The Weekend (Closing Monologue)
You can try to escape the story of your life. But you can’t. It happened.
The baby died. The dog died. The heart broke.
I knew you when you were young. I know your heart broke too. I will know you when we are both old, and maybe wise. I hope wise. I know you now, your story. Mine isn’t the one I would’ve chosen in the beginning. But I’ll take it.
It is my story. it’s only mine. And it’s not over. There’s time. There is time. There’s so much time.
This monologue is still breaking my heart
We have sprawl, wars over cheap gas, stagnant wages and longer hours because your boss wants this awful, ugly house.
Of course there was something different this time around. In the 2008 collapse, the real-estate bust wasn’t the result of some larger economic trend but the cause of it. Although we are accustomed to blaming it all on subprime loans, about half of the disaster was attributable to the less-well-known fiasco in Alt-A instruments which fed the McMansion market, the “liar’s loans” which were securitized and sold off stamped with a big Triple-A. The worst recession of our lifetimes, in other words, was in large part the result of our superiors’ longing to get themselves a piece of the grandiose.
That astounding reversal of the usual chain of cause and effect changed the way I thought about the McMansion. I once believed it would be amusing to track stylistic change in the tract-mansion form—how, say, the fake French simplicity of Newt Gingrich’s 1987 McMansion gave way to the complex multigabled fakery of Michele Bachmann’s 2007 McMansion, with maybe a stop in between to contemplate Ricky Bobby’s McMansion in “Talladega Nights.”
But what I discovered is that the form doesn’t really change. Yes, the houses get bigger every year, gables and gazebos come and go, but what is really striking about the McMansion is its vapid consistency as the decades pass.
What stays the same, and what always gets me when I walk through one of these houses, are the vacuous spaces. The vast stretches of painted sheet-rock. The gaping rooms that are simply too tall to decorate. The billowing industrial roof. The windowless walls.
There’s something else, too. Stand in the street when the sun hits the McMansion from the right angle and its glare obliterates the fake muntins in the windows and suddenly you grasp the truth about this form: It is staring at you with those blank featureless eyes, those empty holes in that vast, unadorned wall, demanding to be fed. This house doesn’t serve humans, we serve it.
This is not some absurdity at the fringe of our way of life. This is civilization’s very center, the only thing that really makes sense in “clusterfuck nation,” the tawdry telos at which all our economic policies aim. Everything we do seems designed to make this thing possible. Cities must sprawl to accommodate its bulk, eight-lane roads must be constructed, gasoline must be kept cheap, coal must be hauled in from Wyoming on mile-long trains. Middle-class taxes must be higher to make up for the deductions given to McMansion owners, lending standards must be diluted so more suckers can purchase them, banks must be propped up, bonuses must go out, stock prices must ascend. Every one of us must work ever longer hours so that this millionaire’s folly can remain viable, can be sold successfully to the next one on the list. This stupendous, staring banality is the final outcome for which we have sacrificed everything else.
The internet brings me so much joy. Everyone follow Don Rickles immediately if only because he’s an actual internet witch and summoned this out of thin air.
I went into the bathroom and there were thousands of baby huntsman spiders who must have just hatched so I cried a little, went back into my bedroom and heard the rustling of the lizard that lives under my couch who I can’t catch and whispered “you’ll keep me safe”.
Australia is just so fucked up.
God clearly hates me!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Because she can makes someone so beautiful but i am sit here ugly as ever in comparison. His eyes are the most perfect beauty and that is a throwaway line totally but also #ACTUALLYTRUE SO….. he look like the two main male people from I Dream of Jeannie and im want him to be my husnadbo.
Look at this fucking muppet. Why his goatee is so wide. Im dont really care im want him. He looks like he would be delivering bread from a truck. He is giving me deadbeat dad and I am living