Supposedly, I’m “Mature”


…and I know that I’m probably supposed to be ‘mature’, and that I should have shown up here today to give support and congratulations to someone who’s an old friend, but any guy knows that once you’ve stuck your dick in a girl and said ‘I love you’, that she’s not really a friend anymore, and it all gets distorted, and as I’m standing in the back of the wedding still hidden, I see her face and realize how long it’s been since we’ve just talked. And now being here, and seeing the two of them together, standing up there, an arc over their heads as if to signify that their union represents my doorway to hell, I’m so glad that she’s not famous. Because I sure as fuck am, and I had to look at my face at least ten times getting over here, and I know that she sees it and probably doesn’t feel anything anymore either because she’s so rational or she’s just in love with this fucker now.

And I really do have to hide because someone here is going to notice me and when that happens, for one reason or another, shit is going to hit the fan and my cover will be blown and I won’t be able to do…whatever the fuck it is I came here to do. I came here to stop this, one last desperate, cliche, poetic, cinematic attempt to get my girl back before she ties the knot and then any discussion of said reconciliation will include divorce papers. And I almost smeared on the face paint and absurd clothes because I really don’t know what I am without them anymore, it’s been so long since I’ve just been me, and I don’t really know who me is, but I did when I was with her.

And this little fucker looks so normal and clean cut and I lament having fallen for a normal girl, one whose life was always going to inevitably end up here at an alter, and for whom my rock star status does absolutely nothing for, and really it never did, and the only reason she’d be excited when I stepped off the stage to acclaim and praise was because she loved me. And in a way I could blame the lifestyle but it was me who told her to get lost so I could fully commit to it, me who embraced the sideshow and became it, me who didn’t even want our child to be born so that I could spent my nights getting high and fucking girls who would never look at me in the way she did. And I’ve fucked so many of those girls now, and as the fame increased so did the level of culturally mandated beauty, with the females getting hotter and hotter, throwing themselves at me, until I couldn’t even look at an attractive girl without imagining the clothes dropping away and her riding me with the fervor that social brainwashing had put into her. And it was as awesome as you’d think it would be, and I became more and more dead to it, and God help me I’ve abused some of these girls just because the position lets you get away with it.

Then Ziggy told me about the goddamn wedding and I started seeing those girls as Kleenex, useful, but disposable and all of a sudden I’m 16 again, lovesick and flipping shit, breaking up hotel rooms out a sense of desperation, a sense that my bubble had been punctured and all the fantasy was draining out of my life, the Scrooge experience in one second of hearing that the love of your life thought enough of another guy to marry him.

And so here I am, moments before what would become my most infamous incident, stewing in the back, letting the insecurities bubble up until the pot’s about to blow, and suddenly I can’t control it anymore and I start walking forward, that crazy walk where you can tell the person has a sense of purpose behind it, and next thing you know it happens, everyone’s shouting either because some crazy fuck is hauling ass towards the alter, or because they recognize me, and the shouts of my stage name just feel like chains, reminders of what I embraced to get to this point, a character, an image, an idea become real, but for what really, and now my girl’s made eye contact with me, charging towards her like a goddamned rhino, and I see surprise and terror in her eyes, and I should be feeling like a piece of shit, ruining her big day, and I should be more in control of myself, but all I feel is years of repression flowing through the broken dam, all that time spent convincing myself it was worth leaving her for this, and now, really, there’s no human here anymore, not even a rock star, just a rocket of bitter regret who can only see some asshole about to put a ring on his girl’s finger, and for some reason, it’s not him I hate, but her for accepting it, for saying yes, for moving on, and in the next second, I do something so unbelievable, that I’d be haunted by it for weeks afterwards on newspaper and magazine covers, and there it is.

My fist hits her face, not a girl hit, but a full on swing, and I’m sickened by the fact that it feels good, it feels like a release, but the regret comes hard and painful an instant later, and having done this, jumped off the ledge, left decency behind, I feel so horrible inside that the ten or twenty, or christ it feels like thirty, guys who attack me and start viciously beating me don’t even compare to the sense of throbbing disgust within me, and so I just lay there, submit to it, and, taking one last chance to do the only thing it seems I know how to do anymore, start sobbing just to up the ante on this whole nightmarish spectacle.



