Discothèque Juliette

Shut up and dance with me.

She completed all her homework assignments with a plastic giraffe pen. I would steal something from her bedroom every morning, forcing her to call me later that day. Today I had stolen her giraffe pen. You piss me off so much. I pulled her closer and kissed her and she tried not to smile, feigning indignation. When she said that I knew I had stolen her heart. Summer would come a few weeks later and we would wordlessly part ways as separate atoms racing through the immeasurable void.

In the event that you find yourself without a social circle following your high school years (an all too common fate), the entirety of your future female connection will be sourced through online dating applications. Here more than anywhere else, your sexual value as a man is reduced to the capricious whims of distracted girls swiping through your profile in between bored glances at Netflix. If you are not photogenic, or worse, genuinely mediocre in appearance, your prospects are dismal. Tinder is the Colosseum and you are the lowly gladiator whose survival depends on appeasing the vapid egos of the patrician caste.

The matches you do get invoke a thrilling, short-lived dopamine release; that is until you view her sixth picture and discover she’s obese. Gone are the lithe, fourteen and fifteen year old blondes who pined after you in high school. The metaphysic of filth we inhabit taints their little souls with a rapid, unrelenting savagery. Your high school girlfriend, should you have been so fortuitous to have experienced young love, is now a single mother: on methamphetamines and with a tattoo reading LIVE LAUGH LOVE displayed furtively above her mons pubis.

Certain Internet forums, the names of which I am disinclined to mention, propose that men have but four bargaining chips in the sexual economy: appearance, status, wealth, and social skills in descending order of importance.

Your appearance is, more or less, at the mercy of biochemical reactions that occur before you are even born. The face, rather the unalterable geometric proportions that constitute your countenance, is irrefutably the largest determinant of your attractiveness. Euclid was a bastard.

Second only to this is height, again a factor dependent on your genes and childhood diet. Frame is the third constituent of appearance and the most readily alterable. The weight room is filled to capacity with young men, who lacking suitable facial aesthetics and heights starting with the number six, spend hours per week lifting weights in order to make amends with Nature’s cruel machinery.

Now, status, wealth, and social skills are much more nebulous concepts, not as easily quantifiable as appearance (save for wealth), and lacking all three, I am not qualified to discuss them at length. We all know of rich men with bitch Asian wives, henpecked at home and at the office, who in a last ditch act of desperation either commit suicide or flee to Thailand and spend their remaining days drinking cheap beer and sleeping with prostitutes (a form of suicide in its own right). Likewise, status is no longer a guarantee of a fulfilling sex life unless you were born into a powerful family and given the access code to the secret Illuminati Tinder app full of fifteen year old American Apparel models.

We are thus left with social skills, or ‘game’, as it is referred to in the aforementioned forums I am disinclined to mention. ‘Game’ has been the subject of many an e-book, hawked online to lonely subcontinental men lacking entirely in the other three bargaining chips. However, I will argue, social skills cannot be taught. Like appearance, your ability to navigate the intricacies of the sexual economy is largely based on early childhood experiences. Appearance and social skills go hand in hand. Beautiful people can do no wrong. This is why attractive women, though they may not deign to sleep with you, are wholly more pleasant to talk with than less attractive women.

If you were ugly as a child, you missed out on many of the formative social experiences enjoyed by your more attractive peers. You were not invited to the parties, the dances, the trips to the beach. Through no fault of your own, your exclusion from these outings ensnared you in a vicious circle: exclusion reduces your opportunity to improve your social skills, poor social skills result in your exclusion. Blizzard, realizing this troubling social trend, graciously released World of Warcraft during your adolescence, providing you with a simulacrum of community (if you rolled Alliance, stop reading).

The mass shooting is the last shocking act of post-modernity. Aside from those massacres of a sectarian nature, episodes that have become all too familiar in the West in recent years, the mass shooting represents a lashing out of the repressed violence and unfulfilled sexual desire dormant in the young men of our society. Our society, one accustomed to fictionalized representations of sex and violence via the media, is appalled to witness the fuming reaction when the two mix in real life.

Young men shoot up their schools and universities for the deceptively simple reason that they’re not getting laid. Parents and the media are swift to blame guns, video games, and a lack of proper mental health care (as if boys aren’t being prescribed enough medication already), but in reality, like all things, it comes down to sex. If a boy is sexually active, he’s not emptying a loaded magazine on his school cafeteria.

Sex serves as the ultimate demarcation of social status in early adulthood, effectively separating young men into castes based on their attractiveness. A boy with minimal sexual experience will gradually find himself unable to connect with his male peers. Social isolation ensues, and with it a slew of mental health issues. You can guess what happens next.

Were the young men of our society not so thoroughly anesthetized with pornography and electronic entertainment (arguably the two most effective forms of social control), there would be a mass shooting every day. Nobody playing League of Legends into the early hours of the morning and jerking off three times per day is killing anybody.

