pilesofjamesfrancos

[pilesofjamesfrancos]

Politricks 3/8/24

As Denis Villeneuve's Dune Part 2 finally enters theaters and my entire twitter circle gets to rave about how "we are so back", it seems that the dark hollowness of early 2024 has finally begun to diminish. Christian Bale has opened his own sound of music-esque foster mansion, France became the first country to constitutionally declare the right of abortion, and both MGMT and Everything Everything have dropped two fantastic indie pop records.

Yet, engaging with these cutesy headlines from r/goodnews is like playing russian roulette. You get your critical dosage of serotonin at every victory, but you're still playing with a loaded gun. It took 30,000 reported Palestinian deaths until the U.S. Air Force thought it'd be time to drop a single care package in Gaza, which contained two packets of blueberry fun dip and a silver cap gun. Every online presidential poll shows Trump back on top, and unless dark brandon decides to use his wizardry for good, we will soon live under the guise of the Donald.

I try my best not to sell myself as some political pundit or reactionary. I have a lot to learn and need to finish at least 3 more essays before coming out to my parents as a socialist. It's not my place to be a shepherd for people who I view as straying off course when I am off the fucking map entirely. Today I ate a pretzel bread roll and cut up smoked Gouda from Meijer as I watched Christopher Hitchens on Charlie Rose. My dad walked into my room and asked if I needed any money for dinner; he left $20 on the kitchen counter and went back to his real estate office with his own parking spot and secretary. My privilege is observable, measurable even, and I let it wash over me as I then use the $20 to buy weed and soda from a crumbling gas station in southern Chicago Heights, where my car is always the best looking, and the employees don't ask for your ID.

Noam Chomsky may be the father of modern linguistics, but Chomsky never considered the raw emotional attachment between myself and the Spanish-speaking cashier during our weekly interactions.

"Ay, hello! que deseas, que deseas?"

"Hey, lemme get a pack of black and mild sweets."

"Huh? que dijiste?"

"Black and Mild sweets"

"Ah! Black and Mild!"

"No no, the sweets, these ones right here! Not black, not the black ones"

"lo siento, aqui. Five fifty five"

"Here's six, keep the change."

He wears an American trucking cap and massages his stringing beard that hangs underneath his chin. I can see the sweat accumulating off his black tank top, and he almost always smells like shit. His name might be Mateo or Adrian or Sebastian, and he probably drives a beat-up Chevy pickup truck. I could see myself living this kind of life.

Not to say that this particular person is uneducated or ignorant, but there must be some freedom in the unimportance of your life as a gas station clerk. You don't get to even pretend that you have a real job, like the UChicago fucks who do "research" at nonprofits and vigorously apply for positions at the World Economic Forum. Instead, you sell lottery tickets to mid-life crisis parents, and your biggest concern is kids blocking the entrance with bicycles. You smoke and drink during work cause who cares? It's 2 AM and you're behind the counter of a decrepit Exxon Mobil. These guys are usually religious but I don't know what that brings us to.

After purchasing, I head back to my car and drive home. The sun draws down tangerine streaks, and the low hum of my car's stereo brings me to peace for a moment. Clumps of gravel and debris do nothing against my rugged winter tires and I cruise into the driveway, the sky almost completely dark now.

My front porch is great, I overlook large, skinny elm trees and a winding road that cars like to drive fast on. I watch tobacco smoke fly in the air and circle me, then I breathe in the wet, early spring air, at which point is usually when my night comes to an end, and I walk to my room and put on a movie to fall asleep to.

Now, if we can bring ourselves back to the main point, why would you ever take political, cultural, economic, or philosophical advice from this kind of person? Why must I mention the 30,0000 Palestinian deaths since October 7th in this essay? Why should I have a stake in the marketplace of ideas, and more importantly, why should that reactionary input sprout any meaning for you?

In terms of why I think the way I do, and why I crawl into ideologies, there are two truths.

I need to raise my own self-esteem

2. This is post-secularist thought which can only be natural.

This is who I am now, a growing person making sense of their affluent world and being compelled to comment on it. The "guy who talks about war crimes at party" according to Tim Dillon. But if we categorize all opportunist writers like me into such a box of high-ego, preachy douchebags, if everyone criticized all writers the way I criticize myself, then there would be no point in writing and I'm trapped. I have no mouth and must scream, I have no dick and must cum. And so, I stay here in this persona.

A girl I went to high school with tells me she is scared of the future. I tell her to start smoking weed and invest in Chinese travel companies. She then leaves and I think about what I told her, and how annoying I am, and how I haven't really grown up, and how the only people I call my friends live thousands of miles away. I decide to cook noodles and play Ella Fitzgerald.