My mind begins to wander the second I open my eyes, and you follow shortly after. Each train of thought, meandering like a lazy river through the hills, latches onto the next, and the next, and the next, and you cling to all like sweet autumn fog. I find myself turning back to you, more and more often. Not to make sure you're still there, still sitting atop these thoughts like Moses on the mountain. I turn to make sure I haven't been led awry. You haunt me, like nothing else has haunted me. I find myself at odds, pacing, casting periodic glances at the walls, the windows, walking the length of my house like an animal, no, staggering and lifeless as a zombie.
I don't need to breathe, or eat, or sleep, or drink, or fuck anymore. I don't need to speak, or sing, or smoke, or bathe or pray. Nothing. I need only exist, and the mind, where you are ever present, takes care of the rest. You are the rest. I wake to the taste of you on my lips and never know from where it came. My nerves are on fire, straining aainst the bonds of flesh that keep them from your questing fingertips, your wandering mouth, the sweet, deep places where I can feel myself pouring, without ever doing it at all. I feast on you, and I am full. I drink you down, and I am sated. I inhale the scents that become wrapped in your hair, your pores, your clothes, and I need nothing else.
This is nothing like love, nothing like obsession, and yet, it becomes something akin to both. Something raw, something primal, something entirely synthetic, not entirely dilberate, and nothing at all. I rave somewhere in the center of my body, bashing against organs and blood vessels, crushing my bones from the inside. I shriek like a lunatic, and hear it reverberate when the blood hammers in my ears. I think I'm having a fucking stroke, and then I start to fucking stroke it.
I'm watching you with carnivorous intent, wearing a suit of silver armor. I'm so contested with myself I've started tearing suits in half and sewing them together like fashion frankensteins. Grey-blue, blue-grey, so on and so on. I carry a blue lightsaber and shoot lightning from my fingers.
No, those aren't right. This isn't good and evil. This is something much, much more ridiculous. I feel like a child. A hungry, murderous, horny child. Or maybe I feel like a monster. A passionate, poetic, adoring monster. I'd just as soon slurp your eyes from their sockets as I would write you a pedestal that rose to Valhalla. I would make you into a goddess or pull out my kidneys and wrap them as a gift. I can't decide. I'm self-destructive or self-constructive. I need you, I want you, I have to destroy you. Something, fuck, I told you this was stupid.
And all of it, all of it, is dust in the wind, baby, if you won't have me one way or the other. I'm neither asking nor assuming. I am consuming. I am one, I am all, I'm above and beyond.
I feel so divine when we entwine and I'm inclined to design and be kind, while my mind is behind, and rewind, and a feel fine for a time, but its mine and I'm maligned to the side and the size and the eyes are disguised and you die, or I die, or we die, and this night is fucking over. I end up as nothing, disgusting, discussing and fussing for something that's fucking just rusting somewhere out to sea, and it sucks to be me, but I scream without purpose or purchase and fall toward the earth and just curse and its worthless, I hurt it and skirted the blame, and I fed the remains to the almight flame and I claim that I love you but I would destroy you and toy with the body while we sat there rotting, if I die when you die then we die and it's all mine.
Sometimes the words rhyme without actually making a point or saying anything. I have given you examples. This is what you do to me, I think. I offer up my words, my little phrases, my clever jokes, my innuendo, my pride and joy and when I see them sat beside you they seem paltry and useless. You terrify me, and I have no idea how to react. I can see you and touch you and seem well at ease, but the centrifugal force of being around you is tearing the sinew and the muscle and the filthy things inside me in every direction. I feel huge, powerful, and deified in one moment, and like a lightbulb next to a lightning storm the next. You are all my strength and all my weakness and more. I am beholden to you, betrothed in some significant way. You are a preternatural beauty, like something from a dream, something from Shakespeare's idea of Midsummer, or Milton's Eden. You are wraith-like, enigmatic, erratic. I am an addict.
Take me, keep me, eat me. I am at your mercy.
Neurotically Yours,
-S.R.