I know how to pick my books. I have book radar and when I go shopping for them I look for ones that will stimulate me. Once I start them, I always get a feeling that lets me know I was right. So right now I’m reading ‘Wonderland Avenue’, Danny Sugerman’s autobiography. He wrote the Jim Morrison bio. So right before work today, I’m reading the scene where, as a 12 year old boy, he’s at his first concert ever, The Doors, and he’s backstage telling the guys they need to go on. He observes the crowd getting more and more restless, and then he takes us through what it’s like when Morrison finally hits the stage. Building the tension, and building the tension, the crowd’s energy going bonkers until he lets out the first scream, flailing around in front of them, then holding back, and building up again, and then opens his mouth for the first lyric of the song…

And I left for work. Now I’m at work feeling nervous, anxious, and excited and I can literally barely breathe or concencentrate. It’s so difficult to focus on my job or talk to my friends who don’t understand,because I just keep mumbling, ‘I get it’ and they think I’m an idiot because I always say that. And I’m just completely gone, lost in a vision of passion, once again realizing everything that matters in life.
And I have a show coming up this week and it just hits me: you can bring it back man, you can bring it back. And after all that daydreaming I finally have an outlet, and it’s tripping me out. And I’m realizing just how badly everyone sucks ass nowadays and that the whole purpose of music, art, and entertainment has been killed. It’s been destroyed. And man, someone has to care. Someone has to fucking care about the passion. Someone has to bring it back.

And it’s just now that I’m starting to calm down and be able to think again. No one gets it. They all just want to make money. I just want to make history.

Undeniable Truths



As I look back, I see a lifetime of nothing but compliments about my abilities. I remember extremely positive reactions every time I got off stage. I remember having the reputation of a little artist as a kid. I think of my years of research on famous entertainers and marvel at the similarities between me and them. I feel a tremendous sense of belonging and self, realizing that I know exactly who I am and what my passion and purpose is in life. More importantly than any of these, I believe in my talent wholeheartedly. Throw a barrage of insults at me and I’ll probably fully agree with you, but attack my talent, and I’ll never believe it in a million years. I know I’ve been given a great gift and the skills to compete, except for one thing…

2. IT’S (show) BUSINESS
You can learn a lot out here without getting too deep into the system, and this is one of the biggest ones that grows more and more apparent. This is a business and people are interested in making money. Now I realize why Hollywood has the stench of mediocrity on it: businessmen masquerading as artists are the ones getting ahead, the movers and shakers who know how to manipulate the system. But honestly, their product sucks, because at their heart it’s all business. Meanwhile, the Kurt Cobains of the world are locked away in their apartments, moping and whining over their raw talent, which is better, MUCH better, for art, but doesn’t really mean a thing if they can’t utilize it to get out there and play the game. I know in my heart I’m one of these people now. I can try to get better at the other side of things, but I also know in my heart…

I say this not even in a self-deprecating way, but in a beautiful, open eyes, enlightened as you get older way. It’s so important to fully realize and accept this because it’s been such a constant theme. I see myself through my father’s eyes more and more and think, ‘Damn Jason, how come it takes you so long to do things?’ I’m curious as to how much I can change this, and to what degree it’s like going to a gay conversion camp. Is it just a part of me? It seems to reside at my core, the need to not get involved and to be irritated by the idea of having things to do. I need to figure this out though because…

I’m astounded by the fact that all my peers have real jobs that require actual skills. I’m really not good at anything at all other than these various avenues of entertainment. Not only that but my level of interest in anything else is beyond low. If I don’t break through in entertainment, I really have no other chance to shine in this world. I won’t make a lot of money if something doesn’t happen with entertainment. I will most likely fully revert to my other side, and live a quiet, peaceful, routine life based on repetition that, in all honesty, would probably be really great, and would be the no irritation lifestyle I’ve been dreaming about since I was hating school. But the need to make more money nags at me, not because of myself, but because…

The reason I up and moved my life out to California is, as I said, I have an incredibly strong gut feeling about my place in the world of entertainment. Unfortunately, I found a match for the strength of this feeling in my belief that I already met the One. Really, that’s why I’ve been tormenting myself these past three years. You can’t shake my faith in myself as an entertainer, and you also can’t shake my faith in the fact that I found the perfect girl for me. A growing maturity only seems to clarify the fact that I’m making this decision based on the right reasons. She knew who I was at my core and loved it, we could have long, real, discussions, and I had a lot of lust for her. Knowing all this, I should probably move back to get her, but…

