Soy Fields Forever

Soy Mass
Nature is Satan’s church.

Glycine max or the soybean is an edible legume native to East Asia. Soybean seeds are encased in a hairy pod about three to eight centimeters in length. Each pod contains two to four seeds five to eleven millimeters in diameter. Soybeans are cultivated for their oil and meal: their meal provides a cheap source of protein for livestock and processed foods. The USDA estimates that the Global Soybean Production 2016/2017 will be 336.62 million metric tons.

Soy contains isoflavones that mimic the activity of estrogen in your body. Your body can’t distinguish between natural estrogen and these phytoestrogens (plant-derived xenoestrogens), both of which bind and activate estrogen receptors modulating gene expression. People who consume large amounts of soy risk developing hyper-estrogenism.

There is a reason why vegans and most vegetarians soon begin developing symptoms of general insanity. Though these symptoms are present in male vegans and vegetarians, many of whom I would hesitate to call men, no more are they apparent than in women.

Women naturally have higher estrogen than men (though this may not be the case for much longer). Estrogen is, in fact, the primary female sex hormone and is partially responsible for what makes them women. While high estrogen in men may make them more prone to use the term ‘Sunday Fun Day’ or let Somali refugees fuck their wife, high estrogen in women can lead to a variety of unpleasant side effects.

You are what you eat. We have become sentient soy masses. I see it in the faces of men and women my age: an amorphous, androgynous physiognomy betraying seething passive-aggressiveness. Their placid demeanor masks a hideous inner monstrosity that I can only assume looks somewhat like the blob monster from Akira made of texturized soy protein. Election season was misery. I lost all my friends in college. Though I rarely discuss politics with people outside of my immediate family, they somehow found me out. I was an imposter.

The soy mass is easy to control. He follows directions, he doesn’t ask questions. He is ideal for the type of compartmentalized labor ubiquitous today. I can’t say Kaczynski didn’t warn us. Nobody would listen. However, the soy mass is able to find work and even move up to management. You won’t be so lucky. Interviewers can sniff out people who aren’t team players, people who aren’t SELF-STARTERS.

Upon graduating college and failing to secure employment, you will move back in with your parents and enter a stage of your life I’ve dubbed Interview Hell. Your only human connection will be your parents and the interviewers you speak with two to three times per week. All of your friends either don’t speak with you anymore or have moved out of your hometown and are living fulfilling lives in the major U.S. cities. You will rapidly exhaust the RPG dialogue tree with your parents and have the same conversations over and over. Their growing disappointment with you will soon become apparent as you start sinking back into that endless ocean of electronic entertainment.

What is a man to do? Nobody ever told you a damn thing about being a man. Outside of some failed attempts by your father to get you interested in sports, no doubt interspersed with lectures on how it’s important to “be nice to girls”, you haven’t a clue. You are stuck in Interview Hell, and until you make that Dantean voyage out of the Inferno and into the Purgatory of our post-industrial society, you will remain. Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.

Without employment, without money, you are stuck in your rotting hometown. Twenty odd years have gone by and all that remain are ghosts. Your elementary school evokes memories of better days. Days spent with your friends who have all since passed into the nostalgic halls of memory. The places you remember remain but are eerily devoid of life. Above all, you just really miss everyone.

The first things to go are your social skills. Prolonged isolation does this to you. When you only have interviewers to talk to for months on end, you soon forget what it’s like to have a genuine conversation. You’ll end up listening more than speaking and your words will come out in a jumbled mess. Your solitude won’t make you more productive either. You’ll spend your time in between interviews playing old computer games and watching movies you’ve already seen.

Phone screens lead to in-person interviews where they find out you’re not a soy mass and reject you. Americans smile too much. Maybe it’s all the sunlight. I’ve always perceived smiling as insincere. Guys only smile when they’re about to stab you in the back. Politicians and salesmen smile all the time. America is a country of politicians and salesmen.

I can’t help but feel like a caged animal doing party tricks during interviews. The entire interview process is absurd. You can’t get to know someone in thirty years, let alone thirty minutes. The same old questions are asked and I give the same old responses. Tell me about a challenge you’ve overcome. I kind of want to die but I got out of bed this morning. What do you do in your free time? Post jokes about bitch Asian girlfriends and Mark Zuckerberg on Twitter. Where do you see yourself in five years? Dead in a Hollywood swimming pool.

The last interview I went to the girl told me her company was all about having fun. I almost walked out. Your multi-million dollar tech company is not about fun, it’s about gradually sucking the life out of small business owners so your founder can fuck kids in the Philippines. They promptly sent me my rejection the next day.

We must beg and grovel like dogs for the remaining scraps on the desiccated carcass of the American economy. What automation won’t replace will be taken by the billions of huddled masses yearning to breathe free. The middle class isn’t shrinking: there is no middle class. By the end of the decade the last remaining source of income will be selling our organs to Silicon Valley startups.

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.