One cannot fault young men for dropping out of society. We are caged lab rats in Calhoun’s great behavioral sink experiment. Childhood friends will stab each other in the back for the opportunity to become some drunken floozy’s fourth sexual partner. Participating in the sexual economy yields a diminishing return; and in the majority of cases, no return at all.

Great Satan

Sweet Land of Liberty.

I watched the twisted, metal Babel erupt into a plume of thick, choking smoke as three thousand souls were consumed by fire. God said the Earth wouldn’t be destroyed by water the second time around. Nobody understood how or why, but there was always some Middle Eastern dictator to blame. The streets were cloaked red, white, and blue in remembrance. Jets took off and the bombs fell on the empty desert. We would have our revenge.

The decade came and went and we were still there. Babylon had fallen. Ancient ruins in Mesopotamia, once places of divine power beyond our scientific comprehension, turned into rubble. Gilgamesh wept.

Our culture of hope had become one of fear. But everything has already been said about that. The twentieth century was dragged out of memory kicking and screaming. Memories bleed, flowing freely from the open wounds of our minds. Pale, scarred over remnants of times and places long past torn open anew.

Patriotism escapes me. It’s hard to love someone you’ve never really known, even harder to love someone you know all too well. America eludes me. I don’t understand her. We grew up together and I’ve wanted nothing more than to get far away from her.

Her broken visage stares back at me from Subway signs and freeway off-ramps. She whispers at night to me about special offers and money back guarantees. Her beauty is apparent to me in the coastal shoals of New England, her ugliness in the urban sprawl of Los Angeles. She is neither Lady Liberty nor Whore of Babylon. Her board of directors prefers a different approach to branding.

This land is my land; this land is your land. I am her representative, her ambassador. Foreigners look to me for guidance but I’m just as lost. She’s a whore to them: someone to take what they came for and leave. She’s a lady to me: someone to hold gently in the dawn’s early light. But there aren’t any ladies anymore.

The only girl I’ve ever loved was a figment of my imagination. I spoke to her twice and I never saw her again. I will grow old and forever cling to that which never was. She will forever be fourteen.

We had crossed the veil. Much has been said about the nineties but they were the last decade, the end of history. I came of age amidst two decades of total spiritual rot. I don’t care about the economy or politics or the TSA sodomizing you with a flashlight. I care about those things we’ll never get back.

Those true believers in love and honor and beauty are the martyrs of our age. They will die not knowing what these words mean. The evil men from the desert, our sworn enemies, know these words well. They are willing to die for love and honor and beauty. Their alien god has not abandoned them. Our marketplace god has long left us.

I don’t know what happened that day. Perhaps I never will. Whether terrorists or deep state operatives or extraterrestrials knocked down the towers, it is all irrelevant. Mission accomplished. Whoever sought to destroy the land of the free and the home of the Whopper was successful. No amount of political posturing and empty promises will bring back what was lost.

The end of my childhood coincided with the end of my country. America was not a virgin. Perhaps she never was. But in those days she carried herself with the dignity you might expect from a young mother. Now she’s divorced and sleeps with loud, swarthy men from nightclubs.

An elderly Japanese woman is screaming at her half-black preteen daughter. She berates her in a sickening patois of Engrish and Ebonics. Her daughter is eleven but she’s shamefully unemployed and is still going to school. You need to own business, girl. Anthony Robbins said you need to be entrepreneur, girl. School is waste of time, girl. You need to make paper, girl. I try to tune it out and go back to sleep but the Mexican couple is fucking in the shower again.

When you graduate college you’ll be stuck doing sales. Stuck calling small business owners on the phone and harassing them during dinner. You can’t afford not to have this product, sir. It pays for itself. Your boss will pull you aside and warn you about your attitude. You sound like you want to die. I’m just tired, that’s all. You quit the next week.

Holden Caulfield always liked museums. Museums never change. The scene where he’s watching his little sister on the carousel almost brought me to tears. I wish sometimes I could interact with others without the dark clouds of sex, drugs, and alcohol hanging over our heads. But their impenetrable shadows obscure and ultimately render void any meaningful human connection.

Commercials for Buffalo Wild Wings assault your ears. BEER. SPORTS. WINGS. Most have never seen wings attached to a whole roasted chicken, fewer have seen a living chicken. Apparently Buffalo Wild Wings is affectionately referred to as B-Dubs by people in the know. Kayne West will not rest until everything has a hip hop abbreviation. Nobody knows what it means, but it’s provocative. It gets the people going. It’s all entertainment, all sound and fury signifying nothing.

I like to replay The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time from time to time. Midway through the game, you are forced to become an adult and the world as you once knew it is destroyed. Seven years have passed and you are thrust into a familiar but hideously warped version of reality. The signs were there when you were a kid, but you never paid much attention.

Games never change, only the players. We too were thrust into adulthood, into the sobering realization that things were bad all along. Only we can’t travel through time. We can’t go back. We must march time’s cruel march while everything around us slowly, imperceptibly gets worse. The cavalry is not coming. There is no exit. The ride never ends.

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.