Message from Agent 139, Pennhurst hospital, 2002.
It’s “depressive ideation,” the doctors say, to think about the poisonous PCBs, polluting our bodies’ water by proxy. It is an “obsessive fixation” to mention the soil, leeched of its vital nutrients, leaving us all hollow as dried gourds. But this is just the reality of the 21st century. The lie is grinning talk show hosts, Prozac, the American Dream. The natural state of the human animal in troubling times is not happiness. Show me a man grinning in the trenches as the bombs fall, and I will show you a lunatic.
I’m just waiting for the report “This just in – WE’RE ALL FUCKED.” Then I can turn the damned thing off and enjoy a smoke in the five minutes before the end of the world. We’re too sedated to care. Those who do care can only raise their voices shrilly, impotently, or whimper in the corner like the kicked dogs they are.
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