Depressalin: Chapter 9 “Camps”

Going through the chapters and posting the ones that are readable… in no particular order, or course. Hopefully there’ll be enough material for a while. The chapters are mercifully short (as chapters go); ergo there are many.

I just wanted to say “ergo” in a sentence.

For your convenience, here are the other chapters in order:
Chapter Zero “Paragon of Shit”
Chapter One “Displacement” 
Chapter Six  “Idiot Missile”
Chapter Seven “I’m Not Really a Writer”
Blog Entry: Just Ask Any Astronaut 

I think I will go back and start titling chapters that need titles (UPDATE: Done!).

Okay, here’s Chapter 9… Enjoy!

Ridiculous words from ridiculous men. Accept reality! Won’t solve any problems, just fight ‘till the end. Accept reality! –Birmingham 6 “The Deadliest Beat

Accept reality, indeed.

What you’re about to read is more of a rant than a Chapter of My Life. My mother used to tell me that I carry the weight of the world on my shoulders. In fact, she even called in to a local radio show one night to dedicate a song to me and said just that. I wear what I feel inside on my sleeves pretty often. The world is a hard, cruel, shitty place and I am physically pained by the injustice caused by one human being to another. It sickens me. And instead of becoming some sort of pacifistic hippie, I seethe a form of loathing from the pores of my soul every second of every day.

One time, when I was a kid, my teacher asked me if I had one wish, and only one wish, what would I wish for? Without any hesitation, my 9-year-old mouth replied, “I’d wish to tyrannically rule a mid-sized nation state. My power would be an iron fist in a steel glove. I would rule with fairness and compassion, but woe to those who cross me and what I know to be right. Should anyone cross me or intentionally harm another, I will have them executed.”

Mrs. Clouse contacted my parents soon after I said that particular gem. My folks simply told her “That’s our boy. He is who he is.”

I really haven’t changed much since then, either. I still privately weep for those more unfortunate than me. I harbor deep, deep resentment for those assholes out there who oppress others.

Yet, I’m kind of a social sadist; any true compassion for Mankind at large having burnt away from my personality years and years ago. I have had to force myself not to care due to my sensitive nature. I can’t relate to New Age peaceniks, nor can I respect war-monging freaks. I despise the rich and pity the poor—but I also don’t want to be taken advantage of by the disadvantaged. I love to help people but I’m constantly pissed off how such help given by me and others is squandered (which is why I tend to poo-poo most charities).

And this is why I can’t have nice things.

On to the rant… Perhaps you will glean something useful about me. Or maybe you will just say “Fuck you, Steve”.

I severely dislike those who refuse to accept reality. It hinders my clawing need to escape from everyone and everything.


I hate them all.

I am a spiteful being full of loathing and contempt, I suppose. I hide it well; as being a pain-in-the-ass dick* all the time makes people bitch and moan about me, making my life all the more difficult when all I want to do is find that magic button that says “PUSH HERE TO KILL EVERYBODY IN A SLOW AND PAINFUL MANNER” on it.

(*See what I did there? Oh, the homoerotiomedy!)

But I don’t have to find that button, do I? Nah, life itself is the button. You are born, you live, grow up, realise and understand that you are trapped in a suck-hole you still don’t want to end one day, fuck a bunch of people, fuck over a bunch more, lie about how wonderful you are, lie to yourself, make money, make babies and raise them into fucked up versions of yourself, make friends, bury said friends later on, and become old, secreting that special hormone in your brain which allows you to accept death and finally fucking die for fuck’s sake.

Or maybe you’ll be brained by thugs wandering by, looking for a good time on a Saturday night whilst shit-faced, and bleed out before weary paramedics can save your sorry, unfortunate ass.

Or maybe you’ll kiss the inside of a windshield with so much love and affection you’ll be killed instantly, the last thought on your mind being “Those were some damned fine nachos! And by Chinese people, no le—“.

Any way you slice it, you are doomed to die. Accept it. It is your destiny. Life is merely the journey to death. Then no one will care you ever existed. No one will be left to care about those left not caring in a hundred years, anyway. Unless you do something really fucking cool, of course. Or rape and kill a bunch of hookers or children. Then you’ll be remembered for a really fucking long time.