I’m pretty damn happy living the life I already have. But I worry about the idea of going back to get my girl because I already have a hard enough time out here where I’ve started a bit of momentum and have a team of people helping me out. New York is another entertainment mecca, but the idea of starting all over again on my own is too much to think of. And while I can live the simple life with a decent apartment and a modest lifestyle, you want to be able to give the girl you love the life she deserves. I also hear my mom talk about how lonely she is and how much she hates her job now, and the light bulb goes off. THAT’S why you need to make money. You are a simple, simple man, and can find happiness in a walk on a nice day, and a meal at IHOP with some friends. If you want to have a girl and support her, or give back to all the family and friends who have been so good to you, you need to actually make some bank. It would be nice to do this because…

The maturity shows me that I’m beyond lucky to have a loving family and countless amounts of real, quality friends on both coasts. I’ve never been without good people around me who I know truly care and who stimulate me and give me joy. To ask for anything else almost seems greedy with how much wealth I’ve been given in the area of what will really matter when you’re on your death bed. Unfortunately, while looking at things like this is correct in the big picture scheme, it allows me to be too dismissive of things on a smaller scale leading me to reinforce my belief that…

I always chuckle when I think of the story my mom told me about being upset after my first day in preschool because I went under a table and didn’t want to talk to anybody. People have always had to drag me by the scruff of my neck to go do things. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy the hell out of my life, but I just want to spend time with friends in a closed environment, or spend days alone reading and writing, or just in general stay tucked away in a cozy, safe little corner. Although sometimes this nags at me because…

Beyond a wild patch of drug experimentation, I don’t know if I’ve ever really unleashed and gotten crazy (other than on stage, which is different). I’ve had countless great times, but I still don’t know if I’ve ever really grabbed this world by the throat and shaken a truly nutty experience out of it, wringing the liquid from the wet dishrag of life with passionate clenched hands, getting out there and truly seeing how much you can manipulate reality when you make an effort to play the game of life. Fame could lead to such an experience, but the reason for the difficulty of that venture, as well as any other problem on this list is probably because…

I really feel like a hit a home run with my one and only tattoo ‘Quiet’ and ‘Observer’, one on each wrist. It’s not something I’m going to regret when I get older, especially having seen senior citizens compliment me on it, and it’s definitely true. I can’t tell you how many times after I show it to people, especially girls, those lovely creatures, that they’ll let a smile creep up and say ‘Yeah, you are’ or ‘That’s definitely true’. Because the whole world can sense it on me. I’m the eternal wallflower. The kid who desperately wants to be at the party, but cringes at actually participating. The kid who adored going to the mall high and watching people. It may hinder many aspects of my life, but…

Damn straight. And as I see more and more people who don’t, or don’t have a clue what they’d like to do, maybe that’s all that matters…

Keep Your Mouth Shut and They’ll Think You’re Cool


So last week I was on register and this girl comes into my line. She was real thin, like model thin, so I wasn’t really into her, but I guess you could say she was pretty. I mean, she was pretty, I know tons of others guys would be into her (which could be enough for my shallow ass if I tried), but I wasn’t, so who gives a shit, right?

So as I’m ringing her up she says, ‘Has anyone ever told you you look like..’ and I’m expecting Russell Brand because that’s what it usually is (thank God for the long hair because it always used to be Josh Groban, and man did that hurt) but she says some name I don’t know. She said he was a player on the Lakers. So Harry’s next to me, so I ask him if he knows who this guy is because he’s into all that basketball shit. He confirmed he did know him and that I did kind of look like him (the more important part of him being in on this was that now I had an audience).

So after that she starts saying things like ‘Yeah, it’s not a bad thing, he’s a good looking guy’ and ‘But you look cooler than him, you look like a cooler guy’ and she’s laying it on really heavy and I can tell she’s hitting on me because I’m getting kind of nervous and uncomfortable. When she shows me a picture on her phone and I agree it looks like me she says, ‘Yeah, that’s why every time I come in, I’m like wow’, leading me to believe that she has noticed me often. She leaves, and Harry proceeds to call me an idiot, seeing the obvious interest.