Saturday, December 25, 2010
Monday, December 20, 2010
Pieces
I grow restless beneath the shell of the earth, or the shell of this man, like the oldest, darkest, most forsaken cliche monsters. I am Cthulu, or the Dark One, or Lucifer, or the Sith. I am these things and I am more. More than words on the page, more than lines of dialogue, a camera angle, a nifty editing trick that offers foreshadowing and then lets you down at the climax. I'm a movie monster with a third dimension. And a fourth. And a fifth. I am large, I contain multitudes. Everything about has been crafted to fuck you up.
I like to leave them breathing heavy, sweating, lying flaccid in a pool of mixed fluids. I've left infinite evidence behind to tie me to these crimes. I've left infinite clues, littered here and there, like literary themes or The Riddler's hints, that will expose me for who I am. What I am.
The older I get, the less you matter. The less you matter, the more I can't seem to breathe without you.
I'm all vices and paradoxes, fucking and festering. I'll leave you violated without a second thought, but the way you smell will cling to my skin like ciggarette smoke to my clothes. Everything yellowed, stained, faded, and cynical. It's hard to believe in something you can't see, but even harder to care.
I have come for slaughter.
Cravenly Yours,
-S.R.
I like to leave them breathing heavy, sweating, lying flaccid in a pool of mixed fluids. I've left infinite evidence behind to tie me to these crimes. I've left infinite clues, littered here and there, like literary themes or The Riddler's hints, that will expose me for who I am. What I am.
The older I get, the less you matter. The less you matter, the more I can't seem to breathe without you.
I'm all vices and paradoxes, fucking and festering. I'll leave you violated without a second thought, but the way you smell will cling to my skin like ciggarette smoke to my clothes. Everything yellowed, stained, faded, and cynical. It's hard to believe in something you can't see, but even harder to care.
I have come for slaughter.
Cravenly Yours,
-S.R.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
The Final Hunt
The night is damp and cool, as it always is in this place. The earth smells of growing things, moss and lichen, worms, grass still wet with the evening's rain. The air is clean, crisp, and carries with it the scent of prey and predator. I am hunting you, as I have always hunted you.
I've taken many conquests in these forests, speared them, gorged myself on them, and left them largely behind. Some I have taken as trophies, captured a piece for rememberance, some momento to hold as I drifted off to sleep. I recall them sometimes, sweet fragrances, succulent flesh, the writhing way they moved on the end of my weapon. All of them different. All of them the same. None of them you.
I have stalked and killed, but I feel as if you are the only one I've ever hunted. The only one really worth it, the only one that brings that exhiliration, that addictive, heady mix of anticipation and trepidation. I catch your scent here and there, as unmistakable as it is unidentifiable, or a glimpse of you far ahead, racing through the underbrush, skyclad and glistening with a thin sheen of sweat. Then you're gone.
Yet, I feel closer than ever. Sometimes, I think this might just be a game to you. You tease me with those hints of your presence, drawing me in, feeding off the way I crave you. Perhaps you'll feed on me, if ever we meet. A veritable venus mantrap, a cocaine Aphrodite.
Sometimes I wonder which of us is predator and which of us is prey.
I know, in the deepest, nameless parts of me, that I'll catch you someday. That when I do, I'll throw down my spear and take you, be it nestled in the boughs of the mighties tree, or in the fine-grain sand on the shore of a lake, or in the grass still holding the evening's rain. My hands will rake and dig into your thighs, your hips, your breasts, your throat, and I will explore every inch of you. I will come to know and memorize every curve, every line, every dip and rise and subtle change of your body. I will commit to memory your voice, your need, your desire. You will be my last, one way or another.
I will pour every sweetness in me onto your skin, press every tender word that could fall from this tongue into you, and lavish you with all affection and want. You will be sun and moon, stars and worlds. You will be the seas, the trees, the cities of man and the plains of my dearest gods. You will be my Valhalla, here in Midgaard. I will hear your name sung on every branch of Yggdrasil, whsipered on every breeze, every breath from every creature that roams this infant earth. You will be my greatest treasure, my greatest pleasure, and perhaps, still, the death of me.
If that isn't love, then I hope I will never know love.
Intrinsically Yours,
-S.R.
I've taken many conquests in these forests, speared them, gorged myself on them, and left them largely behind. Some I have taken as trophies, captured a piece for rememberance, some momento to hold as I drifted off to sleep. I recall them sometimes, sweet fragrances, succulent flesh, the writhing way they moved on the end of my weapon. All of them different. All of them the same. None of them you.
