If there’s anything that really bothers me and causes me to fret over the future of the United States, and the world as a whole, it is the Faux Progressivism that completely dominates western society, exonerating all that is Socialist and anti-Conservative while vilifying those who disagree and slandering them as racists, homophobes, Islamophobes, and misogynists.
This is particularly visible in the United States, where the Democrat Party is the party of hispanics, blacks, women, atheists, spiritualists, gays, and transgenders, while the Republican Party is the party of straight, white, Christian men. Battle lines were drawn, the Republican Party was painted as the party of narrow-minded WASPs, and the Democrat Party has spent the past twenty years talking condescendingly to and insulting Republicans.
People who know of my characteristics expect me to be a liberal, a Democrat. I despise Christianity–and religion in general. I’m young and college educated (my college degree is probably the possession of which I am most proud). I’m a transgender lesbian. I… probably should have led with that.
“What do you mean, you’re not a Democrat?” I can hear people shouting. “Clearly, you’re a Democrat!”
No… No, I’m not. I’m an anarchist, technically–or a Libertarian when I don’t feel like getting into the conversation that deeply. One thing I am not, though… is a Democrat.
I actually began as an ordinary Republican, born and raised under the teachings of my dad and grandmother; though I had broken from their religion, I had not been exposed to politics and to the issues long enough to have broken away from conservatism as a political policy. In 2004, just two months after my 18th birthday, I voted for George W. Bush, under the idea that we didn’t need to change Presidents just after going to war. By 2006, I adamantly regretted that choice, and I was among the many irate Americans who swept into office a Democratic Congress to restrain the hands of a wild President.
In 2008, I was a supporter of Hillary Clinton. Then I heard Obama speak on the news. To be honest, I was neither exhilarated nor inspired by the soothing voice and measured words of this man who would become the country’s first black president; I was terrified. His tone was filled with such assurance that I feared we were watching the rise of a dictator with charisma that would make David Karesh look like King Henry VIII. But this kneejerk reaction to the power of Obama’s oratory skills faded quickly, and I soon became a supporter.
Very shortly after, it became clear to my generation that we had been betrayed–again. Just as W. had betrayed us, so had Obama, who chose to keep none of the promises he made on his campaign trail. Among the dozens of important promises he made, the only one he kept was the abolition of torture, which, thank god, he did go through with. There is no excuse for torture, and no justification for it. Torture is the ultimate of evils and can never be exercised in pursuit of good. Torture, as an act of supreme evil, leads only to evil.
What was I to do, then? It was already natural to me to not care about race, sexual orientation, gender, and nationality, and these are major calling cards of the Republican Party. In late high school, I was captain of the Pro-Choice team in the Debate Club, as well. On social matters, I couldn’t have been more unlike Republicans, yet I also disagreed with this notion that it was the government’s responsibility to protect us from ourselves. Beyond that, the Democrat Party had just betrayed us–brazenly and without consequence. Never again could I support a party that had promised me so much, and yet delivered so little. Guantanamo Bay remains a prison, and there are still people there whose guilt has not been ascertained, because they have not been given trials. How the hell long does it take to organize a trial? Try these people or let them go.
Then, under the suggestion of a co-worker, I watched a “documentary” called Zeitgeist. While a great deal of Zeitgeist touts conspiracy theory as unequivocal fact (it alleges that it’s a fact that the American Government allowed Pearl Harbor to happen, but this is far from a fact; it alleges that Hitler burned down the Reichstag building, and this is far from a fact), much of the documentary is also reliable: all that it says about the Federal Reserve Bank is true.
Knowing about the Federal Reserve, of course, eventually led me to Ron Paul, the champion of the End the Fed rEVOLution. After having been betrayed by both political parties, Ron Paul was very much like a light in the darkness, shining gently far in the distance as a sultry wind carried the whisper “There is another way.”
