Personal Crusade (originally posted to AltReel, August 2010)

I like to think of myself as a fairly good faker of normalcy. In fact, I
took much pride in this ability. I could put a wide smile in my face
while making pointless small talk with strangers. Little did my goofy
grin and brigt eyes betray my utter disgust for the platitudes that
spewed from their holes. Weather is weather. It will always be too hot,
too cold, too rainy, too windy, too nice. Sports are sports. Your team
is awesome/horrible/recovering/showing great potential. Politicians are
politicians. They will always lie and cheat and steal while professing
our best interests in mind. They will sexually harass their interns and
abuse drugs while passing condemning legislation against both. Because I
am younger, I am still exposed to so many topics: MMA fighting, social
networking, video games, Jager bombs, dance clubs, current pop hits,
fashion trends, I-phones, celebrity rehab stints, tabloid pics, green
technology, reality TV shows, graduating college, getting a good job,
reading books about wizard children or glittery vampires, spray tanning,
some fascination with people from Jersey, college football scores, and
credit scores.
I used to be so good at faking my normalcy and interest in these things
in the name of politeness and anti-awkwardness in social settings. But
the past couple years I have become very very aware of one simple fact.
I don't fucking care. At all. Not even the least bit. And I don't care
that you know I don't care.
It makes me so sick. All of it. I feel like I am on some sort of fucked
carousel spinning dangeroulsy out of control while the kaliedescope of a
nation so fucking up its own ass with ridiculous shit flys past me in
bright colors and loud noises. The sound of us all on a final death
march to the land of the intelectually fucked. The spinning grows faster
and faster, I feel the hot burning vomit creeping up my throat. What
used to be polite smiles and nods has turned into sneers and utter
contempt etched onto my face. I have no connection with my generation.
We profess to be so forward thinking and radical, while creating an
atmosphere of indulgence and fake rebelliousness. Young law students
get full sleeve tattoos. Your accountant probably has an nose piercing.
I bet your neighbor has a trendy blog that she fills with artsy photos
of sunsets, closeups of food and stupid fucking inanimate objects in
black and white, while filling pages with procclomations of how simple,
artsy, and in touch with their surrondings they are. Watch, I bet she
does. Go knock on her door and ask. I will wait........See, told you.
Things like tattoos, peircings, writing, poetry, and excessive drinking
used to be the signs of the eternally fucked. Outlaws, rebels, social
deviants, agoraphobic nuerotics, and general assholes. They fringed away
from society while advocating social change and acceptance. In here lies
the problem. Instead of sticking to the dream, these sonsofbitches
settled down, bought 3 bedroom houses, and starting popping out kids.
Now these signs of rebelliousness are trendy and hip.
I have decided to make it my personal crusade to be an asshole. I don't
give a fuck about anything. I don't want your stupid phone. I don't want
to watch that asinine show. I don't want to dance with slutty college
chicks to top 40 hits at a bar that sells $9 beers. I want solitude that
is broken only by a few souls I trust. I want to drink at the most
innapropiate times. I want to quikly tell anybody who has the audacity
to bring up UFC that I think it is fucking retarded. I want dark qiuet
bars where they KNOW BETTER than to bother you while you are doing
something as important as drinking. I want my girlfriend who tolerates
my insanity and contributes some of her own. I want to never wear an
article of clothing with a logo on it. I want to drink whiskey and smoke
cigars on an empty porch until I am fall down drunk a.d then crawl to
bed. I don't give a fuck, and I don't care.

Call me a misanthrope. It feels great.
I drink to the death of ideas. I drink to the death of rebelliousness. I
drink to the death of my generation.

cheers

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My Fortress of Schirlingtude

The streets are full of the trendy, the hip, the loud and fucked. 90 dollar shirts covering waxed and spray tanned bros. They stand like douchebag cattle outside their loud clubs, smoking and basking in the warmth of their bullshit and smug self worth. Cheap makeup plastered on girls dressed in their sluttiest best. The game continues for them. The hunt. The smell of PBR, desperation, and hardons fill the air. I make my way through this crowd, head down. Avoid eye contact, thats how they get you. A polite hello one minute to a semi-familiar face, and the next thing you know you are doing jagerbombs and dancing to a top 40 hit. Fuck No. Not me. Keep the head down. Weave through this tapestry of bullshit and fucked priorities. Stay anonymous. Keep the goal in mind. Target acquired. I see the green door. Relief washes through me like a cool crisp wave. Almost safe. Almost there. Don't lose focus now. Oh fuck, a drunk fat girl is making a scene, crying on the street, fatter friends trying to console her. Avoid this last obstacle. I reach it. Like a HOME, but without the judgment, and constant disappointment. The sign greets me, NO FUCKING HIPSTERS. This isn't the place for that. People take their drinking seriously here. Mass amounts are consumed in a unhealthy amount of time by the perpetually awesome. The truly blessed. Those that have no time for dancing and girly shooters. The door opens, beckoning, welcoming us back. Hug the doorman, a compatriot. I glance at my brother, I see the same look in his eyes. So many crazy things have happened in here. Too much of us......blood, sweat, tears, vomit......has been spilled on these floors for us to ever call another place home. Take the plunge, go down the stairs. Descending into the musty dank soothing womb. Madness awaits. I have seen it all here. The true dregs of humanity. Occasionally, despite the ominous undertones in the entryway, some of the brave tools will venture down, poke a head in. I see the disgust, the wrinkled brow. There is no bullshit here, not for the kind they crave. Get the fuck out. This is our place. The vibe is loud now. I see my brother yelling in the corner. My Guinness, number 5million tonight, is cold and soothing. A chick falls off her barstool. A fat uggo is puking in a trash can. the shitters are clogged again. I look up. Deep breathe. I am at home among the madness, the random acts of bullshit. I am at home.

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