something that floats in my head a lot is that I was cooking breakfast and my dad was talking about “when you gonna get a girlfriend” literally never ever because I’m 5’9 and brown and have moderate to severe mental illness and my mom was like “you’d probably try to fuck her you disgusting animal”

i have a recording of my 100 year old neighbor getting into a screaming match with her 60 year old daughter on Christmas. “It’s not about that BAAAAARB”, yells crescendoing like the bwah of an All American Hornline. That same day, my mom and dad were fighting with each other while we ate Mountain Mikes. My NEET younger brother eating pepperoni while having a 1000 yard stare with the Saddam Hussein hair and beard (fucks to give about anything lim->0), fascist brother painting another WW2 Nazi tank (I just appreciate the uniforms and the humanitarian messaging) to sell to Ukrainian sexpats

The social and familial fabric of the Yunaited Estates is one that is profoundly fracturing, shards refracting light into a little diaspora of pain

Interracial couples: tatted up Mexican illegal manager fucking a white girl half his age, Whitey, when are you going to get my papers? Locker room talk as a frazzled future schizocommunist prepares synthetic potatoblend, sex addict mating press in between stories of white girl locking her inherited children in the car during the blazing California summer, frightened little brown boys cooking like biscuits in unfeeling fast food blast furnaces, it just gets worse. Psychologically these kids are going to have soul images that look like the face melt Indiana Jones man, strapped to a bed and drunk on Thorazine: the only respite from the panic is the silence of sleep.

My neighbor killed himself a while ago (the police parked a bearcat on his lawn in response) and his ex-wife showed up and was like, “HIS BITCH SISTER IS NOT GETTING HIS KIDS!!!”

Shut the fuck up and put the mask on and get in the car. For Sally, that might be the push that leads to 15000000000x10143 years of being stooped over a toilet, vomiting out everything they’ve ever eaten.

At the aforementioned “job”, I once saw a man who looked a lot like the guy from Toy Story punch his daughter and call her a difficult child. Of course, difficult children need beatings.

The United States is like some kind of Bosch painting where the abnegation of “child sacrifice” culminates in a capiroted capitalist waiting right at the bottom of the birth canal like it’s Six Flags Discovery Kingdom in Vallejo, California with a pine stick, just waiting, always waiting to get a start in the 1776 blows. The first blow is birth, some blows after that is the Pledge Of Alliegiance, the 1776th is realizing there is a 76% chance of never owning a house. Birth experience looking like a Chilean surrealist film. Soon they’ll tell the kids they gotta pay the medical bill, right after they remind them of their instinctive, totally natural ideas about property rights and why people starve in a world that has more material abudance than any other time in the history of the planet.

Focus on the family of course, for that is the germ of all that is wonderful, like domestic violence and being strangled until your eyes bulge, alcoholism and casual abuse, all in a concrete ant farm spackled with Astroturf, the finest Behr paints and apocryphal Joseph Beuys felt and fat origin stories. You were lucky to be born in God’s Country"