Millennial Married Men

How would you know reading this that something quite unsettling is slithering through the spaces between unlinked thoughts arising at this very moment. What if the things alluded to, the emotions smothered and reincarnated throughout thousands of years of manipulation were around and abound in your life, in the world around us, in the conversation of Christians and liberal pagans alike. What if this very paragraph was not an attempt to warn you but a sly, sly question of “Did God really say that?” Would you know. Would even I, the one who is writing this, know the force behind it?

What if there was woven within these words, layered and inverted and cloaked with the ignorance of modernity, the occult power of incantation, of decades-long hypnosis. What if the words themselves were alive and shimmering with dimensions of secret knowledge. If you ate food while watching Parks and Rec and spent your dinner parties discussing the Bachelor and went to weekly therapy sessions to learn how to diffuse meaning and feeling such that you were nothing but an unshaped ball of clay, would you notice this? And would you see anything even if presented all this by some other person you half-like but who makes you feel uncomfortable because he does not fall into the same worn-out grooves everyone else has decided to die in?

If all of the past was being molded and shaped for a future revelation of humanism, could you penetrate your own impotence? Maybe you could get your wife to help you out; she is more of a man through indoctrination than you are. You have been smothering your true nature ever since you pursued an education and began to dialogue with the world. Eve also dialogued with the world. But you can’t get past the fact that it was the woman who first ate the apple and how tragic that is that this trope is used to perpetuate stereotypes and oppression. Free the woman, yes, free her into a him such that we know nothing but that which is unnatural. And then give yourself the toxic potion that genders don’t exist; disguise this within the all encompassing womb of toleration. Enter the womb, that safety of the past, of the times when you were responsible for nothing and given everything and trusted everything. If only. Are you so stupid. The word stupid is offensive and you shouldn’t bully others. Everyone gets a trophy; let minorities attain power purely by the nature of the color of their skin; invert much? Let females take charge because they have been oppressed for so long; step back and check your privilege you worthless bigot. Ally yourself with the cause which looks to correct the past sins of your ancestors whom you never met. Bow, kneel, raise your fist, put yourself in a mental prison and shut up. Wonder who will get the rose tomorrow? Chris Harrison won’t give it until he gets re-educated; he got off real lightly you know; he could never have truly made up for his statement and for the color of his skin and for his past and for his ancestors. He should have been flayed alive and brought back to ask for forgiveness before being drowned with a millstone. BUT, since this society is gracious, make him into a conduit through which the privileged can be made aware of their intractable bias. Why are you unsettled by this? Go watch some porn in shame and tell no one. Then come back, satiated and impotent and passive for the penetration of the lie. Maybe, just maybe your kids can be comfortable enough to never go without a meal. They won’t like nor respect you. They’ll hate you in fact, because you are a coward and that is your legacy. But what is legacy when you’ve got a therapy session on Monday, implicit bias training at work on Tuesday, a discussion with your wife about your feelings and your toxic masculinity flaring up on whatever time your wife requests on Wednesday, blind rage Thursday morning followed by binged gangbang porn, work, and McDonald’s for lunch; oh cool it’s Friday so that weekend be here soon (shoot, you realize someone told you that way of speaking is now cultural appropriation even though you went to a school that was 70% black; time to watch Blackish again to make up for it). Sunday night; football with the bros; don’t even remember it because you added to your beer belly to forget for a while. Oh well, Monday again. Retirement funds; mutual funds; make sure to get your physical; any cavities this year? That’ll be 1500 dollars paid to the receptionist you lust after who is far too young. College funds though; that keeps you up later that night. Suck up more, empty yourself to the void such that your kids can be fortunate enough to waste 100k learning why they are pure evil. But that is later; the porn is now and it feels… well it once felt awesome, now it is just a habit.  Funeral on Tuesday for your best friend from high school. You envy him, but are too ashamed to even bring that up with your therapist, who exists to relieve you just a touch of the immense, eternal, hopeless guilt of your diffused impotent fleeting one chance at life. That retirement though, will be pretty great. Hopefully your wife will leave you such that you can freely indulge in your youthful lusts and overdose on Cialis commercials. Something went wrong somewhere along the line. But you are no longer capable of returning to freedom; the Leviathan already entered you; your phallic nature inverted, you might as well invert your manhood into negation. Really wish your dog would behave more; every time you pet him, he starts to aim towards humping; no respect from man’s best friend when men withdraw into the womb. Man, something went wrong. Alcohol, more alcohol. Cold; deaden your life such that you can suppress the regret; start speaking in phrases that mean nothing; you throw a birthday party for your other best friend who is still alive and your speech centers around “caring for” him, “validating his experience;” you “come alongside him” and then you wake up the next morning hungover. Oh well, massage today; who knows, maybe it will be like that one time as a teenager (definitely not, but shut up for now, you need some help, some false hope). Keep up the charade; you wish, however, that words retained the power and wonder they once did; before you sold your birthright of liberty and eternal life for a return to the womb, to the negation of this world found in the pursuit of the next Bachelor (it is about time for a gay Bachelor; or should it be transgender first? Leave that to those in charge, you are just a slave after all). Your anger erupts in impotent ramblings against your daughter, who became unchaste quite young. Your wife holds long, endless dialogues with her; she hates you and you know that. Porn again; return to the womb. Hungover. Thursday. Almost Friday. Your eyes glaze over as you set yourself a new goal of no more porn after another binge Thursday night alone in the living room. Your daughter quietly opens the front door; you have nothing to give her, no strong leadership to follow and seek out in her mate; no you sold your soul in the glow of instant pleasure and illusory lust. Your therapist tells you next Monday to be more “intentional,” so you resolve to “care for” your family. The youth pastor on Sunday speaks of “coming alongside” those in pain; you then attend a seminar on black lives matter and racial injustice; polite applause; over-indulgent laughter; and intense concentration is your lot when listening to the speaker, chosen and acted out solely because of the color of his skin. The Bachelor on Monday: one of the few things you and your wife will create conversation from. Yours is forced. She reminds you during that a baby shower is on Saturday, which you both need to attend. You think that this is pointless; you don’t want to do that; but you don’t say that out loud; no, you don’t want to see your wife wrong on anything; women are the future. She dresses you, and you make sure to rehearse how much fun you had and what you loved about this ritual for women. Three years now; three years until your heart burst in shallow disgust at a wasted life; three years until the clock runs out on  things never realized; three years until that womb is everything. But that is tomorrow, or Friday, you can’t really separate yourself from anything at this point. Your heart gave out, and you were only running on fumes anyways.

Published by Principium24

I want to write, as millions have before me. And I want to know what it is to be human, as few have before me.

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