I learned that for 27 years, Ron Paul had been saying and doing the same things, that his principles had never wavered, and that he was uniformly on the side of the people and liberty. For me, this was a perfect fit. Libertarianism combined individual responsibility with social liberalism–people can do whatever the hell they want, but people are also responsible for what they do. Such a common sense position.
But the attitude of the Faux Progressivism is that it’s bad to be responsible for yourself. Nowhere is this more clear than the Invincibility Mode that is being added to Star Fox Zero for Nintendo Wii U. “This isn’t right!” I, and people like me, said. “You have to reward people for putting in effort! You can’t just remove all the difficulty from a game like that.”
“You entitled babies!” we were told. “How dare you act like the fact that you put effort into it means you should be rewarded? So what if I don’t want to put in the effort? This means I shouldn’t get to enjoy the content?”
This is not a strawman. This is their actual argument; this is genuinely their position. We are entitled because we think effort should be rewarded. Despite believing that they should get everything without effort, they are not the ones being entitled… It’s maddening to watch it play out, because how do you explain to someone that a circle is round? How do you explain to someone that the sky is blue? How do you explain to someone who is acting entitled and screaming that you are acting entitled that they, in fact, are the ones acting entitled?
“I want my effort to be rewarded” is not an entitled statement to make. It is not elitism. It is not exclusivism. It is not an attempt to insult, disparage, or exclude people entirely.
“I want to see the whole game, even if I don’t feel like working for it” is among the most entitled things a person can say. I don’t think I could fathom a more entitled statement. And, briefly, to wrap up the conversation about video games, I’m fine with Invincibility Mode being included–but there must be a reward for not using it, or a punishment for using it. If a player uses Invincibility Mode, then they should be locked to the Easy Path, and should get the Bad Ending, with the game telling them at the end, “You did it! But to get the true ending, you have to play on a higher difficulty!”
Participation trophies are exactly why we have this attitude. “I want a trophy, but I don’t want to work hard and become the best pitcher.” “I want a trophy, but I don’t want to work hard and run the most yards in a season.” “I want a trophy, but I don’t want to have to practice and hit the most home runs.” Next thing you know, the kid who hit 82 home runs is getting the same trophy as the kid who laid in the grass eating bugs, and ten years later that bug-eating loser is on the Internet saying he wants to be able to complete games without putting in any effort.
But I’m entitled. Because I want to put in effort.
I ate Wendy’s for lunch today. I’m not proud of it, but I was on-site at 9:00 this morning, and I didn’t leave the client’s until after 4:00, so I had to get something to eat. I ordered two cheesburgers and a chicken sandwich, because I always order from the dollar menu. It’s not like the $8 burger tastes any better than the $1 burger–it’s all garbage, disgusting, and terrible for you.
Anyway, I wasn’t paying any attention, and when I opened my bag to leave, there were only two sandwiches inside. So I stayed at the second window a moment. It took more than 2 minutes for the girl to come see what I wanted, though I happened to see that she knew I was there–she was just hoping that she could “pretend” not to see me, and that I would drive away and give up. Finally, though, she came to the window. I’d already checked my receipt, and, sure enough, the chicken sandwich didn’t get rung up.
“I also ordered a chicken sandwich,” I said, “but didn’t get one. So I need–”
The girl looked at the monitor overhead, and then turned back to me, shook her head, and said, “She ain’t charge you for it.”
Um… What? What does that have to do with anything? I didn’t ask whether or no I was charged for something I didn’t get. I said I needed something else. The correct response would have been “I’m sorry about that, we’ll get that ordered right away. You weren’t charged for it, however, so that will be $1.09.”
Instead, I had to say, “I still need it, so… I need to order it.”
It was clear that this whole thing was just a huge inconvenience to her, a hassle. She slinked away from the window, walking slow as fuck, and I simply drove off in exasperation.
Why am I talking about this?
Because these people want $15 an hour.
