Writings from 11/02 to 3/05. |
12/01/02 Tiny beads flash on blinking screens. Blips blip and force thoughts and ideas from those screens down a gutter, dripping into a bucket just above my nose. When it's full it tips and only then do I speak. This is my 21st century mind. My brain is lined with computers built with the latest technology meant to overtake the world and make everyone else appear to be just like me- the anti-anyone. It's a complex inner mechanical system that produces me; one I'm not allowed to speak much of (hence the slight twitch every time I have a thought about telling my secrets to a bare and unexposed world). The government created me as a weapon of self-destruction in hopes of scaring the outside world away from The United States and allowing us to enjoy our commercial freedoms like Brittney Spears and Pepsi and Coke and Friends and Monday Night Football and internet porn. Wars protect that type of nation, first and foremost. When money is your root, it's the first to warrant a shield. Not the farmers, firemen, men and women of the law, babies, mothers, fathers, etc. I've been sent to distract opposing governments by selling myself to them like ours sells crack in ghettos. My mission is to get them to believe MTV doesn't exist and we're all lazy grass smokers and there's no need to worry about what Americans think or what they're doing in their private country club. I'm neither Republican- nor Democrat-endorsed but I'm still paid for by taxpayers in their hopeful eyes of saving the world. I've got Saddam and Osama on speed-dial, but George and Dick are too "important" or "busy" to give me their numbers. So much for progress. It's nice to see their level of devotion to their "project." I still get Christmas cards from Noriega and Khaddafi, yet the IRS still taxes me year in, year out. The world wants the U.S. hated for all of its many evils. Instead of correcting and reaching out, we choose to flaunt them directly, face-first in the general public's eyes. How am I supposed to feel sorry? |