I have stalked and killed, but I feel as if you are the only one I've ever hunted. The only one really worth it, the only one that brings that exhiliration, that addictive, heady mix of anticipation and trepidation. I catch your scent here and there, as unmistakable as it is unidentifiable, or a glimpse of you far ahead, racing through the underbrush, skyclad and glistening with a thin sheen of sweat. Then you're gone.
Yet, I feel closer than ever. Sometimes, I think this might just be a game to you. You tease me with those hints of your presence, drawing me in, feeding off the way I crave you. Perhaps you'll feed on me, if ever we meet. A veritable venus mantrap, a cocaine Aphrodite.
Sometimes I wonder which of us is predator and which of us is prey.
I know, in the deepest, nameless parts of me, that I'll catch you someday. That when I do, I'll throw down my spear and take you, be it nestled in the boughs of the mighties tree, or in the fine-grain sand on the shore of a lake, or in the grass still holding the evening's rain. My hands will rake and dig into your thighs, your hips, your breasts, your throat, and I will explore every inch of you. I will come to know and memorize every curve, every line, every dip and rise and subtle change of your body. I will commit to memory your voice, your need, your desire. You will be my last, one way or another.
I will pour every sweetness in me onto your skin, press every tender word that could fall from this tongue into you, and lavish you with all affection and want. You will be sun and moon, stars and worlds. You will be the seas, the trees, the cities of man and the plains of my dearest gods. You will be my Valhalla, here in Midgaard. I will hear your name sung on every branch of Yggdrasil, whsipered on every breeze, every breath from every creature that roams this infant earth. You will be my greatest treasure, my greatest pleasure, and perhaps, still, the death of me.
If that isn't love, then I hope I will never know love.
Intrinsically Yours,
-S.R.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
To the Women In My Life, Part II
If I could reserve every tender feeling for you, I would. I could discard these other things and turn all my attention to supporting you and maybe, just maybe, those little pipedreams of yours could come true. I grin like a madman when I think about you, and I pace like a caged dog when I realize you're so far from me. Someone like you deserves all the best things, all the things she wants from life. I only wish that I was one of those.
You have enticed me, excited me as no one as before. You have broken my bones and mended things I didn't even realize could be mended, things I though too long decayed to breathe, to thrive again. You've been like fire to my nerves and a salve for parts of me I darenot name, could not put into words for fear of sounding like a fool. My only fear is that I've taken too much from you, and one day you'll wake up and realize I have nothing to offer in return.
You have haunted me for more years than I can remember, and yet I find myself divided. There is love, like nothing else in the world exists, and there is detachment because, after all, belonging to you doesn't seem like such a fairytale ending anymore. It seems more like our mutual last resort, like something we would do if no alternative existed, and something we would regret. For all our shared desires, we do not desire to share.
Your pain encites me to rage, and your sorrow spurs me to strength. I would tear the greatest mountains from the earth, and shred mankind's monuments to his power with my bare hands if it would turn your eyes away from the ground and back into the sky. I feel as if I should chain you here, to keep you from flying away and leaving me behind, and yet, I feel like doing so would destroy the very thing I love the most in you. There's something to talk about.
I adore you. Really, I do. But I find it so much easier to terrorize you than to play nice. Sometimes, you make me feel like we are still just children, just kids on the same block, and nothing I can say will ever be gratitude enough for that.
I find my attraction to you fascinating, if only for its endurance. You flit and flee and find your way into my life in clips and soundbytes and I feel like a waystation among your many travels. And yet, you throw your arms around me as if we've shared some deep and meaningful secret, and that makes me feel like the only man in the world.
I have, at times, loved and loathed you. Of all the women I have loved and lost and destroyed and built, you have ever been the most tumultuous, the most contested, and when I have spent my strength against whatever storm I've sailed myself into, you have always remained a safe harbor, a port in the tempest, where I can rest my weary bones and begin to gather myself to face it anew.
I have ever loved you, but I've never been so sure that I could not stand to be near a person.
