Disconnected, Dissociated, Disowned (Or: There's No Such Thing As America)

295 mass shootings in 274 days is a little over 1.09 mass shootings per day. We're on pace for 394 in 2015, which is fucking retarded. There's almost no point in saying anything about it, and that's fucking sad.

I have nothing I can say about mental health that hasn't been said repeatedly.

I have nothing I can say about gun laws that hasn't already been debated to death.

I have nothing I can say about human nature, or the value of examining the psyche of the perpetrator, or any of that deep, meaningful stuff.

But I've noticed something. I've noticed people saying things like 'We as Americans,' or 'We as a country,' and I've had a bit of a realization. See, this notion that we see ourselves as one nation, this idea that we should coexist for mutual benefit, that doesn't really have a lot of traction in this country. On the whole, Americans aren't in this together; we're in this for ourselves.

We don't care about the well-being of our countrymen; we only care about being better than the next guy. We don't care about mutual cooperation; we only care about being right where the next guy is wrong. We don't care about justice for all; we only care about coming out on top, because America is not a nation; America is a competition, and if you're not winning, then fuck you.

That's bullshit. America is bullshit, and our ideals are a lie, and every ounce of blood spilled in our daily mass shootings is our fault because we're all a bunch of snivelling, prideful shits who can't see anything beyond our own sense of moral and intellectual superiority.

So, go on, and have your same old arguments about the same old shit, and insist that anyone who doesn't completely agree with you is anti-American, or the literal Devil, and do absolutely nothing to try to see each other as fellow human beings who are, in fact, in this shit show together, with only each other to count on.

I'll be over here, stupidly believing that things will get better, and that this instinctual need to be better than everyone else will eventually fade from our collective psyche. I'll be over here doing the math as the bodies pile up due to our pride and greed, and I'll keep grieving and doing my best to love you and care about you amidst the ugliness.

Because well get better. Because we have to, or eventually we won't have a country left to save.

The Birth of Hillpunk?

You didn't get this view in the city. An ocean of grass spread out before her, swaying in the wind in odd patterns. As she thought about it, she had to wonder if she'd ever actually seen the wind before. She'd felt it, to be sure, though it was usually exhaust from a cooling unit, or the wake of a glidecar. But to see it; that was something else entirely.

"Never been outside the city before, have ya?" asked one of the others. She looked over, one of the boys giving her a smug look. She knew she didn't need to answer. She looked back out the door of the train, to the landscape scrolling by, slower in the back, where the foothills began, and faster up front, that sea of grass whipping by at an intimidating speed.

"Look at her. Mezzed by fuckin' grass," said the same boy.

"Shut your face, Fick," said someone else; one of the girls. She didn't look back to see who. "She didn't choose to grow up in that shithole."

She was right. Gage hadn't chosen to grow up in Bigpool, surrounded by the waste of the metroplex. She hadn't chosen to not see the sky until the age of 9, thanks to all the towering metal behemoths. She hadn't chosen to be a speck, surrounded by chaos.

She missed it, though. She hadn't been gone more than three days, but she already missed the charming anarchy. She missed having a dozen different voices chattering in her head, the challenge of having to pick out the relevant bits from each. She missed having the totality of the Belly's knowledge at her fingertips. She was disconnected, scared, and lonely.

But the landscape helped, the wind dancing in the grass, and the earth rising in the distance. And so did the sound of Shorty's odd instrument, the pluck of a string drawing the attention of all the freight car's occupants. Bantree, the oldest girl, had called it a dulcimer. It was a series of metal strings pulled tightly over a warped board, looking both simple and impossible. Gage suspected she would never understand how Shorty made the sounds he made with it.

"What'cha got for us this time, Short-stuff?" asked Bantree. Shorty didn't answer; he never did. As far as Gage could tell, the only time he ever spoke was when he was singing. And he could sing.

"I am a pooooooor, wayfarin' stranger," he sang with his dusky tenor. Several of the others leaned forward, pleased smiles on their faces, and Gage found herself joining them.

