There are those shitty days that remind of low-budget horror movie.

Like the one, in which the bubbly bimbo who usually gets to be offed first, did not make to the shoot that day. Instead, the unsympathetic NPCs, usually designated to die early on, are the main actors, and you realize in bewilderment that they will die after you do.

You’d have preferred to be the main character, smashing the crunching skulls of street zombies. Legends would be told about you. Legends in which you are called something like ‘Monsier Le Massacre’ and are immortalized in merch as a small figure made of clay, hairs, spit and oily rags (it is low budget after all). But no.

On such days, a person truly believes that the place where they were born is rotten to the core. That the world, in principle, is so defectively and shittily put together, that you hear the creaks in your head… And the Universe around is just another ulcer on the greasy dick of Existence.

It doesn’t matter if a person is right (or wrong) on such days. What matters is that, like in our exploitation horror flick, on days (and weeks, and years) like these, monsters hatch into being. And because in life, as in moviemaking, there isn’t always a budget for the simplicity of mass or serial killers, three types of monsters are born:

The first are the homunculi of routine, whose worldview is the depth of a page of classifieds.

The second are the pithecanthropi of pleasure, who have a buzzing vibrator jutting out of each hole, making them wreathe and grunt, impervious to any real thought.

The third type is the most frightening. The third type of characters are the biggest degenerates. Due to their horrifying appearance and essence, they have anointed themselves ‘the elite’, ‘the intelligentsia.’ If they were to be described and drawn, these people would resemble the thousand-headed serpent from fairy tales, but instead, its heads replaced by a thousand sphincters.

A fox caught a chick to eat.
It squealed and said, ‘Let me go, I’ll take you to eat my mother, my father, and all my siblings’. The fox thought about it, agreed, thinking it was a good tradeoff, and let it go.
The bird flew up onto a tree and said, ‘Get fucked — I was hatched in an incubator!’

They are ‘the intelligentsia/elite’ not because they are intelligent or elite, but because they are too lazy and incapable to be different in any real way from other people – the normal ones. They are the intelligentsia/elite in order to do nothing and to have something to protest about. They are the intelligentsia/elite to watch incomprehensible elitist cinema and then be clueless on its message. They have their own internal world – very orderly and very intelligent. The external world, they feel, is wholly unintelligent, Vulgar. Unkind they say. it suppresses them like a colonial power and makes them seethe with offense. They want someone to come, to understand them, to ravish them, and then they will submit completely. They write because there’s no one who would listen to them. Usually, as soon as they find someone who actually hears them, that someone starts fucking them.

‘What can I really do?’ – they say to themselves – ‘It is just a messed-up world, disordered and ugly. Ungrateful. I’d rather go back to my small, orderly, coquettish, and comfortably segregated world. I’ll envelop myself in silence, mid-century modern furniture and three vodka addled friends. I cannot be responsible. I just hate the world when it is messy.’


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