The lady has a hold on me, the likes of which I can't find a metaphor to describe. In my mind, I finacy myself this brave adventurer, boldly facing down gods and men and monsters to find a way to prove myself worthy. The reality, I think, is that I am just a silly boy, and you are much too wise to see the virtues of my foolishness.
I would roast you on a spit, and feed you to a pack of wolves, but we have endured enough. And death would be too good for you.
There was a time when I found you distasteful. Now, I find the slightest thought of you nauseating. Like bad shrimp or undercooked poultry. You are no more significant to me than the bile it would take to digest the bits of you not too spoiled with venom to devour. Even digesting you seems like a waste.
You have never written me a song, and yet I dream sometimes of being little and terrified, and only the way that you sing can lull me to sleep. You have kept me safe and sane despite my ambitions to be neither, and that you've done so without expecting a single word of praise moves me to the brink of tears. So I crack a joke about the way you're getting old, and cover all that up with laughter.
I love the way you've grown, but you will never, ever hear me say it.
As far as little girls go, you turned out to be pretty endearing. I find myself at odds, sometimes in love and sometimes afraid to even think about you for fear of turning myself in to the proper authorities.
I remember when you were tiny, how you cried and bitched and moaned. You haven't changed that much, but I still think its just divine.
You're like oxygen when you're near me. No, something more incendiary. More magnetic. Just something more. I would kill lesser men to explore you, and I would burn myself out trying to find my way. All of that, just from the very simple, very drunken way you've smiled at me in the early hours before dawn, before daylight came to steal away the last little bit of magic in me and you went back to your life. I'm still looking for the way back to mine.
You have shown me that all the things that drew me toward you, were shallowand two-dimensional. I con only thank you for exposing yourself before I invested myself too much in you.
Sometimes, the way that you talk makes me want to gag you and punch you in the throat. Other times, I just want to leave the room. Quite frankly, I've come to the realization that you're a fucking idiot, and I'd like to have you put down so you can't bring harm to yourself.
I love you, but seriously, he wants butt sex. You'll get whatever you want that way.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Every year, about this time, I like to do something like this. Something that lets out some of those pent-up feelings. I did the first 'To the Women In My Life' a few years ago to great success and, since those people have changed somewhat in the interim, I decided to do another. This is by no means a comprehensive list of every person with a vagina I know. Quite frankly, addressing every one of those friends, family, assorted concubines, and otherwise unlikable people would be very time-consuming and I just don't have the energy for it.
Obviously I didn't put names on the above, and I did that for the sake of not giving a shit whether you know who I'm talking about or not. Rest assured, if you're there it's probably not that hard to figure out which one you may be. If you're really concerned, by all means, just ask me. I'm an open book.
If you'd like to apply for the next edition of this ongoing piece, drop me a line. I'll tell you all about the application process and the required 35 hours of community service, as well as the different communities in my brain that offer opportunities. Have a wonderful day.
Yours,
-S.R.
You have enticed me, excited me as no one as before. You have broken my bones and mended things I didn't even realize could be mended, things I though too long decayed to breathe, to thrive again. You've been like fire to my nerves and a salve for parts of me I darenot name, could not put into words for fear of sounding like a fool. My only fear is that I've taken too much from you, and one day you'll wake up and realize I have nothing to offer in return.
You have haunted me for more years than I can remember, and yet I find myself divided. There is love, like nothing else in the world exists, and there is detachment because, after all, belonging to you doesn't seem like such a fairytale ending anymore. It seems more like our mutual last resort, like something we would do if no alternative existed, and something we would regret. For all our shared desires, we do not desire to share.
Your pain encites me to rage, and your sorrow spurs me to strength. I would tear the greatest mountains from the earth, and shred mankind's monuments to his power with my bare hands if it would turn your eyes away from the ground and back into the sky. I feel as if I should chain you here, to keep you from flying away and leaving me behind, and yet, I feel like doing so would destroy the very thing I love the most in you. There's something to talk about.
I adore you. Really, I do. But I find it so much easier to terrorize you than to play nice. Sometimes, you make me feel like we are still just children, just kids on the same block, and nothing I can say will ever be gratitude enough for that.
