts on the Question: "What do you do?"

I am a friend

I am a councilor

I am ears that listen

I am an open heart

I am a planner

I am a chef

I am a maid

I am a son

I am a babysitter

I am love

I am a parent

I am a social worker
I am a dreamer

I am a writer

I am a brother

I am a reader

I am a significant other
I am a fighter

I am a critic

I am a safe haven

I am educator

I am a movie lover

I am a clear mind

I am a free mind

Thoughts on the question: “What do you do?” I am much more than my job. My job is what I do not who I am. Labels. Class: Decadence. What I touch and see and hear and learn. Now, that. That's who I am. Or at least hope to be. 

Witness

Witness

Fall of 1995. Dull. Dark. Everlasting. I was careless. Not a worry in the world, yet I never felt a sense of complete and utter comfort. I always felt as if something was wrong. Almost like the feeling you get when you have to pop a bone that simply won’t pop no matter the amount of effort you put into forcing it to. Weird. Anyway, my fondest memory of childhood was the neighbor. I really didn’t see much of him except when he would go out and pick up his mail, when he was mowing his lawn, or when he would come out of the house every weekday as the sun was rising dressed in his high class suit to get in his high class car to go work at who knows where. Don’t judge me. My mom always had the windows open. I had no choice but to look. Well, when I was 11 years old he was brutally murdered in his home. How brutally? No one knows but the people who went in to investigate, but the news channel said it was “brutal,” so everyone just ran with it and thought the worse. Except me. I. Saw. Everything. Okay, okay, hold on. I get a little mixed up sometimes. The doctors say that it has to do with my “condition.” Whatever that means. Well, when I was 8 years old I killed the neighborhood cat. He was black, young, and beautiful. I would sit in my room with the open windows and watch it pass by virtually every day complaining for its need of food. One night I took a knife from the kitchen table, went out for some air, saw the cat and invited it over with a can of Vienna sausages. I can still smell that night. I can still feel how it would rub up against my legs while meowing. I picked him up acting as kind as I could to it. I petted it, baby talked it, and then I took the knife to its face. So messy. So inexperienced. Meh. In retrospect I don’t know why I didn’t hide it or bury it or whatever. I was a kid. I guess I never thought I would get blamed for it. I went to bed and slept as soundly as I ever had. Before we continue I would like to point out that I am a good person. Yes, because by now I know you’re probably thinking that I’m a crazy sociopath that will turn into a serial killer. Well, that’s not what happened… At this point the neighbor was still undergoing his fancy daily routine. To make a story short: my parents knew it was me. How do they always know every single damn thing? Jesus. They gave me a talking to. They were trying to be authoritative and parent like, but the entire time I could see that they feared me. I could see it in their eyes. They were scared shitless of me. What was the big deal? It’s a dead cat. Get. Over. It! Talk about priorities. They take me to a shrink then to doctor that diagnoses me with things I can’t pronounce, but my parents never looked at me the same. From that moment on I was a monster to them. An abomination. A reminder of their mistakes as parents. My father specifically changed. His eyes became deep, dark, empty yet full. Full of something I didn’t understand. I didn’t admit it to anyone then, but now that I’m in this room with you. What do I really have to lose? I enjoyed killing that cat. The blood was warm and the hanging lifeless cat made me feel a sense of power. I ended a life. How poetic. The sun rose and set many times. I began to really enjoy my alone time. Basically because I could sit and think of whatever it was that I thought about. It’s really amazing where your mind travels when it’s clear and allowed to wander any topic in existence. So there I was. A freak to my parents. Great. Quick question: Why is it so cold in here? Jeez. Is this the torture? Freeze me to death? “Continue,” she says. “The faster we finish the faster you get to go back your room.” Yeah, they want me in that room. Alone. She’s probably thinking: “Hurry and speak so that I can get back to my rich lady life and go get a far too expensive salad for lunch.” I’ll make her wait for that. I ended up staying in most of the summer. It was nice. I watched the cats, rabbits, and squirrels pass outside. The neighbor brought a new car home today. Must. Be. Nice. The yearning to rip their little heads off and hear their screams was slowly escaping me. I was good… for a while. Then it happened. The moment that changed it all, you see? Feel bad for me yet? One morning my father found a dead mouse under my dresser. It had had its tail, legs, and head torn off. Apparently it was spread about and labeled with needles on a whiteboard. How scientific. How beautiful. How not me. I should take credit for it. I mean, it was a gorgeous site to behold, but the truth is that I didn’t do it, but because of my previous mishap with the cat it was obviously blamed on me. Whatever. I didn’t care much. I explained that it hadn’t been me. After a few attempts in vain I took it. What could they do to me now? I was already a monster. I was already on meds. I was already alone. My great life as I knew it was gone the moment that knife broke skin, then bone, then brain. Poor bastard. As it would have it I was sent to a shrink. Again. “Do you enjoy it?” “What do you feel when you do it?” Blah, Blah, Blah. I was done with these people. I was fine. I was “cured,” but these people didn’t want to hear that. They had in their minds already what I was. They weren’t trying to help me, they were trying to make me confess I had killed the damn mouse. I know who did it? Everyone looked at me with disgust as I walked out of the shrink room. Except my dad. He had a slight