How the fuck is an American supposed to feel patriotic when the country he pays taxes to is nothing but a host body for parasitic conglomerates who force him to pay exuberant monthly fees for the right to stay alive?
Being an American is a raw deal. It’s an especially raw deal if you’re smart enough to know at least a little about the genocidal horrors your tax money has been used for for centuries.
America is not a country for people with thoughts beyond the utilitarian or passions that lend themselves to more than being bought or sold. Someone showing the basest signs of a human personality in this country is almost immediately regarded as an idiot or an immature radical.
There is a reason why our art is corporate shit, why we have adolescent vocabularies, why misery abounds and yet most people never learn to express their inner lives beyond insipid, vacuous cliché absorbed from TV shows written for the intellect of a sixth grader.
If you ever find yourself with the freedom to step out into the country and roam around for awhile with no boss or landlord fucking with you much, you will encounter a horrible awareness that the same land that once generated Whitman and Guthrie is today celebrating Post Malone.
To read those old books by raw intellects like Steinbeck and Hemingway and Virginia Woolf is to feel cheated by this ugly temple of depravity and ambition you got stuck with for a country. The only thing I’ve learned between 2016 and now is I don’t want to be an American anymore.
There’s no telling how many thousands of geniuses might have been in this country had they not been flanked by waterbrained perverts conditioned to fear passion and condemn anybody expressing anything unusual.
Note: Autocorrect made me say “exuberant” instead of “exorbitant” because it seemed to think I was referring to life on the other side of the pipeline.