I find my attraction to you fascinating, if only for its endurance. You flit and flee and find your way into my life in clips and soundbytes and I feel like a waystation among your many travels. And yet, you throw your arms around me as if we've shared some deep and meaningful secret, and that makes me feel like the only man in the world.
I have, at times, loved and loathed you. Of all the women I have loved and lost and destroyed and built, you have ever been the most tumultuous, the most contested, and when I have spent my strength against whatever storm I've sailed myself into, you have always remained a safe harbor, a port in the tempest, where I can rest my weary bones and begin to gather myself to face it anew.
I have ever loved you, but I've never been so sure that I could not stand to be near a person.
The lady has a hold on me, the likes of which I can't find a metaphor to describe. In my mind, I finacy myself this brave adventurer, boldly facing down gods and men and monsters to find a way to prove myself worthy. The reality, I think, is that I am just a silly boy, and you are much too wise to see the virtues of my foolishness.
I would roast you on a spit, and feed you to a pack of wolves, but we have endured enough. And death would be too good for you.
There was a time when I found you distasteful. Now, I find the slightest thought of you nauseating. Like bad shrimp or undercooked poultry. You are no more significant to me than the bile it would take to digest the bits of you not too spoiled with venom to devour. Even digesting you seems like a waste.
You have never written me a song, and yet I dream sometimes of being little and terrified, and only the way that you sing can lull me to sleep. You have kept me safe and sane despite my ambitions to be neither, and that you've done so without expecting a single word of praise moves me to the brink of tears. So I crack a joke about the way you're getting old, and cover all that up with laughter.
I love the way you've grown, but you will never, ever hear me say it.
As far as little girls go, you turned out to be pretty endearing. I find myself at odds, sometimes in love and sometimes afraid to even think about you for fear of turning myself in to the proper authorities.
I remember when you were tiny, how you cried and bitched and moaned. You haven't changed that much, but I still think its just divine.
You're like oxygen when you're near me. No, something more incendiary. More magnetic. Just something more. I would kill lesser men to explore you, and I would burn myself out trying to find my way. All of that, just from the very simple, very drunken way you've smiled at me in the early hours before dawn, before daylight came to steal away the last little bit of magic in me and you went back to your life. I'm still looking for the way back to mine.
You have shown me that all the things that drew me toward you, were shallowand two-dimensional. I con only thank you for exposing yourself before I invested myself too much in you.
Sometimes, the way that you talk makes me want to gag you and punch you in the throat. Other times, I just want to leave the room. Quite frankly, I've come to the realization that you're a fucking idiot, and I'd like to have you put down so you can't bring harm to yourself.
I love you, but seriously, he wants butt sex. You'll get whatever you want that way.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Every year, about this time, I like to do something like this. Something that lets out some of those pent-up feelings. I did the first 'To the Women In My Life' a few years ago to great success and, since those people have changed somewhat in the interim, I decided to do another. This is by no means a comprehensive list of every person with a vagina I know. Quite frankly, addressing every one of those friends, family, assorted concubines, and otherwise unlikable people would be very time-consuming and I just don't have the energy for it.
Obviously I didn't put names on the above, and I did that for the sake of not giving a shit whether you know who I'm talking about or not. Rest assured, if you're there it's probably not that hard to figure out which one you may be. If you're really concerned, by all means, just ask me. I'm an open book.
If you'd like to apply for the next edition of this ongoing piece, drop me a line. I'll tell you all about the application process and the required 35 hours of community service, as well as the different communities in my brain that offer opportunities. Have a wonderful day.
Yours,
-S.R.
It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year
December is here and with it all sorts of magical, fuzzy feelings. Goodwill towards man! Charities a'ringing their bells! Hugging in the streets! The busy hustle and bustle of winter before the hatred for cold weather sets in! The lights! The music! Fuck you all!
Here we go again.
There's a thing circling on Facebook where everyone changes their profile picture to a cartoon character to show their support for or against child abuse. I suppose its supposed to be anti-child abuse, but as they say, any press is good press. Now, things like this are always happening but there's a sudden influx of them around the holidays. Sort of like the influx of venerial diseases around Valentine's Day. There are generic posts about showing support for the troops going around like swine flu through an elementary school, and more charities out whoring themselves for spare change than hookers. I find it all just so disgusting.