For that. For slapping that together. For making customers know it’s a hassle for them to fix their mistakes. For being too goddamned lazy to do it right the first time. For not paying attention when people place orders and not ringing up requested items, because I know for a fact I asked for a chicken sandwich. She was just fucking off on her phone or something and wasn’t paying attention.
It’s no wonder this girl was in her 30s and working the drive-thru at a Wendy’s. Anyone whose work ethic is so poor that the best they can muster up when a customer says “This isn’t correct” is a sneering “She ain’t charge you for it” doesn’t deserve to do anything else–and doesn’t even deserve to be employed. If you want to earn $15 an hour, then do $15/hour-quality work.
And that’s entitlement, through and through–fast food workers protesting and marching to have the Minimum Wage raised to $15/hour because they don’t want to college, or because they don’t want to give 110%, get promoted, and become a district manager. I was 18 when I got my first supervisor position. That’s not a fluke–it was because of a strong work ethic. When I lost my job at Domino’s…
I guess I’ll go ahead and tell that story now. Why not.
His name was Tom (that’s not his real name), and he was this black dude who I was friends with. In fact, for about two years he was my best friend. Is there any significance in the fact that he was black? Somewhat–there were pretty major cultural differences, but neither of us had a problem with the racial difference. I said racist things, he said racist things–it was fine, because neither of us took it seriously. How could I be racist? My best friend was a black guy. How could he be racist? His best friend was a white guy. We hung out damned near all the time, smoking weed, doing rolls, listening to A Perfect Circle, eating Xanax occasionally, some tabs here and there, sometimes candy flipping… It was great. I was 18, 19, and 20, so I was exactly the right age for that sort of thing, and it was fantastic. I wouldn’t change a thing.
But he was gay. And I didn’t know that.
At the time, I had absolutely no gaydar. I hadn’t ever even met a gay person, I didn’t think, and I wasn’t looking for or expecting anyone I knew to be gay. He did and said some weird things, and he really liked massaging my shoulders while we were rolling, but… we were rolling. I didn’t think anything about it.
Eventually, though, I realized he was gay, which wasn’t a problem–the problem was that he was in love with me. I tried to let him down gently by just explaining that I’m not into guys, that I’ve never been into guys, and that any rumors he’s heard didn’t have anything to do with me. I stopped hanging out with him, because he wasn’t willing to just let it go, and soon my then-girlfriend and I were living together in a nice little duplex in the city.
She was often bored, so she rode around with me while I took deliveries, and I loved the company. It was awesome. And I was the driver supervisor, so the only person who could bitch was the general manager, and he turned a blind eye to it because it wasn’t causing any problems. We just drove around, listening to music, holding hands, and talking. It was a great way to spend the evenings. And I’d often stop by the house to help her when she got stuck in Final Fantasy VII or some other game. We really did have a great relationship, and that remained true until I left her–and I’ll never understand why I left her, considering, but c’est la vie.
Anyway, I came out of the store one night to take a delivery, and there was Tom, shouting and yelling at her, threatening her, as she sat in the passenger seat, ignoring him. Hell no. I wasn’t going to allow that. I set the deliveries down calmly on the sidewalk and shouted, “Hey! You watch who the fuck you’re talking to. Don’t talk to her like that.”
He was on Xanax, and he attacked. I was ready, and we fought.
I fought like it was a playground fight. I’d been in several fights before, because I know where my lines are, and I don’t let anyone cross them. Threatening my girlfriend? That crosses a line, and I’m not letting someone cross it with impunity. I have other lines, but that was the one that Tom crossed. A guy in high school named Scott had crossed another, as had a guy named Matt.
That was the night I learned the difference between a street fight and a harmless playground fight. If you pull hair on the playground, you’re a bitch, whether you win the fight or not. If you kick a dude in the groin, you’re a bitch, whether you win or not. If you grab someone’s clothes, you’re a bitch, whether you win the fight or not. But on the street, those rules don’t exist. They don’t matter. And I fought like it was a playground fight; I kept it clean and above the belt.
