The Good American

There's something so American about John. He's been my roommate for several months now, and from studying his habits I've learned what it truly means to be American. It’s not that he's particularly interesting, but more so that I can't help but notice his disturbingly oblivious demeanor.

From the moment I met him I knew something was wrong. "Hi, I'm John, and this is my girlfriend, Jen!" Here were Ken and Barbie standing right in front of my eyes... great. Just too upbeat to be real. A smile a mile wide that screams misery. But he doesn't know he's miserable, that's the sweet irony. His head is so far up his own ass that he can't hear the lies he whispers to himself.

Why do I hate this guy / kid / generic dude from Florida you might ask... I guess I just don't have a choice. Anyone who looks themselves in the mirror and thinks to themselves "gosh jolly, everything sure is swell!" has to ask themselves the serious question: Is it really? In a world so full of suffering, have you spent a grand total of more than two seconds without that dopey grin on your face? When I ask you how it’s going, is work all you can talk about? Can you not mention anything about your miserable relationship with your hooker girlfriend, the late night outbursts of drunken violence, broken furniture, and broken dreams? Or did you dare to dream? I didn't think so. You only looked at one foot in front of the other, never questioning the path you're walking so arbitrarily.

This default path of American unconsciousness is walked by so many unfortunate unindividuals. Go to college (or not)... stay in unfulfilling relationship because it's secure and the sex is alright.... get married, sell knives (used cars, middle management etc.) Have a kid because its what everyone else your age is doing... and why not have mini-you running around? You're the shit, right? You have a mid-life crisis when you realize you're over the hill and haven't really lived... So you buy a fast car to feel better... You are the man now, Johnny! Look at all the stuff you've bought. It’s the only proof that you've existed. Then you die of obesity, boredom, or more likely in your case, forgetting to chew your Big Mac.

Dear John, the road is still stretching out far ahead of you. You won't hit the brick wall for at least a couple more years. No kids yet, but you already have a dog that wears diapers, which saves you the hassle of taking it on walks. If you can figure out how to get your sleaze bag girlfriend pregnant, you'll probably put the baby on Prozac so you don't have to listen to it cry. God bless America.

You didn't walk this path of apathy because poverty forced you into an animalistic survival mode. No, you lazy fuck of a roommate; you just don't give a shit about anything or anyone not immediately benefiting you. Would you dare take out the trash? It’s not in your room, so what's the big deal if flies and rodents find a shelter there? You don't have to notice until that diseased rat is biting your dick, and even then you'll just go to the doctor, get a shot, and no biggie! Your world is only what you choose to look at, and anything that ain't pretty... Well, let's just turn our heads the other way and pretend everything's peachy keen. It's the American way.

Just like the good ol' US of A, you only want to feel good and get what's "yours", to hell with other people and the suffering we impose upon them. What other people!? I can't see it if I'm covering my eyes and ears, and jumping up and down like a child in a temper tantrum. I know I'm bitter and harsh... but it’s only because I'm jealous of John. You see, he's something I could never be; a good consumer, a good American, completely oblivious... a waste of space.

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