Example: The first person who comes to mind who made headlines in the mid-1920s is Fritz Haarmann, the Werewolf of Hanover. And who’s he? A sick motherfucker who was responsible for up to twenty-seven murders of young men and boys during a six year stretch. Happy-go-lucky Fritz was executed by guillotine in 1925, his last words being “I repent, but I do not fear death.”

Fuck you, Fritz Haarmann. Why the hell do I even know about your sick ass? I guess I can directly blame Rudy Ratzinger, the fellow behind :wumpscut:, one of my fave music acts. Not only did Rudy do a song called Der Totmacher (The Deadmaker – cute, eh?) about good ‘ol Fritz, but his vanity label for his music, Beton Kopf Media, uses Haarmann as its mascot.

Most people think it’s a picture of Hitler. Go figure.

And speaking of everyone’s favourite Austrian douchebag, I know way too much about Adolf Hitler. Too fucking much. And why? Am I fascinated by him and the Nazi regime? Did I watch too many History Channel specials? Well, I can’t blame the HC because I was already fascinated by Hitler at a very young age.

Growing up in Germany as a hyper-intellectual American child has a certain effect. There I was, living in a village of around 900 souls and all of the old people there were involved in World War II in some capacity or another. I mean, fuck, the American Army punched through in that very area (Aachen) and destroyed a whole bunch of shit. My next door neighbour was a man captured at Stalingrad and spent ‘till 1953 in a goddamned Soviet gulag, forced to do all kinds of depraved things to survive– including cannibalism.

Fucking wow, huh?

My young mind basically couldn’t understand why these nice old people were so fucking cruel and on the wrong side in The Best War Ever. These were old ladies who greeted me with candy when I got off the bus from school, old men who let me ride on their tractors, people who seemed so kind, accepting and generous. And yet many of them were totally cool with rounding people up in camps, hunting Jews down in the Ukraine to murder them (“Hunting the children was always easiest”) and, of course, shooting Americans.

GOTT IN HIMMEL. These people gave me candy!

Yet, I still loved them and still miss them to this very day. And here is where I can state that growing up in Germany made me an incredibly understanding-yet-cynical person. Most Americans, even ones overseas, don’t or can’t relate to anyone but other Americans. Not even other Americans in the United States… I’m willing to go as far to say they can’t relate to people who live more than a hundred miles away from them in the same damned country.

It’s not just Americans, though, right? It’s everybody. Everybody is a piece of shit who only cares for themselves. How else can they watch people starve? Not just on TV but right there on their filthy streets. Judging others like they are the Spice Controllers of Arakis, barely caring about their own family members let alone that complete stranger who lives next door.


By the time I was ten years old, I hoped until I nearly burst for a nuclear holocaust. A plague. An alien invasion. Anything that would wipe out the disease we call Mankind. I’ll gladly go out with y’all, too. With a big smile on my cigarette-punctured face and bottle of tequila in my hands. What gives you the right to think you are better that anyone else? That you are soooo fucking special? Nothing other than some brain chemicals that evolution has blessed us with so we didn’t off ourselves in our cold, dark caves all those thousands of years before we even gave a shit about anything remotely like an iPod.

Or a wheel.

Of course… of COURSE this has been all said by all manner of people before me. “Oh, why oh why, oh Universe, are you so cruel?”

Yeah? Why do people suffer?

“Because they have to, son.”

Thanks, dad.

People love to suffer, too. They are titillated by the madness of others. Why else would we care about things like Charles Manson or Joseph Stalin? Because they made a difference? Because they mattered? Okay, well, Stalin I’ll give you. Fuck that guy, sure, but he is one of the top Murder Machines of History. Manson? He was a sign of things to come.

Shitty things.

Like Internet Culture and comic book forums. Like Lady Gaga and cute kitten videos on YouTube. Like your mom, who no doubt uses Facebook… just like me.

Humanity is a fucking wonderful and shitty disease all at once. I love to hate you, humanity; but I also hate to love you as much as I do. I’m a part of you, but I also judge you harshly as you judge me. I will live my life in Freedom, all the while wishing you were in camps.


Okay, okay, they can be fun camps—but only on Tuesdays.

“This camp Steve set up is brutal and tough. What a dick. Oh, well, see you next Tuesday!”


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