It was over quickly. As soon as he had a fistful of my hair, he snatched down and kneed me in the face twice, followed it with a kick to the ground, and then pulled my shirt over my face, shoved me down, and started kicking me. It did not happen that quickly, and I put up more of a fight than that. It’s not like he did some Bruce Lee shit and ended the fight in four seconds; that’s not what I mean. But those were the actions that mattered. I got hits in, obviously, but they didn’t matter, because he had the trump cards ready.
So take that advice away from this. There are no rules to street fights. There’s no referee to stop the fight if you’re on the ground, so don’t let yourself get into that position. Fight dirty. Fight as though your survival is on the line, because it might be–you never know. Who knows how many kicks to the head I could have taken before I lost consciousness, and who knows if he could have turned his attention to my ex without being stopped under those circumstances? I can say that it was my responsibility that night to protect my ex, since I’d brought her into that situation (though I didn’t have any idea it was coming), and since I was responsible for dude’s feelings (however inadvertently). That mess was on me, so I handled it the right way. And I succeeded in that–he never spoke another word to her, or said anything negative about her again. God knows I didn’t win that fight, but I evidently did enough.
Anyway, the point is that once you’re off the playground and you have to defend yourself, there are no rules. Don’t go to a weapon unless it’s necessary, because then you step into different territory, but… if it is necessary, grab a tire iron. Do what you have to do to protect yourself and the people who need you to protect them. I didn’t. I fought like it was a playground fight, like there were rules and like there was honor. And I left DNA all over the parking lot as a result. And if we had been alone in a back alley, confronted by someone I didn’t even know, then I would have utterly failed that night to do what was my responsibility.
The next fight I was in came when I was 25, because this grown ass 50 year old fucker came charging and screaming at my sister in her house when I was staying there during the brief separation from my soon-to-be-ex-wife. He was her husband’s dad, and there had been tension between them all for months, because he (the father-in-law and mother-in-law) acted like it was their house, when they weren’t even paying rent. My 4 year old nephew had dropped a pie they bought from Wal-Mart, so my sister had thrown it away. Without asking any questions about how it happened, this fat old fucker just came charging, screaming, rampaging, threatening, and banging on her bedroom door while I happened to be in there with her.
Having already had my name written in blood in a distant parking lot, I knew what had to be done, and I dropped that man the same way Tom dropped me. This motherfucker wanted to come and threaten my sister because of an accident her 4 year old son had, blaming her and calling her a bitch for throwing away his pie? Not even asking what happened, just assuming that she spitefully was like “fuck this pie” and threw it away to be a bitch? Nah. I wasn’t having that. And it didn’t create issues between me and her husband, either, because her husband wanted to do the same thing when he heard about it, but he got 7 hours to call off while he was at work. And I totally understand. If my dad went after my girlfriend, I’d drop him, too. But my dad, despite all his failings, would never do that.
It’s not about being tough, being strong, or knowing how to fight. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying I’m tough. You don’t have to be tough to win a fight. You just have to be quick. You only need one opportunity–and so do they. Once they grab your hair, it’s over.
^ Did what he had to do.
Stopped the fight immediately.
Well, I’ve digressed enough, and I’m sorry about all of that. I didn’t have a clear topic in mind when I sat down to write, and this is what happened. If you liked it, though, maybe you’d consider following me on Facebook, to stay up-to-date with all my ramblings–it’s also the best way to communicate with me. Or by following me on Twitter, to stay current on everything that I post. And if you really, really liked it, maybe you’d consider becoming a patron and contributing to the upkeep of the site, and the continued flow of wonderful, unfocused, scattered, incoherent articles like this one. I really want to move to www.shemalediary.com. 😀
Thank you for all your support, for all your help, and for all your time. I guess it’s my hope that giving you insight into myself and into who I am… could help you gain insight into yourself, and into who you are. Thank you to my patrons, and thank you to notathoughtgiven for all that you do and have done. From the bottom of my heart. <3