Circus Circus

Lost in the Supermarket.

I’ve seen it all. The horrible facsimile of reality we live in is beginning to break down. Things aren’t right. I’ve seen things. Things that make me question my sanity.

A recent trip to the grocery store turned into a Lovecraftian nightmare. I usually have to go to three different grocery stores because crème fraîche is impossible to find in this land of abundance and my fancy French cookbook calls for it in nearly every recipe.

Grocery stores are demonic. The vast selection of yogurts alone should strike fear into your soul. Plain, flavored, cup form, tub form, tube form. Some have fruit, some don’t have fruit, some have fruit that’s not quite fruit. High fructose corn syrup and milk from rBST cattle.

Dairy cows are forcibly impregnated for the majority of their brief existence and hooked up to machines and drained of their life essence. We’re the same way except we can’t reproduce because Obama dumps cadmium into the drinking water that makes your sperm look like retarded tadpoles.

You’ve been poisoned since you were a fetus. Every plastic bottle you’ve drank, every microwave dinner you’ve eaten, every receipt you’ve touched. Your endocrine system is under siege and the enemy is inside your gates. Most guys have pitifully low testosterone levels. This leads to the general malaise many of us feel.

Ask your doctor about it and he’ll avoid the question. Doctors aren’t allowed to talk about testosterone. Here’s an SSRI prescription instead, you’re obviously depressed. You’re depressed because you don’t feel like a man. How can you? There aren’t any cities for you to sack, enemies to put to the sword, new continents to conquer and pillage.

Take a rec class. Maybe you’ll meet some girls. You sign up for wrestling. You’re finally allowed to choke people out for an hour a week. Find the smallest guy in the class and unleash two decades of pent up frustration on his neck. He taps out and you let go just this once. Next time will be different.

Girls start to interlope on your rec class. This is your rec class, this is fight club. They’re not allowed. One challenges you, a small Asian girl. No mercy. You hold her down and press her face into the floor. She’s clearly aroused by this and now your gym clothes reek of pheromones. At least now people at the gym will think you’re getting laid.

Some eldritch abomination is lurking around the yogurt aisle. Neither man nor woman: it’s tall and has the face of a corpse. I’ve never felt genuine fear when looking at another human (?) but this time was different. I turned around and left without buying anything. I’ll come back later, just as long as that creature isn’t there anymore.

Lovecraft was a nonfiction writer. All of his short stories actually took place at some point. Some are taking place right now. Antarctica will soon melt and reveal unspeakable horrors, entities beyond mortal comprehension. Most don’t know this.

The insectification of men is nearly complete. The Age of the Bug Man is upon us. Weird, cockroach men swarm college campuses. They scurry to and from class, crawling back to their dorms to watch hardcore pornography and League of Legends streams behind locked doors. Eyes as black as coal; no light escapes.

Bug Men are a hardy bunch. They eat anything. Mexican food is a particular favorite. Bug Men come in all shapes and sizes. Many are slightly overweight. All of them wear glasses. Bug Men are a cowardly bunch. They flee at the first sign of trouble. Conflict is to be avoided at all costs.

Perhaps it’s the avoidance of conflict that lies at the crux of our social ills. Kids aren’t allowed to punch each other in the face anymore. Tattling to the principle has replaced the playground brawls of yore. The managerial classes of corporate America have never thrown a punch. They were good boys and girls, and ratted out all their enemies to the school administration. I’d wager many would drop their haughty attitude if they had only gotten beat up in school. Every student government member that gets shoved into a locker in high school is a life saved.

Your entire existence after college has been reduced to begging these people for work. Please let me sit at a computer for fifty hours per week. Please let me stare at a blank Microsoft Excel spreadsheet until my retinas burn with the heat of one thousand angry suns. Please pay me my pitiful pittance so I can buy crème fraiche.

Job interviews are nothing more than entertainment for these people. They own you. When they tell you to dance, you’d better dance. Sometimes they’ll ask personal questions just to watch you squirm. What’s your favorite film? You can’t answer that because you only watch Danish art house films about genital mutilation. You swallow your pride and tell him The Lion King. You need the money. The same kid from elementary school who told on you for calling him gay now has the power to impoverish you. Render you an unemployment statistic.

Start your own business, they say. Be your own boss. There’s no exit. Now you’re beholden to the several thousand decaying, menopausal women whom you market skin care products to on Facebook. And your bitch Asian wife still won’t let you spend any of your money.

You can always join a pyramid scheme and WIN A NEW BMW. The fat Mormon guy who yells at the TV inside Buffalo Wild Wings did it, you can too. You’re prepared to sell your dignity. All they ask of you is to pitch their product or service to every single person you’ve ever met: your friends, your family, your high school English teacher (sorry I still don’t understand Faulkner). You realize you don’t have any friends or family.

What is there left to do? Submerge your head in the sea of electric meaninglessness: Hearthstone streams, slice of life anime, increasingly grotesque pornography. Drown. Become comfortably numb with your non-existence. Maybe one day you’ll get a Tinder match who flakes on you. Maybe one day you’ll find peace in nature or religion. Maybe one day there’ll be a great war that threatens our very livelihood. Maybe not. The Lakers are playing tomorrow.