This is always very perversely appealing to me, when people have observed girls hitting on me and I don’t do anything, because it allows me to feel like a snot-nosed little shit and be like, ‘Yeah, you motherfuckers actually try to get girls. You actually make an effort at that shit. And not only do I never try, but I actively turn myself into someone who won’t attract attention, and I STILL get opportunities thrown at me. AND THEN I DISMISS IT LIKE IT’S NO BIG DEAL! WHAT!’ But I can’t really be cocky because it’s not ridiculously frequent. But for a quiet, zero game guy, I have had a good number of chances with attractive females handed to me on a platter throughout the years.

But what I realized is that it’s actually infinitely better, and also more logical, to act this way. One, it’s just the simple rule of if you want to get a girl don’t act interested in her. Two, for me, this rule is ten times stronger because of the type of person I am.

One of the mind-blowing things about meeting a new girl is that she has no idea who I am. It’s a blank slate. And I always end up marveling at this fact like ‘My God, she probably thinks I’m actually a normal guy.’ Because, if I didn’t have a Jason Ellsworth stigma before, I sure as hell do to anyone who’s friends with me on here after three years of gleefully baring my most personal shit.

To me, it’s the craziest, funniest shit. You see, if I take it too far, and say there’s no sexual side to me or something like that, then I’m just going hardcore into schtick. But I asked my brother, because it’s similar with him, if he could understand how that, staying within the real world and not trying to be funny, there’s something hysterical about a girl looking at me in a sexual way, and he did. It doesn’t sync up. So when these situations happen and a girl is looking at me with fresh eyes, I can’t help thinking ‘HOLY SHIT, SHE HAS NO IDEA.’ She doesn’t know that I’ve been running the same dark, sexless, outcast gimmick into the ground since 7th grade, she doesn’t know that I push aside important things to spend endless hours obsessing over The Dark Knight Trilogy, she doesn’t know that I constantly post on here about every insecurity I’ve ever had, she doesn’t know that I smoke weed like a chimney and fall asleep on the floor like a dog, or that I still get more excited over toys than most kids do.

See, the Jasonness will always ruin things. I can finagle a limited amount of interest, but if I spend enough time with them, and if I actually start to want them, or want something to happen, then the Jasonness will fuck it up. I know my girl loved me because she had massive amounts of Jasonness thrown at her (I made, hands down, the most awkward kiss attempt EVER on a train once) and she stuck around. But I’ve seen, time and time again, the Jasonness eventually fuck things up. I have an obsessive brain. And when that brain gets a hold of something like Eminem or The Dark Knight Rises, it puts a stranglehold on them. With things like that, while it might be seen as really geeky, who cares? When another human is involved is where the problem comes in. You can’t obsess over a human without it being mutual, or things are going to get weird, and with enough obsession, annoying or even illegal.

So I’ve seen myself blown my chances with girls I really liked and wanted because after playing the role and trying to do what I’m supposed to do, act laid back and not that interested, or at least being cool and reserved about things, I decide that I do have an interest in them and then the feast or famine switch kicks in. That’s when I start texting them all the time, or constantly asking to see them, getting upset when I can’t and boom, now my guard is down and I’m not a normal guy, I’m just Jason, probably irritating the shit out of them and turning them off. Because, as I’ve covered, if I’m into you, I’m going to show too much interest.

That’s why I end up hating girls in general sometimes: they are the chinks in my loophole of getting out of life. All this not caring, this dismissive philosophy and nihilism, all this gleeful self-deprecation gets cut through like a knife when there’s a girl you want and you realize, for the life of you, you don’t know how to get her. And whether she’s ridiculously your type and it’s just lust, or a want to have some fun dating her, or the throb of pure love, you think ‘Fuck, I really wish I knew how to do that. Fuck all this stuff I write about and put out there as an image, how can I be a normal guy and get this girl to want me?’ Boom. All my smirking nihilistic loopholes are destroyed and I wish I knew the rules of this world that I consistently mock. Sometimes when I really want a girl I think, ‘Fuck, I wish I wasn’t me’ or ‘I should have taken some of that stuff seriously.’

So in the end, I think it was better to just let her walk off, thinking I’m a cool guy, maybe even more interested because I didn’t seem to respond to her. And I could ask her out, and I’d put on my game face and I’d probably give her one of the best dates she’d been on, and I’d make sure to not call afterwards, and I’d act casual, until I had her. Then I’d realize I wanted her and click, I’d start to care and then, soon, I’m sure I’d be sending her texts asking to hang out again that she’d probably end up not responding to because I’d have revealed the Jasonness.

