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Rant #348
(published September 20, 2007)
Amerikan Spectacle
by Joseph Scott Rutledge
It's excruciating.

The things I experience and the absurdity of reality are far too much to handle; so much in fact, I live inside my head the majority of the time I am awake. It seems as if it is something of a language barrier in the way that the only course for working through it is a series of grunts and gestures. And still, with all of that, no one ever understands what I am talking about or feeling or dreaming or thinking. I am an outcast.

Isolated and depraved.

Every thought is perverted; every idea is built up into massive piles of information and language and held together by pieces of string alternating between doubt, hope, and inspiration and all bound with intricate knots of desperation. This is where I live and everyone should come and visit once in a while.

I exist in a stereotypically normal fashion. I have a son and a significant other and all of the bullshit that comes along with that. I have the manically depressed mother-in-law who might as well be literally flinging shit at everyone around her as this is what she does with her emotions anyway. These are the people I am forced to take seriously in my life. There is the manically depressed mother-in-laws new husband who still has delusions that he speaks to expatriated CIA specialists on bestiality websites. His real children have long since disowned him. I'd like to know how you go about disowning people. I think I would be good at it. I live beneath these people in a basement. And the stomps on the ceiling above me are angry and sad, and there is never the natural rhythm of walking that most everyone has. It's more of a stumbling, and it all boils down to incoherent nonsense.

There is the vapid masculinity of the brother-in-law who is ruining my sister's life. This man has a level of belligerence unknown to sociology text books in ivy-league schools. I walked in on him masturbating with a cup full of warm potted-meat, or thinly sliced deli ham, it was hard to tell which and I believe it was mixed with lotion or some sort of KY jelly as there was a thick sludge of creamy juice flowing down his balls and the inside of his thighs. The women moaned loudly from some withdrawn place in their minds, this withdrawal was filmed and he was watching it intently. The sucking noise grew louder and louder and it was all screaming in my head at the exact same time. I walked outside to smoke and he never uttered a word in apology. As a matter of fact, he never said anything about it. He walked out on the porch to smoke with me and he never even blushed. This person has impregnated my sister twice, (all the while using sandwich meat to mimic the feeling of her cunt in his spare time) once with a brutish and ruined young boy and it is too early to tell on the other one, she is only six weeks old. In ten years I will get back to you on them. And my sister is a whole other subject of amazing transformation from a social butterfly with a hint of promise into absolutely nothing but a useless pile of regurgitated thoughts. And it is all thanks to him. Thanks Jimbo.

Then the computer geek step-father (who is the only one I really have nothing to say about, except that he should stop watching television, because it is seriously fucking with his head), and my hairstylist mother. I don't know if anyone has ever grown up with a hair-stylist, but if you have then you know that they have a type of personality so fake that you can never really know what they are thinking. On her death bed she will still be cleaning spider webs from the bush of faux human connection. Still trying to hustle that next perm or talking up a bigger tip. But hopefully she will have the realization of death before death so that she will feel that her life has been wasted chasing the ridiculous and utterly unattainable American Dream. I hope they all do. I have had a similar epiphany in which I said to myself, simply, who wants that anyway? Who wants the security and sterilization? I don't, and I hope you feel the same. If not, you know what you should do, you have heard it from someone before, someone a lot like me, someone who told you that you should kill yourself. So I don't need to say it again.

But, for all this I am thankful, it gives me the fodder I need to keep writing and keep moving in this time and place in history. This special time, this space we occupy can never be recreated no matter how hard humanity tries. This is a time of spectacle and decadence, of the purchasing of rights; this is the first time in history in which consumerism is a science. You should feel full of pride and individuality, or, you could feel like me and become nauseous every time you think.

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