curve at the end of his lip. A slight glow in his eye. My father became much nicer to me after that day. He would at least try to converse with me. He would dialogue with me over trivial things, but some interaction is better than none at all. He seemed to be beginning to understand what it was that I was going through. Interesting. He was the only one. On this day the neighbor went out. He had a pretty lady on his arm and they giggled a fake giggle. The allusion of happiness. Good for them. Sleepless nights ensued and on the 7^th night of insomnia I decided to go and see just how smug the neighbor spend his nights. I wanted to see what his house was like. I wanted to see what he slept on. I wanted to see where he showered. That fake life he had. I wanted to see it firsthand. So, I got up, walked outside, and went through his back yard. Of course. Why wasn’t I surprised? Moan here, moan there. He was fucking someone. Always with someone. Companionship. I peeked through the window and there they were. She laid on the bed stomach down and ass up. He was on her riding her like a race horse. His face: ecstatic, her’s: blank. He pulled out of her. No condom and came on her back. He then collapsed next to her and fell asleep as she looked at him hopelessly. I was unseen. It wasn’t erotic. I wasn’t aroused. What a shame. “Can I get a soda please? Thanks.” A few days went. A few nights. Well, on one particular night I was a little turned on. Yeah, don’t look at me with those wide eyes and open mouth. You’re probably turned on now. You probably fucked last night. I bet you think you’re better than me because you’re sitting there and me here. But thanks for the soda. Ass. Mind puke on mind. The horror. I walked down the stairs. Slowly. Quietly. Didn’t want to wake the parents. They thought I was crazy enough already. I reached the door and it was unlocked. Peculiar. I reached the window of the neighbor’s house and the lights were out. I walked and reached what appeared to be the dining room. Fucking rich people. There he was. Eating. Laughing. Steak. Wine. Pretty lady in a red dress seated opposite of him. I! Was! So! Jealous! Why did he have that life? What a perfect life. Fake, you see, but gorgeous. And here I am. A freak. A minute changed my life. An action. It’s amazing how much of my life has been determined by the death of a cat and the subsequent events. Choices, huh? After dinner he took her to his bedroom and they went at it. Different girl. I almost pulled my dick out to play with myself, but I heard a ruffling in the bushes behind me. I felt fear. I felt alive. I ran. What the hell was that? I didn’t know. I know now. The following day my father looked at me with a slight grin on his face. He had seen me leave. He knew what I was up to those nights I went out. He let me. He didn’t mention it to mother. I became addicted to the neighbor. I would watch him every night while he ate. Slept. Fucked. Mowed the lawn. Washed his car. He had the life I wanted. If I didn’t have and could never have it, hell, why not live it through him, right? Voyeur you see? And this is it. This is why I’m here. You won’t believe me and I’m okay with that. I’m happy here. You feed me, give me a place to sleep; what more can I ask for? This is the best life I can have. Out there I wouldn’t fit in. This is my home. These are my kind of people even though I didn’t do what you guys think I did. In my troubled and drugged mind I see these people here as sane. At least they aren’t faking a life they don’t have. They simply are who they are. They are them. But as I’ve said, I didn’t do it. Or did I? I can never remember correctly. It’s the drugs. On this night I watched him like every other night. He was alone on this night. He was in his pajamas. He was eating alone, sleeping alone. He was so alone. Like me and for the first time I related to him. While he walked to his room though I saw a man in a mask in the dining room. I freaked. I grabbed my bag of chips and moved closer to the window. What is that? Who is that? He slowly followed him into the room. I wanted to go help him, and I should’ve. He was my life. He was the life I also would never have. I was jealous of him. So I smiled and watched. Watched as the man in the black mask came up behind him. Saw them struggle. Saw the masked man run the knife through the neighbors face. My body shivered. God. Blood. All. Over. Saw him tie him up as he put a needle into his arm. Saw the neighbor pass out. Saw as the masked man struggle to cut every single one of my neighbor’s fingers followed by he shoving them down the neighbors’ mouth. I smiled. It was beautiful. It was a crime scene. It was scientific. So not me. It was my life leaving me in the most gorgeous way imaginable. I watched him tear his stomach open and the neighbor’s guts, or whatever they were, I don’t know about anatomy, come spilling out. I step back. Still it looked gross. It was the most grotesque and most glorious thing I had ever seen, and this coming from a kid that stabbed a damn cat in the face. Finally he tore off the big toe and put it in a plastic bag. Then: I was there. Standing next to the mystery figure. I had blood on me. The masked man looked down at me with a look in his eyes that suggested that he was smiling behind that mask. I recognized the look. Then I was looking at him through my window with my chips at hand. The dead masterpiece laid out next to him. Then again I was standing next to them man. I looked out the window to see myself staring out of my bedroom window at me and the masked man. Was I there? Was I watching at a distance? Did I help? Was I the man in the black mask? I don’t know. I remember it differently every time. Maybe if you don’t med me up for a day I can be more clear. But you don’t want me to be clear. It was me and I’m thrilled. It was a stranger. It was my father… It’s visiting hours. My father walks in with a smile on his face. That look. I recognize it. Its unfamiliarly familiar. I had never wanted to choke the life out of someone. Oh, my god. It WAS me. I’m done. Take me to my room. 