Because really, if you’re not going to give into the world and get some game, the only chance you have is for actual love to happen, and have someone like every part and flaw of you. Otherwise, just keep your mouth shut and let them think you’re a cool guy, because trust me Jason, unless you’re going to put a lot of time into learning social rules, once you open that mouth…



…and really what is this besides a circus of manipulation, all of us drifting around, wondering how to get the response we want, thinking there’s some sort of magic to it when really nothing is new, everything is a system, and things have repeated for years, and anything you or I want and can’t have is only because we didn’t act a certain way, or the right way, or didn’t figure things out enough, because really, we like to cling to our personalities and what makes us different, but in the end we’re all dogs, and some of us have different fur or ears, and some of us bark differently, but if you scratch that one spot, our legs will shake and if you throw a ball, we’ll chase it, and so it really has nothing to do with you, you didn’t fuck up, you just didn’t know enough, but no matter who rubs that spot, the leg will shake, and in the end when the realists show you the matrix it should be exciting, but really it just kills the idealism, brutally, slowly, a series of deep stab wounds, until you realize that honesty is respected but really it gets you nowhere…

Gorgeous Girl


I never could control my eyes when I was attracted to a girl. It’s just done. I’m gonna stare and the most I can do is desperately try to be aware of it, or at least attempt to have a look on my face that resembles shy interest as opposed to, you know, date rapist. I was staring at this girl hard every time she walked by. She had The Face. God, I’m such a sucker for the right face. It’s a death sentence. What can I say? She already won the game. After like, the fifth time of me glaring at her, she walked over to me. My pulse quickened, but with excitement more than fear.

“Hey.” Her voice was interesting. Mature? Don’t know if that’s the right word, but I liked it.

“What’s up?”

“How come you keep staring at me?”

There were so many answers to this that could lead to legal trouble, so I had to dial it back, the vibrating passion.

“You’re unique.” That’s what I settled on. Not bad, I guess.


“Yeah, you stood out to me. Most girls don’t.” I leaned in. “Most girls are boring.”

She tried to tuck away a smile. Awesome.

“So, you don’t come and talk to me, you just stare?” Her tone of voice was so hot here that my knees shook.

“Well, it’s pretty scary talking to girls as hot as you.” It was then that I hit my sweet spot, finding the ability to deliver the truth, but with the right smile behind it that made me seem like I was confident. I wasn’t. I never am. But the right amount of attraction makes that go away enough to be led on by childish joy. I looked at her body, blatantly, after I said this. Christ. That thing is why I have hands.

Her face was flattered, timid, and somehow, slightly annoyed. “Well, I have a boyfriend.”

“Oh trust me, that only makes it better.”

She let a smile creep out that should have had the word ‘jackpot’ blinking over it. “Nothing’s going to happen,” she said after a while. The way she said it, I wanted every girl I ever met for the rest of my life to tell me nothing was going to happen.

“Your boyfriend isn’t into you like I am. He’s probably used to you. I’m over here practically seizuring over your existence.”

“My boyfriend could kick your ass.”

“Most guys could.” I accompanied this with a smile, and she laughed. My face, I must introduce it to her vagina.

“So are you gonna be staring at me all the time now?”

“I’ve already been doing it. How can I not?”

She smiled again. “I’ve got to get back to work,” she said, and started to walk away. I waited for her to look back and then I mouthed, ‘I want to fuck you so bad’. She turned bright red.

Then she smiled. After that I stopped looking as she walked by. Instead I watched her out of my peripherals to see if she looked. She did. Every time.

I spent the rest of the day with a song in my heart and a throbbing pain in my pants, daydreaming about her curves like they were a rolling landscape in a masterful painting.


The Dream


Welcome. You are all here today because you have been unlucky enough to have been burdened with a dream. You’ve sat back and watched complacency find all your friends who didn’t know what they wanted to do when they got out of high school. You’ve watched them find peace in normal jobs, happiness and purpose in having a family to support, and joy in the simple day to day. But not you. All of you are here because you have been tortured by the thought that you want something more.

