Oh, is this supposed to be about me? Sorry, that'll have to wait. Hell hasn't frozen over yet.
However much it seems to sexually excite unbranded, shop's own NeoCons like Tony Blair and Hillary Clinton (left on the shelves, poorly-disguised, but always glad of the still-browsing public fingers that make 'em feel relevant), there's nothing pretty about manufactured mass hysteria. It's an ugly, unwashed beast clawing at the starched skirts of normalcy like a demented child on a sugar rush with the hateful hots for nanny, whining and groping until it gets the attention it craves. That such attention results in bloodshed, rather than soothing acquiescence, naturally shocks and appalls today's concerned onlookers, because generational foreboding and supine re-evaluation have determined that you just...don't...strike children, much less shoot them in the head.
Expecting dyed-in-the-hair dictators with ongoing, deeply-internalised hardcore patriarchal fantasies of ownership and control to turn dewey-eyed, and start doling out the Werther's Originals at the first signs of their subjects kicking up a fuss is as unrealistic as expecting the scorpion not to sting the frog carrying it on its back across the river. Nature, in all its twisted evolutionary glory, is nature, and the survival instinct will always trump any potential softer inclinations or characteristics lurking beneath the armoured shell. Some roads to power are one-way streets, never quiet cul-de-sacs, and the longer the journey there, the tougher it is to turn back. More to the point, and within that collective visionary framework of delusional self-certainty, running away is for real losers - the migrant worker cowards and domestic tax-dodgers, who whine pitifully when their once cheerfully abandoned home nations are slow to pluck them away from all-too-predictable chaos. You didn't see it coming? More fool you. Perhaps the petro-dollar signs blinded you with greed, or you just didn't think it through when you gambled on making a fortune in a certified hot zone of historical trouble. Either way, 'refugee' can still be a dirty word in the lexicon of opportunism, as you're doubtless learning now.
It's always hard to feel sympathy for self-made grief, even when the spark for viral madness originated far away on a Western lawn, as an experimental catalyst played out across networks which, as the regime-changing stakes grow ever higher, seem anything but social.
Expecting dyed-in-the-hair dictators with ongoing, deeply-internalised hardcore patriarchal fantasies of ownership and control to turn dewey-eyed, and start doling out the Werther's Originals at the first signs of their subjects kicking up a fuss is as unrealistic as expecting the scorpion not to sting the frog carrying it on its back across the river. Nature, in all its twisted evolutionary glory, is nature, and the survival instinct will always trump any potential softer inclinations or characteristics lurking beneath the armoured shell. Some roads to power are one-way streets, never quiet cul-de-sacs, and the longer the journey there, the tougher it is to turn back. More to the point, and within that collective visionary framework of delusional self-certainty, running away is for real losers - the migrant worker cowards and domestic tax-dodgers, who whine pitifully when their once cheerfully abandoned home nations are slow to pluck them away from all-too-predictable chaos. You didn't see it coming? More fool you. Perhaps the petro-dollar signs blinded you with greed, or you just didn't think it through when you gambled on making a fortune in a certified hot zone of historical trouble. Either way, 'refugee' can still be a dirty word in the lexicon of opportunism, as you're doubtless learning now.
It's always hard to feel sympathy for self-made grief, even when the spark for viral madness originated far away on a Western lawn, as an experimental catalyst played out across networks which, as the regime-changing stakes grow ever higher, seem anything but social.