I came across an article this afternoon about rhinos becoming extinct from poachers lopping off their horns. And encroachment of civilization, but mostly the poachers. Extinct is forever, you know. Poof – gone from the universe. Oh well. We’ll always remember you; we captured some good content. Then there were these stories of American policemen using pepper spray and bludgeoning clubs to get Americans to stop exercising their First Amendment rights. And in Syria they’re chopping off each other’s heads  in the name of control. Oh – and in Greece? Well, let’s just say that the cradle of western civilization is on the verge of collapse. Don’t even get me started on the people starving in Africa or extreme weather as the result of nearly seven billion people crawling around on the planet’s surface stripping it of important resources. Like rhino horns. Stories like this swirl around us daily, but mostly we keep focused on the shit that doesn’t matter. Shit that makes us money. Shit that makes us feel important. Shiny shit. Because, you know, all that other stuff isn’t real. The only real thing is what happens in our own little bubbles. And as long as those bubbles are intact, everything else can pretty much kiss our ass. It’s cool. Just don’t try to explain to me how some crazy shit in Libya has anything to do with me having to pay 3.89 for gasoline. I have a commute, you know. It’s the damn (insert either Democrats or Republicans here based on your preference)’s fault.

Besides, Christmas is coming. We know this because retailers are chumming the waters for Black Friday. Because let’s face it, stopping to give thanks is just a speed bump on the boulevard to gluttony in America – and Christmas stopped being a day to rejoice in the birth of a savior decades ago. Now it’s all about buying shit at great prices so that we can give it to fat American children who are so fucking spoiled that they’ll never fully grasp the concept of a global community. You go head on and get your kid the new Kindle Fire. Used paper books are passé, after all.

So you’ll stave off the effects of tryptophan next Thursday to line up outside of Target at midnight to buy as much shit made in China as your credit card can handle.

November depresses me.


Jim Mitchem

Writer's Block

Jim Mitchem

Writer. Father to daughters. Husband. Ad man. Raised by wolves. @jmitchem on twitter. First novel, Minor King, out now.