There are many dreams out there, but fame is one of the most common and pathetic ones. That is why your specific group has been chosen. You languish away in your daydreams, lusting with an ache that defies logic for what you’ve convinced yourself is everything you’ve ever wanted. I cannot even begin to imagine how pitiful your daily thoughts patterns have been, asking yourself over and over again with a sense of naive hope that rivals children’s if it’s going to happen to you.

Actually, I can imagine it, because I was once like you. Many of you, because of your obsession, have probably read up on the words of people who have made it. Even a limited amount of research will show you that disillusionment is a recurring theme. Oh, but that would never dissuade a dream as tenacious as that of stardom.

The more intelligent of you may have realized that if you could experience it, the urge would be over with. But no goal is more complex, or stupefying, or difficult to reach, than fame. To simply experience it could take years of your life. During this time you will be caught up in your own dream world, pushed away from the rest of us, and while you will most likely have a day job to support yourself, you will be on a different wavelength than most of society.

No more. We have grown tired of your idealistic meandering, tired of you quivering at the mere glancing brush of fame. What we have constructed in the next room is the most sophisticated virtual reality program ever made. Once you step inside, over the course of a half hour in real time, you will be able to experience what it’s like to be a cultural superstar for a few years. Many of you, regardless of what you say now, will be shocked by how over it you will be when you step out. You will plead your case now for the passion you have, but I have seen many people walk out of that machine with a look in their eyes that signifies being done with it.

Those of you for whom the dream will be dissolved will be given the reward of finally being a normal, productive member of society. You will find much peace and comfort in your daily job and you will also find your thought patterns blissfully free of pipe dreams. Instead of longing for the limelight, you will learn to embrace the simple pleasures of an after work meal, or time spent watching TV with family members.

Those of you left craving more after exiting, and I see a good number of them as well, will then be given a talent test to see if you qualify for our immediate star program. We understand that having actually, or virtually should I say, tasted it, that your motivation will double. We will make you more productive by eliminating the longing that torments you. If you do not qualify, you will be given a normal job to work at, and if you do not embrace it, and continue to mope and beg for fame, you will be terminated.

Chin up, all of you, for this a glorious day. Today we will cure you, eliminate from you the worst sickness that a human can have – a dream. Many of you will be blinded by the truth of the cliche ‘be careful what you wish for’. My wish for all of you is a happy life, free from the burden of imagining something more that in the end is nothing but a carefully constructed illusion. Now, please form a line directly behind this door, and good luck to all of you!

Out of Sight, Out of Rage


Oh, rape, I’d forgotten how much you tickle the keys of my hypersensitivity. Hearing about you always gets my ‘Catcher in the Rye’ feeling all flared up. It must be the element of the loss of innocence. No, there’s really nothing quite like a good rape case to get the ‘why cruel world, why?’ feeling going at a nicely-paced, rhythmic throb.

Today was the first time I’d heard about the Steubenville case, illustrating just how little attention I pay to non-entertainment news (it’s comforting in this bubble). Thanks to the wonders of the internet I was able to do some quick research, and within minutes my stomach was doing somersaults while I seethed like an enraged, overprotective father.

A little later in the day, I saw that Henry Rollins had written something about the case. I was eager to read it as I find him to be an interesting, relatable, and intelligent person. He was asking people to look at the bigger picture, and to not worry about the sentence the boys were given so much as why they thought it was OK.

This got me thinking about the bigger picture as well, but on a much larger scale. During a recent discussion with a friend about religion, we’d come to the conclusion that you can’t really blame people going crazy exclusively on religion, media, or any other specific source. People go crazy simply because they’re people. We’re extremely fallible.

After the initial, almost knee-jerk outrage that I, and I’m sure most other people felt, I started to really think about why it was so upsetting, and I don’t think it’s because of the actual act of rape.

Rape is horrible, but let’s stop and think about something. How many times do you hear those statistics like ‘Every 30 seconds a child dies from hunger’ and think ‘How in the hell can that be possible?’ That’s the definition of a mind-blowing concept. It means that during your normal, routine day, if you had a two minute conversation with a friend, four children died during it. It boggles the mind but think about the sheer amount of people in this country, let alone the world.

Rapes are happening every day. Every single day that you wake up and go to work and don’t think or worry about the dark side of life, someone is raped. A person literally couldn’t live or enjoy their life if they tried to constantly mourn all the bad things happening across the globe.

