“Sometimes I’ll get a whole finger up my ass before I realize what I’m doing. Then I’m like: Goddamnit, this dollar store doesn’t even have a bathroom.”
Being a citizen of a client nation of the American empire has always required a certain level of cognitive dissonance and culpability. How do we balance what is marvelous about America with what is evil?
It’s like America is throwing a fantastic barbecue party. There are clowns and a bouncy castle for the kids. There’s so much junk food! There’s live music! Booze! Drugs! Hookers! It is off the fucking chain!
Those of us who can get into the party are just so excited to be invited. We want to be there so much, we ignore that the land America is throwing the party on was stolen from people America murdered. That the food and drugs are paid for with blood money. That the hookers are sex-slaves.
Easy to turn a blind eye, though, because the party is just so much fun.
However, everything is going on around a big shed right in the middle of the yard. We’re all there enjoying ourselves, pointedly ignoring that shed. It’s not talked about. We don’t even look at it. It’s like it doesn’t even exist.
That’s Uncle Sam’s shed, by the way. America’s patriarch. The man who does the dirty work providing all the fun we’re having. That shed is Uncle Sam’s torture chamber, where he liquefies his victims once he’s done working on them.
The shed has always been there. It has always been in use.
But we all party on, doing our best to ignore it.
Now the party’s winding down, though. The sun’s coming up and we desperately need some real food, a long shower, and a deep sleep. Where’s my ride, anyway? The only people left here are the hardcore burnouts doing blow around the fire pit, listening to one of the hookers get sodomized in the bushes nearby.
How do I get home from here?
Oh, there’s Uncle Sam himself now. He’s wandered out of his shed, and he hasn’t bothered to change out of his “work clothes.”
That is a really nice, red white and blue leather apron, though. I wonder what kind of hide it’s made out of?
In my particular demographic, not getting a tattoo is really the ultimate counterculture expression.
For years I had this default mental mechanism to seeing successful people; particularly artists and creators. I’d go into this pouty, self-pity-party mode with the central theme being:
“Why can’t I have that? Why do they get to have that and I don’t?”
It took a surprisingly long time for me to figure out the answer to these questions.
I can’t have that because I never did anything to achieve it. I never stuck with something for long enough to even have a chance to fail.
It’s like not starting your car and then complaining that it doesn’t accelerate.
It wasn’t the universe, or fate, that was selfishly depriving me of what I truly deserve. It was me choosing not to do what is necessary to succeed.
In reaching this conclusion, the question had to shift.
Why do I sabotage my own success?
That’s a harder one to answer.