"Travelin' throoooough, this world of woe
There is no sickneeeeesss, toil or danger
In that fair laaaaaand, to which I go"

Gage sighed softly, gently resting her head against the wall of the car. Shorty was going to steal all of the hearts when he got older.

"I'm goin' hooooooome, to see my mother
I'm goin' hooooooome, no more to roam
I'm just-a goin', over Jordan
I'm just-a goin' over home"
Gage closed her eyes as Shorty played on, only somewhat surprised that a tear slipped out of her real one. She missed her home. She missed her friends, and her dad. She missed Blitz. She could only wonder if she'd ever see any of them again.

The train was taking her somewhere, with a bunch of backwater hill kids. She just hoped it was more like Shorty's paradise, and less like all the tales on the net.

That First Verse in 'Two-Headed Boy, Part 2'

Dad,

Earlier this year, we had lunch at the Shari's by the Franklin Park Mall. It was our first significant contact in some time, and, surprisingly, I was the one that initiated it, by calling you and inviting you to talk.

I wanted to give us a shot. I wanted to at least make an attempt at having a relationship with my father. I wanted to let you know that I understood why you were so angry, that, in the nearly two decades that I've spent trying to recover, I've come to realize how the cycle of abuse propagates.

So we talked. It went okay, for the most part. I told you the things I wanted to tell you, and I opened the door for us to have some kind of relationship, and then you kinda slammed it shut. As we got deeper into our conversation, it started to become apparent that you either had no idea what you had done to drive me away, or were willingly refusing to acknowledge it. You implied a belief that I avoided you because you had been unable to help me. This is in line with your non-apologies of the past, about how no one told you how to raise a child.

Here's the thing about that: that puts the onus on me. That makes me the problem, the one who was defective. Accordingly, to this day, I see myself as the failure, as the problem.

There was something about your inability to admit that you abused me, your insistence that you simply didn't know what to do with me, that slapped me in the face. It hurt, you know? Do you know how hard it was to not see you as a monster? Do you have any idea how much thought and self-discovery it took to understand that you were only lashing out because of what happened to you?

I've spent 20 years of my life and more trying to cope with the shit you did to me. It's been agony. Do you know how often I think about killing myself just because of how much work I have left to do? It's pretty goddamned constant. But I persist. I persist because of the people who love me. I persist because, deep down in the darkness, and the self-loathing, and the despair, some small part of me still thinks life is worth living. As much as I'm hesitant to think admit it for fear of complimenting myself, I've done an incredible amount of work, and made an incredible amount of progress.

The least you could have done was admit what you did. The least you could have given me was an actual apology. Instead, you threw that bullshit in my face. Again.

Well, fuck you. I persist. I persist, and I remain extant in spite of you and what you did to me. I don't need you in my life. I don't want you in my life. And all this bullshit you've left me with, this inability to appreciate my accomplishments, this daily misery and existential angst is going as well.

The real bitch about this letter is that, despite that last paragraph, I still have sympathy for you. I still understand you, much as I might not want to, because I've been you. But I'm leaving that behind, and I'm leaving you behind, and I don't think I'm gonna look back, at least not for a long while.

No Title Is Enough To Express My Anguish And Rage

After a discussion with a friend yesterday, I told myself I wasn't gonna write a big thing about Charleston. I simply can't afford to care about every bad thing that happens, and this one was weighing on me particularly heavy. I went to sleep with it in my head, and I woke up with it in my head. So, I'm gonna write a big thing about Charleston.

I've seen a lot of angry things written, and with good reason. Gawker debates whether we should be calling this terrorism. Friends have decried the fact that this keeps happening, and that we now consider it 'normal.' Liberal media outlets are calling for gun control, which is missing the point. Conservative media outlets are decrying an imaginary rising hostility towards the religious, for some retarded reason.