No, as disturbing as rape is, that’s not why this was upsetting. This was upsetting because we could all actually look at a picture of the unconscious girl being dragged along by two guys, actually watch the video of the teens joking around about her being dead like we were a fly on the wall.

I’m reminded here of a line from Eminem’s ‘White America’, his rallying anthem of ‘attack me, will you?!’ defiance: ‘So now I’m catchin’ the flak from these activists when they’re raggin’, actin’ like I’m the first rapper to smack a bitch or say ‘faggot’?’ Well, of course you’re not Em, you’re simply the latest one who was shoved in front of enough white middle class kids’ faces that their parents started to take notice. I love underground and explicit rap, and trust me, what Eminem’s saying isn’t that bad. His cultural omnipresence just got parents to actually listen to his lyrics.

Such it is with this, and for that matter, any other case of social outrage ever. There would be no statement more moronic than to say that these outrages are not justified; that’s not my point. The point is that the only reason it became an issue is because it became a household name. Many of you reading this may know someone who was raped. Did that incident birth this kind of widespread cultural discussion?

Speaking of cultural discussion, I just read an article about the Steubenville case and the ‘Family Guy generation’. It was about how the cruel humor of our times could lead to lax attitudes amongst its young fan base towards rape. There may be some truth in that, there may not be. I’ve been known to make horrible rape jokes (comedian types love them), but could never imagine doing it in real life. But the article is pointless for another reason. I remember watching a movie back in high school about a football team that took a mentally challenged girl down to a basement and penetrated her with a broomstick. Same outrage, same reverence for the sports team, same everything pretty much. That had to have been well over a decade ago, before Family Guy even existed. To blame whatever form of vulgar media was around then would be to miss the point. I don’t believe these boys thought rape was OK and needed this wake up call to realize it was wrong. I think they’re just young and dumb, two things that go hand in hand with our species.

And so all this information and my aforementioned religious discussion has lead me to come up with a blanket statement that is stupefying in its simplicity: the cause of any case of bad news is simply because we’re humans.

We’re animals. Fallible, vulnerable animals. We have the ability to do amazing things for both good and evil. It’s just who we are. Why did the Steubenville rape really happen? Because young teens like to drink and don’t have good judgement and guys can be horny idiots controlled by their dicks and boredom. We can try to point fingers and look for cultural scapegoats, but why did the same thing happen years ago with the mentally challenged girl and countless times in between? Surely a comparison of the cultures then and now would show many differences. But the humans are the same.

After watching enough ‘To Catch a Predator’ and hearing Chris Hansen ramble on and on about trying to find out what would make a guy do something like that, you just want to scream, ‘THEY JUST WANTED SOME YOUNG PUSSY, MORON!’ Our emotional sides tend to make us miss the simple logic in things: ‘What?! We’re talking about underage girls! You can’t say something like ‘they just wanted young pussy’! What if that was your daughter?!’

But what’s really changed since the days of boys being raped in the Roman empire? You’d probably like to say that people know better now, but the truth is blindingly simple: humans have sexual urges and sometimes those urges get distorted and overpowering.

We can have these debates and discussions until we’re blue in the face and I’ll probably relish most of it. But it’s masturbation. Honestly, what can we do, what can we alter about our society, that will make rape stop occurring? You can’t change human nature and the fact is, there will always be people who, for whatever reason, will be willing to commit rape. Depressing yes, but there will also always be people who would never dream of doing it as well.

Much like the entire world we live in, our greatest strength, weakness, and source of confusion, is duality. The world is beautiful and horrible at the same time and so are we. Murders will always happen. Crime will always happen. People will always want to find some way to get high, some way to deal with their horniness. And while perhaps we shouldn’t just sit back and watch these things happen, in the end, there’s nothing we can do to get rid of them completely.

You can’t say that Martin Luther King Jr.’s mission was a failure, but how many endless discussions are still being had right now about the color of Obama’s skin? Racism is like going to the bathroom, a part of being human we just have to deal with. Is the idea of race not being an issue for EVERY SINGLE HUMAN ON THE PLANET really a feasible idea?

So I’ll look over this story, and my heart will feel for this poor girl, but in the end, I can’t logically care too much. In the time it took me to write this status, somewhere in this world, a bunch of other girls have already been raped.

But there’s no pictures of their ordeal available, so it’ll be easy to just tuck the thought of them away, and go about my regular, boring day.