Because I didn’t really want to have fun, didn’t want to feel anything at all. What I wanted was to be absolutely stripped of everything I was: to be demolished and rebuilt, demolished and rebuilt again. I wanted to be reduced to the bare bones of my personhood, become an utter blank. I wanted to separate somehow from my body, ideally to forget I existed at all.
But brokenness is not an identity, and if you treat it as such, it hardens into the resentment that fuels Rick’s catastrophic binges — or, in those who empathize too closely with him, naked contempt for the very creatives who brought him to life. Piece-of-shit dudes feel equally entitled to uncomplicated sex and unlimited entertainment without the slightest modulation of their shittiness. They have gazed into the shitty abyss and said: “It me, but I don’t care, and that makes me woke, or something.” All negative outcomes are then deserved, which is to say not especially surprising or distressing, while flukish joy may be snatched at with a ruthless disregard for the casualties. You wait for something to pierce the boredom of your shitty, self-contained narrative. And nothing ever does, because what really could?
black peop…of Trump and countless other virulent racists across the country. While sad, this is in no way unique. Kanye joins a long line of black people who have decided that blackness is not worth fighting for. And while we know that anti-blackness will come for him in the end because white supremacy may use him but will never actually love him, the harm that he is helping to enable right now is real.