The thing is I support the troops. Hell, I love war. I don't want our boys and girls dying over there but you know what? That's the job they signed up for and its the job most of them are proud to do. I support the shit out of that kind of courage. But I don't feel the need to post about it on my Facebook. We all support the troops, why do we need to say it that particular way at this particular time of year? Have we admitted more democracy-hating Soviets into the country than before? No. Then what the hell? The soliders won't see it, they're in fucking Iraq. Write them a letter, send them a card, buy them some Christmas presents.
You won't, because your support for them is as shallow as mine. Let's be realisitc people. Of course you want them home safe and sound. We aren't monsters, we're people and so are they. But you don't think about them. How many of the people posting those status updates about it will give them a second thought that same day? The day after? The answer is very few. Even those of us with family over there don't devote every second to the war effort. Why? Because we're not directly involved and we have other concerns. We're too self-involved to give it much more than the occasional heated debate. That isn't a sin, that's human. So don't get all on your fucking high horse because Christmas is three weeks away. It makes you look pathetic.
Likewise, I'm totally against child abuse. If I saw a dude kicking the shit out of his kid, I'd make it a point to smash his face in with a brick. But some silly, bullshit Facebook gimmick doesn't do anything more than make you feel less guilty for being so privileged as to not be beaten every day. That's all. You aren't donating money to help these kids. You aren't going to work for social services or CPS to try and save as many as you can. You're sitting at home in your middle-class neighborhood going, "Gee, sure sucks to be a child abuse victim. Haha! I can change my profile picture to Goku and that'll save someone's life! I feel so much better!" Fuck you, you are an asshole.
If you really want to help those kids, go volunteer. Don't spam me with some bullshit like this, because then I have to go all the way to Blogspot and get pissed off about it. Doesn't anyone have a charity to support angry bloggers? Come on, I need money too. It's Christmas time, for gods' sakes, how will my family survive with me being so angry all the time?
My point is this: If we are too self-involved to give a shit about the needy or the homeless or the erectile dysfunctions for the rest of the year, what the hell changes us around Christmas? Guilt. Plain and simple. You feel guilty because other people live in squalor and filth and poverty. Big fucking deal. They live that way in August too, but you don't care about it then. The worst part about it, is that you make other people feel guilty by proxy.
Say, for instance, you post that thing about the soldiers and then change your picture for the kids. Now you have a friend or relative that makes slightly more money than you do the sees that and suddenly feels shitty because you're actually less fortunate than they are, and you're so tender-hearted you're helping out anyway. It's like Keeping Up With the Fucking Jonses: The Guilt Trip. Your friends do it, you feel less important for not doing it, so you do it too. You aren't saving anyone, you aren't contributing to the moral fabric of humanity, you're saying "None of you are better than me! I FUCKING LOVE SUPPORTING CAUSES! I AM THE ALMIGHTY GOD OF FACEBOOK CHARITY!"
Give me a break.
The problem is easily solved. If you really care, then care all year long. Post that shit, volunteer your time, donate your money when you can. If you don't really care, then don't fool yourself and don't try to fool the rest of us. And, most importantly, stop inviting me to this shit. I'm not moved, I'm not motivated. I'm irritated. And if I have to be the only asshole honest enough to say "Oh, Jimmy got beat up by his mom again? Guess he should take some fucking karate classes," then I'll be that asshole. Because I don't feel so guilty with what I have that I need to justify my station in the world by pretending to care about things that don't matter to me.
Like I said, Go America. Win that war. Kill the bad guys. And don't worry, kids, eventually someone with a heart and proper training will come along and either save you from that abusive home or fail miserably because their job is too difficult and not rewarding enough. Either way, the great and powerful Guilt Machine will make sure you know there are lots of people out there that support you, but none of them that care enough to adopt your sorry ass.
It's bleak, but so is winter. Let's move on to the part where we hate each other, all of this fake goodwill is starting to give me diabetes.
Loathsomely Yours,
-S.R.
Here we go again.