I feel a lot of that anger, but I'm not gonna write a big angry thing. We already have enough big angry things. So, I'm going to write something different.

First, let me say unequivocally that Dylann Roof did a very bad, evil thing, and he is guilty of it. He chose to do what he did himself. I will also say that there is no instance of this kind of violence that could reasonably be called 'tolerable.' This was horrible, it was a horrible thing, and it will always be a horrible thing.

According to the CDC, in 2013 (the last year for which we have complete data), the death by homicide rate for all Americans was 5.1 per 100,000 people. That's the highest rate for any country in the civilized world, and that's bad. At the same time, we're talking about 0.000051% of Americans. I don't mean to imply those deaths are insignificant, but it's important to recognize how statistically unusual it is for any given person to be killed by homicide, because it sure isn't represented as unusual.

Briefly, modern media is casting a much larger net than it used to. We're hearing about more and more violent crimes, and that can fuck with our perception of our population as a whole.

Now, we still have a large problem in this country. As much as I support reasonable gun control measures, gun control is not the problem. As much as our mental health infrastructure is lacking, it's also not the source of the problem.

To illustrate the problem, I'm going to pull another number from the same report: 13.0. That's the rate per 100,000 people for death by suicide. That's more than two-and-a-half times higher than the murder rate, and in the Top 10 causes of death, but you don't see it reported nearly as much. For the 25-54 age group, that rates jumps to 16.9. I'm not a sociologist. I can't say with certainty what the cause of all this is, but I have an observation.

The American economy is based on continual growth. This has called for an increased emphasis on productivity and profit, and as a result of lax regulations, worker conditions have suffered; wages are stagnant, so people are doing more, companies are earning more money, and the workers are slowly getting squeezed.

This is pressure, in the purest, most terrible form. This is pressure to produce. This is pressure to succeed. And it has spread throughout our society, right down to our kids. You might notice some parallels to our education system here; an emphasis not on critical thinking or personal growth, but on test scores and memorized facts.

Humans are a durable species. We can survive incredible, temporary hardships. But put a group of us under intense pressure for a decade, or two, or three, or ten, and we start to crack. And that's what we're seeing. Parents are put under too much pressure to produce; they have less and less time and energy to nurture their kids. The public education system is under too much pressure to produce; they have less time and energy to nurture their kids.

You look at all this pressure, and you can begin to see how a human like Dylann Roof, or Adam Lanza, or Eric Harris, or Dylan Klebold can come to be. Too much pressure, too little growth and guidance, and we break.

It's very easy to make these people out to be monsters, and again, I'm not defending what they did, but simply calling them monsters and then switching the conversation to some talking point does us all a disservice. The horrible truth about the people who commit these acts is that they are not monsters, but human beings who endured too much pressure, and got too little help. Given the same circumstances, it could just as easily been any of us 'normal' people.

That's the truth that we're too reluctant to admit. This isn't some unexplainable, almost supernatural phenomenon. This isn't the result of some political agenda or movement. This is simply what happens to us when we look at ourselves as numbers instead of people. This is what happens to us when all we care about is production. This is what happens to us when we stop caring.

The good news, and the hopeful news, is that there was a time before this was the case. That means there will be a time after this was the case. It may not be in our lifetime, and it may get a lot worse before we get there, but sooner or later, this too will pass, and we'll decide that 5.1 in 100,000 is too many, and 13 in 100,000 is too many, and that there are more important things in this world than production, profit, and test scores.

Not today. But someday.

A Rough Prologue For 'Mel's Delivery Service'

Dark, violent tones filled Jagr's ears, a cacophony of layered vibrations helping to drown out his other senses. He liked to close his eyes while he listened; it helped him feel like he was far away, floating on an ocean of sound, instead of being in the middle of another boring-ass watch rotation. He imagined himself roiling in the waves, the transcendent beats tearing him apart and putting him back together, like he was made of doll parts.

Apart.
Together.
Apart.
Together.
Apart.
Toge-

"JAGR!"

