Notes from a Dystopian America, 2019
Hell couldn’t be much worse than modern America
I see a pregnant woman working the late shift in a convenience store and my first thought isn’t, “Aww, a family is forming.” No, my first thought is: Who is the poor bastard who is going to be on the hook for 18 years of debt slavery and possible imprisonment as his reward for being a dad? Yes, there are exceptions and families do rarely stay together. But, we all know this is the exception rather than the rule. All she has to do is throw “dad” under the bus. With a distant look in her eye, she overcharges me for my stuff and I bring up the fact she rang up one of my items twice. She denies it, puffs out her chest, and rather than starting a fight over 99 cents I just let it go. Normally, I’d raise hell, but it’s already been a rough day as my company’s corporate credit card was declined – yes, it was fucking declined – after I had to spend all day scamming a ride from the mechanic to the hotel room while my aging truck is worked on.
Earlier this week, I stopped for diesel fuel. Walking in, I saw a young white male dressed up in his Army uniform about to report for duty. I couldn’t resist asking, “Why would you fight for a country that hates you?” Stunned, he didn’t really have an answer. He murmured something about paying for school. I could tell by the look on his face he knew I was right. This country sees you as nothing but fresh meat for the grinder, a worker bee to exploit if you are a white male.
In my travels, I visit a lot of big corporations. You know, those corporations that broadcast their gleaming, sparking images to the world. The dirty underbelly of these manufacturers of consumer crap is stunningly different from what they want the world to believe. The dungeon-like reality is the polar opposite of the glossy image. Often, entering one of these manufacturers of say, wash powders or even candy is like entering prisons complete with facial scans and demands for ID and signing away rights before entering the compound. Seeing where the things we buy are produced vs. seeing the image presented of these products in the media can be nauseating when when compares and contrasts the two. It’s stunning to see the disconnect first hand. America’s carefully crafted image is nothing but make believe.
I’ve been noticing I’ve had the give a fuck taken right out of me in my 9 months that I’ve been ghosting/working in the matrix. My mood is bleak most of the time. The social environment here is awful, no matter which state you’re in. It has been a painful experience as I work out the money to leave again. From blue haired fatties populating the checkout lanes as I buy groceries, to the snooty looks women give me for being alive in the hotels I stay in when my truck is broken down, to the Orwellian two minutes hate I see the few times I catch a glance of the cheap, mainstream media talking heads in musty suits, America is truly one of the most miserable places I can imagine. This is why I haven’t been writing as much. This country literally sucks the will to live right out of me.
On a brighter note, Candace Owens and Roseanne Barr were giving the #MeToo movement hell on Candace’s new show this week. Owens also said the closest thing she’s seen to white supremacy is the feminist movement. Indeed, feminists walk around the U.S. as if men like me are nothing but dirt under their feet. I truly despise them.
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While my official road trip won’t begin until next month, I decided to start prepping now. What better way to prep than getting “lost” with a road trip to a state park I’d never visited before about 500 miles away from home? One situated right by the Gulf of Mexico. I had never set up a tent before last night and had never driven so far (all at once) on my bike. There was a sense of accomplishment as I successfully pulled off both.
I looked around to see if I could find a hot one chat up. No such luck. So, I messaged one of my regular FWBs on Whatsapp and set something up with her.
I whip out my phone, tell my FWB to stay home, and end up running off to the closet hotel with this sexy black girl who immediately proceeded to climb on top of me and give me absolute hell in bed. It wasn’t long before I felt that familiar feeling – when a girl climaxes – and the intercourse starts feeling really good.
It started the first night as I was whisked away from the airport to the clock tower at the center of town by my taxi driver. That night, I ended up in a club getting hit on by sexy South American women eager to get my clothes off. It was literally like being in a different universe, transported from stolid, work-obsessed, sex-hating Anglo America to the Garden of Eden. The first night I ended up on top of a very pretty Colombian girl who was dancing naked for me in my room while doing lines of some very good blow and taking Aguardiente shots.
We spent the entire night doing lines, talking about everything under the sun, kissing, and screwing. We stayed up all night learning about each other, talking about our hopes and dreams and life experiences. We’d get high, then end up in all kinds of interesting positions sexually. I personally like to have a bitch sit on my face and wriggle as I lick her vagina before we have intercourse. (But I won’t just lick any girl. I have my own personal criteria.) I do remember she liked having her hair pulled. Ah, that luscious, long, flowing dark hair. It went all the way down to her waist.
For instance, since arriving I’ve realized cocaine is everywhere in Colombia. Taxi drivers have been offering me free samples, virtually everywhere I go others are offering me free samples. Of course, I don’t turn them down. The men and women offering me these samples often do so in public areas with police presence. It doesn’t take a genius to reach the conclusion that police in Colombia obviously have decided lax enforcement of drug policy is better than ruling your citizens with an iron fist, pushing the drug trade into the underground and making it violent.
Of course, prostitution is legal here as it is in many countries.