Ineffectual Malaise

America, I no longer wish to heal your wounds. I see your wounded nursing bruises from swift kicks received on the Fourth of July, and Thanksgiving, and Christmas, and a few times every Valentines’. I would like you to know I do not approve. But you see I might have to go to work tomorrow, I might just have to attend my class, my crying baby might wake me earlier than noon – you see, America, I have much to do. As much as I’d love to help, the butchers won’t stop purchasing luxury SUV’s to chauffeur their Ivy Leagues back and forth from Princeton to Livingston, and I’ll never live to meet the rubble grousers when they quit collecting scattered pounds of flesh from dusty villages seen from the sky. America, it isn’t that I’m bored so much as relieved that I already have a roof and as far as I can see the pantry will always be at least filled partially. America you see as much as I fume and burst the odd incredulous fuse staring at war memorials mostly used for the good patriotic fervor that bids me to consume grocery apps and live-stream TV for my bedroom, America you see I eagerly anticipate the release of BioShock3 and the alternate realities I disappear into for days. America don’t get me wrong, I am Cure for Cancer strong, but my cock is daily slammed up in my laptop in a silencing embrace of willful castration. You see America, as much as I rage it wears me out it wears me thin I’m over it plenty swift. Suffice to say, America, I can no longer give you a fuck. What I have here is warm and placental as long as I work my mandatory sentence I’ll be fine and remain encased in my womb of creature comforts.

America, most days I let my rage dissipate into a vapor I can vaguely recognize as sane. But that’s just it – America suicidal, I’ve embraced this ineffectual malaise.