He clutched the back of his head, suddenly realizing he'd been hit upside it. He flicked the music off, looking over to Raid, his fellow Watcherman, and easily the more responsible of the two.

"What?! Jesus..." Jagr complained, rubbing the back of his head as he got to his feet.

"We got a Runner," he said, nodding out into the darkness. Jagr sighed, blinking into NV and staring out into the night beyond the wall.

"Where?" he said, only seeing the same broken cityscape as most nights. He was slightly disappointed, actually; runners were one of the more exciting things the Watchers got to see.

"There," Raid said, pointing to the southeast. "Just went under that overpass."

Jagr zoomed in on the overpass, and finally spotted it as the lights of the runner pierced through the darkness. It became a lot easier to see once it cleared the overpass, not least of all because the vehicle was partially on fire.

"Oh, shit," Jagr muttered as the runner swerved along the road, small arms flashing in the darkness.

"They're comin' in hot," said Raid, already moving for the Nest. Feeling a small surge of excitement, Jagr followed, practically hopping down the ladder and looking to a tarp-covered protrusion. He pulled off the covering, revealing the repeating slugger beneath.

"Load up," Raid ordered, and Jagr complied, his heart pounding as the reality of the situation dawned on him. A Runner was headed for their gate. A Runner that was on fire. A Runner being chased by Syns.

He kicked open the ammo box at the base of the slugger, grabbing one end of the bullet chain and slapping it into the feeder. He spared a glance out towards the Runner, expecting to see a horde of machines in pursuit, but there was no metal army, no swarm of synthetic platforms. There was just one machine. One giant, six-legged machine, bigger than the Runner itself, and apparently just as fast.

"Fuckin' hell," Jagr muttered breathlessly, unable to take his eyes off the monstrosity. "Are you seeing this?"

"Shut up and cock your fucking gun!" Raid chastised. Jagr grabbed the heavy bolt on the side of the slugger, pulling it back with some difficulty and letting it slam forward, chambering the first round. He and Raid took aim, waiting for the Runner to get in range.

"Go for the legs," Raid said. It made sense to Jagr; it'd be easier to destroy if it wasn't scurrying along like some giant-ass metal ant from Hell.

The Runner cleared the first perimeter, and the Watchers opened up, adding their fire to the Runner's mounted slugger. If the Syn ant cared, it didn't show it, still scurrying after the Runner, clambering right over the first perimeter, only slowed a moment by the giant chain barrier.

The Runner made a beeline for the gate, which was already opening. As the Syn moved closer to the city, other Nests along the wall joined in, focusing fire at the machine's legs. It advanced menacingly for another moment, at which point it's right foreleg crumpled, the joint destroyed by the slugger fire. It stumbled a bit, trying to get closer before another of its legs broke off.

Jagr couldn't remember the last time a Syn got this close to the Wall. He certainly had never seen one this big, either, that realization reinforced by the proximity. He couldn't imagine what it had been like when these things were everywhere. They liked to tell you growing up that the Endwar could have been avoided. With shit like this walking around, Jagr couldn't imagine how.

The third leg finally put the beast down, its sluggers firing uselessly into the road. He was surprised to see the thing still had ammo. The Runner must have gone off the mapped roads to cut time, a common tactic with a common outcome. He'd never seen anything this big woken up, though. Where the fuck had that Runner been?

The Thing I Wanted to Happen Happened and It's Blowing My Damned Mind

Sometimes you go through things that make you feel stuff you don't want to feel. It happens to everyone. Usually, it's not your fault. It wasn't mine, anyway.

After years and years, I locked the feelings away, in this beastly cage I made in my own psyche. This allowed me to function.

But not to live.

Monsters were not put into me. This darkness that I hated so much wasn't foreign, it was just the part of me that was hurt. And I locked it away, never intending to let it out. I didn't like what it did.

But I need it. It's me. It's my life that I locked in there, that spark that burns amidst the nothing, that creates in a vacuum. It's my potential.

