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.

Russian Blue

Say Yes To Drugs.

They say eyes are the windows to the soul. What does that even mean? Most of the eyes I look into are dead. There’s no soul behind those eyes, no signs of intelligent life. The SETI Institute picks up more signs of intelligent life from across the universe than I encounter in the glassed-over vitreous orbs of the Bug Men that stare back at me.

There’s nothing as profoundly alienating as the blank, bug-eyed stare people give you when you interrupt them during one of their monologues. These people don’t want to talk with you. They want to talk at you. They want to tell you all about their dog, or why their car brakes were squeaking, or about the myriad of virile, young Italian soccer players that have been stalking them in their fertile age of 52.

Unmarried women should be forced to become nuns and hit little Catholic school kids on the fingers with rulers. That would prove a larger boon to society than a legal secretary or a medical office receptionist or whatever else these surplus women do with their miserable little lives. I don’t feel pity for them because they’re usually awful bitches deep down. You can tell when you try to correct one when she’s babbling on about something mundane. Correct some minute, inconsequential detail about her monologue. Go ahead, try it.

First, you’ll get the bug-eyed stare. That’s if they hear you in the first place. They forget they weren’t talking to their precious puppy, forget that you are a sentient being capable of transmitting complex forms of thought (hopefully), and are pulled out of their reverie by your sudden comment. Confusion strikes initially. Then irritation, frustration, and even anger manifest.

How dare you bring her back to reality? She’s childless, alone, and spends her nights with light romance novels and phallic vegetables. She must be allowed to live in Disneyland (she is a princess after all). Besides wine and Xanax, it’s her only coping mechanism. Your comment shatters the illusion, ushering her back into the cold, cold world. Now she hates you. She’ll make a snide, passive-aggressive comment. You won’t say anything back because you need to cheat off her test and don’t want her to start sitting on the other side of the lecture hall. You realize why nobody loves her and why nobody ever will.

I need to stop listening to people. I’m going to start charging for my time. They pay their psychiatrists and I’m essentially fulfilling the same function. What a terrible job. I do not envy the psychiatrist. Well, I envy his unlimited access to medication. Don’t take any of that shit, by the way. You won’t be able to hear the voices anymore.

The big question is how do we prevent ourselves from becoming like this woman in our own middle age? Smith & Wesson are always there for you if you feel yourself too far gone down that path, but there must be a more economical solution. Bullets are expensive. I suppose a vibrant social life in a multigenerational, homogenous rural community would do the trick. But that’s as unrealistic as these bug-eyed women not dying alone and incontinent in some godforsaken hospital bed.

I’ve longed hypothesized that neurodegenerative diseases like dementia are due to social alienation in old age. There’s some island in the Mediterranean where these types of diseases don’t seem to occur. Scientists haven’t quite been able to figure out how being surrounded by friends and family, eating and drinking well, and living on an island in the Mediterranean is good for health, however.

It seems the possibility of having this type of life grows ever smaller with each passing year. I’m making enough money where I have a roof over my head in a nice part of town and expensive eggs from Whole Foods. But it’s not fulfilling. Nothing ever is fulfilling. Not even chasing girls. The hunt is fun. But by some miracle when you manage to catch one you grow quickly tired of her. You’ll do everything you can to avoid having sex and dump her after a month or two.

I nearly went home with a co-worker last weekend. She was a pretty Russian girl, drunk out of her mind in traditional Russian fashion. Guys were buzzing around her like flies all night, buying her drinks and trying to make her laugh with lines they stole from some idiot comedian on Comedy Central. I walked by her and she called my name, anything to swat the flies away. I flirted with her, she with me. Her eyes were different: vast blue oceans of profound, immeasurable depth. Was this the fabled Russian spirit?

The only Russian word I know is пизда because that’s all Russians say when you’re wrestling. I could beat everyone in my BJJ class in college except the stout Russian guy from Kazakhstan and the instructor (also Russian). I’d last about fifteen seconds and find myself pinned under two hundred pounds of Slav. No escape. I would have my revenge with this girl. We weren’t going to have sex, we were going to wrestle and I was going to make her submit to America, to freedom, to capitalism.

Eye contact is the second hardest thing in the world. Eye contact with Russian women is the first. Their women are genetically engineered in Soviet labs to sniff out weakness. American men are faggots, she told me. I agreed. You don’t look American. I’m not, I lied. I made her guess what European country she thought I was from and she guessed Italy. Good enough.

She was married and all throughout the conversation her husband (an American faggot, she reassured me) was blowing up her phone with frantic, worried messages. Please respond. I guess green cards are hard to come by these days. She opened up the Uber application and sent for a ride home. Where do you live? I pointed to the left. She paused and embraced me and left the bar, left my life.