Her vagina — a status symbol which allowed her to chatter fearlessly — always made her feel manic; yet today she felt sad: Tucked away in her gifted car at 2am with the would-be alpha she had selected from class — he tested and teased her, pulling the fluid from between her legs to pool between her ears. It was a huge turn-off: She had hope he’d be a notch on her rectal belt, perhaps even the one to save her from herself, the nothing she’d become: The one to bid highest in her matrimonial auction. She always felt sad when potential saviors failed to quell her hatred of self and fear of the future.
The next day, she felt sad: Her dad, the minister asked her where she’d been so late the previous night. Too shy to say “passive-aggressively begging to have my hymen torn,” she lied. She always felt sad when she hid her longing to be fertilized.
The next month, she felt sad: A couple in her dad’s Ensenada congregation were discovered to have been renting out their 9-year-old daughter as a sex-toy to local men. She always felt sad when children she cared about were sex-slaves.
The next year, she felt sad: Her dad died. She always felt sad when the only person she ever fully trusted abandoned her to a life of confusion and desperation — a life without a healthy ability for discrimination.
His black skin — a status symbol which allowed him to brag and beg simultaneously — always made him feel cool; yet today he felt mad: He learned that some black women resent the fact that Martin Luther King Jr often cheated on his wife with prostitutes whom he occasionally beat. He always felt mad when black women did not know their place.
The next day, he felt mad: He discovered that his favorite PAWG pornstar refused to act in interracial scenes. He always felt mad when his favorite sex-objects were too racist to facilitate his fetishes.
The next month, he felt mad: A news outlet reported that an unauthorized person had used a certain word for which he’d been trained to exhibit an irresistible conditioned-response. He always felt mad after reports of a white-latino saying “nigger.”
The next year, he felt mad: After years of routinely indulging in drugs and sodomy, he developed cancer of the liver and esophagus, and his genitals were rotting off. He always felt mad when consequences were racist.
His genetic addiction to penises — a status symbol which allotted parades for pride, vanity and misery– always made him feel empty; yet today he felt happy: The cutest guy at the orgy agreed to sneak off and meet him behind the dumpster, where they would go through the motions of pretending each other’s rectum was a womb. He always felt happy that his genetic fate had fashioned, for him, a human-hamster-wheel filled with orgies, dumpsters and recta.
The next day, he felt happy: Vassals of the plutocracy briefly set aside duties towards their large families to announce that a lifestyle of safely sterile sex was a Human Right. He always felt happy when his choices were declared to be compulsions, rewarding him with doom.
The next year, he felt happy: Successful legal battles allowed him to lurk in the hospital room of his dying husband — intimidating the husband’s ex-wife and children from being there — so, left alone, he was able to convince his disease-ridden Romeo to bequeath, to Julieto, all that the desperate, dying man had accrued in life. He always felt happy to supplant sustainable social-norms, in order to flick away a grain of sand from his desert of anxiety.
Thus pawns on the Expanded Plantation, robbed of their innate ability to discriminate meaningfully, considered matters of morality always and only through the lens of their masters’ placating, mind-numbing policies — and all else was evil.