There's a thing circling on Facebook where everyone changes their profile picture to a cartoon character to show their support for or against child abuse. I suppose its supposed to be anti-child abuse, but as they say, any press is good press. Now, things like this are always happening but there's a sudden influx of them around the holidays. Sort of like the influx of venerial diseases around Valentine's Day. There are generic posts about showing support for the troops going around like swine flu through an elementary school, and more charities out whoring themselves for spare change than hookers. I find it all just so disgusting.
The thing is I support the troops. Hell, I love war. I don't want our boys and girls dying over there but you know what? That's the job they signed up for and its the job most of them are proud to do. I support the shit out of that kind of courage. But I don't feel the need to post about it on my Facebook. We all support the troops, why do we need to say it that particular way at this particular time of year? Have we admitted more democracy-hating Soviets into the country than before? No. Then what the hell? The soliders won't see it, they're in fucking Iraq. Write them a letter, send them a card, buy them some Christmas presents.
You won't, because your support for them is as shallow as mine. Let's be realisitc people. Of course you want them home safe and sound. We aren't monsters, we're people and so are they. But you don't think about them. How many of the people posting those status updates about it will give them a second thought that same day? The day after? The answer is very few. Even those of us with family over there don't devote every second to the war effort. Why? Because we're not directly involved and we have other concerns. We're too self-involved to give it much more than the occasional heated debate. That isn't a sin, that's human. So don't get all on your fucking high horse because Christmas is three weeks away. It makes you look pathetic.
Likewise, I'm totally against child abuse. If I saw a dude kicking the shit out of his kid, I'd make it a point to smash his face in with a brick. But some silly, bullshit Facebook gimmick doesn't do anything more than make you feel less guilty for being so privileged as to not be beaten every day. That's all. You aren't donating money to help these kids. You aren't going to work for social services or CPS to try and save as many as you can. You're sitting at home in your middle-class neighborhood going, "Gee, sure sucks to be a child abuse victim. Haha! I can change my profile picture to Goku and that'll save someone's life! I feel so much better!" Fuck you, you are an asshole.
If you really want to help those kids, go volunteer. Don't spam me with some bullshit like this, because then I have to go all the way to Blogspot and get pissed off about it. Doesn't anyone have a charity to support angry bloggers? Come on, I need money too. It's Christmas time, for gods' sakes, how will my family survive with me being so angry all the time?
My point is this: If we are too self-involved to give a shit about the needy or the homeless or the erectile dysfunctions for the rest of the year, what the hell changes us around Christmas? Guilt. Plain and simple. You feel guilty because other people live in squalor and filth and poverty. Big fucking deal. They live that way in August too, but you don't care about it then. The worst part about it, is that you make other people feel guilty by proxy.
Say, for instance, you post that thing about the soldiers and then change your picture for the kids. Now you have a friend or relative that makes slightly more money than you do the sees that and suddenly feels shitty because you're actually less fortunate than they are, and you're so tender-hearted you're helping out anyway. It's like Keeping Up With the Fucking Jonses: The Guilt Trip. Your friends do it, you feel less important for not doing it, so you do it too. You aren't saving anyone, you aren't contributing to the moral fabric of humanity, you're saying "None of you are better than me! I FUCKING LOVE SUPPORTING CAUSES! I AM THE ALMIGHTY GOD OF FACEBOOK CHARITY!"
Give me a break.
The problem is easily solved. If you really care, then care all year long. Post that shit, volunteer your time, donate your money when you can. If you don't really care, then don't fool yourself and don't try to fool the rest of us. And, most importantly, stop inviting me to this shit. I'm not moved, I'm not motivated. I'm irritated. And if I have to be the only asshole honest enough to say "Oh, Jimmy got beat up by his mom again? Guess he should take some fucking karate classes," then I'll be that asshole. Because I don't feel so guilty with what I have that I need to justify my station in the world by pretending to care about things that don't matter to me.
Like I said, Go America. Win that war. Kill the bad guys. And don't worry, kids, eventually someone with a heart and proper training will come along and either save you from that abusive home or fail miserably because their job is too difficult and not rewarding enough. Either way, the great and powerful Guilt Machine will make sure you know there are lots of people out there that support you, but none of them that care enough to adopt your sorry ass.
It's bleak, but so is winter. Let's move on to the part where we hate each other, all of this fake goodwill is starting to give me diabetes.
Loathsomely Yours,
-S.R.
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