Alexander Hellene

Ending Your Genetic Line to Own the Libs

If it feels like nobody cares, it’s because nobody does. That’s what I always say. Not my big brother Dan. He has some bullshit he’s on about, something like, if it feels like nobody cares, it’s because you’re not looking in the right places. He also says that “nobody” is way too big of a term, that it’s impossible to state with any degree of accuracy that nobody out of all seven-billion-plus people in our stupid world cares about you. “I care about you, bro,” he says. And that’s true, I guess, but my point is that nobody who matters care. In fact, they’re responsible for our despair and they think it’s funny.

I think about these things at the clinic waiting to get my vasectomy. Snip snip. Not like I have children. Who’d want to marry me, anyway? Loser. Incel. NEET. Almost thirty, live at home. Can’t find any work beyond these garbage minimum wage gigs that only these Guatemalan or Nigerian ladies will take. People who can barely speak English. I see why they do it. It makes sense for them. Compared to where they came from, this is a golden opportunity. Toiling for pennies. They don’t feel the shame of being a wagie. Managed expectations. Never had ambition inflation. They suffer now to give their children a better life.

See, that’s the thing: they have children.

Put it into perspective, Dan says. These people, they come here not speaking a lick of the language, no education. They settle for a smaller home, doing with less to build for the future. You’ve got to start somewhere.

Easy for you to say, Dan. You’re married. You have kids. When you came of age, there was still an opportunity. You weren’t ruled by people who hate you. Pawns on a chessboard. Kindly Rosalinda who makes me my coffee doesn’t realize that she’s a slave just as much as the rest of us. Working for pennies. Government subsidized. Would be nice to get a bit of that myself. I’m not starting from zero. I got a degree. I did what I was told. Where’s my handout?

Is it premature to neuter myself? It all depends on your perspective. The system has failed me. The system treats me like trash. Why should I contribute to it? Why should I fight and die? The system wants to replace me. Why should I provide more genetic material to feed the machine? Not my progeny. Uh-uh. No way. And don’t even get me started on the state of American womanhood. I have enough loathing for my own gender as it is.

When all that is left is an unfulfilling end to one’s life, what’s the point of anything but pleasure seeking? Immediate return on investment. You can cram all of your delayed gratification talk straight up your asshole. All we’ve got is now. You fail me, I fail you. It’s a quid pro quo. I’m being rational here.

The coffee tastes really, really good. Maybe Rosalinda the kindly Guatemalan really knows her stuff. Has a genetic disposition for the brewing and dispensing of the coffee bean. I like to think so. Maybe she has a daughter.

It doesn’t matter. They’re about to call my number. Outpatient surgery. American innovation at is finest. Ain’t technology grand? If enough of us remove ourselves from the system, then the system will collapse. I owe it nothing. And once it collapses, once they realize how much they really need us and not the other way around . . . then we can finally rebuild.


I haven’t figured that one out yet. But we’ll cross that bridge when we get there. If we get there.

Hey, at least I’m not shooting anyone.

– Alexander

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