I Give Up
It’s not as bad as you think, but it’s still bad. I haven’t given up the fight—that’s not possible. Maybe I’ve given up on the manner in which I engage in the fight. But for sure, I’ve given up any effort to protect myself from the tidal wave heading our way. This means I am not storing hundreds of cans of beans in my basement, or turning all of my savings into gold and silver bars. Nor am I buying guns in Virginia and sneaking them up into Canuckistan to use against the health department marauders who are sure to storm my house, hold me down with a jackboot to the neck, and plunge dozens of mRNA vaccines into my butt.
They’ll have to hold me down—I’ll fight ‘em. But I won’t be shooting them or setting booby traps in my house. And when the mask fun starts up again, I won’t be wearing one. I won’t be complying easily. But if I can’t buy a box of cookies without wearing a mask, one will go on. I’ve gotta eat, right?
I think often of those ants that build bridges across streams in the jungle. They all pile up on one another so some ants can walk across and not get drowned. So, a bunch of ants sacrifice their lives for the lives of a few others. Nice of them. I won’t do that, sorry. I admire the dead ants in their watery grave. I don’t think they were crazy. But I can’t do it. I won’t die for a cause. Sure, if I end up dead because I was arrogant, belligerent, non-conforming—with a butt full of needles—for writing this crap that I write, fine and good. So be it. But I won’t knowingly, consciously, drown so other fellow human beings can walk over my dead body.
Well, maybe I would. When it came down to it and it was really clear to me my actions would save others. Who am I kidding? I would do it. Sign me up. Now, that’s crazy.
Speaking of writing, I guess I won’t even do that if it gets too ugly—not because I’m afraid, but because I’m annoyed. I really don’t like nasty people. I stopped writing for Off-Guardian because one of the commenters got really ugly: accused me of all sorts of shit, attacked my therapy practice, and actually threatened to kill me! Now, I’m pretty sure he wasn’t going to do that, but screw him, man. I just don’t need that crap. When I quit, I got all sorts of people calling me a candy-ass wimp, saying it was somehow my duty to stay on regardless of the flak I got. Forget it. Here at Shrew Views, it’s a tad different—all you people have good hearts and are lovely. OG has some nice folks, too, but a lot of crap as well. Maybe I am a pussy; well, not maybe, I am for sure. I don’t like pain, and I don’t like people hating me. Pussy.
Over 180 articles, one every week for four years. Oh well.
But who knows what any of us would do when push comes to shove? There’s a kooky part of being a compassionate, empathetic human being—we do weird stuff. I guess what I’m really saying is that I’m giving up this fear that when the steamroller comes, I’ll get crushed and I have to do something to avoid the flattening. And because of that fear, I’m going to do whatever I can to prevent the crushing part. Everyone I know is so smart—they’ve all prepared for the end. They’ve turned all their cash into precious metals, they have basements filled with all the proper food to last for a thousand years (freeze-dried crickets? I hear they last forever). Maybe they’ve even built old-fashioned ’60s-style bomb shelters in holes they’ve dug in their backyards. Manly men with shovels, taking care of their families. Good for them. I ain’t doing it. In fact, I’m not even thinking about it.
Sure, I’m ancient—what do I care? I know I would be different if I were 35 with four little kids to think about. I worry about all of you out there in that situation. And I would climb on the watery part of the ant bridge so you and your wee ones could walk across to safety if I could. Someone has to usher in the real new world order—not the genocidal one, but the loving one, filled with decent people. But that won’t be me, for sure, so who cares? Needless to say, I’ll be lucky if my lights go out naturally before I’m eating rat tails for dinner.
Underground dissident? You bet. Now, that’s an idea! I’ve always admired underground movements, like the French Resistance during WWII (who would have thought the French could be so vicious?). They were my heroes (after the fact, of course—I was born in ’55). I’ll do that for sure, as long as it isn’t violent. So that’s my new calling: play the game and pretend you’re compliant just so they don’t kill ya (or eat ya). Then, when they least expect it—pow! Make your move. That I could live with.
But all this other crap? Forget it. My primary goal used to be waking up sleeping sheep. Forget that, too. Even if they were awake and believed everything we believe, they wouldn’t do a thing differently. That is already evident. So why bother? Changing government isn’t going to work either. All this rot is just too deep. It’s got to change eventually, but I’m just not going to be the one to do it directly. Indirectly, sure, no problem. But I give up anything direct. Hell, I may even vote for some democrats so I don’t keep losing friends and family. I won’t support their progressive woke garbage, but I’ll pretend I’m into it, just to keep everyone happy. Ha! Forget that, too. That would kill me to play along with the woke crowd. I’m not going to be a Satanist either.
So, yeah, I give up—on the grand illusions of heroism, the stockpiles of cricket chow, and the futile sheep-shaking marathons. But don’t mistake this for surrender; it’s more like a strategic nap in the foxhole. Us shrews? We’ll keep sniffing out the rot, whispering truths in the dark, and maybe even nibbling at the edges of the machine until it coughs up something real. In the meantime, pass the cookies (mask optional), and let’s raise a glass to living defiantly, one unmasked breath at a time. Who knows? Maybe the tidal wave will hit and wash us all clean—or at least give me a good excuse to finally learn how to swim.