On the Sorrows of Tire Issues:

Puke of the Day:

On the Sorrows of Tire Issues:

Why are vehicle tires so damn expensive! Kill me now! Last week I arrived at a gas station to the sound of a hissing snake. I immediately knew what it was, yet I was hopeful. Hopeful that virtually half of my next paycheck wouldn’t go to the buying of rubber wheels for a car I pay nearly 600 dollars per month for. I look down at my tire and there it was; a massive screw lodged into the edge of my tire at an angle. Son of a bitch. Second time in four weeks. No joke. The following day I take my car to the tire shop to get it patched up. Cheap, temporary, needed. The dude charges me five dollars then asks me if I drive fast or “peel out.” Umm, what? Ask my girlfriend. Please. Even she says I drive like a crummy old man. I drive under the speed limit for God’s sake. (Yes, I’m the one you drive behind and cuss at. Sorry about that.) He then proceeds to tell me that I need more than a patch. New tires he suggested. 700 dollars he said. Are. You. Fucking. Kidding me?! It’s no wonder people today only have cars for a short period of time: They don’t want a new car, they don’t want to waste almost 1,000 dollars buying new tires. I may now try the same. I understand that tires are a sporadic purchase, but when the time finally arrives to pay for them, gosh, is it an exhausting moment. Almost defeating. Damn. Anyway, I risked it and told him that I would return. That was a week ago. Avoiding the problem. Story of my life. Pray for my safety. And when I do return to get the tires pray that I have money to eat for the month. Sadness ensues.