No, we don't talk much anymore. Funerals and weddings maybe. I appreciate it when you text me that a mutual friend has passed away. In the old days, that would have triggered a phone conversation or maybe even a communal cup of coffee. No more.
Discounting the brutal effects the aging process has inflicted on this writer, I submit that I have not changed all that much. You, on the other hand, have undergone an ugly metamorphosis.
The Kool-Aid has been unkind to you. It has not turned you into a bad person and it certainly as not turned you into a good person. The Kool-Aid turned you into a non-person.
You are an empty shell of the human being we knew and loved. You are much like the aged relative wracked with dementia. Yes, we still love Uncle Harvey and we want to make sure that his staff keep him clean and warm, but that person we try to talk to is not Uncle Harvey. Not the Uncle Harvey we like to remember. That Uncle Harvey was sharp-witted and kind and loving. The person occupying Uncle Harvey's body is cold and fearful and incapable of exchanging ideas and perspectives. Nature has played a cruel joke on all of us.
Tell us what GOOGLE ET AL wants us to believe and I can tell you what your opinion happens to be, one hundred percent of the time.
Climate Change.
Election fraud.
January 6.
COVID containment.
COVID vaccine.
Donald Trump, of course.
The Bidens.
Kyle Rittenhouse.
It's a long list. If it's been in the news, your perspective has been assigned to you, and you guzzle the Kool-Aid with pronounced gratitude. So kind of your overlords to spare you the burden of thought.
But the greater tragedy is not that you surrendered your mind to the overlords, the worst part is that you have also sacrificed your heart and soul.
Many a Kool-Aid abstainer expressed sympathy with George Floyd at the first posting of his barbaric treatment. You waited until the overlords decided that Floyd would be a sanctioned victim and that his death could provide a venue for determining the outcome of the presidential election. On cue, your roaring sentiment would hit the stage.
As Floyd's death descended (from my perspective, not yours) into political theater, we would witness displays of conspicuous compassion. Each new event more animated than the last, culminating in arson and homicide, and "Black Lives Matter" lawn signs sprawled across the fruited plain. Virtue signaling and fund-raising and more virtue-signaling and more fund-raising. Pay no attention to the marionette's strings. Our hearts are big! Huge! Enormous! Gigantic!
When Ashli Babbitt was murdered in cold blood, the Kool-Aid abstainers reacted in horror. You, on the other hand, provided a laugh track. She was a Trump supporter for crying out loud! She walked into the Capitol! Death might have been too good for her! HAH HAH HAH! A real knee-slapper!
The laugh track would grow louder each time Babbitt's mother protested her daughter's death. She would be cruelly heckled and brutally handcuffed and a sidewalk memorial dedicated to her deceased daughter would be destroyed. Your sympathy, your empathy, your compassion will only be expended on designated political pawns. Insert laugh track here.
I remember a younger version of you, a different version of you, who was...human. You had a heart and a soul and you would have been sickened by Babbitt's murder and repulsed by her mother's abuse. Like Uncle Harvey, that person we knew and loved is long gone. Someone has played a cruel joke on all of us.
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