Some time ago, I convinced myself to reintegrate it, to let it out. I didn't know what that would look like. I didn't know how it would feel.

I do now.

I'm frightened. I'm devastated. I'm angry. I'm whole. I'm free.

Or I'm getting there, at least. This was it. This was the thing I needed, what I've been searching for, left behind where I'd already been.

Kind of Like That Scene From 'The Notebook'

He adjusts his glasses, the missing nosepad causing the metal to sting the bridge of his nose. This is a familiar position for him, that of counselor; he'd been doing it since they three were in high school, ever since that day, sitting in the portable class room and writing the word 'Seven' into their flesh.

It had been easy enough to align themselves with the basic ideas of ego, superego, and id. He was the Superego, the thinker, the analyzer, the reasoner, and she was the Ego, the frightened but idealistic child upon whom everything rested. He and the Id could be driving forces, but it was ultimately for the Ego to decide, to choose, to do or not.

She hadn't come alone this time, having followed through on her decision to reintegrate the Id, who had been banished for many years after its outbursts. While he had his reservations about the move, she'd said she needed it in order to live, and that the Superego knew to be true, even if he wasn't sure they were ready for this.

The anger was still there, though; the marks of rage and anguish were visible upon her skin, cold and intractable with the Id to fuel them. With the Superego running out of ideas, he'd decided that it couldn't hurt to try and burn off the built-up anger. Well, it could hurt, but they were running out of options.

He took a deep breath, watching her for a moment, able to see the small, burning flame of Id inside of her.

"What do you want?" he asked.

She averted her gaze, folding her arms and giving a slight shrug.

"What do you want?" he asked again.

"To be happy," she said, again with a shrug.

"What do you want?" he asked again. That wasn't going to cut it.

"You know what I want. We all know what I want; let's not play this stupid game," she said, running a hand through her hair.

"What do you want?" he asked again, a little more forcefully.

"To not be here. To be anywhere else, anyone else, so I don't have to put up with this bullshit."

"What do you want?"

"Fuck you," she said, the Id flaring defensively.

"What do you want?"

She just stared at him.

"What do you want?"

"I want what I can't have."

"What do you want?"

"I want to set the world on fire."

"What do you want?"

"I want to rule the ashes."

"What do you want?"

"I want to make everyone else feel my pain."

"What do you want?"

"To not hate myself anymore."

"What do you want?

"Stop it!" she cried, getting to her feet. "This is idiotic; you know damned well what I want."

"So, say it," he offered.

"I. Want. Justice," she growled, stepping over the table and closing the distance, staring into his cool, observant gaze. "I want to hurt them. I want to make them understand what they did to me, what they allowed to happen. I want them to know what happened to me; not just be aware of it but to know, to feel it in their soul, to not be able to do anything without being afraid of someone judging them or yelling at them."

She turned away, stalking about the small room, her chest heaving with each enraged breath.

"They owe me!" she yelled. "They owe me the years they stole from me!"

"You won't get it," he calmly remarked. "It's not something that can be given; the time is simply gone. You won't get it back."

She put her hands on her hips, tilting her head back and sighing in frustration.

"That's not fair," she said.

"It's not," he agreed. They sat in silence for a bit before she finally moved to sit back down.

"You know what I really want?" she asked.

"What's that?" he asked, unable to keep the small smile of his face.

"... I want help," she said, leaning her head back against the couch. "I don't know what I'm doing, and I don't have the energy to figure it out while I'm having to fight myself every step of the way."

"So, maybe we find a way to stop you from fighting yourself?" he offered. She raised her head, looking at him skeptically, but knowing what he was going to say.

"That's a lot to just eat," she said.

"It is," he agreed. "And it won't be easy, and it'll probably take more than one try, but it's what you need to do, in the end."

She folded her arms once more, closing her eyes, thinking of the task at hand.

"I deserved better," she said.

"You still do," he countered. "But you're the only one who can give you better."